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Message-ID: <44211asstr$1062709808@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [epilogue/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Thu,  4 Sep 2003 17:10:08 -0400
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====================================================================
Author's Shortened Preface:
====================================================================

And so, we reach the end of our journey. I hope you've enjoyed the
story and found some meaning within. I thank you for your notes,
your e-mails, your frowns and your smiles, your eagerness, your
earnestness, your honesty and your patience.

If you've missed chapters, as Usenet is wont to do, the entire
story is archived here:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www/novel/dawn_of_time/index.html

And now for the obligatory legal mumbo-jumbo:

This is an original work, copyrighted by the author, Crimson Dragon.
Please do not use it as if it were your own. Enjoy the writing, but
do not archive or sell it in any manner without my written
permission. I'm easy to contact if you wish to redistribute my
words.

Lastly, I thoroughly enjoy hearing from people reading any of my
stories. Feel free to contact me with raves, rants, encouragement or
dissertation (note the lack of invitation for spam). I do try to
reply to all who are kind enough to drop me a note.

Now, if you are still with me, onto the story,
 - Crimson
   (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

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Dawn of Time - Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

Epilogue

====================================================================

(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

====================================================================

Monique sighed as she waited, her arms folded across her suit, under
her breasts. The elevator descended in a rush, the air pressure
popping in her ears. Her stomach rumbled, and she hummed lightly,
the new case already spinning through her mind. Partner.

She smiled, and tapped her foot lightly in time with her tuneless
humming, a person alone in an elevator.

It was the strangest thing. Her breasts hurt, almost like she was
PMSing, but different. Besides, it wasn't her time of month.

No. Perhaps, it was nerves, but it might have been a sense of fate,
whispering through her.

She glanced around the small enclosure, wondering if there was a
camera hidden in behind the mahogany panels. She sighed, and traced
her right breast. It tingled, and she swallowed heavily. Suddenly,
she was more aware of herself, of her body, something subtle
changed.

(I'm going to be a partner.)

The elevator slowed, and she swallowed twice to clear her ears. She
slowly pulled her fingers from her breast, a puzzled expression
crossing her fair features. A perky synthesised voice, feminine and
familiar, called out her level.

"Ground. Lobby. Going up."

Monique shook her head, as if to clear cobwebs, and she stepped
forward as the elevator doors pulled open.

The girl was slightly shorter than her, and wore her blonde hair
long about her shoulders. Her head was down, watching her feet, not
watching where she was walking. Monique collided with her, a faint
"oof," escaping her lips as the girl's shoulder met her left breast.
For a moment, Monique was sure that her breast was going to explode,
agony filling her. Then, as quickly as it had come, it settled,
almost like a lost memory, only a dull ache where she'd been struck.

"I'm so sorry," the girl murmured, embarrassed.

Monique opened her eyes, and the girl's face flooded into her
vision. She had baby blue eyes, set into a flawless face. Her lips
carried concern, and a hint of friendliness not often seen in the
city. Monique caught her breath as electricity, as undeniable as an
onrushing train, raced through her nerves. Monique's vagina
clenched for a moment, and she gasped.

The girl's fingers touched her shoulder, a soft weight through the
cloth of her jacket.

"Oh, God, are you all right?"

The girl glanced around, almost as if searching for the nearest
paramedic.

"No. I mean yes. I'm fine," Monique whispered. Her hand gently held
the elevator. Her breath came in ragged bursts, but it wasn't pain.
No. Not pain. She consciously pulled her hand away from her breast,
grimacing a little.

The girl smiled, flooding Monique.

"Are you sure?"

Monique nodded, unable to move her eyes from her face.

Monique nodded again.

"Just surprised me."

(Surprised me.)

The girl touched her face, the concern changing into something else.
Something more ...

"Do you have the time?" she asked, changing the direction of the
conversation, apparently satisfied that she hadn't broken Monique
somehow.

Monique gathered in her breath and let the elevator door close
behind her, raising her wrist. A faint red line encircled her wrist,
perhaps pressed there by her watchband. She stared at the watch
unable to read it, amazed that it was there at all.

Monique shook her head slowly.

The girl leaned in, her hair scented of honey and clover. Her
fingers touched Monique's hand, turning it towards her.

"I'm so late," she murmured.

The blonde stepped to the side and stabbed at the elevator button,
the little green arrow lighting under her painted nail. She shifted
her weight impatiently from foot to foot.

She glanced at Monique, a stranger in the crowd.

"Are you sure you're all right? I hit you hard."

Monique nodded.

"Can I buy you coffee? Make it up to you?"

Monique tilted her head; she could only hear her own pulse hammering
in her ears. She didn't understand, and yet she did.

The elevator doors slid open, and the girl stood, her back against
the opening, preventing it from closing. She extended her hand, a
smile on her lips.

Monique's fingers closed around the small cardboard sheet the girl
offered to her, her mind dimly recognising it as a business card.
Name. Phone number. Fax.

"Call me," the girl said. She flashed the smile again as Monique
nodded.

The elevator doors slid shut again, and she was gone, in a whirl of
synthesised female voices. Going up.

Thoughtfully, Monique shook her head and slipped the card into her
breast pocket, where it nestled, its illicit heat radiating through
her clothing.

(I'll call her.)

The thought made sense, and she felt free, more free than she had in
a long time. Was she actually attracted to that girl?

She began to walk towards the concourse, glancing down her body,
over the rise of her breasts, sensing the card in her pocket. She
shook her head, almost laughing.

Her breasts didn't hurt. Not exactly. They ached.

                         <---===***===--->

Andrea closed her eyes, her fingers idly running along the rim of
her cap, twisting it slightly. She leaned back in the chair and felt
her own breathing lifting and lowering her breasts under the
uniform. It itched. She wanted to take it off.

"So, ready to go someplace? Fuck like minks?"

She smiled and opened her eyes.

"Fuck off, Frank," she said lightly and pushed herself out of her
chair. She gathered up her book, closing it with a snap, and
dropping her green highlighter into her bag.

He grinned, their evening ritual playing out. He was a middle aged
divorce, a more formal guard's hat hiding his receding hairline, a
badge pinned to his lapel. He carried a slight paunch -- perhaps too
many beers, drowning his alimony woes.

Andrea grinned, as she stepped away from the desk, her eyes
automatically scanning the flickering monitors. He rounded the desk.

"Fuck off? I'd rather fuck you," he said jovially.

"Dirty old man," she said. A couple was kissing in the parking
garage, the girl up against one of the concrete pillars, one leg
raised and wrapping around the guy's waist, a pantomime of standing
sex. Andrea pointed, almost nonchalantly, enjoying Frank's
expression of interest.

"Just make sure they don't start fucking," Andrea said with a laugh,
sure that if they began to strip off down there, Frank would be the
last guy down there to stop them. No. He'd be all eyes on the
monitor, up here, probably licking the screen.

She lifted the heavy book, and switched places with Frank. She
dropped the book on the marble reception mantle and toyed with the
cover with one finger.

"What's up, baby doll?" he asked, settling his bulk into the chair
she'd just vacated, probably still warm from her body.

She shrugged. "I need a topic for a paper. And don't call me 'baby
doll'" All part of the ritual.

"That psycho-babble shit?"

"It's not shit."

He nodded easily, his eyes laughing. He shrugged.

"When is a cigar just a cigar?"

She laughed. "Pig," she said easily. He didn't seem to mind the
insult, perhaps even revelling in it -- attention, even negative
attention, from a pretty girl. She sighed, and picked back up the
book.

She could feel his eyes watching her ass as she sauntered towards
the revolving doors of the building. She purposely swung her hips,
smiling.

"Have a good night, Andrea," he said. "You'll figure something out."

With a start, she realised that her breasts were aching, and before
she could stop her hand, it rose to caress through her uniform.

(Why? What?)

She slowly turned, and regarded him, consciously dropping her hand.
Oh, Frank would have a field day with that. For a moment, his face
almost seemed friendly and kind, beaten by life, but kind. Even if
she seriously did accept his invitation one day, she doubted if he'd
ever take her to a seedy motel and do her. She shook her head.
Wouldn't happen.

(Abnormal sexuality and external influences.)

The thought made her smile. A topic. She'd have to read further in
the text, and figure out an opening sentence, but she supposed that
she could make it work.

"Frank?"

He looked up from the monitors, his eyes concerned, perhaps a little
frightened. A routine broken. Normally, she walked out the doors,
without looking back, leaving him to his post.

She didn't know what she was going to ask him, perhaps only wanted
to see his face again.

"Are you okay, Andrea?"

Her breasts ached. Suddenly, she was aware of herself like a flood
of knowledge flowing through her veins. Her entire body ached, as if
she'd run a marathon, or wrestled a bear. Even her toes and fingers
ached. But most of all ...

She shook her head.

Had she actually considered asking him to join her, to take her home
to do what? Fuck him?

"Frank?"

He tilted his head, puzzled.

(God, I'm horny. What gives?)

She licked her lips, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
She felt like crying, her body crying out to her.

She lifted a hand to pull off her cap, her hair falling free, her
ponytail sighing across her shoulders. Across her right wrist a pale
faded mark snaked around her wrist. She regarded it, puzzled for a
moment. Then it seemed to wink out of existence, as if it had never
been there.

She smiled, and lifted her hand, cap between her fingers to wave.

"Have a good night, Frank. You'll be fine."

He shook his head, as if she were crazy, and then dismissing the
vacuous blonde, returned his eyes back to the couple making out in
the underground lot, a hidden camera, a touch of voyeurism more
interesting than the girl in the doorway.

She turned and pushed her way through the revolving door, emerging
into the fading light of the spring afternoon.

She began to walk towards her apartment.

(Horny. My God.)

She shook her head in amusement. She didn't need Frank, perhaps the
trash talk had merely aroused something in her -- something
perverted, and kinky.

Nothing that a cold shower, or perhaps a warm bath, with a bottle of
wine, candles, and a pair of fingers couldn't ease.

She smiled again, her steps falling lightly against the sidewalk.
People gazed at her, almost like she was a celebrity, as she passed,
but she didn't notice them. Then she laughed, startling an old man
walking with a cane passing her.

(Abnormal sexuality and internal influences.)

She'd begin writing it, immediately after the bath, and the candles,
and whatever else came to mind.

Her breasts ached pleasantly, even as the uniform scratched at her
skin. She couldn't wait to take it off, though something nagged at
her mind, that it wouldn't be the first time today that she'd taken
it off. The thought didn't make any sense to her, and dismissing it
lightly, as she dismissed Frank's routine comments, she centred her
mind on her apartment and her bath. And her breasts continued to
ache as she walked.

                         <---===***===--->

Nicole couldn't see them when they arrived on horseback, silently in
the night, spreading out and fanning across the grounds, startling
squirrels, but moving as ghosts.

She didn't hear them as they silently entered the house, through
broken doors, and windows, moving like phantoms, room to room, feet
in boots somehow quiet on marble and hardwood.

She clutched at the plastic disk in the dark, her wrists held
securely by bands of steel. She didn't have the key, she never had
the key. Weeping silently, she turned the disk up into the
moonlight. Her name, simple and childish scrawled across the inside
rim, "Nicole", a different Nicole, a younger Nicole, a girl that
laughed, and didn't always cry. The chain jingled between her
wrists, and she curled back up, her hair fanning out across the
pillow.

She raised her hands, both moving as one, bound together,
restricting her movements. Another, similar restraint held her
ankles beneath the covers.

She winced as she touched her eye, nearly swollen shut, and weeping,
even when she wasn't crying -- a rarity.

He was going to kill her. Of that, she was certain. If not today,
tomorrow. Her side ached where he'd kicked her, her breasts ached
where he'd whipped her until she'd finally, mercifully, passed out,
even smelling salts not bringing her around.

It wasn't soft, like a stuffed animal, but he'd taken them all -- no
comfort there. Not for her. She clutched at the worn surface of the
Frisbee, holding it against her bare breasts. More tears fell, as
the phantoms approached.

She could still taste him in her mouth. He hadn't even let her
vomit, dropping her into her bed like a rag doll, ignoring her
moans, cursing her as he stomped out. Useless bitch. Fucking cunt.

Her door exploded, with a bang, clattering back against its frame,
his foot probably propelling it. She closed her eyes, as best she
could, and though she didn't want to, she screamed, her throat
working despite the pain there, and the hoarseness of her vocal
chords. She'd screamed all day, and didn't even think she could
manage more than a whisper. But she could. And it scared her. It
might make him think she was capable of more.

Fucking cunt. Useless, small titted, bitch.

A female voice called out.

"I found her."

Her own voice, Nicole barely recognised. A croak, no more.

"Please, no more. I just want to die. Can't you just kill me?"

Nicole sensed the feminine presence approach her bed. She didn't
want to, but she couldn't help it. Her fingers released the Frisbee,
and she lifted her bound hands, warding off the blows she was sure
were coming. In the dim light, she had seen a bat, or a nightstick,
or a billy club -- something to hurt her with, something to drive
more pain into her wracked body.

She closed her eyes, and whimpered.

"Please, no more."

She felt the covers drawn back from her body, and she didn't care
that the woman could see her nudity, her bruises, her broken bones,
and weeping cuts. Her body wasn't her own anymore. She curled up in
a ball as best she could, trying to protect her breasts, her belly,
everywhere he'd already struck her. She coughed weakly, feeling
blood filling her mouth again, the coppery taste sharp, and gagging.
But she dared not vomit. He'd punish her. The new woman, whoever she
was would punish her. And the women were worse than the men.
Somehow.

"Please," she begged, ashamed, hot tears spilling from her ruined
face.

A light, like that of a flashlight travelled across her, striking
red deeply under her lids. She braced herself for more pain, hoping
that she'd pass out quickly this time. Maybe he'd let this woman
kill her, finally. The chains between her wrists jingled softly,
almost merrily in the darkness.

"Oh, my God," the woman above her whispered. It was enough for
Nicole to open her eyes again. But she couldn't see. Red filled her
vision. Then the woman knelt and shouted, her voice clear and strong
through the stillness of the night. "Paramedics. On the double. Oh
my, God."

Other voices rose in the distance, running feet clattered. Nicole
moaned. More people to see her like this. More people to hurt her.
She curled up tighter, wishing that she could disappear. But her
body wasn't her own anymore, and whoever wanted to see her, could.

A soft, gentle hand stroked her hair. It felt familiar, almost as if
she'd felt something like this before. Comfort, easy and close. No
expectations.

"Sweety, I'm not here to hurt you." Gentle fingers touched the
Frisbee, and Nicole clutched it, refusing to let it go. "I'm with
the police. My name is Mary. Are you Nicole? Can you talk?"

Nicole shivered. She wanted to answer the woman, her fingers still
lightly stroking her hair, but her throat refused to form sounds,
her vocal chords a mass of pain. Even the woman's gentle touch in
her hair hurt her, but she didn't cry out. Couldn't.

"I've fucked the chief of police," she said dully. She sensed the
woman leaning in, and she thought that she might have to kiss her.
It didn't mean anything to her, only the pain registering. "I don't
want to kiss you," she mumbled.

"The chief, we know," the woman said. Her fingers continued to
stroke gently. People entered the room, and the woman turned. "No
lights. Not yet. Give me a few minutes."

"We need ..."

Mary twisted, and almost hissed. "In a minute."

The people moved back, and Mary leaned in close again.

Nicole tried to speak, but she couldn't. Tears traced down her
cheeks, burning fire into the small cuts that lined her skin. She
did moan.

"Nicole? Sweety?" The woman was whispering, for her ears only. "Stay
with us, okay?" Did she have a choice? He wouldn't let her die. But
this woman would know that. Nicole twisted her head, trying to
ignore the pain. "It's over now. He can't hurt you anymore. There'll
be a suicide watch, but I doubt if it will be manned closely. We've
sent another team to the Chief's residence. You're safe now."

Safe. Nicole didn't remember what safe meant.

"How?" she managed to croak. Her limbs refused to spread out, her
body still coiled as if to protect her from blows. She didn't want
the rest of them to see her. Not like this. But she supposed that
they would, no matter what she said. Dimly, she realised that she
needed help, that she was dying, or would die without help, doctors
and hospitals, even if he wouldn't let her die.

"An anonymous call. We don't know who. From the east side somewhere,
a telephone booth, a week ago, or so. Took this long to work through
the red tape." Her voice sounded bitter.

"He was going to kill me."

"We know," Mary said. "It's over now."

Nicole sighed, and looked up into Mary's face. Only concern
reflected in the dim light from the hallway, not hate, not blinding
fury, no falling fists. Nicole pulled the plastic disk with her name
inscribed upon it closer to her aching chest. She coughed again, a
coppery tang touching her tongue. Mary's face wavered, and she dimly
heard the policewoman motioning to the others to come closer, and
hurry. Her entire body ached, and though she knew she was hurt,
badly, somehow she'd survived.

"Get these fucking things off her."

An anonymous voice in the night racing to save her. An angel. She
didn't understand, but somehow, it had happened.

Slowly, she shook her head, aching. Mary bent her lips to listen.

"It'll never be over," Nicole whispered. Then, she closed her eyes,
and darkness began to overtake her. Blessed darkness. When she
woke, she'd feel better. Of that, she was sure. She couldn't
remember the last time she'd smiled, but even though it hurt, she
did.

"Thank-you," she whispered, but she didn't know who she was
thanking. Her breasts ached, but they rose and fell steadily with
her breathing. One heartbeat at a time.

She'd survived.

                         <---===***===--->

Kate supposed that it might be the relative quiet that infused
itself into her being. No boys calling her name, wanting to be with
her, no laughing circle of friends, jabbering for her attention. Of
course, most of them were only interested in her because she was
pretty, the flaming red hair, the trimmed body. And when Karen
showed up, their eyes left Kate's breasts, flipping to the blonde
like drowning sailors jumping ships. She didn't mind, didn't really
like their eyes only on her body. She'd even noticed it with the
girls, though more often it was a note of envy, rather than desire.
She walked on.

Only her footfalls down the empty corridor, lockers flanking her,
infinite stalks of corn stretching into the distance.

With it being lunchtime, the teachers and the students had fled the
classes, leaving the corridor as barren and lifeless as the arctic.

She paused, her hand ready to push in the washroom door, where it
smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, and disinfectant. A small noise
carried down the hallway, echoing to her ears.

She turned her eyes, surprised. One locker stood open, hiding its
owner from her view. Only a pair of running shoes, and a flash of
flared blue denim emerged as the girl down the hallway moved
slightly. A noise, like a sob, kissed Kate's ears, and she let the
lavatory door swing shut under her hand, unopened.

She glanced up the hallway, and then down. Only the two of them. She
closed her eyes, and swayed for a moment.

It felt like fate or destiny, and she resisted, not truly believing.
Only a girl who'd lost her boyfriend, as Kate had lost hers only a
day before. Darren, the idiot. She fought the red haze that
threatened to squeeze tears from her eyes.

Surprised, her breasts tingled, almost as if they had been whipped.
The thought aroused her a little, but she pushed the thoughts away.
Fantasy had no place here. Did it? In school?

The tingle settled into an insistent ache, and Kate sighed. Her body
was trying to tell her something, but damned if she knew what. That
she was aroused? Why?

With another sigh, she pulled away from the washroom door, her
previous urge to use the facilities vanishing.

Another quiet sob carried down the hallway, then only the muted
sound of her own feet upon the tiles.

She rested her hand on the top of the open locker door, her breast
pressed easily into the metal. She shivered for a moment. She knew
this girl.

Leigh stood, clutching a photograph. Kate couldn't see what it was,
and as Leigh looked up sensing her presence, she turned the picture
away. A bottle of Poison fragrance sat on the top shelf of Leigh's
locker, a musky scent barely a hint in the air.

Leigh's eyes were wet and puffy from crying, but slightly puzzled as
if she wondered why Kate might be standing against her locker.

"Are you all right?" Kate asked.

"I'm fine," Leigh said slowly. She wiped at her eyes, and sniffled.
Kate wanted to hug the girl, though she barely knew her. Leigh was
the type of girl that remained in the background, didn't hang around
with the popular girls, didn't date -- not because she wasn't
pretty, but because she was stigmatised with the labels of youth:
"Nerd", "Brown noser", "Priss", "Unapproachable", even "Bitch". She
kept to herself, and only had a few friends, all withering under the
childish labels. Not the type of girl with whom Kate would normally
associate.

But she was crying, the tears still falling from her eyes.

"Boyfriend?" Kate asked.

Leigh shook her head. The photograph crumpled a little in her small
fist. She looked somewhat surprised, as if it hadn't ever occurred
to her that Kate might consider that she might even have a
boyfriend.

Surprised, Kate inhaled. Leigh smelled familiar, and it wasn't the
hint of Poison, which the girl wasn't wearing, but an underlying
scent. Something clean and fresh, like clover. Perhaps, her shampoo.
Inexplicably, Kate's breasts throbbed again. Her hand trembled for a
second on the locker.

"If you want to talk ..." Kate said. Leigh looked shocked that the
someone like her, the perfect girl, might offer something, anything
to a girl like her. She wiped at her eyes again, the flow of tears
slowing.

"I'll be all right," Leigh said, dismissing Kate. Leigh turned away,
her fingers tucking the photograph away into her locker,
disappearing amongst the disarray of papers present in every high
schooler's locker.

"You look like you lost something, or someone," Kate said. She
should move away, leave the girl to her own private misery, whatever
it was. Her feet refused to obey her rational mind.

Leigh looked up, as if she were startled that Kate still stood,
leaning against the locker. Her eyes remained shiny with tears, but
none spilled over onto her cheeks. She sniffled again, and reached
to the edge of her locker. For an instant, her fingers touched
Kate's breast, and electricity galloped through Kate making her
gasp. Kate automatically moved, her hand leaving the metal of the
locker. Leigh gently shut it, and slipped her combination lock
through the hasp with a click.

"I think maybe I did," Leigh said slowly.

"Did?"

"Lose something. Someone." Her eyes looked haunted, as if even to
herself she couldn't quite understand her own words.

Kate sighed, and hugged herself.

"I think I might have, too," Kate said, shaking her head. Her red
hair plumed into her peripheral vision for a moment. She still
wanted to embrace Leigh, but it didn't make any sense. She barely
knew the girl. She took a deep breath, and nearly closed her eyes.
Her pulse quickened, and her hands felt shaky, nervous, hot.

"Have you got any plans for lunch?" she asked.

Leigh gently shook her head, almost as if she was glad of an
implicit offer of company, even if she looked puzzled.

They walked down the hall together, their footfalls echoing through
the easy silence. It would be all right. Somehow.

                         <---===***===--->

He stood, hands clasped easily behind his back, staring out at the
deepening afternoon. Soon, the sun would set, the first sunset he
would be able to witness in three days. He sighed as afternoon
swept over the universe, uncaring as Time moved along, smoothly and
carefree.

Below him, a million people, small as ants, scurried unaware,
driving, walking, talking, eating. Normal, everyday activities.

He turned slowly, and bit at his lower lip, wondering where they
were, what they were doing, if they'd changed.

The simulations said, quite emphatically, that it was impossible.
Nothing, beyond the controller could exist between the boundaries,
molecules, matter, returned whence they came. Everything as it was.
Otherwise -- paradox. And the Universe wouldn't allow that, would
She?

But the simulations had denied the existence of another, hadn't
they? Two controllers, each sharing their existence as one, tearing
at one another like a binary star, each touching the other from a
distance.

Where was she? Dawn? The girl, an unlikely girl. Yes, she had been
strong, had been trained in physics, probably had read all the right
books, Hawking, Einstein, Freud.

He stopped for a moment, one of the last in the office. It was the
first pleasant day of spring outside, the sun bidding farewell, but
the air remaining cool, not cold against one's skin. The office had
emptied quickly as the clock on the wall slipped past five o'clock.

He was tired, so very tired. And his body ached, from carrying the
universe, from watching the girls, from controlling them, from being
with them, from losing them.

A light glowed behind a partly opened door. He stepped towards it,
his hand pushing it open.

Sandra looked up, her eyes flashing briefly. Annoyed.

"Can I help you?"

A flash of recognition flowed across her face, as if she might have
thought a janitor had poked his head into the room, but relieved
that it was only him.

"You're from the lab, right?"

She still didn't recognise him by name. He nodded.

"I didn't think anyone else was still here," he said easily, backing
away from the door. He tried to still his heart, but he could only
see her crawling naked on the carpet, descending to the lobby, her
skin glowing bare against the backdrop of frozen normalcy. His hand
throbbed for a moment, his eyes looking inward, his hand striking
her, spanking her -- not hard, but enough. Her tears.

He shook himself, and pasted a smile upon his lips. She would never
realise the contents of his thoughts. Oh no, far too dangerous.
Colliding worlds.

"We got the money," she said.

She'd offered him money, in exchange for her freedom, an eternity
ago. He looked bewildered.

"The lab grants. You'll get a paycheque next week."

She smiled at him. Relieved, he nodded quickly, backing away,
shutting the door. At the last moment, he poked his head back around
the frame.

"Good-night, Sandra."

She looked ill at ease, perhaps with the easy familiarity of her
given name, perhaps simply the discomfort of one at a party having
forgotten an associate's name that one should remember.

"Good-night," she said.

He shut the door, heard it click closed with an air of finality. He
strode down the hallway, his heels clicking through the silence. It
echoed here, he noticed with a smile.

The elevator delivered him to the lobby, and the lobby to the street
where life buzzed around him. Cars honked, and people talked, and
buildings whispered in the wind.

He paused as a blonde girl, slim and tall strode past, her eyes
straight ahead, oblivious to the controlled chaos surrounding her.
He began to undress her in his mind. Blouse. Slacks. Shoes.
Panties. Bra, if she was wearing one. He swallowed. He could find
out, for sure. Equations floated through his mind, and he very
nearly pushed the universe aside, just to have her, even for a
moment. Naked, and his.

Absolute power ...

He sighed as she passed him, and the girl glanced over at the sound.
She smiled, not having any idea how close she had come to
discovering another world, a timeless world, one where she would
change, and grow, and perhaps find herself.

He forced his eyes from her, the tantalising flashes of innocent
skin, her fingers, her wrists, her ankles, her face and throat,
driving tendrils of arousal deep into his core. He fought the
sensations, turning away from her.

The sound of her shoes against the concrete sifted through the urban
clutter, receding as she moved through her life.

He began to walk, enjoying the simple sensations of the wind upon
him, the sounds, the movement, his mind free to consider other
things.

Like Dawn. Where was she? What was she doing? Would she keep the
secret, the one more important than life itself? She had to, for
the universe wouldn't, couldn't, allow otherwise.

A red light, and a flashing orange hand, halted him at a crossing.
He mingled with the crowd of pedestrians. Surrounding him, unique
lives, waiting to be touched. A girl hot from jogging beside him,
her breasts rising and falling with the effort of her lungs. A
woman, dressed in conservative gold, talking on an everpresent cell
phone.

The light changed.

Ahead, buried in the crowd, he saw it, a flash of dusty blonde hair,
a familiar, confident stride. His heart leapt into his throat, his
pulse hammering. His entire body throbbed, once.

"Excuse me, pardon me." His voice seemed to be coming from a million
kilometres away, from another universe. He twisted through the
people, some cursing lightly, others simply moving from his path,
sensing urgency.

Another flash of dusty blonde hair, and he was behind her. She
walked on, oblivious to his presence, listening to headphones, her
body moving gently, not quite dancing to an unheard beat.

He closed his eyes, but continued to walk behind her, his hand
raised. He shouldn't. He couldn't. They'd promised.

He let his hand fall gently on the girl's shoulder, and surprised,
she stopped, pushing the headphones from her ears to dangle prettily
about her neck.

"Dawn?" he called, his voice full of hope, and regret.

She turned, her blue eyes questioning and beautiful. Would she
remember? She must. She was the key. Dawn.

Her voice was musical, and pretty, as all feminine voices are. But
it wasn't Dawn's voice. He opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I think you might have me confused
with someone else." She stepped back a single pace, her fingers
toying with the headphones. He could hear tinny music, some modern
pop, drifting through the air towards him. She smiled, and it was a
pretty smile.

Not Dawn.

He shook his head, and sighed.

"I'm sorry. I hope that you find her."

But he knew that he wasn't meant to. Not here. Not now.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you, miss," he said.

She turned easily, only an innocent mistake on a crowded street. He
stood, the river of people flowing around him, like an island. He
watched as her dusty blonde hair faded into the crowd, her laugh and
her spirit simply walking away.

Not Dawn, never had been.

The universe couldn't allow it.

But his body ached; through to the bones, it ached.

Where was she? And what was she doing?

It didn't matter. Not anymore.

He began to walk again, melting into the river, an island washed
away by the current. He felt like crying, and his body ached. Sleep,
and then onto the daily grind.

But other worlds existed, and someday, when it was safer, perhaps
...

                         <---===***===--->

The grass tickled her bare toes, and she stretched her body, her
palms resting amongst the blades of green. She sat beneath the
spreading branches of a tree, similar to the one where she'd sat
with him, talking, naked then, her hands cuffed behind her back,
helpless, and vulnerable.

The wind kissed her neck, and she breathed in. The air wasn't as
clear here, in fact, she could smell a tiny undercurrent of
corruption, and greed, but here, in the park, it was muted. She
wasn't naked, but sat in her jeans and sweatshirt, her running shoes
lying at an angle beside her leg. She'd wanted to walk in the grass,
touching it, feeling it -- a memory, one not filled with pain, and
screams, and -- him.

She sighed, and pushed herself up.

The sun descended, kissing the horizon, its rays greeting her in
shades of pink and orange against the clouds. For a fleeting moment,
she thought she saw a cloud flying like a leashed dragon, filling
the sky with flame. It drifted, and morphed before her eyes, like
smoke blown on the wind. It changed, like a chameleon, into a girl,
sitting naked in the grass, leaning back easily on her hands. And
then it was gone.

She bent, and slipped her bare feet into her shoes without tying
them. She needed shoes here, afraid of broken glass, or sharp stones
waiting to hurt her.

In the gathering darkness, she began to walk home.

Other pedestrians and joggers looked at her in awe, as if she may
have been a supernatural being, aglow with power -- a goddess. Dawn
didn't notice any of their stares as she passed. Her body ached. Her
breasts ached. And she was tired. So very tired.

                         <---===***===--->

She could sense it, muted, but still there, an undeniable haze,
almost like a dreamworld, above her own, where time and space
melded, and intertwined, and reality became fantasy.

She closed her eyes, and dropped the sweatshirt in a heap on the
ground. Her jeans joined the crumpled cloth and without thought, her
fingers unhooked and pushed, her bra and panties lay at her feet.

She glanced around, sure that someone was watching her, her body no
longer her private sanctuary.

She sighed, wondering if she'd be watching over her shoulder for the
rest of her life, wondering if he'd be there, stalking her, forcing
her to strip for him, controlling her. She swallowed, and leaned
down, twisting the taps. The flow of warm water splashed easily
into the tub, the unique smell of running water tickling her nose.

Was it real? Or an exam induced fantasy?

She raised her hands in front of her. The lines hadn't completely
faded, but they would be gone in a few more hours. Then there would
be nothing to prove that her journey had ever really taken place,
except for the haze that she dared not touch. Visions. She supposed
that she might search out a lawyer named Monique, or a security
guard named Andrea, or high school girls named Kate and Leigh. But
did she really want to do that? She shook her head slowly, knowing
even as she slipped under the water, her skin reddening under the
heat, that she wouldn't. Couldn't.

She'd used a telephone in the park, far from home, to call the
federal police, not the local police, merely giving them a name, and
an address, but hanging up when they requested her name. She
supposed that the newspapers might provide more proof in a few days.
If there was anything to report. She swallowed, nearly sure that the
horror would surface, despite her hopes that it had all been a
dream.

She closed her eyes.

Her body ached. Not only because she'd been whipped, or had slept in
a bottomless grave, propped up against damp concrete, or had fought
a timeless battle, pain being the only reward for victory, or loss.
No, her body ached. Her breasts. Her tummy. Her thighs. Her
fingers. Her toes. All of her.

She relaxed, the water seeping the worst of it from her muscles.

The message had been on her answering machine. A BMW, crashed at the
Basketweave, a dangerous stretch of road at the best of times. John.
Gone. And she didn't feel anything but relief. She knew it was
wrong, but after the other place, it didn't seem all that important
anymore. He was going to rape her, and she couldn't allow that.
Simple. She suspected that the Universe, somehow, had protected her
one final time, an obscure note of thanks for sacrificing herself.
Or maybe it had merely been the hand of fate, or coincidence, or
justice. She didn't know, and probably never would.

No matter what, she hadn't killed him -- only one accident amongst
thousands. In her heart, she believed that he'd killed himself,
suicide through malignancy. Would she go to the funeral? Probably.
Sighing, she lay back her head, her hair falling gently into the
water, floating about her submerged shoulders.

It felt almost normal to be naked, but to be alone in her nudity?
She'd get used to it again. We all get used to things.

Her hands cupped her breasts underwater, gently brushing at the skin
there, teasing. She sighed. She ached, and she knew what she needed
to do. Her nipples ached.

Later.

She tilted her head back against the porcelain.

Where was he? What was he doing? Would he come for her?

She doubted it. Almost knew with certainty that he couldn't.

Would it happen again? She would have to be careful with her
emotions, anger and joy intermixing. She'd made time slip, and she
didn't fully understand, yet. Understanding would come, in time.

Would he stop the universe again, pulling her along like an
unwilling puppet? She didn't know. Couldn't know. Absolute power,
leads to absolute temptation.

It wasn't how the saying went, but it was close enough.

She pulled her hand from her breast again. Time enough for that
later.

But she ached. God, did she ache.

Later. Between clean sheets, sighing in the darkness, perhaps a
candle.

She began to drift, and she hoped that her dreams wouldn't drive her
screaming back awake. They didn't though she was cold and shivering
by the time she did wake, the moon kissing her skin, ripples
sparkling as she shivered. Only one thought remained of the dimness
of the Sandman's Land.

"I am the key," she whispered. Her breasts ached, and she knew that
she would deal with that soon enough. She'd been strong enough
before, she could do it again. Waiting made it sweeter.

Her face reflected from the mirror, her bare skin dripping. They
were out there somewhere. All of them. It would be different next
time, she sensed that, could sense it through the mists that
surrounded her.

"It's over, for now," she whispered.

There was one last thing she needed to do, one last room to escape.

Her thoughts turned to clean, cool sheets, and leaving her clothing
behind like sentinels, she stepped naked from the bathroom, and
walked, down the hall alone, towards her bedroom.


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