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Subject: {ASSM} [NEW] Paragon vs. Plastica  10/15  (M/F, F/F, superhero, bondage, D/s, mc, statue)
Date: Tue, 24 Sep 2002 17:10:04 -0400
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Paragon vs. Plastica

by Cobalt Jade (cobaltjade@aol.com)


This work is copyrighted 2002-2003 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This 
work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is 
charged for its use. This work may be archived only with the author's 
permission.  Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author 
credit or this notice violates my copyright.

The complete story may be read at my websites: 

http://members.aol.com/cobaltjade

OR

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/~cobaltjade




Chapter 10: Trapped

Lori sighed and rolled over in bed, brushing her cheek against Cal's 
motionless shoulder. *Why do things have to be so complicated and ugly,* she 
thought. She could be living the normal life of a student now, blissfully 
ignorant of the ugly issues costumed superpowers dealt with every day. She 
was suddenly envious of Cal. How little he knew.

She kissed his shoulder, inhaling the slightly sweet, slightly pungent man- 
smell. She wasn't quite ready to go back to HQ yet. He stirred, letting out a 
deep breath of his own, and her fingertips snaked over his hip to tell her 
was indeed aroused, and rising fast, warm and solid in her hand.

"Wake up," she whispered. He made a slight noise sounding like *hmrgh?* and 
she whispered again, louder, and gave his a cock a squeeze. "Wake up. I want 
to fuck you."

That got him going, as she knew it would. Ordinarily she didn't care for 
dirty talk in bed, but it had its uses. She opened her mouth to receive his 
kiss, parting her legs to accept him inside her. His hips brushed the inside 
of her knees and she spread herself wider. She wasn't too young to realize 
that every time she made love could be her last. 

He entered her, and she was warm and wet enough for it to feel delicious. He 
started to move and she heard herself giving little mews of passion like a 
hungry kitten. His rough beard and mouth were everywhere, her neck, her lips, 
her nipples. She heard herself cry louder and suddenly her whole body shook. 
A few seconds later he came too.

Sighing, spent, she let him encircle her with his strong arms. She didn't 
want to leave him, but she had to... she had to see if the others had found a 
way to free Cinnabar yet. If they couldn't find a way to counteract 
Plastica's formula, Cinnabar -- like Darlene and her friends -- would remain 
a statue forever. "I've got to go, Cal," she whispered. "Early class, 
remember?"

"You can stay here and have breakfast," he suggested. But only on rare 
occasions, when Team Paragon had one of its dry spells, did she dare spend 
the night.

"My books are back at the loft," she lied. She kissed him again, softly. "But 
I'll see you this weekend, all right?"

"All right," he said, assuaged.

She quickly dressed before she could change her mind.

#

Darlene and Allison peered over the formula ARTIE had printed out. "This 
*looks* doable," Allison said. "Going by what little I know, anyway. Shana 
was our chem expert." She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "Can ARTIE 
mix up the antidote?"

Darlene nodded. "No problem -- as long as he gets all the ingredients."

"ALOSH can help us with that. They can get hold of anything." Allison looked 
back at the printout. She'd lied when she said it looked doable; the 
complicated formula actually looked more like Greek or Martian to her. Yet it 
was the only chance they had for turning Cinnabar back to normal. She had the 
sudden, nasty intuition Plastica hadn't left them much time to do it. "That 
bitch," she swore, crumpling the paper in her fist. 

"Careful," Darlene warned, even though ARTIE could easily print out another 
one.

"Sorry," Allison said sheepishly. "It's just that... I bet Plastica's back at 
her factory right now. Laughing at us."

"She wouldn't waste her time," Darlene said. "If anything, she's meticulously 
plotting her next move. All petriphiles are control freaks."

"Petri-*what?*" Allison said. It was the first time she had ever heard of the 
term.

"Petriphile," Darlene repeated, her girlish lips curled in an awful, hard-won 
smile. "She likes to petrify people, turn them into statues. Plastic statues, 
in her case."

"Like a modern-day Medusa," Allison mused. "But how does that make her a 
control freak?" 

"Because petriphiles like having power over other human beings. And that's a 
lot easier when their victims can't move or talk... as statues they can 
treated as if they are disposable or interchangeable. Works of art, or 
merchandise, or utility objects."

"How do you know?" Allison asked, growing rather alarmed.

"I've studied them for years. Was their *victim* for years." Darlene gave a 
short, humorless laugh. Their conversation had taken a definite turn towards 
the sinister. "Did I tell you I learned to like it?"

Allison could not imagine Darlene, so solid, muscular, and alive, as a mute 
frozen statue; yet Lori had told her earlier, in private, about Darlene's 
peculiar fetish. *Well, it happens,* she decided. More than one superhero 
found their sex lives reflecting the dangers they faced in real life. One 
costumed crimefighter was notorious for his bondage and torture escapades; 
ALOSH had to step in when he began to involve his teenage sidekick in them. 

"Another trait petriphiles have is an appreciation of human beauty," Darlene 
continued. "A frustrated aesthetic sense often drives their 'creations,' so 
to speak. Marble, crystal, chrome, you name it. The more exotic and precious 
the material, the better. Some petriphiles liked precious materials like 
gold, others fragile ones like glass.  To think you could destroy someone 
forever with one small push, or a tap of a hammer..." Darlene shuddered, 
suddenly wrapping her arms around herself. "They liked us fragile, precious, 
and helpless...and naked and aroused, too."

"That's true of a lot of men, still," Allison cracked, hoping to inject a 
note of humor.

Darlene's mouth compressed in contempt. "I would hardly call the criminals we 
fought *men.* In fact, I think  most of them were impotent. They liked to 
collect women to leer at... not to have sex with."

"But then what does that make Plastica?" Allison said. "Unless she's a 
lesbian, why is she turning young women into mannequins?"

"Because she wants to be a mannequin herself," Darlene said with surety. "Oh, 
she wouldn't actually do it, mind you. She has too much to lose. Nor would 
she ever admit it. But deep down, that's her secret desire. And that's why 
she inflicts it on other women, because it gives her a voyeuristic thrill she 
can't get any other way."

Allison felt slightly nauseous listening to Darlene's theories of petriphile 
pathology, but she had to admit what she said made sense. Plastica's 
obsession with the fashion industry, with models and mannequins, and the 
awful, fetishistic manner in which she had captured Cinnabar... she had to be 
stopped! 

The lab door clicked open as Lori came into the room. Allison knew she'd 
spent the night with Cal, but she didn't look too happy. In fact, she looked 
even more worried. She brightened when she saw them talking, however. "Did 
you  -- ?" she asked.

Allison nodded cautiously, indicating the formula. "This may be it. I'll call 
ALOSH for the rarer ingredients, and then we'll set ARTIE to work on it."

#

The cell phone beeped softly. Phanxine answered it, her eyes tense. "Iza says 
he left the house," she whispered.

"Start setting things up," Plastica hissed. They'd parked the van on one of 
the streets Lori's boyfriend took on his bicycle ride to the UCLA campus, a 
street mostly deserted of other traffic once rush hour was over. Phanxine 
pulled her Fruit-en-Fusion t-shirt over her head and opened up the back doors 
to the van. That was their ploy; they were company reps giving away free 
samples of a new herbally enhanced soft drink. The bottles were actually 
filled with kool-aid, but that wouldn't matter to that young man, of course. 
Plastica smacked her lips at the thought, enjoying the thrill of the hunt. It 
had been years since she'd pinned such an innocent.

"Free samples...free samples..." Phanxine called, waving a cold bottle in 
each hand. Other students were taking the same route, and the cool drinks 
attracted attention. Some passersby were eager to get a free drink, but 
others ignored them. Plastica began to worry; it seemed many of the students 
weren't interested. Precious minutes ticked away. Plastica tightened her grip 
on the binoculars, keeping them aimed over the dashboard. Let him come this 
way today! She couldn't let a change in routine fuck this up now.

"He's rounding the corner," Tiger called. 

Sure enough, there was the bicycle. Plastica quickly stuck her head out the 
window, catching Phanxine's eye. "Make him stop!" she ordered. "This is our 
only chance!"

She ducked back inside as Cal's bicycle whizzed past the fender. She heard 
the brakes squeal as Phanxine stepped out in front of him. "Would you like a 
free bottle of Fruit-en-Fusion?"

Plastica held her breath as Cal steadied himself at a halt. He couldn't run 
her down, but she was keeping him from his classes, which, by the look of 
him, he was obviously late for. He glanced over Phanxine's shoulder at the 
tower of the Arts and Sciences building. "Um, I really don't have time for 
this," he said, stammering in a way that implied he was too polite to press 
it further, and hoped Phanxine would do the nice thing and let him go by. 
Plastica grinned gleefully. Such a vulnerable little cutie, so well-mannered! 
Imagine the fun she'd have with *that* one. Her toes curled in anticipation 
inside her spike-heeled vinyl mules. 

"It will only take a minute," Phanxine said quickly with her most winning 
smile. She turned to the side, showing off the profile of her well-shaped 
tits, nipples erect inside the tight t-shirt. Damn that girl was good. She 
saw Cal hesitate. "What flavor would you like? We have Mangoberry, 
Oralengerine, and Wizardblizzard with taurine and vitamin B6."

"Um, Mangoberry," he said as if he'd forgotten the others. He was still 
looking towards the campus and made no move to get off his bike. Damn; that 
thing would take him further and faster than his feet, if he got scared and 
decided to run. Phanxine reached in back of the van to get to the ice chest, 
taking out the drugged bottle they'd prepared earlier. "Get him closer to the 
doors, and off of that bike," Plastica ordered.

"I'll try," Phanxine said, swallowing. She suddenly jerked away, sensing Cal 
had been about to ride off. "Wait! Don't you want your drink?"

"Thanks. I'll try it later." He tucked the bottle in his bike bag. Shit! 
Plastica blinked hard, then steadied her eye above the window jamb. *Phanxine 
you ass, do something! Don't let him get away! *

"Want a free t-shirt too?" Phanxine said, thinking quickly.

"OK," Cal said, surprising her. Shit. They should've tried that in the first 
place. College kids *always* needed t-shirts.

"Come on back then, pick out a design," Phanxine purred. Plastica crouched 
down by the doors. She heard the kickstand of the bike go down and the scuff 
of sneakers on concrete. "What size do you want? We have medium, large, extra 
large  -- "

She steeled herself as Cal looked into the van, and into her eyes. Amazement 
and raw surprise washed over his face. For a split second there was no fear, 
no comprehension of the danger he was in; she found that rather touching. But 
he saw nothing more as she struck out with the heel of her hand, hitting him 
hard above the bridge of the nose. As she expected he crumbled like balsa 
wood. Cruder than drugging him, but effective nonetheless. As he fell Tiger 
grabbed his left arm and Plastica his right, and Phanxine gave him a hefty 
shove from behind. In two more seconds Tiger had hit the gas and they were 
pulling away with a screech, the abandoned bicycle their only witness.

#

Sealed behind the stasis field, Cinnabar watched the activity in the Paragon 
Lab progress. Lori and Allison had a strange machine with them now, a shiny, 
crablike robot with prehensile arms... and they were clearly working on a 
chemical formula of some kind. Dear Goddess, let it be her antidote! But all 
she could do was watch; ALOSH's stasis field turned all outside noise into 
static. It blocked telepathic contact too, so she couldn't even communicate 
with Allison, with whom she shared a link.

And she had to communicate with them... she had to warn them. 

She tried to moan, wiggle, anything to get their attention. Nothing worked; 
she was sealed like a fly in amber. She could only clench her muscles a 
little, and the tiny motion was spread so far out in time by her slowed motor 
responses that it might as well be nothing. Time was slowed inside the stasis 
field as well, bringing her metabolism to a virtual standstill. But her mind 
was still active, if a little slow, and if she couldn't talk to her 
teammates, she would go insane! 

She knew she should feel anxious, but her neurons were firing too slowly for 
fear. She felt only a slowly mounting dread, a sense of impending 
explosion... a sensation shamefully amplified by the slow but steady pulse of 
pleasure from the vibrator still sealed inside her. That was the worst of it, 
that she should feel such arousal while being so helpless, so trapped. If she 
couldn't warn her teammates they would all be in terrible danger... as she 
was sure, by their absence, Gina and Noelani already were. 

How could she tell one of the drivers behind Plastica's plot was Kylasha the 
Damned? And that Kylasha never rested until she got what she wanted?

Cinnabar Steele had freed the ancient witch-queen from her tomb years ago, 
and nearly died... but she'd emerged from the wreckage with a new identity, 
that of Scirocco, and a new mission. The naive grad student she was had 
become a superhero strong enough to face the sorceress, and won. And she 
thought she'd had. But a few years later, she encountered the sorceress 
again, and again, she'd nearly paid the ultimate price...

#

Team Paragon had been investigating a ring of international art thieves. The 
thieves had broken into a Berlin museum to steal a long-neglected artifact 
that had not even been on display. Ordinarily the theft would have been 
nothing notable... but the thoroughness and professionalism of the operation, 
and the fact a similar artifact had recently been stolen from in the United 
States, set off warning lights, and Team Paragon -- then consisting of 
Scirocco, Xenon, and White Rose -- had been called in by Europol to 
investigate the case.

They tracked the ring down to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of 
Stuttgart and took separate routes inside, staying in constant contact with 
each other using specially designed sub-frequence radios -- channel hoppers 
-- and using more than the usual amount of caution. Cinnabar had chosen to 
investigate the disused industrial space that comprised the factory's east 
wing. Carefully she made her way down the catwalks, seeing and hearing 
nothing out of the ordinary. Yet her heightened sense of smell, far stronger 
than a normal human's, netted her other impressions... a whiff of fresh 
lubricant, which meant heavy machinery had been operating recently. And over 
that, an even fainter odor of human musk. Someone had passed within minutes.

Cautioned, she began to move forward in a stealthy, practiced crouch. Live 
electricity shimmered in the air; she felt it from another of her specialized 
senses. Power had been shut off at the factory for years, so it had to be 
coming from a generator somewhere. And where that somewhere was, the thieves.

She followed the trail. A wide, open door to her left beckoned her through, 
off the catwalk and into a dark, high-vaulted hall. Nerves stretched taut, 
she walked in a silent glide, her footsteps testing the composition of the 
floor. It was something smooth and dense, but not metal or concrete. It 
wasn't slick, she noted; she could gain a footing. But it did have an 
abnormal tack or stickiness to it.

As soon as she thought "abnormal" she stumbled forward, falling into a pool 
of warm liquid that had suddenly opened up before her. The floor pulled away 
on all sides, leaving her to sink like a stone in the thick, viscous 
substance. She thrashed her legs, trying to drive herself to the edge where 
she might haul herself over. But it was no use. The strange liquid quickly 
thickened to the consistency of tar, trapping her arms below the surface 
while holding her upright. In another second it had solidified completely, 
trapping her with her chin just barely above the surface. Before she could 
process the repercussions of that the lights clicked on. 

Groaning, she turned her face away as much as she could. Bootheels clicked 
across the hall. A long, slim body passed between her and the spotlights: a 
person... a woman... in a form-fitting black catsuit. 

Black Mamba. It could be no other.

The ringleader's stiletto-heeled feet stopped six inches from Cinnabar's 
head, and Cinnabar steeled herself. But Black Mamba only gave a throaty 
chuckle at her plight. "Do you know me, Scirocco?"

That voice. Cinnabar would never forget that voice as long as she lived. And 
here she was, helpless, in front of the enemy she'd thought she'd killed 
three years before. 

"Kylasha," she whispered. She knew she should not show fear, but still felt 
herself shudder, tremble deep within whatever substance held her. 

"Yes," Kylasha hissed, like the ophidian namesake she'd adopted. Standing 
quickly, she made to kick the helpless Cinnabar in the head. 

Cinnabar flinched; she couldn't help it. But Kylasha only laughed.

"You are trapped completely, aren't you?" she gloated in her strange, glottal 
accent. The light reflected the ebon curves of her catsuit, shooting off 
highlights as she moved. "How fortunate I am. I did not expect them to send 
you to me." 

"How did you survive?" Cinnabar said, playing for time. If she stalled long 
enough, her teammates might notice her missing and come to her rescue.

"I am still a sorceress," Kylasha growled. "Though you tried to take my 
powers from me. You nearly succeeded. But with every piece I collect from the 
Sword of Screams, I grow stronger."

*Relic #471700,* Cinnabar thought. *So that's why she stole it.* She knew the 
legend behind the Sword of Screams from the inscriptions on Kylasha's tomb, 
but thought the sorcerous weapon had been lost centuries ago. That it had 
survived into the modern world, and could be reassembled, made her head spin. 
"You broke into the Smithsonian, too."

Kylasha nodded. "I and my team. What was once mine, will be mine again."

The legend also said that if Kylasha assembled the sword, that would mean the 
end of the world as humanity knew it... not just of one small college town in 
the Midwest, as had happened three years ago. The government had worked 
overtime to cover that up. But Cinnabar had seen what Kylasha's powers could 
do... and the power-mad sorceress had been bent on ruling the world.

"But you," Kylasha laughed, looking down on her. Cinnabar tried without avail 
to free herself from the block. But not even her superhuman strength could 
tear her free.

"Scirocco, where are you?" the radio squawked. Kylasha whirled around like a 
demon. Cinnabar breathed a sigh of relief; her radio hadn't been trapped in 
the rubber with her, just dropped. But the static indicated it had been 
damaged. Like liquid shadow Kylasha snatched it up, turning off the speaker 
so no transmittals could get through.

"You have friends," she said darkly, looking down on her victim. "But they 
will not find you."

"That's for them to decide, " Cinnabar said. She couldn't keep the note of 
triumph out of her voice. "Run -- if you can."

"No, my dear," Kylasha said, throwing the radio to the floor. She kicked it 
far ahead into the darkness in front of her. "Run -- if you can." She touched 
a button on the remote at her belt.

Cinnabar jumped as the door she had come through banged loudly shut, sealing 
itself. It had been of metal and over two feet thick. Machinery deep inside 
the floor suddenly ground into life. In the darkness at the far end of the 
hall a metal door slid slowly upward, something huge and round moving out of 
it. *It must weigh several tons,* Cinnabar thought, clinically, as it moved 
out of the shadows and into the light. Then she realized with alarm what it 
really was... a giant cylindrical press like the front wheel on a 
steamroller, glowing a soft cherry-red with its own self-generated heat. It 
was eight feet high and ten feet wide, and rolled over the squawking radio 
with barely a crack. 

The roller stopped. It backed itself up, revealing a wafer-thin metallic 
pancake steaming on the floor, easily five times the diameter the radio had 
been. Kylasha pried it off the floor with the heel of her boot, holding it 
with a white cloth to protect her hands from the heat. 

"You see?" she said. She turned the object fore and aft for Cinnabar's 
inspection. "You are only in its way, my dear."

Whatever the machine had been used for in the factory's early days, it was 
clear Kylasha intended to it roll right over her, crushing her skull like a 
walnut... then cooking it like a crepe. Cinnabar wanted to scream, cry, but 
nothing came out. She could take any pain, any amount of burn, puncture, cut, 
or bruise; any bone could be broken, wrenched, cracked. But she could not be 
mangled like that! 

Panic slammed in as her mouth went dry. It had to be a trick of Kylasha's; it 
had to be. Not even she would try something so obscenely cruel... Against her 
will, against three years of ALOSH training as a superpower, she broke. Tears 
streamed from her eyes. "Please..." she sobbed.

"Did I hear you say please?" Kylasha said archly. 

"Yes," Cinnabar whimpered. "For the love of God, Kylasha, don't  -- "

"I am a god," Kylasha reminded. "A god-*dess,* remember? Remember how you 
worshipped me at first, when you opened my tomb?"

"Yes," Cinnabar whispered shamefully, remembering how Kylasha had overpowered 
her mind with her own, forcing her to be her slave and accomplice, and 
eventually discarded her to die. 

"Worship me again," Kylasha said. "I *might* let you live." She knelt before 
Cinnabar's face, thighs spread wide. Her fingers fiddled briefly at the 
crotch of her catsuit, removing a triangle of leather that exposed her pubic 
region. She lowered her exposed sex to Cinnabar's lips. "Worship me, 
Cinnabar."

Kylasha's pubic lips were already moist, the musky, acid smell all too 
familiar to Cinnabar from her days as sorceress's slave. Cinnabar swallowing, 
her revulsion nearly gagging her. She couldn't do this again, no, she 
couldn't...!

Kylasha sensed her hesitation. "Use your tongue, or die like that radio!" she 
ordered.

Tears streamed from Cinnabar's eyes, but she knew she had to play for time. 
Grimacing, she opened her mouth and extended her tongue. Kylasha scooted 
forward, raising herself slightly on her heels. With her other hand she 
grabbed the back of Cinnabar's head, pushing her mouth forward into her 
crotch. 

Cinnabar nearly suffocated in the stink of her, but she was aware her life 
depended on the length of her service. Every precious second she gained might 
mean her rescue, so she bit back her revulsion and kissed the vulva of the 
evil witch. The stern pressure on the back of her head warned her not to 
slack off. With lips, teeth, and tongue she groomed the slick organs before 
her, trying hard not to gag at the taste. If she distracted the sorceress 
enough, her teammates might catch her off guard. 

With a grim determination she did just that, swirling her tongue around the 
sorceress's semi-erect clit. Kylasha began to pant, the smooth leather of her 
thighs trembling against the sides of Cinnabar's head. It was clear she was 
becoming highly excited. Her fingers tangled in Cinnabar's auburn hair, 
pulling it hard enough for pain. Tears came to Cinnabar's eyes, but she did 
not stop her service.

Many minutes passed. Kylasha hissed in pleasure, her upper body bobbing 
slowly up and down. Cinnabar raised her eyes to see the witch's face go 
slack, her gaze go blank. It looked like Kylasha was about to lose all 
control. Hope came back to Cinnabar. Were her teammates on the way to save 
her? Had they realized what had gone wrong?

Without warning Kylasha trembled and cried out. A foul-tasting fluid squirted 
out of her vagina, rolling into Cinnabar's mouth and down her throat. For a 
few seconds she lolled, ribcage heaving deeply, then looked down on her 
victim with an inscrutable expression. Slowly and deliberately she wiped her 
crotch several times across Cinnabar's face, depositing more of her 
come-fluid like an animal with its spore.

She laughed. "That was good. Very, very good. You always were such an 
exemplary slave, Cinnabar." 

Cinnabar flushed with shame, not daring to ask the sorceress for her reward. 
But hoping, praying...

"I'd forgotten how skilled you were with your tongue," Kylasha chuckled. "How 
nice to be reminded of past pleasure." She snapped the triangular bib at the 
crotch of her catsuit back into place and rose from the floor. "But in the 
end you were disposable, as all human slaves are." 

She strolled to the side of the hall. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave 
you now. I usually like blood and gore, but I'm afraid this will be a little 
too much, even for me." She stooped to pick up a can of white paint and a 
paintbrush, waggling the bristles in a mock-playful way. "This is to cover up 
the nasty stain you'll leave on the concrete, my dear... " Laughing, she 
pressed the switch that set the roller into motion. 

Cinnabar watched it advance... and screamed. 

She was still screaming when Shana found her, Kylasha's come still stinking 
in her hair. The red-hot curve was mere inches from her face, only her 
magically summoned sword, Sabreglass, was holding it at bay... its pommel 
held tight in Cinnabar's mouth.

She'd broken her jaw, and several teeth. And Kylasha had gotten away with 
both relics.

Shana and Allison eventually captured the sorceress's henchmen, but their 
partial victory did not hide the fact of Cinnabar's failure. She'd been 
careless and caught off-guard; the consequences had been rape, humiliation, 
and nearly death. Many months passed before she could regain her confidence, 
or faced her teammates as an equal.

Now, in a space of days, Kylasha had taken it all away from her again. 

She had to get out of the cube! 

Allison, Lori and a dark-haired stranger were conferring, over what, Cinnabar 
couldn't hear. *Please,* she prayed, *let it be the antidote...*

#

Allison stared at the tube of clear liquid she held in her hands. At last 
they had the formula, but they needed to test it. Otherwise, Cinnabar might 
wind up in a worse state than the one she was in now. She gave the Aubrey 
mannequin a guilty glance. Logic said they should test it on her; she wasn't 
a superpower with the responsibilities it entailed. She was expendable. But 
that was cruel, and she immediately put the thought out of her mind.

Darlene was thinking the same thing. "Too bad we don't have any rats," she 
muttered. She glanced at Cinnabar in her transparent prison. "What would 
*she* want us to do?"

Allison knew Cinnabar wouldn't want them to test an unproved formula on a 
human guinea pig. But it seemed they didn't have much of a choice.

"We can run a computer simulation," Darlene suggested. "ARTIE can set one up 
pretty quickly."

"It'll take time to run through all the possibilities," Allison said, half 
factual, half protesting. "Time for Plastica to take some action. But there's 
no other way around it, I guess."

Darlene went to program ARTIE, keying in a long sequence of numbers. "Don't 
look so down. Plastica can't be 100% ahead of the curve all the time."

"How do you know?" Allison said. She hadn't thought that mantis-hipped, 
candy-haired travesty of a female model had any human vulnerability, besides 
the need to breathe.

"Because she lets her fetishes take her over," Darlene said with surety. "Her 
need for control will make her lose sight of the big picture, or she'll get 
overconfident or careless. And that's when her defenses will be down. Sexual 
fantasies -- of whatever kind -- always tend to do that."

Allison watched her for several minutes, then realized Lori should be there, 
too. She went into the other room to fetch her.

But Lori wasn't there. The phone was hanging out of its cradle, emitting a 
beeping sound. The door to the loft was open.

"What the -- " Allison began. Wherever Lori had gone, she'd gone quickly -- 
too quickly. The light on the answering machine was blinking rapidly, a 
malevolent red eye that indicated the message was unfinished. Allison hit 
play.

Plastica's nasal, grating voice filled the air, her Southern accent thick as 
grits. "Are you there, Arctica? Well, we've got that boyfriend of yours. If 
you want to see him again, y'all can come over for a visit, hear?"

Darlene joined her as the message ended, and their eyes locked. "Oh no, Lori!"

-- 
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