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Chapter Five

            "Hello, hello, all my fans out there on the 'Net," Upchuck growled, his face visible on a video screen. "This is Charles Ruttheimer the Third, and for those of you who've been so insightful to log on, we've got a special LIVE webcast for you tonight!"

            Clark Bell, a tall, slightly overweight boy with longish, dirty-blond hair, pointed a digital videocamera at Upchuck, and checked his wireless modem to make sure that he was online. "That's right - tonight, we're here in my hometown of Lawndale, where we're fortunate enough to be on hand for the taping of the first 'North of the Border' episode to be seen nationally! That's right, all you 'Border Crossers' out there - our favorite kitchen accessory, Lauriel de la Ribas, is moving her show off Texas cable access and into the bright lights of success in syndication on the Food Network!"

            Upchuck looked across the street to where a number of cars and vans, including a couple of microwave trucks from the local network affiliate stations, were parked in the general area around the Morgendorffer home. A respectable crowd was gathered outside the house, and individuals kept darting in & out of the house and through the milling throngs.

            "Naturally, I know that all of you watching out there would just LOVE to be here tonight, but don't worry - as the Official Number One Fan of 'NOTB', I'll be here to let you know about EVERYTHING that happens tonight - including, I hope, a chance to interview the lovely Lauriel IN PERSON - up close and personal, we hope. Grrrrrrllll..."

            He held up a ticket for view. "Because of the interest in this event, there was a contest held by 'Z-93FM' for the chance to be invited into the home of Jacob Morgendorffer, the enterprising consultant whose marketing and media savvy has brought Lauriel to the very edge of national fame and success - and who has graciously allowed his home to serve as the site for tonight's excursion into culinary bliss! Two lucky winners each won two tickets to attend this taping - and the lucky winners will also have the opportunity to taste the succulent dishes that I'm sure are in the making! Incidentally, I've also learned that Mr. Morgendorffer is also an amateur gourmet of some renown, who has a special affinity for savory French dishes and a real talent with seafood! Perhaps we'll also get a chance to see Mr. Morgendorffer display his talents as well tonight!"

            Upchuck glanced over to see Lauriel's car glide up to the front of the Morgendorffer home. "And is that - YES! It's the one, the only, the incredible Lauriel de la Ribas - the star of 'North Of The Border!' Let's go and see if we can get an EXCLUSIVE interview!"

           

*****

           

            Daria sat in the huge center court of Cranberry Commons, staring into a brand-new copy of 'The Greatest Generation' as she sat before the quintet of spectacular cascading water fountains that made up the centerpiece of the area, and yet not reading a word.

            ...What makes any of you think that she WANTS to be part of a group like this, or is even CAPABLE of being part of such a group?

            Her hands developed a slight tremble.

            "Grove Hills? Let me get this straight - you're so sure that I'm going to be a pain in the ass that you're willing to send me off to another school on the other side of the state just to get me out of your hair?"

            "Enjoy the moment, Miss Morgendorffer. You have a right to feel proud."

            Her lower lip began to quiver gently.

"...If you're REALLY unconcerned about being around other people - you could end up in a dirty apartment off a fourth-floor freight elevator, sharing your two rooms and a bath with sixteen cats, a plain mattress and box spring, four dresses from a church giveaway, and a nineteen-inch black-and-white which doubles as your light after sundown."

            "Gross! God, Mom - even Daria's got more self-worth than that!"

            A slight splash of water wet her boots and the front of her legs, but otherwise went unnoticed...

            Why can't I? I'm not that horrible, am I? Is it the world that's screwed up, or is it just me? And what if it is me, what then -?

            The sounds of a mother scolding her two unruly children on the bench behind her went without being acknowledged...

            "...You refuse to reach out to anybody! You won't even reach out to me!"

            "Where were you a few minutes ago?"

            "Sitting down and waiting for you to look up and say, 'Jane, help me' - that's where I was! Where was I a few minutes ago? I was sitting five feet away from you, watching you drown and waiting for you to say, 'I can't do it on my own!' Where the hell was I? I was waiting for MY FRIEND to reach out and say, 'I NEED YOU!' That's where the hell I was!"

            The sharp edges of her fingernails dug through the front cover of the book and into the pages, driven in by unknowing strength...

            "...And by the way, even though we ARE the idiots, we still outnumber you - and if we wanted, we could stampede over you. But do you know why we don't? Because we don't NOTICE you. You see - we're having fun. We're out doing things. We fight among ourselves, we do stupid things, we make others notice us, but above everything else... we're living. We're alive - and whether we're in pain, or happy or getting screwed by the system, we're gonna keep going - but YOU! You're a black hole for happiness - you're world-class buzzkill! It's kind of like what Billy Thomas said on 'Ally McBeal' - 'Life is wasted on you, Daria! Life is wasted on you because you'll never enjoy it!' You're worse than a 'misery chick' - you're Sally Field in 'Soapdish!' No matter how many chances you get for happiness, you'll just screw them up because you are the Queen - of - MISERY!"

            "Daria... Daria, what's wrong?"-

            Daria noticed the handsome face of Trent before her own - and suddenly realized that her hands, her face and her book were wet and slick with tears. "Talk to me, Daria. What happened to you?"

            "I'm all right," she said, pulling away from the comforting touch that seemed even more frightening to her at that moment than the feel of shackles around her limbs would have. "I have to go - a stupid piece of dirt got into my eye, that's why I'm -"

            "You're not in any shape to go anywhere," Jesse toned in, and Daria suddenly noticed his presence as well. "You were crying as if you didn't have a thing or a person in the world to turn to, Daria. You can talk to us, if you need to."

            "Jesse's right, Daria," Trent said, standing in front of her. "There's nothing that you can't talk to us about."

            "I don't have any problem," she said. "I don't need to talk to you. I need to go now."   

            "Daria - I can tell that you're really hurting bad. You can talk to me, Daria. You can talk to me about anything... you don't have to be afraid that I'll turn away, or think any less of you. I'm here for you, Daria. You can count on me."

            Daria looked up into the warm, dark eyes she had seen looking back at her in countless dreams, and a wave of revulsion rose from a hidden place within her...

Oh, no. You are not going to hook me and reel me in, pretend like you actually care and then hang me out to dry... like all of the others. I'll be damned if I let you put the final nail in the coffin with me crying all over your shoulder, then having to watch you go off to screw that bone-thin harpy Monique... Do unto all of the mothers before they get to do it unto you!

            We are now at DEFCON 1.Targets confirmed and launch codes accepted for thermonuclear ballistic missile launch. Launch condition is SNAPCOUNT. Rotate keys on my mark... five - four - three - two - one -

            "You need to get this out into the light, Daria, no matter what it is. Get it out and deal, before it comes out on its own, and then it could hurt you -"

            The light of the netherworld illuminated her eyes as she leaped from the bench, making Jesse step away as Daria advanced on Trent with vicious hatred and disdain in every movement and glare. "Don't you understand the Queen's English, you slack-ass jerkoff?" she verbally bludgeoned, relishing the pain that came across his face. "Don't you understand anything besides sleep, food and the worthless skank groupies you WISH you could get? Don't put your hands on me - they don't make alcohol in amounts large enough for me to let you EVER touch me, or soap strong enough to get me clean afterward. "

            Trent looked away, and he stepped back from the acid fire within the young woman's voice. "Daria, I'm not trying to-"

            "You're not doing ANYTHING with, to or for me - there are better looking ways to get an STD, and you've probably never heard of antibiotics," Daria replied, her loud, taunting voice sure to draw attention throughout the area, and Trent's hand froze in mid-air, as if he were afraid to tough her. "What, piss-poor lyrics make you dumb AND deaf? Let me make it simple, so even a non-guitar playing bag of skin, bones and smell like you can understand without you needing your wannabe psychic earth-mother floating around on bong smoke to translate: GET - AWAY - FROM - ME. GO - THE - HELL - AWAY. FUCK - OFF!"

            A look of sharpened shock and dismay transformed Trent's face into a whitened pallor better suited for the undead. "So you are capable of learning," she hissed. "I guess that empty look in your eyes is just for decoration - well, something about you should be physically appealing to someone someday. Study up on '2+2' - maybe you'll SOMEDAY be able to swing that job collecting tolls on the Jersey Turnpike. It's your kind of career, Trent: money, respect AND intellectual development. Maybe you'll pull down a Nobel Prize for your fundamental breakthroughs in counting loose change."

            Trent took a stunned step back away from Daria. "Smart call, two-ply. Now practice playing the scales - it'll help you pass the time in the Public Aid Office while you wait for your appointment to get food stamps. Better yet, close your eyes while you're there and count all the fans you'll have when you make it - my God, are you done already?"

            Daria started away as Trent stood inert, and Jesse took a step in her direction.

            "Daria, c'mon -"

            "Are YOU trying to develop the concept of speech and evolve?" Daria sliced into the young man as she swirled back upon him like poison gas and shoved something down his pants. "Here's a twenty; go buy a haircut, a shirt and a vasectomy. That way - you'll be the perfect man."

            Jesse looked blankly at the crumpled bill and then at the girl's disappearing form; he turned to Trent, and noticed that he hadn't moved since Daria spoke to him. "Trent. Trent, man - you okay?"

            "No," he finally spoke, his voice holding the hoarseness that Jesse knew and recognized as him trying to keep from breaking down. "No, I'm not."

            "Let's get out of here," Jesse said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder and noticing that the life had seemed to have gone out of him. "We'll get out of here, and then we'll go and find out what happened to Daria."

*****

            "I'm Charles Ruttheimer the Third, and we're on LIVE via the Internet to the entire world!" Charles announced, swinging his microphone around like an automatic weapon as he advanced on Lauriel and Quinn. "We're here with the host of 'North of the Border', 'the Queen of neo-American cuisine' - the one and only Lauriel de la Ribas! Your fans are anxious to hear EVERYTHING about what you've been doing since you found you're heading to the Food Network! Do you have a minute?"

            "She'll have time for an interview after the show, Mr. Ruttheimer," Horizon said, cutting in between Charles and the women. "Right now, Ms. de la Ribas has several important things that she has to go over before we begin in twenty minutes. If you and your cameraman will follow me, I'll escort you inside to the spot we have for you. Mr. Morgendorffer also wanted to speak to you about your request for your school project - and if you'd like, we've arranged for you to have exclusive behind-the-scenes footage for your webcast..."

            Charles and Clark dutifully followed Horizon, and Quinn turned to Lauriel. "Who's she?"

            "That's Horizon - she's your dad's intern," Lauriel informed her. "She's very good at helping out."

            "I'll say - she managed to make Upchuck do what she wanted without having to hit him once!" the redhead quipped. "Intern, hmn? Well, at least Dad's got better taste than the President... did you help her with her clothes?"

            "No, she's got good taste." Lauriel said, looking at her watch. "It's six-ten. I'd better go and see how your dad and Wendy are doing - you are doing some of the tasting tonight, aren't you?"

            "Just try and stop me!"

            "Not a chance," Lauriel smiled. "Tell your dad or Horizon that I'd like you to sit up front - if you want."

            "I want! I want!"

*****

            "Hello, Charles," Jake said, shaking Upchuck's hand as the young man and Clark walked into the Morgendorffer backyard. "I'm glad you could come tonight. I've wanted to tell you that your web site's been a really big help in promoting the show, and Miss de la Ribas will be more than happy to cooperate with you in any way that she can. Oh, yes - I've got some other news that I think you'll be happy with."

            As the three walked across the large yard, Upchuck and his cameraman saw how the Morgendorffer backyard was now wired for light and sound. Large, comfortable pieces of lawn furniture were strategically placed around the area, and two large 'supergrills' - basically, electrically-powered portable kitchens complete with heating pads for pots and skillets, a built-in fryer, and a huge grilling section - were set up near the rear of the house.

            "They've really gone all out for Miss de la Ribas," Upchuck mused, watching as a number of production assistants set up glasses for soft drinks and wines around the chairs. "Hey - seating chart?"

            "That was drawn up long ago," Jake smiled, stopping next to a table filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. "Would either of you like a slice of mango, or how about some cooled white grapes? Lauriel really loves her grapes..."

            "That's something to put in the next update," Upchuck said, helping himself to a handful of grapes as Clark wandered off to interview guests. "What's that?"

            "Here's a copy of the reworked specs for the device," Jake said, unlocking a briefcase Horizon brought over and handing Upchuck a heavy sheaf of papers from inside. "I've made all the arrangements. The construction began on-site five days ago - we received the clearance from the School Board on Monday."

            "I saw it this afternoon - excellent work," Upchuck said. "Make sure that the crew gets an extra five percent for a bonus, and give them a party somewhere - stick the charges on the bill. They really went overboard on getting EVERYTHING right - all the way down to the color of the sphere and the duplicate control surfaces."

"I'll tell them that you're happy," Jake replied. "We'll hold off on the final stage work and the installation of the power source until you give the order - are you sure you want to wait that long?"

            "It'll add a lot more realism - especially if it doesn't work or some other problem comes up," Upchuck told him. "This is a nice upgrade on the stabilizers... it disengages at thirty seconds, hmn? That's good... It's more true to life, and that's important for this project. Have you spoken to the various agencies?"

            "It was a lot easier, having RADIAL resources to help out," the older man informed him, referring to Ruttheimer Advanced Development and Integrated Adaptation Logistics - the cybernetics research and development company Upchuck's father had founded, "and getting permission to offer promotional consideration. I've gotten a couple of samples: NSA, U.S. Navy - you specifically requested a DARPA tag, right?"

            Jake reached into his briefcase and handed Upchuck a small black wallet. "Yeah, they are that realistic," the reply came in response to Upchuck's raised eyebrows and unspoken question. "Your dad pulled SERIOUS strings to help out with this, Charles. You should be sure to thank him."

            "I will," Upchuck said, handing the item back. "I need one more, though. Special Agent, FBI - the name's Jane Lane. I'll also send you the measurements for the suit and the helmet tomorrow, after we get them."

            "Jane? She's in your project? That's great!" Jake said. "She's such a great kid - say, is Daria in your little project? She hasn't said much - well, she doesn't say much to ol' Jake anyway..." Jake seemed to drift off for a moment...

            "Don't worry, Mr. Morgendorffer - she's just been a bit busy at school lately," Upchuck assured him. He didn't need to hear about how Daria had gotten reamed in school today...

            "You and your dad are spending a lot of money on this, Charles," Jake asked, closing and locking the briefcase. "Mind telling me just why you're going all-out on this? After all - it IS only a school project..."

            "No, sir, it isn't," Upchuck said, looking Jake directly in the eye in a manner that made Jake straighten up just a touch, as though he were speaking with an actual client - which, he realized with a start, he was... "For the past three years, everyone at that school has looked down at me. They've ridiculed me, made fun of me - they call me 'Upchuck'. Forget that I'm in the number two spot in the race for valedictorian next year - and I didn't get that with my dad's money, either. He wanted me to go to a regular high school so 'I'd learn how to deal with regular people and make a name without his name backing me up.' Fine. I'll do that."

            Upchuck took a breath. "That doesn't mean that I have to be abused day in and day out by jocks, burnouts, and girls who act like they can't walk down the same hallway I've walked through because I'm not good enough - forget that those same women'll be clawing over each other to talk to me six years from now, when we're all out of college and they're looking for that meal ticket with deep pockets. I got into this class on my own, I'm going to kick ass on this project - and when it's over, there's not going to be a single person in that school who's going to be able to turn their nose up at me when I go by. But you know what, sir? I'm not going to give a damn if they do, because when it's all said and done - I did this. I'm the one who came up with the idea and brought it all together. Just once, and right in their faces - 'Upchuck' did it right."

            "I can understand that," Jake said, the words far too familiar to him as he extended his hand to the young man. "Mr. Ruttheimer - we'll get it done. That's a promise."

            "Got a moment, Jacob?"

            "Excuse me," Upchuck said, his breath catching as he looked up into Lauriel's huge, doelike eyes. "I'll go and get set up..."

            "Well, this is it," she said, managing to stay somewhat calm as she looked around the yard and saw several of the guests beginning to enter & find their seats. "This is one of those moments I've wanted all my life."

            "To be playing 'let's cook' in a strange man's backyard?"

            "You're 'eccentric', Jacob," the beautiful Latina said, reaching into her purse and bringing out an envelope. "You're only 'strange' when you're poor - and speaking of which... I received my advance check. Here's the balance on my account - and your bonus."

            Jake opened the envelope and swallowed deeply as he looked at the checks. "Thank you," he said, pocketing the envelope. "That's quite a bonus."

            "You've been quite the help," she said. "I just think that you should be - I thought you should have something more for everything you've done for me. You've been there to listen to me whine and complain, and I -"

            "Hey, I understand. Thanks," Jake said, taking her hand in his own. "You think I'm a swell guy. You're right."

            Lauriel laughed, squeezing his hand as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "T want to thank you for just that, Jacob," she said. "You've been just that and more. You've been a true friend for me

            "I was thinking of the money," Jake teased, then grew slightly serious, his complexion slightly flushed. "I want you to be happy, Lauriel. I'm glad that your professional life is coming together, and now, I want you to be happy as a person. I want you to have what I have - a relationship that really means something, with someone who's worth all the trouble that he's going to bring into your life. I want you to have someone like I do - someone like Helen."

            Lauriel raised her eyebrow.

"Oh, you know what I mean."

            "I don't know, Jacob," she teased. "You said before that you want to see your wife and me together. You must have some fantasy rolling around up in that head of yours if you keep bringing up the threesome angle."

            "Don't worry, Lady de la Ribas - you'll meet a wonderful man who'll, umm, come up with your own trademark games!" Jake said, and Lauriel rested her head on his shoulder.

"Now will you stop that - when you brush up against me that way, I can't concentrate."

            "Good!" she laughed. "At least now, you admit that you notice me as a woman!"

            "Lauriel, people who are deaf, dumb, blind and on Prozac notice that you're a woman!"

            "That's better - keep stroking my ego..."

            "Oh, right, that reminds me - we got two letters today, or you did," he said, fishing the envelopes out of his pocket. "Guess who's knocking?"

            Lauriel looked at the names on the envelopes, her eyes going really wide. "You're kidding," she gasped.

            "I told you you'd go big - I didn't think 'Playboy' would call until you'd been national for about a year, so they'd be sure your ratings were good enough to keep you on the air a while," Jake agreed. "With 'Maxim' - I'm surprised they waited this long. How much is the rabbit offering -?"

            Lauriel tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter - and both she and Jake whistled as they read the contents. "My God - I could buy my own restaurant for that."

            "And run it for at least a year without worrying about having to turn a profit,"

Jake said. "That is SERIOUS money for taking your clothes off."

            "I think I'm going to have this framed," Lauriel said, folding the letter carefully. "Someday, when I'm old and wrinkled, I'm going to bring this out to shut the mouths of my smart-aleck granddaughters who think that they have to tell me about what it's like to be young and attractive. 'You think you're so pretty - well, I suppose you have one of THESE, too! No? Well, then you need to take off all of that makeup and those clothes - it's NOT going to help!"

            "You're not thinking of doing 'Playboy', are you?"

            "No, not in this lifetime," she said, a wry smile on her face. "Maxim',,, well, we'll see. Sorry, Jacob. If you want to see me without any clothes, you'll have to fix me dinner and ply me with expensive wines and gifts like a normal mistress."

            "Or get really drunk and need to take a leak in your bathroom," he snorted. Jake had heard the story about Colin, too. "You need to get dressed, Lauriel. Horizon can show you up to the room you can use to get ready, and I need to double-check a few things."

            "I should get ready," she agreed. "Your daughter helped me out a lot today."

            Jake turned, real surprise on his face. "Quinn?"

            "Yes. She's got a lot of good advice, and she knows how to consider a situation from angles we may not have even thought of," Lauriel told him. "You know - she's really not that bad. You might even think about asking Quinn if she'd like to spend some time helping out at your office - especially if you're seriously considering moving your focus more onto entertainment like you've mentioned before."

            "Quinn?"

            "I think she'd make an excellent consultant, or maybe, an assistant," Lauriel said, her eyes shining as an idea popped into her head. "You know, I was just thinking... I wonder if she'd have the time..."

            The tall beauty wandered away, and Jake cocked his head sideways. "Quinn?"

*****

            Helen looked up at the clock on the wall, just above the spot where her J.D. degree was mounted in a custom frame made from oak and set off with 24-karat gold leaf, and sighed as the hands clicked over to 6:30.

            "I've still got plenty of time," she said to herself, selecting another sharpened pencil and leaning forward over a yellow legal pad. "Jake's never on time for anything..."

*****

            For the first time all day, Jane was not only calm, but also happy. Listening to Ted and the plan that Upchuck had put together - oh, yeah, she was getting HER 'A' in this course. The plan was just so damned crazy that it WOULD work - and the real kicker was that she was the key... Upchuck was a lot of things, but forward-thinking? Able to see a use for a girl that didn't involve Jello and being off one's feet? Able to actually convince Barth not to kill him long enough to listen to his plan - and then get her involved as an active, enthusiastic participant? And HE was the one who specifically said that she, 'plain-Jane' Lane, was the best choice for the chair? If this worked out even halfway as well as Ted said it would, Jane promised herself, the word 'Upchuck' would be heading back to 'verb' status in her dictionary on a permanent basis...

            And Ted - puppy-dog Ted, he had come out running to look for her. Now, that was funny... or maybe not. Daria had said that he had a lot more going on than met the eye, and that necklace that he had made for her - Jane admitted that it was an excellent piece of work, something that could easily get a few hundred bucks if it went up for sale, and far better than most of her mother's works. Truth be told, that is.

            Jane's memory went back to the tangle she and Ted were in earlier, and she caught herself sighing at the memory of the young man lying beneath her. He was a bit of the immature kid - no, that wasn't fair. Home schooling had deprived Ted Dewitt-Clinton of several years of developing social skills - not that he didn't have any, but he simply didn't understand yet that you just didn't wear your heart and your innocence out for everyone to see... and to stomp or spit on. No, there went Ted, just rolling headlong into everything in sight, bouncing right up to the mouth of the dragon like the little French baby mouse in the 'Tom & Jerry' cartoons: 'Hello, Monsieur Pussycat?' He didn't really think that there would be people who'd like to smash him right in the face just for being himself - although I don't want to be around to see that ballroom blitz, Jane shuddered, remembering how easily Ted had tossed Kevin around once before in a friendly demonstration of tae-kwon-do. He was just so innocent, so friendly, and so damned cuddly -

            Jane suddenly found herself breathing hard and flushed at the thought of the bright-eyed, blond-haired teenager - and she immediately put him out of her mind. No, I am not going to start acting like some bimbo with a crush on him - jeez, he had some build on him under those Garanimals he was wearing, and okay, I could probably have grabbed something else, but excellent development in the gluteus maximus, young man -

            I'd better talk to Daria - she'll get a kick out of -

Jane felt the cold anger seep back up her spine as she thought once again of her friend. "No, I'll let HER come to me," she replied, heat in her voice. "I'm tired of always making the first move and mending fences first. This time, if she wants to be friends - SHE has to make the first move."

            That thought was setting up long-term quarters in her mind as Jane turned down the street and ran up the sidewalk to the front door of 'Casa Lane'. "Let her reach out first."

*****

            "Hey, Jane," Trent said, saluting his sister with a raised can of beer as Jane walked into the front room. "Long time, no see. We should get rid of the blowup boat."

            Jane immediately went on guard. Trent getting drunk enough to make bad jokes was an old, old sign of bad trouble - and Jesse being there, fully alert, stone sober and watching over him - meant that it was really, really bad.

            "Trent," Jane said, moving slowly towards her brother and sitting down next to him. "Trent, what's wrong?"

            "Don't wanna talk," he said, finishing the beer and reaching for a can from the Styrofoam cooler that sat on the table in front of him. "I just want to sit... and drink my beer... and look into the wall. Everything you need to know about life you can figure out, if you just stare long enough into a wall..."

            "What happened to him?"

            "Daria."

            A flash of absolute horror flattened Jane's breath and made her heart seem to stop beating. Trent out of it this bad - was Daria -?

            "Is she all right?" the girl asked, steeling herself to hear the news that would rip her soul right off its foundation. "Is she... she isn't... oh, God..."

            "Daria's not hurt, Jane. We ran into her at the mall," Jesse told her. "Something's wrong with her. We saw her all alone, sitting by herself and crying like someone ran over her puppy - but when we went over to help, she went off and started to slice Trent down."

            Trent shotgunned another beer, and reached for yet another. "I could be a weenie and go get kneepads before I get a job for Mr. Corporate. I could do the computer-god thing and roll in it, but I want to try... She said that I should at least try so I'd at least have the memory of doing that... I'm the fool. I let her in because I thought she understood me. She doesn't think anything of me. She couldn't..."

            Jesse touched Jane's shoulder, bringing her out of the stunned state she was in as she watched her brother slowly disintegrate in front of her. Daria did this? Daria? She couldn't have... I know her! She might not care about anything or anyone else, but she's into Trent on a level that's scary, if she ever let herself show it or even admitted it to herself! Who are we kidding - Daria's in love with him! He's the one person she'd ever actually make a real effort for; she'd be on someone who even looked at him wrong like white on rice, and that's right now, even with her deluding herself that she doesn't dream about getting a world-class rugburn in Trent's room every time the man's name is mentioned! Something's really wrong here!

            "She said stuff, Jane. Stuff meant to hurt Trent. Stuff you say when you don't have any respect for someone, or when you want to see them hurt over and over."

            Jesse saw Trent gulp the beer down mechanically, and his eyes went back to Jane. "She said stuff meant to kill him from the inside out. Something is really wrong with her, Jane. We have to find out what, and then we have to get them together so she can apologize and this doesn't go any further."
            "I'll find her," Jane said between gritted teeth. "I'll -"

            She suddenly remembered a promise they had made, and the planned events for the night. Mr. Morgendorffer - the cooking show -Trent and his NECKLACE! - Oh, no...

            She stood slowly. "I know exactly where she is. Hang here with Trent a bit longer - I'll call Nicholas and Max to come over, too - and I'll go get her and bring her right here."

*****

            The full moon hung low over the Lawndale quarry, a brilliant, shining disk that cast a shimmer over the area and made the water at the bottom of the rough-hewn walls of rock dance in a symphony of wind, waves and light. It was a beautiful image - and if Daria had been able to see the world around her as she did even a day before, it would possibly have been the subject of a poem or even a setting in a short story.

            Today was a different story, and Daria's eyes were windows to a New World. She sat back against a wind-worn outcropping of rock, her mocha eyes dead, and her face a mask of repressed inner turmoil absolute generally reserved for masters of total Vulcan logic. She sat looking out across the darkness for a long time, a single thought lurking just below the darkening stream of her consciousness...

            And as a pair of dirt bikes and a motorcycle came roaring across the rock-strewn terrain in her general direction - then, after a beam of light accidentally played over her, in a beeline path towards her, that thought rose closer to the surface.

            Now - it's my turn.

            Daria pulled the caps from the tips of the pens she had in her jacket pocket and placed them back so they just barely hung out, and scooped up handfuls of rock-dust as she rose from the ground, her arms just limp at her sides...

            "Hey, little girl - don't you know that you shouldn't be out here after dark?" one of the three riders laughed harshly as the three stopped ten feet from her, their lights framing Daria against the dark. "There's a lot of bad people out here..."

            "Maybe," Daria said, her voice supernaturally calm. "I haven't been paying attention. You guys can go now. I was just having some time to myself."

            "Why don't you share some of that quality time with us?" one of the others said, and they left their bikes running as they dismounted in unison. "That way, you don't have to worry about the bad people..."

            "I'm not."

            Something about the way Daria spoke those words gave the men pause. "Tell you what - why don't we just take you home, and make sure that you get there."

            "Safely?"

            The man's grin was an ugly one. "Better to get home in one piece than not at all, girly-girl. And for our time, you can just give us, ah, hell, whatever money you've got."

            "I don't have any money. I bought a book."

            "Don't worry, girly-girl. We'll work it out. And in. And out. Eventually, I'll be satisfied with your skinny ass," the smart-mouthed rider said, licking his lips. "We all will."

            "Oh, yeah," Daria agreed, her tone neutral to a point that rational persons would have left her presence. Quickly. "I agree with you."

            The three riders rushed Daria - and screamed and cursed, blinded as Daria threw the heavy handfuls of rock dust into their eyes! Moving swiftly, she did a couple of vicious foot-sweeps that sent two of the riders to the ground - and one cried out sharply as his head smashed on a large rock with an audible CRACK!

            "Work this out," Daria calmly remarked, brutally ramming a pair of pens deep into the juncture between the smart-mouthed rider's legs, twisting them in with all of her strength as a high-pitched scream exploded from the man's lips! He fell as Daria spun about - and a banshee's wail washed over her as she thrust a second pair deep into the abdomen of the third rider, who cleared his eyes and tried to attack from behind!

            The third rider grabbed at the pens - and bellows of pain shot from his mouth as Daria kicked him in the groin as hard as she could, again and again, even after he fell to the ground! A savage duo of kicks to the head rendered him silent - and soon after, his soon-to-be-sexless friend received a vicious two-shot to the noggin as well... after Daria visibly tired herself out kicking and stomping him and the others into a museum-quality collector's edition of all-over bruises. She looked down to see blood on her boots:

Well, that's why they call them shit-kickers - piece of shit-kickers...

            Daria looked the scene of vengeance over; a touch of life re-entered her eyes as she glanced around the area, and a particularly pithy comment from a military-oriented magazine flowed through her mind:

'Yea, and as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the Valley...'

            "Bitch," she corrected verbally, her voice harsh and strained, her breathing ragged as she hunched over and gulped in the cool night air, and she realized then that she had been screaming incoherently the entire time.

"Meanest bitch in the valley."

            She went over to the rider who hit his head, and noticed a thin trickle of blood run down the rock from the back of his head. "Better you than me," she said blandly, beginning to search his pockets. "Let's see how much it'll take for me to call EMS to come and get you 'upstanding citizens..."

            Several minutes later, Daria was over $1,700 dollars richer and the proud possessor of a collection of gaudy - albeit pricey -jewelry, and a seriously high-tech lighter - the coherent-light type that could light a fire in a hurricane. They also carried some surprisingly high-quality knives, including a springlock-release blade that the user wore on his forearm and flicked out with a specific motion, and Mr. Johnny Wadd-less was packing a bigger-than-life, holy mother of God! Colt Anaconda .357 magnum revolver with a six-inch barrel and Teflon-coated, 'cop-killer' rounds. It was one HELL of a good gun - thanks a lot for the firepower, you prick! She also now had a VERY nice leather jacket - just slightly large for her, but it was very comfortable, and with the belts and straps on it, she could make it a better fit. It was amazing, how the springlock was all but invisible under the sleeve of the jacket - and felt so comfortable on her arm...  

            The smart-mouth also had a NICE cellular phone - one of the latest ones, the ones with a GPS - Global Positioning System - sat/link chip, a way to locate a person's position from anywhere on the planet through the use of satellites. The bad ones always have the best stuff - but not for long, Daria smiled, dialing 911.

            "Lawndale County - 911."

            "The quarry. Come and get them," she said, muffling her voice through the shirttail and speaking off-key with a touch of Brittany in her voice.

            "Hello? Hello, who is this? Hello?"

            "I'll leave a marker for you."

            Daria wiped the phone off with her shirttail, dropped the phone next to the rider who didn't get an autograph from her, picked up her knapsack and went back over to the man. She pulled strips of his shirt off, took a moment over the other riders, and then went to the bikes...

            A couple of minutes later, Daria revved the engine of the motorcycle, popped the kickstand, and roared away from the burning frames of the dirt bikes - and from three unconscious fools who didn't have the common sense to know real trouble when they saw it.

*****

            "And today, we'll be making swordfish steaks with a savory garnish of cream and cherries with a selection of hot peppers and peppercorns, as well as smoked eggplant and mushroom steaks - for those of you on the veggie path," Lauriel said, moving behind the counter. "We'll also serve that up with a seven-layer salad that's so good, it could cause peace to break out in the Middle East. We've got a summer salad with new potatoes, grilled corn-on-the-cob in the husk - we know that you're going to love that - and finishing if off with a classic, all-American favorite - homemade ice-cream sundaes with a fresh-fruit medley topping!"

            Out in the control truck, Jake watched from his seat as Wendy, headset on as she sat behind a small row of monitors, gave instructions to the cameramen and other members of the crew.

"Okay, Camera 1 - bring it in closer on the swordfish steaks; Camera 2, stand by - Camera 2, go! Camera 3, give me a wide shot of Lauriel - go Camera 1, go Camera 3 - Camera 2, swing around, go wide and give me a slow tracking shot of the guests. Chyron, ready graphic 12 - go Camera 3, Camera 1, give me a medium shot of Lauriel and follow her until I say different. Camera 2 - come off the Peanut Gallery and close up on the salad fixings, ready graphic 12, up graphic 12 - six, five, four, three, two, one, down graphic 12, ready graphic 5. Camera 1 ready, go Camera 1, bring up graphic 5..."

            This was one of the things Jake really loved about his job. Granted, he wasn't a television producer (but maybe someday; it really did have some interesting moments), but he loved the energy that came off the people as they made seemingly split-second decisions as the events on screen unfolded. He marveled that everything that went on was according to a schedule that he helped put together, and that if they decided that the show was going to be fifty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds long - well, when that show went out over the airwaves, by God, it was fifty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds long. Exactly. Not a second more or less.

            It was a little like a drug, he thought - being competent and effective. To be that accurate, and to make sure that everyone around you was like that, too - the things that you could get done when everyone was in sync with the common goal... you could get anything done, Jake realized. You certainly could get something as simple as getting a cooking show made: that wasn't to say that 'NOTB' was simple - there were a number of complex elements to be dealt with, and food was food, which meant that a production or technical delay could result in a ruined dish, which meant that you had to shoot that over... You could actually achieve something!

            I like doing this! Jake said to himself, leaning back and to the side, past Wendy's forest of hair to see the preview monitors... and truth to be told, to get a better glimpse of her silhouette. Born and raised on a farm in the north of the British Isles, Wendy was nearly always uncomfortable with the climate in this part of the U.S. - especially in the spring and (thrice-damned) summer. Because of this, the straightforward little redhead practically lived in T-shirts and light slacks or jeans - and almost never wore bras, serving everyone around with a perfect view of her pert, firm little breasts. Sometimes, Jake wondered, if she went without because she didn't like wearing bras, or she had a little exhibitionist in her, or if she simply wanted to make at least SOME of the people around her just as uncomfortable as she was being here -

            "Stop staring at the girls, M," Wendy cracked, throwing a sidelong glance at him, then tossing him a smile. "You're married - and besides, why are you even bothering with my little rack when everyone knows you could 'cross the border' whenever you wanted?"

            "You know, if everyone around here spent as much time on their own love lives as they did on mine, Texas would go from 'the Lone Star State' to a 'five-star' state overnight," Jake sighed. "Speaking of which - why haven't I seen you with some starstruck guy following your every movement instead of you following mine?"

             "Simple - until I find a Wall Street type who I can have actual fun with beyond the local cotillions and back seats, its more fun, less stressful and a lot less sticky to just watch you."

            "Bite an English muffin."

            "Send Patrick Stewart my way, love, and I'll nibble for days," she smiled. "And look at this! Camera 3 - get a shot of the guy Lauriel's bringing up! Go Camera 3, go Camera 1, Camera 2, get a close shot of the little redhead in the front -"

            Wendy winked at Jake. "-Ready graphic 93, go Camera 2, up graphic 93!"

            Jake smiled as the screen showed a flattering close-up of Quinn, with the graphic 'Quinn Morgendorffer - Vice-President, LHS Fashion Club.'

            "Thanks."

            "Not a problem - Lauriel said to get shots of all of the family," Wendy said. "Down graphic 93, up graphic 94!"

            The new graphic replaced the 'Fashion Club' line with simply, 'She lives here.'

            "Down graphic 94, ready graphic 101 - Camera 2, go close on the weasel with Lauriel. Go Camera 1, go Camera 2, up graphic 101."

            Jake looked up and saw Eric on screen, barely able to keep from staring at Lauriel as he stood next to the counter.

            "So - how are you going to prepare the steaks?"

            "Well, I think that we'll sear them first-"

            "See - no matter how things go, women always want to get serious!"

            Both Jake and Wendy winced at the bad pun. "Boy, he's got it bad," Wendy snipped. "Shame Lauriel doesn't like the Ivy League type much - he could've dreamed that he had a chance."

            "I don't think he could stop drooling long enough to ask."

            "Doesn't matter - you need to strap on an apron and head up there anyway," Wendy said, and a touch of understanding entered her voice. "It's important for her. She does want you on camera with her tonight."

            "You know me, Wendy. If I can make our girl happy, I'll do whatever it takes."

            Wendy turned from the screens to look at him, and Jake felt the gravity of her gaze fall on him.

            "And I expect to hold you to that, Jacob. Every day you're here with her."

*****

            "How's she doing, Sarah?"

            Sarah Sorenson, an imposing woman in her late forties with a ironclad reputation as a nurse-practitioner, looked up from a chart as Hanley walked into the C/ICU isolation room Jodie was in. "No new seizures, Dr. Phillips. Her BP is still depressed further than I'd care to see, and her temperature has risen up to 95. Heart rate is now 66 BPM. No unusual EEG activity."

            "I'd like to check her over. Could you go out and get the results of Miss Landon's blood workup?"

            "Right after I finish assisting you with whatever you've brought in to help this patient, Doctor."

            Hanley kept a poker face but inside, he sagged like an ill-fitting dress. 'Sarah the Swede', as they referred to her because of her height (at six-five, towering over almost everyone she met) and her 'ABBA features' (a fair, almost pale complexion, platinum hair and ice water-blue eyes), had unbeatable instincts for the C/ICU unit - and a reputation for seeing through even the slightest deceptions. Most doctors hated having to work with her, enjoying the ego boost that came with being 'godlike saviors of life and limb' and detesting the manner in which she forced them to 'keep it real', but not Hanley. He wanted to know if he was about to make a mistake, regardless of from stupidity or ignorance...

            Just this once, though, he wished that she could have slipped up. "I'll need a syringe and swabs."

            Sarah handed him a tray with the requested items, and her eyes narrowed as she saw the label on the vial Hanley drew from his coat. "D-157. I can't say that I approve of the company you keep, Doctor."

            Hanley couldn't keep the stunned expression off his face. "England, Doctor Phillips. I worked with the World Health Organization for eighteen months, and I did some... liaison work in Hereford. You'll need to increase the patient's fluid intake over the next thirty-six hours to improve the saturation rate. She'll also need sodium, iron and vitamin supplements for the next two weeks, and we should start her on IV steroids for the same period. I assume you brought enough for three more treatments over the next six days."

            "That's not the standard protocol."

            "It is for purging adolescents. You're working off the Niagara Falls protocol. Those are NOT nice people, Doctor Phillips."

            He injected the fluid into Jodie's IV drip, and watched the pale-blue substance intermingle with the D5W solution. "They must certainly like you, though," Sarah continued. "This stuff is easily worth six figures on the black market... per vial."

Hanley shook his head slowly. There were two things that he really detested about his time in... government service. One was how incestuous the intelligence community was - how everyone knew everyone and everyone else's business, lifestyles, dating spots, favorite TV shows...

The second was how, no matter how far out of your way you went to leave 'The Community' - as insiders referred to the various worldwide intelligence services in general - you never really left. Sure enough, you'd always run into other members of The Community or people who knew someone ... no matter where you went, or how hard you tried to stay out of sight and mind...

            Back at the U.S. Special Studies Center in Savannah, Georgia, where Hanley spent the ten months of his primary training for the Para/Military-Oriented Global Operations (POGO) units, somebody had put up a sign as a joke in one of the main classrooms. However, the truth of the saying had become evident, and now the sign had been framed: 'Spies are like roaches. For every one you see and step on - there are ten more running around somewhere out of sight.'

            Dr. Hanley Philips really hated government service.

            "Let's keep this between ourselves."

            "Yes. I like not looking over my shoulder."

            Hanley scribbled a couple of notes on Jodie's chart. "She's going to be with us for some time, Miss Sorenson. Her injuries are going to require us to pay particularly close attention to her - you understand, don't you?"

            "Yes, Doctor. I assume we're going to find high levels of GHB in her system when her bloodwork comes back from the lab?"

            Hanley looked at Sarah. "No - an unidentified substance that seems to be related to PCP. That will explain the psychotic episode and the momentary physical enhancements. It seems like someone's cooking up a new designer drug, and slipped it to our patient - problem is, it doesn't seem to have any component that provides a physical or psychological high."

            "I guess someone didn't study their chemistry texts as well as they should have. That should work," she replied. "It'll also give that witch Angela Li an excuse to bust heads over at Lawndale High - not that she's ever needed one."

            "You don't like her? I had heard that she's really good!"

            "I have nieces who go to school there - I'd rather they had matriculated at Dachau. I understand that the security there was more relaxed, and the atmosphere was more conducive to learning."

*****

            "Sandi, you'll be all right, and with the right wardrobe and makeup, nobody will even notice the bruises on your neck!" Stacy simpered, holding up an almond-colored faux-turtleneck shirt. "You can wear this along with some matching cords - it matches your hair, and it'll help hide the bruises, and it'll make your boobs stand out! Nobody'll be looking at your neck then!"

            "Right," Tiffany echoed, the time dilation between her brain and her mouth even more pronounced than usual as she toweled her hair off - once again. She has showered and shampooed her hair five times that night to get the smell of vomit out of her hair... "Boobs. Boys. They won't notice."

            "I see that Quinn has more important things to do than come to the aid of a fellow Fashion Club member," Sandi said. "I think that being at a stupid TV show is so far less important than supporting one of our own in her time of need... I mean, that Ribas woman is so - so masculine, what with her trying to be a chef, and driving around in a Pimpmobile, and someone should tell her that her hair is so 'Charlie's Angels' Farrah Faucett - why doesn't she just go ahead and go -"

            Sandi stopped in mid-rant as she caught her own reflection. She looked deep into her own eyes - and then, down to the marks around her neck. She heard the emptiness of her own words echo in her mind as she saw the memory of the same emptiness in Jodie's eyes; a less-than-casual notice of what was happening around her and of what she was doing, as though it was nothing to just choke the life out of a human being in the middle of the street in broad daylight - or the person who it was happening to was nothing, and then it was all right to just kill them, to remove them as though they were a swatted fly swabbed off the table with a paper towel -

            Stacy's stock-issue sycophantic tongue-waving and Tiffany's generation-long attempts to pronounce three-syllable words within the same sentence fell away without notice from Sandi's interpretation of the world as she knew it. She had almost died today. That's something that should matter... shouldn't it? Shouldn't it?

            And for what? What if she hadn't lived? Would it have mattered? Oh, sure - the girls in the Fashion Club would have said nice things about her... for about fifteen seconds. But what after that? Who would miss her? Why would they miss her? Maybe her little brothers would miss her. Maybe. Maybe her parents would miss her - no, they aren't concerned about anything I do now, but they would bitch about the cost of the funeral. That's why they have those $100,000 insurance policies on each of us. That way, if someone goes Jonesboro or Littleton on me or one of the rats, they can pay for all of the expenses, take a two-week cruise (so the healing can begin) and have something left over to put in the bank... To them, I'm worth more dead than alive!

            Who else would care? The teachers? Barch? O'Neill? Yeah, he'd care - he'd care right into a major stroke and some time in convalescence, with a heady helping of psychological therapy. Ms. Li? Only because her death would bring shame, and disgrace, and dishonor to the proud name of 'Laaaaaawwwwwwnnnndale High.' Please, lady, go get laid, already.

Really, though; after the required faux-grieving before their classes and the cliched tour of 'counselors' to the school for a week or so to 'help the Healing Process begin' - none of them would lose much sleep if she were gone. Except for Mr. DeMartino. He acted like he didn't even care anymore - and that began after she wrote that report on how events in post-World War I Europe had led to the rise of the Nazi Party. He paid some attention to her every now and then before that, usually comments along the lines of 'why don't you at least TRY to be a good student?'

And then, one day, Sandi heard him talking to Stacy about writing a comparison-&-contrast paper about the parallels between the Nazis and the Fashion Club, and was so angry that she blew off a weekend trip of shopping in Dallas to write a report of her own. Oh, yes, she thought, actually going through her schoolbooks and actually reading them, I'll show you! I'll even make it sound smart by doing what Mark Twain said not to do - I'll go ahead and use 'metropolis' instead of 'city' because they want you to use the five-dollar words on papers like this!

In her report, she spoke on how the German people had elected Hitler chancellor because of the promises he made to restore glory and honor to a Germany decimated because of the Treaty of Versailles. She argued the fact that the Fashion Club acted in the same way - to give students something to be proud of outside of the traditional school activities and despite the current administration, which had sold the average student out to a plethora of outside interests. Unlike the National Socialist, or 'Nazi' political faction, Sandi pointed out - the F.C. was a force for good. Unlike the Nazis, they also acted to abolish the stereotypical labels given to students who participate in, who are pressured into, or who suffer repercussions because of the mindset inherent within each of those activities.

My God, she said, sitting at her computer as she wrote, thesaurus firmly entrenched in her lap, this actually sounds like something that Jodie or that Daria bitch would write!

And she continued on...

Anyone and everyone who truly wished to better themselves was welcome in the Fashion Club, and no one faction within LHS society was singled out to serve as the focal point for the F.C. to use as a scapegoat for the purpose of gathering or maintaining power. The Fashion Club, she argued, was a proactive faction that recognized the inherent flaw within the social strata of the high school - that appearance was the initial, and sometimes determining, factor as to how a young person would be accepted within teen society. It recognized this, and acted to help young people by ensuring that a teen could have the time needed to be accepted on his or her own merits by assuring that they fit on a base level within that society. Once that person was seen to have some common factors as others, then they could also display those traits about themselves that would prove them to be a benefit to the group as a whole.

Two examples she gave in her report were of her friend Tiffany, who would have been shunned by most of Lawndale High society were she not in the Club, and Jodie Landon, who would be perfect for the Club (but not now!) That way, people would just let her be JODIE, not the stereotype 'perfect African-American student and role model' that she felt she had to be. In the Club, Jodie would be able to relax, to have fun and enjoy high school, to date someone she really liked and not someone she felt she felt obligated to be with. Jodie felt that she had to stay in her current position and activities in order to be a role model for other Blacks, Sandi argued, but didn't realize that she could provide a better role model for Black students by being one for ALL students - as a member of the Fashion Club.

Even now, she treasured the memory: the look on DeMartino's face when she walked into the room, tossed the report at his feet and snarled, "So we're Nazis in the Fashion Club, right?" She then turned to that snotty, smarter-than-a-computer-and-just-as-attractive Daria, fastened her eyes to those shit-colored beads hidden behind those 'Never gonna get kissed' glasses and said, in a voice that could take a house off its foundation:

"Ever wonder why...? Ever bother asking?"

It was the first A she had ever received on a project in high school.

From that day forward, Mr. DeMartino never pressured her on her work. On occasion, she would see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. He would just look at her with an expression of sadness, as though he had failed at something really big, and that it really made him hurt inside...

Now, if it were Jodie, I'd bet that he'd care about her dying off - and it wouldn't be because she's the Great Yellow-and-Blue Hope! Oh, Jodie's going to be worth something, Jodie's going to hold a high position in life. Me? The only thing that they see me doing in ten years from now is some rich, older man!

            Then, there was Quinn. Quinn Morgendorffer. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn, QUINN, QUINN! Oh, they'd proclaim a National Day of Mourning if someone saw her break a nail!

I guess it's true, she mused. The Lord protects little children, animals and fools - He made sure that hussy got complete coverage, didn't He?

Bitch.

Vapid, rail-thin, airbrushed, strawberry-blond tease with a sweatband 'round her head that reads 'Inflate to 45 psi'. Well, you know what they say: (1.) You can sleep around with a blond, you can sleep around with a brunette, but you'll never get any sleep with a redhead around. (2.) What's the difference between a slut and a bitch? A slut will sleep with anyone - a bitch will sleep with anyone but YOU. All together, everyone - can you say 'I love ME?"

Bitch.

That was the real pain - after all, nothing bad was ever going to happen to that prize heifer in real life, especially since everyone always watched out for her. She always got everything that she wanted, and it was so easy for her... just stick her head, all covered in bouncy hair, in view of the public and everyone would come running to help her, or do things for her, or give her things...

It just wasn't fair!

That's right - it isn't fair, a second thought blossomed. It just is. They like her more than you. So what. She may be prettier than you. So what? All of this stuff that you think is so vital and meaningful - it isn't! SO WHAT?

Then, if what I'm doing now doesn't mean anything - then what? What do I do?

And a line from a book that she read came to her suddenly; a book she hadn't read since grade school. And as Sandi looked at her reflection in the mirror, looked beyond it to somewhere within her, she heard her voice as a child, repeating that line over and over...

And what can you do, little cat? What can you do? What can you do? What can you do? WHAT CAN YOU DO?

And then she remembered what she had said earlier, how being in the seminar had made her think - made her consider what she was worth. Was she being truthful - or was she just letting her vanity run wild, just to put that Daria bitch back in her place? Really, though, Sandi thought, does she need to be put back in her place? Is it my place to do it? Why are you even thinking about her, anyway - don't you have someone more important to worry about? Don't you know by now that the only person who really matters is you, because you yourself are the only person that you can really change? The Doctor's just showing you the path to walk - but you have to take each and every single step on your own!

And what can you do, little cat? What can you do? What can you do? What can you do? WHAT CAN YOU DO?

Sandi sat up straight as she looked directly into her reflection in the vanity-table mirror. "A lot more than I have - a lot more than just this. You just watch."

For their part, Stacy and Tiffany never asked her about what she was talking about, or why she was talking to herself in the mirror. It must be something to do with her being choked - maybe she didn't get enough air to her brain? Whatever...

The two young women would never really know - or understand - how right they had been.

*****

            "Let me get this straight: you've already progressed to the midway point in your testing and recruitment program. You've got a probable candidate for recruitment - one that scores within our chosen DFI range. You then change your program protocols to maximize the potentials of the candidate and lower her resistance quotient. You inform us of these changes and begin - without consulting us - the process of moving the candidate to our regional staging area so she can begin the process... and you recommended that, once there, she be evaluated for possible POGO capability. You've sent us several reports, including today's update, which shows that she's within days of a possible shifting."

            Robert Bakeson, dressed in the uniform and two shining silver stars of a U.S. Army major general, scowled as he wiped roughly at his hawk-beak nose with a silk handkerchief, then faced the monitor on his wall once again. "The only POGO recommendation you've made since you began recruiting six years ago. But now, for some reason, you want us to just stop the recruitment effort on this... Daria Louise Morgendorffer," he continued, shuffling through a folder. "Can you explain this to me?"

            "Yes, sir," Kyle's image replied from the monitor. "It seems that circumstances have changed on-site. I've confirmed data that indicates recruiting the girl could have negative consequences for the program. I had already informed you of that data in an earlier report."

            "Explain."

            "Why wasn't I informed beforehand that a Barksdale was being considered for recruitment?"

            Robert (no one, not even his wife in bed, would ever consider calling him 'Bobby', 'Rob' or 'Bob') let an eyebrow raise in a condescending façade of ignorance. "Really? When did this happen?"

            "With all due respect, sir - that's not very funny," Kyle fumed. "Morgendorffer is a fourth-generation Barksdale - and the niece of Amy Barksdale. I don't suppose you'd want her and her UN watchdogs rolling into town - "

            "Especially since they don't take the time to read anyone their rights," Bakeson growled, his Mississippi accent becoming thicker with his annoyance.

            "Or have to," Kyle observed. "Diplomatic immunity - it is a bitch'. Back to the point. Since the nature of the recruitment program means that we're in a number of schools at any one time, you could have brought someone else in to run the Lawndale seminar during this cycle. You could have brought Whitney out of SIU-Carbondale, or Marshall out of that Arizona backwater - don't tell me HE'S not looking for a change of scenery. Hell, you could've given the kids in Chicago a break and sent Collier! She's so full of herself that she and the principal here just might bond like sisters!"

            "The point, please..."

            "I seriously have to wonder about the reasoning behind MY personally being ordered to recruit a Barksdale - especially since she is someone we could have use for in the program - when it is public knowledge that they all but hate me," Kyle stated firmly. "In trying to hang me out to dry, Evelyn Barksdale would in all likelihood end up exposing not only the recruitment program - but a lot of DELPHI as well."

            "I don't agree."

            "Excuse me?"

            "We were aware of the fact that Morgendorffer is Barksdale's granddaughter - and the decision of the panel was that the relationship is not relevant. If the Barksdale family tries to interfere in the affairs of the U.S. Government, then they will be dealt with."

            "EXCUSE ME?" Kyle exploded. "Sir, these aren't the 1950's - we can't get away with things like that anymore! Does the word 'Watergate' ring a bell?"

            "It does - and it isn't your concern. Furthermore - the matter of your failed relationships has nothing at all to do with the nature of your duties there," Robert patronized. "You were sent to complete an assignment, not to alternate swapping insults and spit with her cousin. You're a Marine, damnit, and I expect you to act like one! Execute your mission, Major. Recruit Morgendorffer. Keep the program running, slap your prick back in leather and stop whining like a bitch that's just gone on the rag! GET IT?"

            "Yes, sir!" Kyle replied quickly as he snapped off a sharp salute. When dealing with over-promoted, piece-of-shit REMF's like this ground-pounding Army asswipe Bakeson, he learned long ago, just remember your early days as a butterbar - a newly commissioned second lieutenant. Just do a lot of saluting, have a parade-ready uniform... and practice up on the 'Yes, sir! - No, sir!' routine. Oh, yeah - buy an extra tube of Chapstick, if you really want to get on his good side...

Bakeson really did enjoy cracking the whip and having people bend the knee, Kyle thought - he always has. Oh, well - it's a weakness that'll cost him dearly someday.

            "Good. After you get Morgendorffer, screw her cousin as much as you want - I don't care," Robert said, tossing a dismissive wave towards the screen. "She's a hot little number, isn't she? Oh, yes - one other thing. Someone down there's been checking up on you."

            "Oh, really," Kyle said, his voice becoming low and dangerous. "Do you have a name?"

            "Some kid named Ruttheimer - his pappy's the head of some computer company," Robert informed him, and he scowled as Kyle's face seemed to relax. "He's been getting information on your seminars and your background - looks like he's trying to find out about you and your earlier classes. He's also had a lot of contact with the UPN Network and the producers of some show they broadcast... does this make sense to you?"

            "Yeah," Kyle said. "Nothing serious - just a rich kid trying to figure out how to get a better grade. Don't pay any attention to him; he's harmless."

            "He's paying to do a lot of digging..."

            "You should see the kid. He's trying to buy respect. He's not a problem," Kyle told him.

            "All right then," Robert said, somewhat mollified by Kyle's comment. "As for the rest, I don't see a reason to change step or drag your ass on this job. Your orders stand, Major Armalin. You will complete your assignment as directed."

            "Yes, sir. Armalin out."

            The screen went dark, already forgotten by Robert as Franklin Davers sat his teacup and saucer down and rose from his seat away from the wall-mounted videocamera. "Having problems with Armalin, I see..." he opinioned, brushing off the sleeve of his uniform - where the hard-won 'Ranger' and 'Special Forces' tabs were sewn on. "Again."

            The tall, well-built man with warm, 'movie-star' good looks and a smile designed to make women's undergarments fly off on their own regard went to a well-stocked bar and selected a bottle after examining it for a moment. "He's a good man, but it's always off-the-cuff improv with him; 'It'll work better if we do it this way!" A brief silence. "We get specific orders for a reason."

            "He keeps forgetting that he needs to follow those orders and do whatever the hell he's told," Robert scowled, watching as Franklin poured a generous portion of bourbon into an Old Fashioned glass and set it on the desk before the general. "Thank you, Franklin. You know how things are supposed to go, while 'Chicken George' needs to be reminded that if I wanted him to have an opinion, I'd have given him one."

            Robert downed the bourbon in one gulp, set the glass down and pushed it forward. "And it wouldn't have been to go catting around with a married woman - let alone a white one - while he's supposed to be getting the job done. Another one."

            Franklin's face didn't change, but he felt distaste at the blatantly racist comments and patronizing, paternalistic attitude of his commanding officer as he refilled his glass. Sure, Kyle needed to concentrate on his assignment, but he had also read the reports from LHS - the program was going better on his posting than anywhere else. Kyle's recruits also tended to be far more focused than most, and as for signing on once they found out exactly what they were in for - nobody had the 96% rating that he maintained.

Only three of his recruits had left the program. One was for medical reasons - she had lost the use of her legs to a mortar shell on her first POGO field mission to monitor the Tamil insurgency in Sri Lanka and the response to the troubles by India. The second was a young man with cyber-skills, who left to take a computer-industry position that paid in the mid-six figures. That one needed the money for his large and nearly destitute family, which included three elderly relatives with barely any means of support and serious medical needs, and Kyle, in a move that annoyed Robert (but didn't surprise Franklin), supported both in every way possible.

For the girl - Jennifer Hannon, he recalled - that included securing a serious financial outlay and full medical coverage, including complete rehabilitative and psychological therapy, as well as ensuring that she'd have very little trouble with her peers after returning to her palatial family home in New England. Of course, pushing for that Air Medal and a captain's commission for the young Air Force Academy cadet also helped her family and friends see her as the hero she really was...

Even though she had completed her POGO training, Cadet Hannon didn't have to go with POGO Group Ten. She was still a full two months from graduation from the Academy, but her paranormally enhanced mental enhancements and memory, and the psychic ability to project IMAX-class holographs of anything she'd encountered were vital to the mission. Cadet Hannon had 'total recall' of EVERYTHING in her life, including her birth, and having absolutely perfect intel was a necessity. She was given full disclosure about the situation - and volunteered anyway...

Seriously wounded in the pullout after POGO Group Ten's recon blind was discovered by 'Tamil Tigers', Hannon still managed to give a salivating group of G2 analysts more info on the situation in Sri Lanka than they had received in the past five years - and from her bed in the U.S.S. Ranger's infirmary before surgery. Kyle always did manage to instill serious loyalty to duty in his pups, Franklin remembered...

To help the boy - Jason Jackson - Kyle suited up, and deployed POGO Group Four into the boy's run-down Boston neighborhood to wipe out a local gang that was seriously harassing his family.

Robert nearly went seven shades of crazy over that stunt, but calmed down after seeing the tac-cam footage of the op: deniable as hell, with enough 'Sturm ung Drang' to ensure that nobody - NOBODY! - would ever screw around in that neighborhood again.

Killing over a hundred young, heavily armed men in their own lair in less than ten minutes and leaving their bodies on display has that effect on those who enjoy the beauty of being alive, especially other gangbangers... The crime rates in that area dropped so far down afterward that, for the next couple of years, not one single senior citizen in that neighborhood was accosted in any way whatsoever.

The police and the media never really noticed that something major had happened in town that night. Funny thing, that a lot of promotions and raises came through over the next month in the Boston PD, not to mention that HUGE law-enforcement grant of funding and equipment that the department received seven weeks later. It was also interesting, too, how each of the six- and ten-o'clock anchors at the three local affiliates had departed for network anchor and producer duties within that same month, with several major promotions in the ranks at the stations. Everyone also noticed how a local crime-beat reporter, a Latino kid named Juan Esteves who had real skills but just hadn't grabbed that story to put him over the top, received an offer from the L.A. Times that sent him soaring towards the West Coast in a hurry...

The kicker - the thing that even made him have trouble swallowing, Franklin remembered, was how Kyle had the gangbangers' bodies placed in sitting positions all along the walls of their hangout. Their severed heads were placed in the small of their left elbows, held like football helmets, with sunglasses on some and only one eye closed on the others, as if they were winking - and their right hands gripping their groins. The old POGO Four/One sported a longtime track record as one truly twisted fucker who habitually dug beneath the barrel of ideas clearly marked 'extremely whacked-out and sick shit' when provoked or annoyed. He was also a really fast hand with a blade, especially with a machete or a short sword - and he always had a really, really bad habit of underestimating the effects of his 'extremely overt' actions... Even now, there were some 'by-the-book' types who refused to go on missions with 'Major Body Count', as they referred to him after the demotion.

Maybe they should have thought longer and harder about bringing Kyle into the program, or just scratched him and brought someone else in - God knows there's enough gung-ho Marine pilots out there who could screen for POGO skills...

It didn't matter, Kyle rationalized as he went before a review board - those kids still consider themselves DELPHI... and hadn't they gotten some interesting info on New England's bluebloods and company from Hannon, not to mention continuous updates on Bill Gates' latest 'electric wet dreams' from Jackson? 'Forewarned Is Forearmed' - and that's what they're still doing, right?

Franklin sighed inwardly as he remembered how Kyle arranged to keep them on the rosters as inactive reservists, but with active pay - and managed to make it stick. He eventually lost two grades in rank, but Kyle never complained or even looked back. That was Kyle's weakness - he was always watching over and checking up on 'his' recruits, even bailing them out if they got into the slightest trouble. 'Chicken George?' He wasn't a chickenhawk, Franklin thought - he was a damned mother hen!

I wonder... is that what's going on down there in Texas? Damnit, Kyle, haven't you lost enough? Idiot!

Franklin shook his head as he thought of Trent Lane - the third recruit that Kyle failed to retain. The powers-that-be were still smoking over that loss - his innate skills for higher mathematics had manifested themselves only as a marginal talent for music, but his DFI test battery showed that the sky had been the limit for that kid. Fractal encryption operations, communications intercepts, next-generation cryptography and code-breaking, cyber-espionage, ANYTHING with computers or in the analysis section, ANYTHING involving numbers - and he had also tested positive for POGO capability. Kyle hadn't known about that (until later), but the Lane kid definitely showed signs of being an empath - only the third one recruited for the POGO Program in the past fifteen years!

True to his word, however, Kyle let him walk away when he said that he didn't want in - in any way at all. He didn't even want Kyle to get him a spot at the School for the Performing Arts in New York, rebuffed an offer of a tryout at any of the major musical conservatories or schools after he graduated, and wouldn't let Kyle even send talent scouts from any of the major record labels - in case someone would someday want him to do them a favor. Trent wanted totally free and clear of the 'James Bond and 'In Like Flint' trip - no strings to pull me back in on, dude..."

Dummy - that's how you got busted back down to Major, just as you were about to screen for flag rank and take the program oversight chair away from this country-fried jackass! Damn you, Kyle - think about yourself on occasion, because even now - I could all but hear you thinking that Bakeson's nothing but a rear-echelon mother-fucker who's got nothing for any of the kids in the program... but you don't have anything to say there, do you? You screwed it all up by letting that slacker kid walk and making threats to go public if we didn't let him go... Bringing in Lane - hell, they'd have had your star waiting for you at the damned door for him!

But you won't, will you? No, you're just like the Professor - 'It's all about the kids.' The old man got through your thick head and you finally found something to believe in - and you put your own career on the shelf doing it. You'd have married Erin five or six years ago if you'd had your priorities straight, and who knows how far you'd have gone up the ladder? One thing's for sure; we'd probably still be friends...

If that's what he's doing, then it's a sure bet he's not going to deliver this Morgendorffer kid, either. Fine. I'm not saying a word to Bakeson as warning - but if he gives me the order, I will bring the kid in.

And if I go, Kyle better not get in my way...

            "Thank you," Robert said, taking the offered glass from Franklin. "As you can see, we may have a developing situation in Texas. What's your unit status?"

            "POGO Group Nine took some hits in Kosovo three weeks ago and lost their head, so they bumped Aki up and over -"

            "POGO Two/Five? She's that tiny little slant-eyed sniper you like so much, right?"

            "As of yesterday, Lieutenant Commander Ward's the new POGO Nine/One - sir. I was going to bring her on as my new Two, so that leaves me short a recon specialist and an Executive Officer," Franklin told him, returning to his cup of tea to keep from letting any 'politically unsound' or annoyed comments escape - and not wanting his own interracial relationship to come under fire... for now. One thing about the skinny, plain-looking, racist old bastard - if nothing else, he remembered how to make guests to his office feel comfortable... at least while his mouth was closed. In Franklin's case, that meant that a steaming, fragrant pot of East Indian black tea and lumps of sugar were in easy reach.

"I also need another flier and two people on the heavy weapons side. If they've got flamer or energy certifications, that's even better."

            "Put in your requests - I'll fast-track them - and get them up to speed," Robert said, rolling the glass slightly between his palms. "I want you and your people combat-effective within ten days. Depending on how things go, POGO Group Six may deploy soon after."

            "Extraction and escort? Here, in the continental U.S.?"

            "If necessary," Robert huffed, slamming the drink back. "Take Group Six down to Lackland in Texas, and freshen your people up on urban and desert environments in the simulators. Concentrate on sweep and clear... and don't worry your people too much about civilian causalities."

            "Sir, about Armalin..."

            "Don't you worry yourself none about 'Chicken George', son - you just keep doing the excellent job you've been doing. Armalin's gonna get his soon enough. You might just even get to be a part of that - and if it happens and you do well, I might just decide to let you slide when you screen for stars...."

Franklin was caught off-guard by Robert's comment. "Sir?"

"I didn't think you'd have a taste for slopes, even if they do shoot like Texas boys looking for their dinner," the older man said, distaste in his mannerisms. "Banging one of them instead of a sweet little all-American girl can look bad for the review board."

            "Yes, sir." Franklin saluted, his face masking his inner volcanic eruption. He choose not to mention that Aki Ward was a fourth-generation graduate out of the U.S. military academies, a third-generation M.D. out of Georgetown University, and grew up in the wealthiest of environments in a Maryland suburb. He also failed to mention that her grandfather won a Medal of Honor at Omaha Beach for saving countless lives during the opening hours of the invasion while under heavy machine-gun and mortar fire... and losing his left foot in the process, but continuing to work on other injured men.

            "As you were, Colonel Davers," Robert said, returning the salute. "Dismissed."

*****

            Kyle lay draped across the sofa, his eyes closed and a can of root beer resting on his forehead, when he opened his eyes to see Erin leaning on the back of the couch, her eyes shining as she looked down at him. "Hard day at the office, honey?"

            "Why don't you just awaken me with a kiss like other women?"

            "I saw earlier how you answered the doorbell," she retorted, her playful smile making her even more beautiful than before. "You're lucky I'm brave enough to spend the night with you."

            "Oh, so it's an act of bravery..."

            "I'd say 'compassion' - with your attitude, you probably don't date much."

            "Never confuse quantity with quality."

            "I don't," she said, and she slid over the couch and into his arms. "There's only one me... and one you... and we're all alone. Get rid of the root beer, Kyle - you're not going to have time to drink it."

            "Aren't you the randy wench?"

            "No, I'm a princess. I know I am because my daddy told me so," Erin said, leaning forward to kiss him gently. "You're lucky I like men like you."

            "Like me?"

            "You know... 'scruffy.' I like you because you're not all proper, even when you clean up and put the little soldier suits on... because you... are still... a scoundrel." She punctuated each pause with a kiss.

            "Oh, so you like the bad boys, is that it?"

            "Don't even try to talk like those guys in the gangs do, Kyle," Erin said, propping herself up on her elbows. "The only 'hood' you've ever been in is the one on your bathrobe."

            She smiled at Kyle as she lowered herself, enjoying the way he reacted to the sensation of her body settling gently, then taut against his own. "Is that a howitzer down there, Major, or are you just glad to see me?"

            "You know how it is, little girl - Marines bring enough to get the job done right!"

            "You'd like to think that... maybe it's just that I'm a soft target."

            They were both quiet for a time, Erin resting her head on Kyle's chest and not breaking the silence.

            "I'm sorry," Kyle finally said, brushing a strand of Erin's hair back away from her face. "I'm sorry that I'm - that I don't pay - that I didn't pay enough attention to you, and that I've taken so long to call -"

            "I'm sorry, too," she replied. "I shouldn't have let anyone keep me from coming to look for you... and that I didn't try to wait..."

            Erin lifted her head, and her lips pressed against Kyle's, soft and warm as they shared a long, gentle kiss.

"I want you to say it, Kyle," she said softly, her eyes wide and clear as they parted and she focused on him. "Not because you think that's what I want, or because you think that you have to in order to keep me here... I want you to say it because you believe it... and because you want to."

            Kyle put his arms around Erin, and she snuggled in closer, awaiting his words...

            The stillness from Kyle seemed to stretch out forever. He stroked his fingers silently through Erin's hair, his eyes searching, and a single tear fell from Erin's eye as she tilted her head down so he wouldn't see...

            "I love you, too, Kyle."

*****

            DAMN! Helen raged, her Range Rover taking a corner on two wheels as she shot through the green - or was it yellow? - light at the corner. Damn! How was I supposed to know that I'd get so involved and all wrapped up in that motion? I didn't know that Councilman Randolph - that five-foot tall walking penile implant - would actually have the NERVE to actually come to the office AFTER business hours! To talk. To me. ALONE. Yeah, right! As if she'd actually respond to his third-grade come-ons... or his textbook 'fashion don't' polyester-blend suit - with visible signs of wear... or the nose hairs longer than the three-hair comb-over he tries to use covering that clear-cutting nature did on his dome thirty years ago! My goodness... even his bribe could have been more arousing, and the Council could have at least sent the Mayor if they really meant business about 'making an arrangement" - or at the very least, a briefcase of used, non-sequential twenties and fifties, instead of a satchel - a very small satchel...

            I can't BELIEVE that Eric didn't call and tell me that they had actually started on time! How could he do that to me? He can call me at home at all hours, he can call while I'm lost out in the woods where the Blair Witch and the 'glitter berries' roam, he can call when I'm in bed with Jake and we're both just about to - How could he NOT call me NOW?

            Oh, easy - his damn tongue was hanging out all over creation because that Latin-HO 'Cooking Barbie' probably smiled at him. No wonder Jake had everything on time - 'I have to impress Miss Every-Damn-Month-of-the-Year with the fact 'that I'm a real man', and that 'I can get the job done!' What do you want her to do, Jake - go down on you right in the middle of the backyard with everyone watching and the cameras running, so you can have it for the next installment of 'Ripley's Believe It Or Not?' 'I'm Jake Morgendorffer, and I've been a complete and utter failure as a father, a husband, a provider and as a man for almost twenty-five years! But now, ever since I started working for a woman slutty enough for Clinton but dumb enough for George W., I'm able to tell everybody what it means when the big and small hands are both on the six! What time is it? Break out the marshmallows and the chocolate bars, kiddies - it's time to make s'mores!

            Of course, Helen never even noticed the police car behind her until she reached the driveway of her own home.

*****

 

            "Mrs. Morgendorffer, you were going seventy-seven in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone," the burly, Black female officer said, a slight dusting of glee in the rear of her voice as she turned away from Helen and leaned against the side of the Range Rover. "Now, I'm afraid that we'll have to probably escort you downtown -"

            "Officer Remy, I understand that you're obligated to give me a citation, but really - are you going to arrest me? Do you actually think that's necessary?"

            "Mrs. Morgendorffer - 'Justice is blind," Officer Sha'Nequa Remy said, a titter of delight slipping into the urban accent she proudly wore. "The law is the law for everyone' - isn't that what you lawyers always say?"

            Helen suddenly felt a pang of panic - no, fear - as she looked into the eyes of the LPD officer and saw an expression she knew all too well from watching the faces of the clients of her fellow lawyers who practiced criminal law:

It's payback time, lawyer-man...

            "Do you have a problem with me personally, Officer?"

            That was one of the worst things Helen could have said; Sha'Nequa whipped the door of the SUV open hard enough to damage it and walked into full view of Helen, her hand fingering her open holster and the weapon within...

            "I've always had a problem with smart-ass lawyer bitches like you - parading around with your tits and your diplomas up in the air, acting like you fart potpourri and orange blossoms while the rest of us have real work to do getting punks and other crap off the street - but you always fuck that up for us, too," the female cop smirked. "Well, you can parade your sweet ass all around our holding cell. Haul it on out of there, sister - you've got an important meeting downtown..."

            She drew her baton from its place on her equipment belt and stuck it inside the vehicle, waving it slowly and menacingly just below Helen's jaw. "Of course, we can always take your statement here..."

            "Oh, Officer..." a annoyingly familiar voice came from the other side of the car - and both women looked up to see a smirking Upchuck, with Clark and his digital videocamera pointed directly at them! "And don't bother trying to take the camera so you can get the tape, Officer Remy - we're quite live right now, and with all of the 'Border Crossers' who are still logged on, I'd say there's a lot of people who just saw all of your little performance..."

            "You puke-haired little come-stain -"

That little bastard! Remy raged inwardly, recognizing Upchuck by sight and damning the fact that his parents were two of the wealthiest people in the state - otherwise, I'd take that camera, ram it up his tight little ass and then use my nightstick as the plunger! Damn!

"Add 'Mister' to that, Officer Brutality - and try to smile a bit more. We are on live."

"We'll see about that! Turn that damned thing off NOW, before I-"

"Officer - don't you understand 'live?" Helen said, her confidence rising (and fangs showing) as she silently thanked God for the instant 'Get out of jail - free' card. "I WILL be coming down to the station, after all. Tomorrow. With the papers for a civil suit... and video evidence of my accusations. Have a pleasant evening, Miss Remy. After tomorrow - you won't BE an officer."

            The camera followed a fuming Remy back to her car, and Helen, a huge, grateful smile in her eyes, came over to Upchuck and his cameraman. "Mr. Ruttheimer - what you have done tonight will NOT be forgotten," she said, stroking the boy's cheek and causing a slight blush to rise. "I am definitely in your debt."

            "You're welcome," Upchuck said, a lump in his throat as he watched Helen walk up to her doorway - then turned back to face the camera. "Let's wrap this up, fellow 'Border Crossers'! Tonight, not only did we get to taste the dishes of the gods tonight... not only did we get an exclusive interview with the lovely Miss de la Ribas - but we were given an opportunity to rescue a damsel in distress, and strike a blow for Truth, Justice, and the American Way!

*****

            Several minutes earlier...

            "Hey, who sprung for the good stuff, guys?" Wendy said, her sapphire eyes shining in the reflected light off her slender champagne glass. "I want to know who to blame for my later unladylike actions."

            "This, I decided on," Jake said, popping the cork on another bottle as Lester Gupty held up a tray of glasses. "Lester, you don't have to play server!"

            "The least I could do," the WASP-ish gentleman said, a smile covering his face as Jake filled the glasses. "Because of the lady's show, my own show's viewer base has more than doubled! She's a true God-send; My wife and I have been able to help more couples because more people have started watching us after Miss de la Ribas' program!"

            A somber expression crossed his face. "She's a good woman, Jake. Don't let things get out of hand."

            "Lester, I appreciate you as a client and as a person, but I don't -"

            "That's not what I meant, Jake," Lester said, guiding him away from the others. "I know that you've had problems with Helen; problems that have been around for a lot longer than your association with Miss de la Ribas. Sooner or later, those problems are going to come to a head - and from what I've seen of your marriage, your children are the only reason you two haven't had 'the big one' yet."

            "I don't understand -"

            "THE argument. The one where everything is going to come out on the table," Lester continued. "All of the accusations, the hurt feelings and the anger, the comments meant to wound - you're both probably waiting for the kids to go off to school before you let the war begin. And when it comes - not if, but when - and you go your separate ways... don't go to her, Jake. Don't go to Lauriel."

            Lester saw the confused look in Jake's eyes. "Everyone that sees the two of you together knows that you'd be good for one another. You have the same interests, the same sensibilities, and the same outlook on life... in a real sense of the word; you're soul mates. I think that's one reason why the two of you haven't..." He paused, glancing away from the guilty look on Jake's face. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I can tell that you two haven't done anything to feel guilty about. You haven't broken any vows, and as much as she would want for the two of you to be together, she wouldn't have let you."

            He looked across the yard to where Lauriel was talking with a production grip as they nibbled on berries from the counter baskets, and she looked over and gave Jake a smile that made his own face come alive. "No matter how much she wanted to. Don't go to her when your marriage ends. You have to distance yourself from her, Jake; she can't be your rebound relationship. Keep her at arms' length, even if it means severing your professional connections and not seeing her for some time. You are going to need time to heal from what's coming, Jake, and she can't be a part of that. You're going to be angry, and bitter, and hurt, and you may end up doing stupid, petty things to hurt your wife back. Don't use her as a part of that - don't use her as a weapon or a trophy to hurt Helen. It'll poison any chance you have of building a real relationship without any baggage from before."

            Lester looked Jake directly in the eye. "Promise me that you'll think about what I've said, Jake. Walk away from Lauriel. If there's even a chance that you could love her... please, walk away for now. It's the only way that you'll ever have a chance to be together someday."

            "I'll think about it," Jake said, distinctly uncomfortable by the direct conversation and relieved when Eric walked over to them. "Hey, Eric! You were nice enough to stop by. We really appreciate the support!"

            "Thank you, Jake," Eric said, taking a filled glass from Lester's tray before the smaller man excused himself and began serving the chilled champagne.

Being around Lauriel for a couple of hours had calmed Eric down - long enough for him to actually talk to her, to realize that she had a brain... and that he needed to act like a grown-up around her. The furtive glances that he had gotten from the little red-haired Brit - Wendy, wasn't it? - also calmed him down a bit. She was very attractive, and she didn't take any guff from the other members of the crew - she seems to be in charge...

            I wonder where Helen was? Boy, considering how much this seems to mean to Jake, I bet that they're going to go like cats and dogs when she finally gets here!

            "You're welcome, Eric," Jake replied, taking a glass of the sparkling liquid for himself and passing another to Lauriel. "And I know you can use this..."

            "He's a nice kid, but he's just so annoying with the constant leer!" she replied, shaking her hair out as she took the glass - and both Lester and Wendy noticed the way Lauriel's fingers lingered near Jake's for just a second longer than necessary. "That interview with him was tougher than the ones with the local reporters, though. He does know how to ask good questions - and he kept the 'you're pretty' angle down to a minimum."

            "Upchuck didn't drool all over you?" asked Quinn, more than a bit surprised - and she turned as Jake tapped her on the shoulder.

            "There's business, and there's personal, Quinn," he said softly. "Being an adult and in business means you try and keep them separate. If he's never done anything to you - he's Charles."

            "Yes, sir," she said meekly, and then her eyes widened in surprise as Jake offered her a glass. "Dad -?"

            "This is a special celebration, Quinn," he told her, "and one won't hurt you. ONE."

            "Yes, sir."

            Wendy looked around the backyard - now empty except for the production crew and the usual suspects - and walked over to Jake. "Everyone's got a glass, 'M'. Hurry up and make your speech so we can get toasted."

            "In that case - I'll make it very short," he said, raising his glass. "To the reason we're all here. To Lauriel de la Ribas - the only woman I've ever met who I can honestly say - and without getting any resentment or anger whatsoever from her in the process, guys! - that her place is in the kitchen. May you have a long, successful and rewarding career - and may you find a special person to share that happiness and those rewards... just not in divorce court."

            "To Lauriel!" the crowd chorused, raising their glasses in unison to toast her.

            "Speech! Speech!" Wendy warbled, sipping at her champagne. "Say something!"

            "Oh, be quiet," Lauriel replied playfully as she lowered her glass. "Well, first, I'd like to thank all of you for all of the help that you've given me - from working with me for months or years, to those of you who I've just met recently. I really couldn't have done this without you. Thank you, Wendy - for managing to keep this group of wonderful people productive and motivated each and every week, and for reminding me why I sold my 'Victoria's Secret' stock after I got here."

            Wendy didn't even blush or try to cover her chest, but a small smile graced her face as more than a few eyes glanced towards her. "But most of all, I want to thank you, Jacob. I want to thank you for helping me take my show from a little cable-access experiment to something that's allowed me to meet people on a national level, and for putting up with a lot of my excess baggage."

            Several heads turned in Jake's direction as Lauriel continued. "I also want to thank you for putting up with all of the rumors about us, and not running away from this program or not acting like a barbarian and punching in somebody's face. You are a true professional, and worthy of every bit of respect I have for you. You're a good man, Jacob, and I hope you receive every bit of success that I know this is only the beginning of. For everything that's come of our association... thank you."

            Glasses were raised as Lauriel raised hers and drank, her eyes not leaving Jakes' for even a moment.

            "Well, that was a beautiful sentiment," came a haughty voice from behind the assembled group spoke, and heads turned to see Helen, her eyes narrowed and arms crossed as she stepped from her spot at the back door and stood next to one of the grills. "Why don't you go out and dye your hair blonde, spray-paint on some sequins, get under a spotlight and just start singing 'Happy Birthday' to MY HUSBAND, you bitch!"

*****

            Jane Lane was about to have a somewhat confusing day.

            It started earlier that morning, when she got up and found Trent still awake - still drunk like a glass of water as he stared at the same wall from last night. The other Boys of Spiral were with him, trying to cheer him up...

            I never knew that her opinion meant that much to him - that she did, Jane reflected, walking along down the street. I think that he's actually been paying attention to her - I think that he may even have some feelings for her - does he love her? Oh, man!

             I wonder where she is? Jane didn't get to see Daria the night before: the near-hysterical, screaming rant that Helen unleashed in the Morgendorffer's living room (and which could be heard halfway down the block) made her forego knocking on the door in place of peeking through the large front window. She watched as Helen paced and threw objects and screamed; in a move that made Jane give him a few points upward on the 'Respect-O-Meter', Jake stood up from where he had been silently sitting and went to Helen, cupping her face in his hands and trying to soothe her. You've got 'em big as wrecking balls, Mister M - reminding the Hydra that you love her while she's ranting and preparing to castrate everything within the Louisiana Purchase... hey, no ranting about your dad lately, either. Actually doing what you're good at and having people recognize that would put that old ghost to rest... looking a lot better lately, too, Mr. M...

            She walked over to Morgendorffer Manor, waited until she saw Quinn exit the house, ran to catch up with her, and saw that the attractive teen redhead was sporting a bruise on the side of her face... what happened?

            "Your 'friend' - my so-called 'sister'-"

            "Cousin!" Jane blurted out, and Quinn went several shades of purple and red at the way Jane had just made fun of the way the younger Morgendorffer daughter (perpetually and callously) maligned her relationship with Daria. No, I can't be seen as having a less popular sibling and having that affect my life & the way people think of me...

            "-Hit me! She TOTALLY blew off Dad's show last night and came in about one-o'clock, looking all dusty and dirty - and she had just the coolest black leather jacket on, so I just HAD to ask her where someone like her would get something so cool, but when I asked where she got it, all she said was, "GOD, Quinn - what do you think people DO on dates?' The nerve! And she had all this money - I saw it when I peeked - I mean, when I looked in her room, so when I just suggested that maybe she should consider what Mom and Dad would say if they knew she came in that late -"

            "You tried to blackmail her and she popped you one."

            "I couldn't believe it! I mean, do you know how hard it is to cover up bruises? She said that she'd cut off my hair, make it into a buggy whip and beat me to death with it if I said ANYTHING to Mom or Dad! God, her damage is TOTAL! I was only going to ask her for twenty-!"

            "I'd pay twenty to see that."

            "What-EVER."

            After her misadventures in conversation with She Who Was Otherwise Known As Quinn the Great-Big-Pain-In-The-Ass, Jane spent the next several hours poking and looking around for Daria, who apparently decided that school wasn't the order of the day.

            Then, there were the two BIG stories around the school that morning. First - the entire school was gossiping about the news that Jodie had flipped her lid yesterday afternoon and nearly strangled Sandi Griffin (Good for her! Jane thought, but didn't say), and then had some sort of seizure that had put her in the hospital - in intensive care, someone whispered; she apparently had a bad reaction to some drug she was slipped - come on, even as pressured and driven as Jodie was, SHE wouldn't do drugs! Jane almost respected Brooke, the bitchy little Fashion Club member with the nose job - until she heard Brooke continue, saying that Jodie would try like hell, and then kill herself if she didn't make it to the top. Just because something's probably true, that doesn't mean you should say it in public... Jane inwardly winced, knowing that Ms. Li would have already gone through the roof over the mere mention or insinuation that DRUGS were responsible for taking down one of her showcase students. She also noticed more than a few students quietly moving things out of their lockers and off school grounds; the first 'surprise locker inspection' would probably begin minutes after the bell for first hour began the day...

            The second big story almost drowned out the Jodie-drug thing. Sometime early last evening, three so-called bad-asses got theirs handed to them out in the quarry on silver platters - and from the sound of it, the someone responsible must have been a big reader of Ms. Barth's theory on how SHE'D educate the men of America to behave with respect.

All three of the muggers-to-be were in at least serious condition. One had a fractured skull, lots and lots of bruises, a broken right leg, knee and ankle, and both hands were smashed. The second had a concussion, both arms broken, a hairline fracture in his left hip, serious bruises across his body and two puncture wounds in his midsection.

The third guy got it the worst.

His injuries were a cornucopia of major league 'owies' and 'booboos'. Broken jaw, both arms and wrists broken, SEVEN fingers broken (including both thumbs), a dislocated right shoulder and torn ligaments, a major concussion, a bruised right kidney, six broken ribs, broken right hip, left knee broken, both legs broken (compound fractures), both ankles broken, a punctured left lung, a severe concussion, a blown left pupil, more cuts and bruises than an NHL team sees in a season - and two penetration wounds, one just above the penis and one through the scrotum and a testicle... said penetration caused by two Bic medium-point pens, black ink. (The other penetration wounds on the other guy were caused the same way.) The man would - perhaps - regain consciousness soon, but he was out of the hard-ass bad-guy business FOR GOOD. He had twenty-one years in the Army and out, the doctors learned, so the VA was paying his tab - maybe he should have stayed in, a nurse thought. It may have been safer for him.

            Then there was the little detail of the guys being robbed and their bikes being torched - or two being torched and the third stolen as well. The bike stolen was one of those Japanese models - the 'saki-driven crotch rockets' that the fraternity boys loved to parade around on, and would be easy to spot, though. The police were wondering just who was bad enough - and angry enough - and crazed enough - to roll the Three Little Slaughtered Pigs up in a big-ass, 'Hungry-Man' sized blanket of pain and suffering - and would have kept their wits about them so as to pillage & plunder afterward...

            Naturally, the police came around at lunchtime to question Ms. Barch.

They were fully prepared to threaten to run her in if she didn't co-operate fully - and they were just as surprised as the students, who found an unbelievably happy and cooperative Janet Barch, dressed in a flowing, flowery spring dress that stopped everyone in their tracks. The people in Hell just started singing 'That's my cable company!' as they stood in line at the free ice machines, Jane thought, who watched as Ms. Barch all but floated down the hall to the teacher's lounge with the cops... and then stopped to come back to where Dr. Armalin stood - and plant a serious liplock on him! Jane was just as stunned as Kyle and EVERYONE else as she wrapped her arms around him and nearly sucked the life out of him with that kiss, then whispered something in his ear before actually SKIPPING down the hall!

            Now that's something you don't see every day, she thought. Three yabbos are out for no good and get Robo-spanked for their trouble, and not only is Ms. Barch working a daylong orgasm over it - but she also marks the Doctor as the person to share it with! First - yuck - and second, why is she so damned happy? SHE obviously didn't do it... but maybe, she knows who did!

            "Nice kiss, Doc."

            "I may have to wash out my mouth with a good swig of Ebola Zaire," Kyle coughed, leaning against the wall. "I can't believe she actually eats anchovy omelets on onion bagels - my God, that's foul... I wonder why she's so upbeat. Sylvester Stallone and Russell Crowe are still alive, so her application to become one of the Furies must have come through."

            I can't believe that Daria can't stand to be around this guy, Jane thought, but then again, he's just like her! Can't have two tigers on the same hill, or something like that...

            "Didn't you hear? Three biker-types got run through the cheese grater by someone out at the Quarry last night!"

            "No, I was busy preparing lesson plans," Kyle fibbed, wondering briefly if Erin was planning to spend the week in Lawndale. "How bad was it?"

            "Some cop said that Zena's got three new openings on her 'asses to be kicked' list," Jane replied. "Around here, that's cop lingo for 'Ms. Barch's been on the warpath'.  

            "She doesn't seem like she's just beaten three men to within an inch of their lives," the Doctor noted, and glanced in Jane's direction. "She's acting like she was at the show and got the T-shirt, though. I wanted to talk to you, anyway, Miss Lane."

            "Yes, sir?"

            "What do you think of the class so far?"

            "It's great, sir!" she enthused. "I'm really getting into the spirit of it!"

            "That's good to hear," he said. "What about your friend, Miss Morgendorffer? How does she like the seminar? I haven't seen her all day, and I thought -"

            "I couldn't say," Jane said, her voice going brittle. "Excuse me, sir..."

            Jane rushed away from the Doctor, not noticing the slight satisfaction on his face as she dashed down the hall. Daria - what was going on with her? Skipping out on her dad's big night? Trashing Trent? Cutting classes? Quacking Quinn upside her cranium - okay, CRACKING - but its funny! Well, I thought it was funny - and man, I could use a laugh right now...

            "Jane?"

            "Hey, Ted," she said, turning to see Ted, Mack and Brittany - and reacting visibly as she took in the cheerleader's dramatically altered appearance. "Whoa! What happened to you, Brittany?"

            Brittany was, upon viewing, an entirely different young woman. Gone was the sapphire-and-gold LHS cheerleader outfit, replaced by a jet-black blazer-and-skirt outfit, along with a simple white cotton blouse and plain flats that screamed 'Men in Black'. Even more shocking was her perpetual golden ponytails: they were gone, replaced by an elegant hairstyling reminiscent of the way Jeri Ryan wore her hair in 'Star Trek: Voyager'. Her makeup was also toned down, with only a light blush and lipstick accentuating her lovely features.

            "A security chief has to look the part," Brittany said. "Come on. We have to go find Sandi, and then we have to go."

            "Find Sandi? Go where?"

            "I'm sorry, Jane, but that's need-to-know - and you don't need to know yet."

            "OH, COME ON!"

            "That's the rules, Jane," Ted said. "Straight from Charles himself."

            "Charles? Oh, Charles!" Jane said sarcastically. "Well, then. I guess it must be all right. Let's go. Where?"

            "To practice - down at the arcade, and then, you two have to get fitted for the suits..."

            As Jane and Brittany started down the hall, Ted held back as he turned to Mack. "Charles also said to see if you can still find Daria and talk her into this. He still wants to use her as the first choice if we can."

            "After yesterday, I doubt if she wants to look at any of us ever again," Mack said morosely. "At least she's still walking around under her own power."

            "Jodie's going to be all right, Mack," Ted reassured him. "What I'm waiting to find out is who slipped her the drugs."

            "Yeah," Mack agreed, a cold rage behind his eyes as he pictured what he would like to do to that person. "I'd like to know that, too."

*****

            Daria spent the day in the deepest recesses of the library. The fact that very few students ever used the large, excellent facility to its full extent meant that Daria could spend her time in relative peace and away from all eyes - prying, caring, unconcerned and so forth.

            She had once told Kyle that she could probably get a better education by going to the kids' section of the LHS library - and was not inaccurate in saying so. Besides security, Ms. Li literally poured money into amassing a first-rate library that not only outstripped the COMBINED assets of the Lawndale School District and the Lawndale Public Library, but also could easily support a small university or research facility. Apparently others felt the same way, for the Lawndale School District and the Lawndale Public Library had cut a deal (for a sizeable fee, no less) allowing LPL cardholders, as well as primary- and high-school students from other Lawndale schools, to check out books from the LHS library. There were a few questions raised about policy enforcement, but that ended when they saw how Ms. Li dealt with persons who tried not to return books...

            A class of second-graders and their teacher were the only others who spent any real time in the library while she was there; Daria didn't even worry about being seen by them. Jane, however, was another matter - and she had to use a couple of secret hiding places in order to remain undetected when the determined bloodhound that was Jane Lane set out to find her. Like you really want to see me anyway - aren't you afraid I'll make everyone sad and psychotic by being around? Hey, that's right - I did do that, and to your brother! I guess you're all right about me - the Queen of Misery!

            Well, you can all get bent.

            Daria heard the muted thumping of books falling to the thick carpet that covered the library floor somewhere behind her, and she leaned back to see the cause. She grimaced inwardly as she saw Evan, that jerk jock junior Jane joined the track team for (and say that five times fast, she smirked), in a smoking clinch against a stack of books with one of Brittany's brain-fart buddies from the cheerleading squad.

            "Hey, what are YOU doing here?"

            Daria had already started to move away, but Evan saw her before she could go. "What are you doing - spying on us? You're one sick, twisted chick!"

            "Leave her alone, Evan," the rail-thin brunette said, pointedly nibbling on his ear so that Daria could get a good view. "After all, it's not like she knows anything about stuff like this - you know, boy-girl stuff - so maybe she was watching so she could learn something."

            "That's not what I heard," Evan snorted, a huge, triumphant grin coating his face as the cheerleader began to work her way down to his neck. "It's because of her that Jane Lane quit the track team... I guess she got tired of having to share her 'bosom buddy' with the rest of the team, especially all of us icky men. What's wrong, Daria - are you still confused because ' sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you don't?"

            "Maybe she could watch 'All My Children' - Bianca's a lesbian, and she could learn what depressed teenage lesbians are supposed to do!"

            "Nah, she couldn't learn anything from that," the boy laughed. "Bianca might like mowing lawns for lunch, but at least she's still hot and she's got a sweet little body - what would this chick get from that, besides some warm-water thigh sweats in the middle of the night-"

            The laugh was barely out of Evan's mouth when Daria thundered forward, her fist cocked and locked, and flattened him with one sledgehammer of a right cross!

            "Do. Not. Make. A. Sound."

Daria's voice was calm, but laced with a darkness that made the cheerleader cut her whimper off in mid-sound as she saw Daria swing her fist back in her direction. "Want to see what I know about boy-girl stuff? Let's start off with a little domestic abuse, 'Tommy Lee'-style. How's that work for you...?"

            "Please, don't hit me in the face," the cheerleader squeaked in a barely audible tone. Hit me anywhere else, but please, please - don't hit me above my neck..."

            "You're less than pathetic," she said, putting her fist down with a visible effort. "Get out of here."

            The cheerleader backed away slowly, afraid Daria would chase her if she ran away, and Daria blew out a sharp breath as she turned to look back at the unconscious young man behind her on the floor.

            "So, is this going to be how you react when people give you news about yourself that you don't want to accept or that you know isn't true, but that you don't want to deal with in a polite fashion?"

            Daria spun about to see Kyle step from behind the reference stacks - an odd, but apt, coincidence. "If they hurt my feelings, or verbally malign me, or say bad things about me, I'm going to knock the fear of God into them? Is that what you've learned in my class - or are you overreacting from an instinct to fight, because in your mind, you've been cornered and can't run away?"

            She watched as Kyle came closer. "So tell me, Miss Morgendorffer - which is it? Are you going to be angry and lash out from now on at everything, or are you going to be what Miss Griffin said yesterday? Are you going to curl up within yourself and live out that black fantasy as the Queen of Misery?"

            Daria looked up as Kyle came around the table and leaned against it. "Or are you willing to accept that there may be another choice?"

*****

            Trent sat back, an empty cooler besides him and a wasteland of beer cans all around as he stared at the wall. When you let someone into your heart, they can destroy it, he thought. This is what I get for caring about someone like this -

            That is not true, Mister Lane. You were taught to be more, to be better than that...

            Trent tried to push the louder voice away, but it kept coming back.

            Resistance to Domination, Mister Lane. You have the power to think whatever you choose to allow in your head!

            "If something just 'pops' into your head, you still have the power to make it go away, and therefore you still control your mental world," Trent whispered, making Max look up from the hard rubber pad he was drumming on.

            "Hey, Trent, you say something?"

            "We are also dealing with the concept of 'feelings'. Who knows what that means?

            Trent closed his eyes; it was six years earlier, and he saw himself, all of fifteen years old, in an elegant, 'old-money' parlor setting that served as a classroom for him and eleven other teens. He glanced over to see a spectacularly beautiful girl, her very light, golden-brown skin and almond-shaped, bright green eyes marking her as being of Amerasian descent, staring forward with intensity. She work her jet-black hair pageboy-style, and was dressed in a pricey, tailored outfit that screamed 'subby chick!' in contrast to his own apparel, a plain but neat black t-shirt and matching denims -

            "See something you like, Mister Lane? No? Then stop staring at Miss Norrin-Shec and help her with the question!"

            As one, Trent and the girl spoke in unison: "Feelings are not just emotions that happen to you. Feelings are reactions you choose to have to emotions."

            "What are the two most useless emotions?"

            "Guilt and worry."

            "Why?"

            "Guilt immobilizes you in the present over events of the past, and no amount of guilt can change history. Worry immobilizes you about the events of the future, and can be removed through superior planning."

            "Who controls your thoughts?"

            All of the teenagers spoke as one. "I do."

            "Who controls your emotions?"

            "I do."

            "Then what is your conclusion?"

            "If you control your thoughts, and your feelings come from your thoughts, then you are capable of controlling your own feelings. You control your feelings by working on the thoughts that preceed them."          

            "Knowing this - who can control you?"

            "Anyone who we knowingly choose to allow to control our thoughts and feelings."

            "And knowing this - who can you control?"

            "Anyone who allows us to control their thoughts and feelings."

            "Then what is the key to successfully resisting domination?"

            "To knowingly deny control of our thoughts and feelings to anyone and everything other than ourselves."

            "Ladies and gentlemen - to resist domination is not simply refusing to answer questions under a hot light in a small room! It is refusing to be browbeaten by an angry person or mob with loud voices and inaccurate information! It is refusing to quit a course of action because it is any other reason than the right thing to do! It is the ability to NOT draw up into a small ball in a dark corner of your mind because your puppydog died or the prom queen refuses to be seen with you in public! It is seeing the fallacies, the lies and the misdirected illusion of the world for what they are without buying into them!"

            The twelve teenagers were silent, looking forward as the man continued to speak.

            "If you can resist the domination of the world - understanding what was attempted and how you overcame such - then you will understand the process! This is information that you can provide for others to use later in other circumstances! Why is this important?"          

            Trent spoke, as loudly and as entranced as any of the others:

"Because -'FOREWARNED IS FOREARMED!"

            "Yo, Earth to 'Deep Space Trent!" Max said, shaking him. "Anybody at home in there?"

            "Let go, man," Trent said, pulling free of Max. "I'm okay. Really."

            "I don't know about that, man - they said that you're really out of it because of that Daria chick -"

            "Don't sweat it," he replied as he rose from the couch - a bit unsteadily, because of all of the beer. "Hey, what's your day like?"

            "Just gonna hang, maybe go out to 'Thrash Into Cash' and look at some sticks -"

            "Cool. I'm gonna grab a shower and get my head clear, then I'm taking a few hours on my pillow. Come by here about four; I need a ride."

            "What's wrong with your car?"

            "Out of gas."

            Max looked around in a conspiratorial manner, then fished a beaten-down twenty out of his back pocket. "And you still owe me for beer."

            "Thanks, man."

            Max was silent for a moment. "Trent, really, man -"

            "I'm okay," he said, a bit forcefully. "Just remembered something I heard a long while ago. Helped me get my priorities straight."

            Watching Trent as he ascended the stairs, Max waited until he heard the shower running, then waited a full three minutes before he pulled a wafer-thin, factory-new cellular phone from his pocket and pressed the 'redial' button.

            There was a moment of static, then a click and a voice. "Grandstand."

            "Spectator, 1154. Green flag. Go scramble."

            Another click, and the voice returned. "Confirmed active measures. Report."

            "This is the Criminale. Trent Lane's going to be okay. I think he actually remembered something from summer school that helped," Max said. "Nothing else to report. Continuing watch."

*****

            Daria looked at the Doctor, frustration and anger fighting with indifference for supremacy as she shuffled her feet, unwilling to trust her voice.

"I should just go ahead and let you figure this out yourself," Kyle said, his voice level as he began. Oh, well - I'll still make money as a consultant after I'm cashiered out of the Corps for this, or I could go back to work with the Professor. Hell, I made a promise to the man when I left to go to Annapolis, and I plan to keep it - only bring others in if they really want it, and after they know exactly what they're getting into...

Besides, I don't want Janet tearing my clothes off and making me try it with her 'praying-mantis' style in a classroom after you kill the next set of guys that you run into, Kyle shuddered, remembering the very unwelcome kiss and the whispered message: 'Thank you, Kyle. If you can inspire Daria into doing that to those worthless male bastards, then maybe there's hope for you after all.' No, Daria. You have to come back down.

"However, from what I've just seen - and from what happened last night - I don't think that either of us has the time, or a way to justify blowing a second chance at NOT seeing you get hurt or hurting others."

He looked down at the unconscious Evan. "By the way - nice KO on the track toad."

            Daria found her voice as she spun away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

            "Really? You're a writer, Daria, and as much as I can't stand cliché - show me that you've got two pens with you, right now!"

            She slowed her pace. "They're in my other jacket."

            "Which brings me to point number two - you just happened to decide to change from that black thing you always wear to leather AND skip classes the day after you take a roasting from a girl in your group," Kyle observed. "Some might take that to be what a weakling or a coward would do in order to overcompensate - or someone who realized that what everyone around them is saying is true."

            Daria whirled back, fire in her eyes. "That's better," the Doctor said. "You were stupid last night, Morgendorffer. REALLY stupid. Do you have any idea what those guys could have done to you if you hadn't surprised them?"

            "I don't know what you're talking about."

            "Right." It was just after two p.m., and Kyle had finished reading the preliminary police report - which the Lawndale PD would have been shocked to know he had a copy of - only twenty minutes ago. There were four sets of footprints at the crime scene, and one set seemed to have been made by a female. The pens used as weapons in the attack were commonplace, but the Doctor had seen photos, and recognized them as the type Daria seemed to favor. The three had been robbed: a lot of cash, jewelry, a few weapons - including a .357 revolver - and a leather jacket. The forensic unit also recovered several hairs from two of the three victims - female, brunette, long (which had been why the bluesuits had been so hot to question Ms. Barth. She actually had an airtight alibi; she had been with Timothy O'Neill on a romantic moonlight sail, and they had moored up near the far end of the beach for... dinner.) "You were lucky - damned lucky that he didn't just pull that hand-cannon of his."

            The Doctor leaned against a stack of books. "Back to basics, Morgendorffer. You're all bent out of shape because of that roasting you got - or are you angry because nobody jumped to your defense? Here's a question, Daria - why should they?"

            In a very rare moment, Daria actually skipped the question entirely. "They make me seem like I'm some sort of monster!"

            "Are you?"

            The bluntness of Kyle's question spun Daria around.

            "Am I what? A monster?"

            "No - biologically, I'm assuming that you're a human...and in some circles, like to fur seals and American eagles, that's more than monster enough. Do you present yourself to them in that fashion, Daria? To the other students - do you seem like some sort of monster?"

            Daria was caught short by the question. "I - I don't know how you expect me to answer that."

            "As with all other things - to the true extent of your ability. Do you comport yourself in such a manner that, despite what you believe you are broadcasting out to others, a vastly different view is being received?"

            "No, I don't see that. I try to treat everyone the way I want to be treated."

            "Incorrect. To obtain the optimum effect - treat others the way they want to be treated. Granted, this requires that you actually attempt to socialize, to get to know them and understand more than the surface values that they espouse, but it is the way to better understand others. If you treat others the way you want to be treated - you judge them on what, to them, is a totally arbitrary set of rules and standards that they couldn't possibly live up to. Before you try to change someone, Morgendorffer, you have to get to know them and see if in fact they really need to change - and not just to make you feel better."

            Daria's arms were locked in defiance across her chest as she gave Kyle a death's head stare, and he shrugged as he plunged on. "Let me ask you a question. You arrive at school, and you've got some little tidbit that you'd really like to discuss with someone else. Who do you talk to?"

            "My friend Jane."

            "And who else?"

            "Jodie, I guess, and maybe Mack, too..."

            "And who else>"

            Daria was silent. "I guess that makes up the list, but onward and upward. Why wouldn't you talk to any of the others around here? Perhaps someone else could give you an insight from a fresh point of view... or is it that their views are worthless because they simply aren't up to your standards? If that's the case, then let me ask another question: if you believe that they aren't worth talking to because their views are as worthless as they are and therefore you don't talk to them, then isn't your entire viewpoint faulty and therefore worthless because it is built on inaccurate information - because you can't know that the other students are worthless unless you actually talk to them?"

            Kyle lifted his hand to sip at his can of root beer, and Daria briefly wondered if he actually needed the stuff to survive. "Example. You are a writer, and one recurring topic you deal with is espionage - actually, paramilitary activities and low-intensity warfare, or as President Kennedy referred to it: 'the long twilight struggle'. Your 'Melody Powers' titles are quite interesting, if a bit technically awkward. Did you know that you have a person in close proximity to you who could be of some help in cleaning up the technical details?"

            "Who -? BRITTANY?"

            "I read over her 'security protocol implementation brief' for your group shelter. It was very well thought out and orchestrated... for a seventeen-year-old cheerleader."

Obviously, Kyle didn't mention that he would recommend one of Brittany's protocols to his superiors for immediate inclusion at all major installations. Her idea of randomly setting scent detectors to identify the trace scents of chemical compounds common in differing brands of body soaps (as well as the various scents emitted by humans after bathing and the degradation of those scents at various time-frames, so as to compensate for persons who had been out in the field and contaminating themselves with other trace-scents), was inspired. Shame he couldn't give her anything of value for it...

"Miss Taylor seems to be unusually well-versed in military and security matters - but you've never gone to her to ask for ideas for your stories, let alone asking her about how she came to develop an interest in the subject. If you ask me, THAT alone could be fodder for one hell of a story - and it also gives the two of you common ground. Unless, of course, you simply want to hold onto your safe, comfortable and stagnant belief that Miss Taylor is nothing more than a vacuous, pom-pom waving, silly sex-toy for an idiot... 'Cheerleader Barbie', I believe, was the term."

Daria looked away, then back at Kyle as he continued to speak. She hasn't just told me to shove it sideways and run off. Good...

"But she's a perfect example of what I'm saying. You've never made an effort to find out more about her - which means that you've been acting with incomplete or inaccurate information - which means that if you act on something using that information, your plans will fail because they were flawed from the beginning. Now - expand outward from Miss Taylor to others around you. Obviously, you're correct about some of your fellow students, but what about the others? What opportunities have you missed or let go to waste, what accomplishments could you have achieved, what personal joys could you have had - or could you still have? - if you simply reach out with an open mind."

"That's all very nice. Shame you couldn't stay on the subject."

"You wish - I just go on elliptical tracks that make Pluto look like a fast-mover," Kyle shot back. 'Common ground', Morgendorffer. Ever listen to an '80's song by Sting called 'Russians'? A section of the lyrics has always stayed with me:

We share a same biology, regardless of ideology

What might save us, me and you

Is that the Russians love their children, too.

            "What does that mean to you?"

            "That everybody's the same - that everyone, on some level, has the same desires, drives, emotions and so on."

            "And that's one of the problems - that's why some of the other students may see you as they do."

            "What is?"

            "They don't see you as someone that they can identify with - and before you go jumping the gun, this has NOTHING to do with your intelligence," Kyle snapped. "Let's go with a visceral example here. Do you have a boyfriend?"

            "That's none of your business."

            "Incorrect. You may not SEE yourself as part of the community, thereby making your love life a personal matter - but OTHERS SEE YOU as part of the community. Because of this, they are going to be curious about you - popular or outcast, they're talking about you even if it's just in passing. One of the things that defines a young woman's image is her sexuality - perceived or otherwise. Does she have a boyfriend? Does she want one? Who IS she interested in? Is she interested in anybody? Why or why not - and in she isn't, then why isn't she?"

            "You make it sound like a soap opera."

            "Won't bore you with Shakespearean quotation about the world and stages; you know this already. It is a soap opera; and sooner or later, your storyline's coming to the fore. When it does..." The Doctor shook his head, and decided to go for the shock value of an inside shot. "Tell me something: how many persons outside your immediate circle of friends - or inside, for that matter - know about your infatuation with Mister Lane?"

            Daria's temper flared into life - that was WAY outside the boundaries. "Whatever relationship I have or don't with him is none of your damn business or anybody else's, either!"

            "So YOU say - but I'm certain you've realized that if your relationship with Mister Lane - whatever it may be - were public knowledge, your social standing would change overnight. I don't even need to go into the permutations; one thing is certain, and that is that the people who you see as your persecutors would transform overnight into admirers. The smart girl, the quiet one - she took a chance and somehow became involved with a sexy, dangerous musician, and look at that - her GPA didn't drop, either!"

            "Doctor, what you fail to realize is the fact that I don't care about their opinions, regardless of what they are." Or yours, either, was the unspoken retort from Daria's eyes.

            "Morgendorffer, what you need to consider is the fact that your personal opinions about those people are not only irrelevant, but do not necessarily negate the validity of the opinions that they put forth regarding you - especially since they aren't as reticent as you are with where they get their info!" he shot back. Kid - don't try this with me, his eyes returned. While this is a lifestyle choice for you, it's what I was born to be and I never got to try another way.

In any case - you will comply...

"Why do you think public figures hire public relations specialists? Why do you think celebrities do 'in-depth', personal interviews, allow 'Entertainment Tonight' into their homes and release wedding and baby photos to the public? It's called 'controlling the flow of information'. If there's a market for information, someone's going to supply it - and if there's a big enough price on that info, people will do anything to get it... including make it up as they go along. Take control of the situation, Morgendorffer. Control the information and you not only control the people, but you can take charge of any actions that they may take, shape the opinions they may form - and in the process, become privy to other information... which, on occasion, you'll be able to determine the validity of by how it was delivered."

            "In English, please."

            "You come to school wearing a 'Mystik Spiral' T-shirt instead of your usual 'boy-repellant' clothing - which I gather is the primary reason you dress as you do. By the way, let me give you a free observation on that as a former member of the opposition party who's gotten older, if not exactly become a 'grown-up': it doesn't work. Boys are going to want to have sex with you regardless of what you wear - or what you say, think about, believe in or ate for lunch. After all, that's what makes them 'boys'... and mercilessly subject to Reason #97 in Maxim's '100 Reasons On Why It's Great To Be A Guy'. Because of that, any misconceived, dearly-held notion you've had that most boys don't want to have anything to do with you 'because you're smart', 'because you actually like to think', or 'because you're not like all of the other bimbos' is just that: a misconceived, self-serving opinion which is successfully and blissfully unburdened by any bindings to reality."

            Daria's face flushed beet-red. "Back on course. Suddenly, some cheerleader or a girl in one of the popular cliques comes into the bathroom. She doesn't say anything to you, but goes and checks every single stall to make sure that they're empty - and when she's done, she makes a beeline towards you. Turns out that she's got some problem - you come up with something - and she wants to talk to you because, well, not only are you smart, but you've been hanging out with the wild musician boyfriend, so you obviously know about..." He held his hand out. "The overly covert manner in which you were approached gives you the general idea that the information you've been given is most likely genuine - after all, 'a popular girl, talking to a BRAIN? Well, maybe - after all, she's with the musician...' Now, you're someone they can understand. Respect - probably. Admire or are jealous of - maybe. Like or dislike - who cares?"

            "You still haven't told me why I should care about their opinions."

            "You shouldn't care about their opinions per se, but you should be aware that those opinions are being formed - and among the criteria for those opinions will be their understanding of you. If they have common ground with you, then they think that they can understand you. If they think that they understand you - then they won't become fearful of you and try to destroy you because -"

            "They think that you're a monster who doesn't have anything in common with them,"

Daria finished, a light coming on in her eyes. "Even if I am a monster, let others think that I'm not necessarily like them, but we've got enough in common so that they can identify with me - and vice versa. That way, I don't have to worry about people coming to my home with torches and pitchforks and singing 'The Mob Song' - instead, they'll gather around and say, 'she's one of us - leave her alone."

            "And 'V'ger' finally returns to the Sol system," the Doctor said, exasperated. "This is how many politicians manage to stay in office after doing some truly rank things, Morgendorffer. Now, you have some underlying notions about why they said the things and reacted the way that they did. Do you understand?"

            "Oh, I understand," Daria said, cocking her head at a determined tilt. "Screw 'em all - and make them hold the mirror up so they can watch me turn the crank. I see no need or reason to change who or what I am for anybody."

            Great, Kyle thought. Hard line drive - and the bastard left fielder leaped the fence to get it!

            Fine. I'm not done with you yet, you stubborn little heifer. Prepare second barrage of quantum torpedoes - maximum yield, full spread! Locking on target - and firing!

            "We're not finished yet, Morgendorffer," he said. "All else aside; you have another choice to make."

            "Another choice? About what?"

            "Look, you're an intelligent girl - but after last night, you don't deserve the luxury of figuring it out on your own," the Doctor snapped. "You're part of a team, Daria. Like it or not, you are responsible for what happens to all of those students!"

            "Excuse me? I'm responsible -"

            "Incorrect. There's no 'I' in 'team".

            I thought you weren't crazy about cliches."

            "It's not a cliché, it's a truism," he shot back. "Just because someone hits you with something that makes you hurt DOES NOT relieve you of your responsibility to those other people AND it doesn't give you carte blanche to take out your anger and frustrations on others! I shouldn't have to tell you this, Morgendorffer."

            "Anything else, Doc?"

            "Yes," he snapped back. "They need you. You are vital to the success of that project. You have skills and abilities that no one else in that group has, and because you are the person that you are, you cannot be replaced, and another person in your spot would still not be you. Put your feelings away until you complete the task at hand. Complete your part to the best of your ability and the team wins. It's about what's good for everybody in the whole, and Bill Maher said it best: 'It's not about you.' Two more words, Morgendorffer - Jane Lane. Don't you care about what happens to her?"

            "In a closed/isolated social construct, the survival of the group as a whole must remain the primary consideration," Daria replied as if quoting verbatim. "Otherwise known to the lay person or 'Trekkie' as 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one."

            "But in a true team construct, that caveat is waived," the Doctor cut in. "Everyone is important. Everyone has a place, Everyone is needed. Morgendorffer, a team works because every person there knows what everyone else on that team can do. Each member of the team feels confident and secure because they know that they can depend on those other people, and every single one of them has a sense of self-worth and pride that comes from knowing that every last person on the team can depend on them - period. No questions asked."

            The Doctor took a seat. "You've already got half the battle won - because there's not a single student in your group that DOESN'T know for a fact that you have skills that they can use. Now, you need to go back to them and let them know that yes, you're angry and yes, your feelings have been badly hurt because you're a person who thinks and feels - just like them - but that doesn't matter when it comes to getting the job done."

            Daria's body language started to drift away from confrontational to a slightly relaxed tone, then back to defensive. "They think that I'm going to get them all killed because I don't care about them, or myself, or anything."

            "First, remind them of a very important fact - THIS IS A SCHOOL PROJECT. IT'S NOT FOR REAL. After that, put them at ease by showing them the one thing they know that you DO care about," the Doctor smiled. "Look them - no, look Sandra Griffin directly in the eye and ask her this: Does she think that you, Daria Morgendorffer, would ever throw away a chance to ace a course with perfect scores just to get back at someone, no matter what the reason was? Remind them of that little fact: you don't fail. If you're on the project, then everyone aces the project. Remember? Common ground."

            The girl's body language finally read that her tension, while still there, was now under control. "Anything else?"

            "Yes, I do. I don't have many friends," the Doctor told her. "I never have, so I don't treat them as things that I can just toss away. Maybe you should consider the fact that I'm here in Texas, practically all by myself. I don't socialize with the other teachers - well, maybe with one, and I don't date... the field's kind of barren for me. As for my friends: the closest ones in terms of location are in Denver - he's an investment broker - and another's out in Arizona; he's a teacher doing seminars like this one. I don't get to see them much because of the work we all have, and the last time we all got together was about two years ago."

            Daria shifted her feet; her expression registered distinct discomfort. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking: 'Why am I boring you with my problems?"

            "I wasn't thinking that."

            "I believe you. Nevertheless, it gets boring and it gets lonely - moreso than I'd really like to admit. Sometimes, I think that I'd kill just to have one single friend around here. Someone who I could go out hiking with, or call so we can just talk trash - or invite over co we can pop in a movie... 'The Matrix', for example..."

            Kyle turned to face Daria. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

            Daria stood quietly for several moments.

            "I think so."

            "I don't think you do," he said. "I've said a great many things to you during our limited association, Miss Morgendorffer. If you don't remember anything else that I've said as an instructor, remember this."

            Daria looked up as Kyle walked up to her and looked her directly in the eye.

"Where you are now, I once was. Where I am now, Daria - you don't have to be."

Something cold and frightening went through Daria as the Doctor spoke... something more than the fact that it was the first time that he had ever called her by her given name. She took an instinctive, protective step backwards, away from the Doctor, and brushed hair away from her glasses.

"I think I understand," she said.

            "I hope so." All of it, he didn't say aloud. I really hope you do...for your sake.

The girl nodded, then turned and began to walk away.

            "I'll expect to see you in classes tomorrow, Miss Morgendorffer," the Doctor called out after her, and she tossed him a brief glance.

            "Class - tomorrow."

            "Oh, yes - one more thing. Get rid of the hardware - and I mean ALL of it - and I wouldn't wear that jacket around these parts for a while."

           

*****

            Andrea watched with great interest as Daria's body language changed and shifted during her conversation with Dr. Armalin.

            She's really calm, considering all that's happened to her - especially yesterday, the Goth student thought, nibbling on a handful of raisins and sunflower seeds. You'd think she'd be climbing the walls - or at least through a hole in somebody's chest. I heard about that little scene with her guy Trent Lane at the mall last might... it must be something the Doctor said to her that made her feel better. Love the new jacket, too... wonder where she got it? Maybe she got it at a late-night sale, out at the quarry... kind of makes sense now...

She watched as they parted company, and picked up her bookbag from her seat on a bench outside the library just as Daria passed through the large double doors.

            "Hey, Daria!"

            Daria slowed her pace, allowing Andrea to catch up.

            "Got a moment...?"

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