Masks

Chapter 1: Taking Up the Veil

Theme music: "Showtime!" from Beetlejuice

     The fight was going badly. The team, short-handed, tired and unwarned, had been surprised by a supervillain attack while focused on rescuing people trapped under fallen debris. Worse, due to the scale of the situation they were separated into two groups, unable to support each other. Colossa had been holding up a section of reinforced concrete slab while Bowman pulled people out, when they were blind sided by three super villains. Colossa had to stand there and take their attacks while Bowman grabbed the last two civilians and scurried awkwardly out from under the fallen slab with them. Despite this they had beaten two of the bad guys.

     Unfortunately, the last one, though slow, was particularly tough. While the civilians scurried to safety under Bowman's guidance, the villain had gotten lucky; a mass of tangled conduit and wire he'd thrown at Colossa had bounced off her and caught Bowman, taking him out of the fight, at least short term. With all the debris chocking the area Colossa didn't have much room at full size, and had to be careful or risk bringing more wreckage down.

     Colossa was tough, but she was also a big target. The brick finally got in a telling hit, and she staggered backwards, stunned, shrinking back to normal as she fell. Fortunately, she landed behind a pile of debris, but there was no way she could recover enough to grow again before he climbed over it.

     Bowman, struggling to free himself, saw a figure blurred with speed dash behind the pile before the brick could top it. Fearful for his teammate, he struggled harder, but succeeded only in hurting himself. Then the same figure ran back out, carrying Colossa. He (Bowman could see now that the rescuer was a young man, obviously possessing super speed) gently placed the already recovering heroine on the floor beside the archer, then went into frantic action trying to free him. He succeeded just in time. The brick had hefted a chunk of concrete and was about to throw it. With no time for subtlety or cleverness, Bowman shot a high explosive arrow at the rubble the villain was standing on. The explosion blew his footing apart, causing him to slip and fall. By good fortune, the concrete mass fell on the brick, momentarily pinning him.

     "There!" said the stranger, pointing.

     Bowman saw the female of the pair he had previously stunned rising to rejoin the fight. He selected an arrow, nocked it and loosed. The proximity fuse triggered a small charge two meters from her, which in turn deployed a superfibre mesh net. The woman immediately began struggling, lost her balance and fell. Before she could free herself, or use her energy blast, a sleeping gas arrow landed just upwind of her. The fight was over.

     "Ow," said Colossa, sitting up. "Looks like I missed the climax."

     "Still plenty of cleanup," said Bowman. He gestured towards the stranger. "You have him to thank for a rescue."

     "Yeah. I wasn't out, completely," said Colossa, smiling at her rescuer. "Thanks."

     "Just trying to help out," the young man said, modestly. "You folks are with the Intrepids, right?"

     "Right," said Bowman. "We thought we were answering an industrial accident call. Instead, the damage was apparently caused by inept supers trying to rob a branch bank."

     Activity from deeper in the mall caused all three to turn suddenly, expecting further attack. Instead, they saw the Black Mask and Rapscallion hurrying towards them. The latter arrived first, immediately checking to make sure that Colossa wasn't seriously injured, then looking Bowman over.

     "Looks like you didn't need our help, after all," said Rapscallion, once assured that his teammates were all right. He quickly moved over to where the brick was trying to lift the concrete pinning him.

     "We have this guy to thank for that," said Colossa, calling after him as she grinned and put an arm around the stranger's waist.

     "I really didn't do that much," the young man protested, torn between looking at Colossa and watching what Rapscallion was doing to the unfortunate brick.

     "Any help is appreciated," said the Black Mask.

     "He's a speedster," said Bowman, watching to make certain Rapscallion didn't need any help.

     "Oh, really?" said the Black Mask, instantly re-evaluating the situation. "Did we catch you at an awkward moment, or are you just new to the business?"

     "Neither," said the man, looking uncomfortable. "I've had my powers for years. I just don't wear a costume."

     "You should," said Colossa, cuddling closer and grinning at him. "You've got the knack. Not to mention the body."

     "Indeed," said the Black Mask. "About the need for more costumed heroes, I mean. And we most definitely are willing to help new heroes get a good start in the business."

     "I don't want to be a superhero!" There was surprising heat, there; some deep emotional mark, most likely.

     "You're not alone in that," said Black Mask, scathingly, manner quickly changing in response to the other's refusal. "Some of us, however, feel called by duty."

     "Don't get on your high horse," said Colossa, grinning to ease the impact of her chiding. "You enjoy helping people as much as the rest of us."

     "Yes, but my work involves far more than that. Much of it unpleasant. Some of it quite repugnant."

     "Sounds like life, to me," said Rapscallion, dusting his hands as he returned. "He's secured. And, yes, Daddy, I did it without violating his civil rights this time."

     "Well, I'm sorry, but I don't want to join," said the young man, more quietly, but still pulling away. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

     "Wait!" said Colossa. "Before you leave, I want to give you a proper hero's reward!

     She put her arms around his shoulders and gave him a long, definitely not perfunctory kiss.

     "Thanks," she said, in a husky voice, when they finally broke.

     "Don't mention it," squeaked the stranger, looking weak in the knees.

     He turned and staggered off. Rapscallion cackled. Bowman grinned. The Black Mask shook his head.

     "Such a waste. Far too many young people these days refuse to accept responsibility."

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Heroes" by David Bowie

     Randy was just cleaning up from making and eating his supper when he heard a knock. Hurrying to the door of his apartment, he opened it to find an attractive - and attractively dressed - young woman he didn't know standing in the hallway.

     "Hello," she said, wrinkling her nose in an impish grin. "My name is Karen White. We met at the mall attack last week. I just wanted to see if you liked your reward, or should we have had one of the guys give it to you."

     Randy took a moment to parse that and realize what she meant.

     "You're..."

     He stopped himself in time, and reflexively looked around.

     "Thanks for not blurting it out," the woman said, furtively. "Even though there's nobody else here, I appreciate the restraint."

     "Well, I appreciate you not coming here, uhm, in uniform."

     "It wasn't a casual decision," said Karen, AKA Colossa, shifting in her heels. "This is... uncomfortable for me. And I'm not nearly so... dedicated to keeping my hero and mundane lives separate as some people. We just figured it was best to make a low-key contact. Now, may I come in?"

     "Sure," said Randy, moving and holding the door open. "But I'm not going to change my mind."

     "I hope you don't mind if I try," she countered, as he guided her into the small apartment. "We're really short-handed."

     "I thought hero teams were turning people away," said Randy, as he put her in the most comfortable piece of furniture - the "good as new" recliner - then sat himself across from her on the couch.

     "Not for over five years," she said. "Not since shortly before I joined, in fact. These things run on about a twenty-year cycle, and right now we're well into the downswing."

     "Well, I'm sorry you're having problems, but I just have no desire to become a costumed adventurer, or whatever the in-vogue phrase is this year." He laughed. "Guess Black Mask got my ID for you. I'm not surprised by that; just that you would actually look for me."

     "How did you get your powers, anyway? You said you'd had them for years. Were you just born with them, or...?"

     "Remember that big scandal, about fifteen years ago, with the Anderson-Blodgett Corporation getting caught in collusion with an international criminal organization, trying to create supers to order?"

     "Yeah, even though I was just a kid at the time. Big mess. That was right at the start of the last upswing in super activity."

     "Well, they did have some successes, besides killing and hurting long-term several people."

     "But you look about my age!" said Karen. "Maybe five years younger? Were they experimenting on kids, too?"

     "Yeah. I was eight. And I wasn't the only kid involved. Part of their ad campaign was that they would identify kids with powers for free in return for being allowed to study them, and low-level powers run in my family. Those of us who were underage - and a few others who didn't look different, afterwards - were kept out of the public eye by the feds and supers involved to try and let us live normal lives. Sealed records and everything. And that's pretty much what I've been doing since. Keeping a low profile and trying to be normal."

     "So what powers do you have?"

     "I have several, which I can feed power to any way I want," said Randy, actually sounding a bit proud. "Speed, flight, independence, resilience, strength and agility."

     "Impressive. And we don't currently have any members who can fly or have super speed. Any non-physical powers?"

     "Nope. Unless you count the way I got those. Which was actually given to me as part of the experiment performed on me at Anderson-Blodgett."

     "But why don't you want to use them to help people?"

     "Who says I don't? If I didn't, you and Bowman would have been in much bigger trouble at that mall than what you actually got. And I've helped others, before. Just all anonymous. I don't want fame or publicity, even under a fictitious name. It's just not in my nature."

     "Listen, I can understand you don't want to be a full-time mask - I'm not a full-time mask - but would you be interested in joining our reserves? We would train you in procedures and how to better use your powers, provide practice facilities and professional training, and even specialized medical help. I mean, you said your powers were artificial. Has that ever given you any trouble?"

     "Not that, no," said Randy. "Though... You hit a bit of a nerve, with that training offer. I have helped people before, like I said. One of those times I almost made things worse than they were, when I had trouble fixing a bent rail with a train coming. Finally just lay down beside the track and braced it with my foot until the train was past. But I don't want to be a public figure!"

     "Well, we don't make a habit of advertising the civilian identities of our members, or of promoting ourselves as celebrities, the way the current incarnation of the Specialists do," said Karen, with a brief grin which was almost a wince. "And Lord knows, folks like the Black Mask don't seek the spotlight. Having an established costumed identity to use during those times when you want to help would keep your private life private. The mask provides, well, not anonymity; they actually attract attention, even without a colorful costume. It provides... insulation. Isolation. Discretion. It sets the wearer apart from others, gives a sense of objectivity. It's a protection, psychological as much as informational. But beyond all that, it is a symbol. Those who choose to wear the mask - or the hood, or the cowl, or whatever - are letting others know that they have chosen to try and make a difference in the world. To be something different. Something better."

     "You haven't offered me money," said Randy, curious.

     "Black Mask, Bowman and Rapscallion all figured that wouldn't be much of an incentive, and the rest of us went along with them," said Karen. "From what you've just told me, they were right. There is a retainer, for reserve members. Two thousand dollars a month, tax paid. Full members get three times that. And there are bonuses for reserve members if they go into action. And we usually provide costumes and most equipment, transport, some meals, quarters..."

     "Wow," said Randy, obviously impressed. "I didn't know superheroing paid so well."

     "The Intrepids had a couple of rich angels set up a trust fund for us, early on," said Karen. "Years before I even joined. Add to that rewards, revenue from product endorsement, licensing fees, patent fees... We're fairly well off. Oh, and speaking of retainers, we have a law firm on one. That also comes in handy, on occasion. As Rapscallion says, 'With great power comes great liability.'"

     "This internship, or whatever you call it... How much time would I have to put in?"

     "While you're in the initial training period, at least five hours a week, and we require completing certain types of training successfully before we'll certify you, which can take over a hundred hours for some things. We're a twenty-four hour concern, though, and pretty flexible about scheduling training. After that, just show up for one of our regular practice sessions at least once month - usually a whole day, for that - to stay in the program. It's a bit like the Army Reserves. Full members have to get at least thirty hours of training and practice a month, and be available for at least ten hours of duty a week. Though there's a lot of overlap for those two activities."

     "You must work in sales," said Randy, half joking, half accusing. "I'm actually tempted."

     Karen did work in sales. Which is how she knew to stay quiet while the young man thought things through.

     "Does... Would I have to tell you my origin, and such?"

     "No more than you've already told me, if you don't want to. Of course, if it turns out you've not told us something which could hurt us..."

     "Yeah. I can see why you'd want the whole story. Which is okay with me. It's no big secret, or anything, or even embarrassing. Just... kinda personal."

     Again, there was a long pause while he silently argued with himself.

     "What if I start, then decide it's not for me?"

     "You can quit any time," said Karen, firmly. "Oh! Before starting you have to sign an agreement not to reveal any of our secrets, and a waiver against holding us responsible for physical or mental harm, barring incompetence or deliberate act on the part of team members. Those hold even if you quit."

     "I hadn't thought of those things," said Randy. He shook his head. "I don't know. It's pretty complicated."

     "Life is complicated," said Karen dryly. "This isn't any worse than signing a lease for an apartment."

     "All right," said Randy straightening. "I may regret this, but... I am curious about my powers, and such. I'll do it."

     "Wonderful!"

     "Just one more question," said Randy, carefully straight faced. "Concerning that reward comment you made... who would they have sent if they thought I was gay?"

     Karen started, then laughed out loud.

     "I'm afraid that'll have to wait until after you sign the non-disclosure statement!"

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty

     "Here he comes," murmured Bowman, watching the footpath leading to the back entrance of the team's headquarters.

     "I seem him," said Colossa, her earcom both letting her hear her teammate's comment and him hers. "Wow, he's really moving. Hello!"

     "Hi!," said Randy, after stopping and deliberately turning his speed down. "I followed your instructions; parked in that mall lot and walked normally until I passed the security sign."

     "Perfect," said Colossa. "Come on in."

     Randy was obviously impressed by the security. Especially the thickness of the tandem doors they passed through.

     "Blue and silver are the team colors, right?" said Randy, noting the color scheme of the corridor they were walking through.

     "Yeah," said Colossa. "We don't require members to include them in their costumes, but most do."

     "Well, I'm not planning to have a costume, but I'll keep that in mind."

     Colossa led him down a short corridor, then through an open doorway into what looked like a break room.

     "Folks, this is Randal Devon," said Colossa. "I think you know everyone here. Bowman is on his way up from the monitor room."

     "Wait... is this the whole team? I mean, I knew your membership was down, but I thought you had at least one other member, that strongwoman."

     "Amazonia is not here, just now," said the Black Mask. "She is having problems elsewhere, which is part of the reason we're short-handed."

     "I'm here!" said Bowman, unnecessarily, as he hurried in. "Got one of the more dependable AIs on monitor duty."

     "Karen said that..." Randy began.

     "Please use mask names when we are in costume or otherwise on the job," said the Black Mask, firmly.

     "Oh; right," said Randy. He shrugged and laughed. "Guess I have to get a whole new mindset for this."

     "Having multiple personalities helps," offered Rapscallion.

     "Colossa said that you have training personnel and facilities."

     "Correct. Though the people who help with that are mostly part-time, these days."

     "I assume the people are trustworthy," said Randy, hesitantly.

     "All have been thoroughly checked out, and most have a history of demonstrating reliability and fidelity," said the Black Mask. "Some are even supers themselves, retired or still active on a limited basis."

     "Hey, you two," said Bowman, gesturing towards one of the couches around a central table, where he and the others were already seated. "Sit down. Might as well be comfortable for this."

     Randy sat, Colossa moving beside him, close enough that her hip and leg occasionally brushed against him. Just what he needed to help his concentration.

     "Tell us about yourself," said the Black Mask.

     "Okay, first, my powers aren't quite what I told Colossa," said Randy, nervously. "I did get them during the experiments at Anderson-Blodgett, but only one power - and it wasn't any I told Colossa about - was actually given to me by the scientific experiment itself."

     "Go on," encouraged the Black Mask.

     "I was assigned to a Dr. Herford. He had his own project, one of several they were trying. He had this idea - and I don't know if I'm explaining this right; I'm not a doctor or medical researcher, and this was 15 years ago - that there are two factors involved in powers. One determines the level of power and the other the type."

     "That's actually not too far from modern consensus on the genetic basis of heritable powers," said Bowman, nodding.

     "Well, according to him, some people had the first factor and not the second, and that it was possible to introduce one or more second factors from outside. Which explains why some people can get bitten by a radioactive clam and grow gills, while most would just get sick. His tests showed I had a fairly high power potential - the first factor - but no factor for any known powers."

     "So he put you in a cage with radioactive animals?" snerked Rapscallion.

     "No! He gave me some sort of genetic extract from a guy who could copy the powers of others. Then tested whether I could do the same thing."

     "And it worked," said Black Mask.

     "Yeah, though the way it worked for me is different. That guy could only copy one person's powers for a short while. I sort of copy their whole, uhm, what Dr. Herford called a template, and keep it. He had me try copying two supers - other supers, besides the guy I got the extract from, whom I never actually met - figured out what I was doing, then tried two more," Randy shrugged, and grinned. "Remember, I was only eight at the time. I thought having powers was the coolest thing in the world, and didn't pay much attention to the details of how they worked. Only just as I was getting started the feds shut the project down, with a bunch of masks coming in to make sure there wasn't any problem from super resistence."

     "No wonder you hate masks," said Colossa, sympathetically.

     "I don't hate them," said Randy, irritated at still being misunderstood. "I just don't want to be one."

     "So you could copy any of our abilities?" said Bowman.

     "It... goes deeper than that. When I first... take someone's template, I duplicate their physical form, as well as their powers. It takes practice before I can use just the power."

     There was a moment of silence while they digested that.

     "What is required for you to copy someone's template?" said the Black Mask.

     "First, close physical proximity, the closer the better. Touching skin to skin I can copy someone in about five minutes. Just out of reach takes about twenty. I don't know what my maximum range is; I never tried much past arm's length. Oh, and this only works on someone with powers."

     "Ah. That's actually a bit of a relief, if you don't mind my saying so," said Bowman.

     "Dr. Herford claimed my power potential was eightieth percentile, whatever that means."

     "It's equivalent to the modern score of 800," said Bowman. "Which is impressive. I think, of those of us in the Intrepids, only Colossa and Amazonia are higher."

     "Yeah, well, I actually tested higher than some of the people I copied, with the same powers," said Randy. He laughed, remembering something. "Two of them were women, and as you can probably imagine, an eight year old boy wasn't too anxious to spend much time as a girl!"

     "Can you still assume those other forms?" asked the Black Mask.

     "Yeah, I guess. I haven't tried since I was in my teens," said Randy. "I got in the mood to experiment, and played around with them a lot for a couple of years."

     "Oops!" crowed Rapscallion. "Freudian slip!"

     Randy flushed.

     "I am thinking that ability might be very useful for covert activities," said the Black Mask, cutting the topic off short. "Also, for providing alibis for members in situations where not appearing could jeopardize a secret identity. Of course, this last would only be done with the particular individual's permission."

     "That sounds cool," said Colossa, smirking. "I always wanted a twin sister."

     "Uh..." was all Randy managed.

     "No need to be flustered. Your permission would obviously be required, as well."

     "Yeah, it's fine with me. I just never thought about that part of my power being useful."

     "Anything can have a useful application," said the Black Mask, firmly. "My only real power is an ability to quickly and accurately evaluate information."

     There was a lull in the conversation, which Bowman took advantage of to bring out some forms and put them on the table in front of Randy.

     "This is just the legal releases Colossa told you about," he said, hunting for a pen. "So far we've just been having a chat. To go any further you must sign at least these three on top."

     Randy read them over, nodded, and signed. Bowman, looking pleased, gathered the papers, handed Randy his copies and filed the rest in a brief case.

     "With that done, I think our next order of business is a full evaluation of your abilities," said Bowman.

     "To the Bat-Lab!" cried Rapscallion, lunging to his feet.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Changes" by David Bowie

     "The gymnasium equipment is already fitted with sensors to evaluate performance," said Bowman, guiding Randy to something which looked like a cross between a medieval instrument of torture and a jungle gym after being hit by a tornado. "Just get in here, and we'll see how strong you are."

     Randy put his full power to strength and climbed into the contraption, with a little help from the others. Following Bowman's directions, he pushed, pulled, twisted and resisted in over a dozen different directions. By the time Bowman was satisfied, Randy was soaked with sweat.

     "Guess I need to work on my endurance," said Randy, gratefully accepting the towel Colossa offered.

     "Well, your strength doesn't need much work," said Bowman obviously impressed. "You're close to Amazonia's scores, and she's a Class 1100 in strength."

     "Really?" said Randy, surprised, leaning forward to look at the printout.

     "I suspect that your abilities have increased since you were eight," said the Black Mask.

     "By the way, much of the reason you're sweating is waste heat from all that activity," said Bowman. "If you have to used a high power level for a long time you need to be sure to keep at least some resilience, if for no other reason than to prevent heat stroke."

     "And drink lots of water!" Rapscallion stated, enthusiastically.

     Randy shifted his power to an even mix of resilience and independence, and immediately felt much better. He also remembered something he had thought of a number of times before.

     "I have to wonder about people who have super strength they can't turn off. It must be like living in a world of tissue paper, cotton candy and snowflakes."

     "Restraint is definitely recommended," said the Black Mask. "Even Amazonia, who has been in the business for nearly two decades and unusually athletic all her life, occasionally has problems relating to her strength."

     "Now, if you're rested, show me how well you can fly," said Bowman.

     Randy obeyed, lifting easily off the ground. Then he rotated, keeping his eyes at the same level, until his feet were straight over his head and his hair hanging straight down.

     "I love to fly," said Randy, smiling at the older man. "It's the power I use most."

     "Ah," said Bowman, a bit nonplused. "I should have realized that, having your powers for fifteen years already, you would know at least the basics. Do you have any idea of your top speed?"

     "About Mach three in the upper atmosphere," Randy rose gracefully to just below the gymnasium ceiling, flipped over horizontal, and began maneuvering around the room. "I have to divert a large part of my power to resilience and independence to do that; with some sort of space suit I could go faster. I've been into space several times, just to see if I could get that high. I have to use even more resilience and independence there, but since there's no air resistence I can keep accelerating for as long as I want. I actually figured out I could make it to the Moon in under a day, a few years back, but decided it was too risky to try on my own."

     "Excellent judgement," said the Black Mask. "And an impressive capability, if your evaluation is accurate."

     "Have you tried combining your speed with your flight?"

     "Yeah," said Randy, finally landing. "It doesn't help me actually fly faster straight line, but it makes me more maneuverable. So I can go faster in tight quarters."

     Randy's powers were tested, with few surprises but considerable comment. Finally, came the time to test his primary power, with an eager volunteer.

     "I'd be glad to teach you how my powers work," said Colossa. "You can wear one of my training suits, which would grow and shrink with you. And you've already seen my face."

     "But not the rest of your body," Rapscallion pointed out, smirking.

     Randy and Colossa both blushed at this.

     "Well, that sort of intimacy is something which appears to be inherent in the boy's powers," said the Black Mask. "Something to keep in mind. Even if we are willing to have him copy our bodies, he might not be willing to."

     "Oh, well, that's... as long as that's understood, and I have permission, I can do it."

     "Me, first, then," said Colossa, reaching her hands out to him.

     "It takes a few minutes," said Randy, uneasily, looking around. "And it's disorienting for me. We better sit down."

     "We understand you haven't done this in several years," said Bowman.

     He and Rapscallion, working like the members of a well-polished team (which they were) quickly and deftly produced two chairs. Randy and Colossa sat, facing each other, hand in hand. There was a quiet pause. Then, abruptly, Randy dropped Colossa's hands, looking surprised.

     "Wow. That went a lot quicker than I expected."

     "You didn't change," Bowman pointed out.

     "No but I definitely got her pattern." He changed into a duplicate of Colossa. "See? I guess Black Mask is right. My powers have gotten stronger since I was a kid."

     "I'd have been surprised if they hadn't," said the Black Mask.

     "Wow," said the original, staring at her twin. "That's... freaky."

     "You ought to try it from this side," said Randy, looking down at herself, still wearing the same, now-baggy clothes.

     "C'mon," said Colossa, bounding to her feet and hauling her double along. "Let's get you into something less guyish!"

     "What is this," Randy asked, a few minutes later, in the costuming section, as she held up what looked like a toddler's jumper, in silvery grey.

     "One of my training outfits. Don't worry; it's really stretchy."

     "There's no way in."

     "You pull the neck open. But you have to strip, first."

     Randy nodded and entered one of the dressing rooms. When she came back out she was covered from the top of the neck down in a skin tight catsuit. She looked quite uncomfortable, and was blushing.

     "This is pretty immodest," she muttered, shifting uneasily. "I swear, I can see my individual pubic hairs!"

     "Which is why the costumes we wear have something under, over, or both," said Colossa. "That's just what we call a base. It's tough, elastic, chemical resistant, and a few other things."

     "Wait," said Randy, looking down at her chest, then at Colossa's. "You're... bigger up top than me."

     "Let me check," said Colossa, concerned.

     She pulled the neck of Randy's costume out, to her squawked protest, and peered inside.

     "You've got my mole, all right... and no pads. That's the difference."

     "Pads? Ow!"

     That last came as Colossa let the material snap back into place.

     "Padded cup liners. They reshape the figure, as you noticed, making for less resemblance between Colossa and Karen." She smirked. "They also keep your nipples from showing. Which you definitely need, right now. I'm guessing you're finding being in my body... exciting."

     As Randy fought the impulse to cross her arms over her chest, Colossa pulled out the neck of her own costume, leaning forward a bit.

     "See?"

     "You're serious. You really want me to look."

     "Sure. We're not only all girls, here, we're the same girl. I know there's a mirror in there, so you've already seen what's in my costume."

     Still not sure she wasn't being tricked, Randy leaned forward and peered.

     "Okay. There's the mole you mentioned. And, yeah, I see the pads."

     "Well, there's not much boy left in you if you can notice those with my boobs right there," laughed Colossa. She let the neck of her costume close. "I'll get you some pads and show you how to position them in your costume. A pair of panties, too. For much the same reasons."

     "Why couldn't you have told me this before I got into this thing?" said Randy, grousing, as Colossa led her to another area of the costuming section.

     "It's more fun, this way," said Colossa, smirking. "You didn't know that Rapscallion and I are cousins, and share the same perverse sense of humor."

     "Uh, no. I thought there was supposed to be this romance between you two, but I guess, knowing you're cousins, that's just one more diversion to help maintain your secret identities."

     "Bingo!" said Colossa, brightly. "We show affection because we were brought up together, and are fairly close. Some tabloid reporter saw us hugging in public and wrote that we were lovers. So the Black Mask suggested subtly encouraging that mistake. Also, in answer to the questioned you asked, back at your apartment, he's the one."

     "Huh?" said Randy, confused.

     Colossa ignored him, pulling open a drawer.

     "Now, I'm a nice, pert B-cup normally, and a C with the pads," she looked over her shoulder to grin at Randy. "Want to go for a D?"

     "No! Uh, no, thanks. Just... what you wear."

     "Panties are available in normal, and three grades of padding," said Colossa, handing a package over. "I recommend either the mildest padding, or normal panties with a liner."

     "Whatever you wear," said Randy, growing increasingly uncomfortable. She fumbled the package open and pulled out the pads, examining them.

     "Right now I'm wearing a thong," said Colossa. "I'll show mercy, and get you standard panties with a liner."

     "These aren't just fabric," said Randy, fingering the pads while her instructor in feminine wear opened another drawer.

     "None of this is just fabric. Some of the most dramatic advances in materials science have come from developing stuff for super costumes."

     "None of which explains why the feet on this thing have actual, individual toes."

     Not too long after they went in, the two identical women came back out. Those waiting had little trouble telling the pair apart, even without taking the costume differences into account. Colossa was looking entirely too cheerful, and Randy very flustered. She was certain that while some of the intimate contact involved with fitting the pads and panty liner had been necessary, and some merely teasing, some had definitely been a case of coping feels.

     Of course, thought Randy, giving the benefit of the doubt, if I were in close physical proximity to someone who was my physical duplicate, I'd probably be curious, too. And the way she kissed me, back at the mall, I know she likes guys.

     Learning to grow was easier than Randy thought it would be. Though she found that she couldn't quite match Colossa's size.

     "Not surprising," said Bowman, nodding. "She also rates well over a thousand."

     "Now, here's something very few people know about," said Colossa, in a booming, inhumanly deep voice, "so please don't reveal it unless you have to!"

     She shrank to a bit less than half her normal height.

     Randy looked at her for several seconds, surprised. She walked slowly around the currently-tiny hero, examining her.

     "Is that as small as you can go?"

     "Yeah," said Colossa, in a high, tiny voice.

     Randy frowned in concentration, and soon was only a bit taller than Colossa.

     "This is weirder than being a giant," said Randy, peering warily up at the men around them.

     "One reason I don't use it much. Let's get back to normal."

     They both returned smoothly to their normal height.

     "Now for the big question, if you'll pardon the pun," said Bowman. "Do you still have all your older powers?"

     Randy went through a quick check, and nodded.

     "Everything there. Well, I didn't check my templating ability, but I don't see a reason for it to vanish."

     "Neither do I," said Bowman. "Still, you should check when you can."

     "One more question," said the Black Mask. "Can you mix and match forms, as you do powers?"

     "Actually, yeah," said Randy. "That's one of the things I tried back in my teens."

     She concentrated for a moment, and then her form shifted, her body changing to a taller, more generously endowed woman's, while keeping Colossa's head.

     "See?"

     "Now that's just bizarre," said Colossa, though she grinned as she said it.

     "Promise me something," said Rapscallion, fervently. "Do not - ever - put Black Mask's head on any female body."

     "So who is that?" said Bowman.

     "This woman was introduced to me as Arielle. She's the one I get my flying from."

     "I think I remember her. Could you show her face?"

     "Sure."

     She shifted again, just her head this time, and was now a completely different woman from Colossa.

     "This was the second super they had me template. The first was a brick named Saint Louis Moe."

     Randy shifted into the form of a large and very muscular black man. Who looked rather silly wearing the breast pads, but wasn't likely to have anyone tell him this.

     "I remember him. Professional heavy," said Bowman. "Not all that strong, at least as compared to Amazonia or even you, but I once heard The Congressional describe battling him as 'like fighting an anvil!'"

     "I get my main resilience from him. The second man I copied was Universo."

     None of those present had heard of him. None recognized him when Randy took his form.

     "Well, he's where I get my independence and strength from. He also had resilience, but at a lower level than Mo's."

     "Do you actually have multiple sets of some powers," said Bowman, "or do they stack, making the potential higher, or does the greater supercede the lesser, or what?"

     "I'm... really not sure," said Randy, shrugging. "I don't think I have multiple copies. I just pick a power - flying, speed, or whatever - and how much to put in it. Not which template."

     "I wonder if the number of templates you can have has a limit," said the Black Mask. "And, if so, whether that, also, has increased."

     "The last of the original set of four was a bit of a red herring," said Randy, changing into a slim and rather pretty Hispanic woman. "She was introduced to me as Falsity. Turns out that, like me, she had the power factor, but no powers."

     Again, no recognition.

     "You look tired," said Colossa, putting a hand on Randy's shoulder. She looked around at the others. "Can we take a break?"

     "No problem," said Bowman.

     "And, after we're refreshed, we can work on his/her mask name!" said Rapscallion.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Surrender" by Cheap Trick

     "Copycat?" said Colossa.

     "Currently taken," said the Black Mask.

     "Given that you used to call yourself GrowGirl, I think you should abstain," said Bowman, smirking.

     Colossa gave him a dirty look but kept quiet.

     "Duplicator?" said Rapscallion.

     "Taken, and tacky."

     "Xerox!"

     "Registered Trademark," said Bowman, irritably. "Rapscallion, if you're not going to help, don't hinder."

     "I suggest something which doesn't immediately call to mind his actual base power," said the Black Mask.

     "Don't you mean 'her'?" said Rapscallion.

     "Do you folks need me to stay in this outfit and body, or can I go change back?" said Randy, still wearing Falsity.

     "How long can you stay changed?" said Bowman. "For that matter, how long can you keep a power working?"

     "As long as I've had the patience for, to answer both questions."

     "Aw, stay like that," said Rapscallion, grinning. "I think you're cute."

     "You should definitely go change," said the Black Mask, face twitching in what was almost a smile.

     When Randy returned they still didn't have any good ideas for a mask name. However, they did have two sets of papers out.

     "I'm assuming, from your attitude, that you at least want to enter the internship program," said Bowman, gesturing at one stack.

     "Yeah. And if the other pile is for full membership, you can put them away. I still don't really want to be a superhero, but I am willing to train so I can be better at helping people."

     "Good enough," said Bowman, handing over a pen.

     Randy sat down and read through the papers. They were fairly simple; at least, for legalese. After a few questions to clarify things he put the pen to the line, took a deep breath, and signed.

     "Wonderful!" said the Bowman, shaking his hand. "Welcome to the club."

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Tusk" by Fleetwood Mac

     Karen had finished showering and was just starting to dress when she caught motion out of the corner of her eye. She looked up, startled, to see Randy standing there, in her form and his clothes. Karen grabbed her towel and held it to her body.

     "Hey! This is the women's locker room!"

     "We're not only all girls, here, we're the same girl," said Randy. She was not smiling. "I have a question for you, and just you. What's with all the flirting? Because you're sending mixed signals."

     Karen flushed, and looked down.

     "I'm sorry. It's just... I'm not going to blame the mask, like some people would," she said, fumbling for an explanation. "I mean, I do it because of the mask, but I do it. I'm not two different people, just two different facets of the same person. Wearing the mask tends to have an inhibition lowering effect on most people, me included."

     "There you have my main reason for not wearing one," said Randy. "And you still haven't answered my question."

     Karen heaved a sigh.

     "I'm actually kinda shy about sex," she admitted. "I have to get to know someone before I can be intimate with them. But I do have an active libido, and when I'm wearing the mask... I sometimes start something I wouldn't feel comfortable doing without it. Geo... uh, Rapscallion and I both use the joking and the pranks as a defense mechanism, and, well..."

     "It's just that I don't know whether to take you seriously or what," said Randy, when it seemed the other had run down.

     Karen looked up and smirked, some of Colossa back in her manner.

     "Oh, don't worry. When I mean it, you'll know."

     "Did you mean it when you kissed me at the mall?"

     "Ohhh, yeah," sighed Karen. "You're pretty cute... uh, I mean, your normal, male form is nice looking."

     Randy stared at her for a moment, then turned and walked out without saying anything else. She looked... thoughtful.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Roll With the Changes" by REO Speedwagon

     "Most shapeshifters either have a very strong sense of identity, or none," said the Black Mask.

     "I can see that," said Bowman, nodding. "When your body is variable, you either develop a resilient mind to deal with the changes, or you don't, and lose part of who you are every time you change."

     "And this man has been changing since he was eight," said the Black Mask. "He has a very clear mental image of who and what he is, and worries that wearing a disguise might confuse that."

     "So we don't push him into it," said Bowman, nodding. "We let him decide on his own."

               *             *             *

     The next few weeks were rather interesting for Randy. They were also very busy. He was introduced to the staff and the rest of the team and started his training. That involved far more than simply practicing using his powers.

     "So much to learn..."

     He was sitting in the base library, a small but well-equipped facility. Each team member and several of the staff - some of whom were retired masks themselves - had given him lists of recommended reading material. While no-one but the Black Mask actually tested him on his studies, they all expected him to know the material.

     Anything associated with mask activity was a candidate. History. Law. Even popular culture, including works of fiction. Much of this turned out to be so interesting that he actually enjoyed it. Just now, however, he was trying to get his mind around a bit of legal precedent on use of force by non-government supers.

     "My, what an intense expression of concentration," said a voice, startling Randy.

     He looked up quickly to see the staff physician, Dr. Whiskers, standing near one of the computers.

     "Oh. Good evening. I didn't hear you come in."

     "Quiet as a housecat," she said, laughing.

     Most of the staff were male. All but Dr. Whiskers were human. She was a felinoid, a refugee from an alternate Earth visited by a super team nearly a decade before. She had been a practitioner of medicine there, and with sponsorship by the Alternates had received her certification less than five years after fleeing political persecution on her homeworld. She had found that the people most likely to accept her ministrations were masks, however. She also had an interest in super biology.

     She was a bit shorter than human average, and furry, clawed, fanged and digitigrade. Few humans could pronounce her real name, though she managed to imitate human speech well enough to be easily understood. "Dr. Whiskers" was her own choice of how to be addressed.

     "Well, yeah," said Randy, smiling a bit shyly.

     He'd met her several times since singing on, but still found the felinoid a bit disconcerting. Being naturally gregarious, he decided to make an effort to fix that.

     "Actually, maybe you can help me. The example case given here mentions that back in the Forties Angel of Mercy healed someone despite his objections, and that he later sued her, claiming that as an atheist he didn't believe in miracles. But it doesn't go into much detail. Have heard anything about this case?"

     "Not that one, no," she said. "I do know that patients who are conscious and reasonably lucid have the right to refuse treatment, and that even lifesaving treatment can be grounds for action if the patient objects."

     "Yeah. The jury decided in Angel's favor, but the case was overturned several times on appeal. The Supreme Court finally stated that given the nature of the case - and again they don't go into details - she was right and he was wrong. However, they also noted that the case was a special situation - still without details, and this is starting to drive me crazy - and the ruling should not be used to force people to have medical treatments they didn't want."

     "I do recall that the first of the Good Samaritan laws were passed during that period," said Dr. Whiskers, frowning. "Those protect people trying to help in an emergency, even if they do something wrong, as long as they can make a good case that they actually were trying to help."

     Randy frowned and checked the book's index.

     "Okay, yeah. There's a section on Good Samaritan laws... and they mention the case. Naturally, they have the details there! Thank you."

     "My pleasure," she said, giving a catblink and purring a bit.

     She sat down at the computer and started work on her own project, while Randy, thanks to her clue, completed his.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by The Rolling Stones

     Flying was still the best part of having powers, in Randy's opinion. He pulled a five g loop for the sheer fun of doing it. No doubt about the training helping; after just two months he was definitely stronger and more adept in all his powers. Even his flying was better.

     He still had neither a costume nor a mask name. Which was fine with him. The world seemed to currently be in a quiet period, with little demand for superheroes, and he was in no hurry. Currently, he was wearing what he called his "flying outfit." This was a heavy jumpsuit, leather flight jacket, tightly laced running shoes, leather driving gloves, and a motorcycle helmet with some modifications courtesy of Bowman. He could actually go supersonic without using other powers besides flight in this outfit. It was also inherently stealthy; his radar signature was no larger than that of an eagle. Though there were very few supersonic eagles...

     He still approached the base indirectly. No sense taking chances without need. He dove for the flyers' entrance, speaking a coded phrase into his helmet mike. Two electronic tones indicated the command had been received and was being executed. The disguised door slid open, Randy swooped deftly inside, and the door closed behind him. The whole routine took less than five seconds, but even at normal speed Randy had plenty of time to veer off if the door didn't open.

     Randy was surprised when no-one met him in the hangar. He landed, made sure the hatch had closed properly, then walked towards the central control area, taking his helmet and gloves off on the way. He become increasingly worried at the absence of anyone - everyone - else. The central area was as empty as the rest of the base, with all the monitor screens blank from timing out. Randy, feeling self-conscious as well as creeped-out, sat at the main console and entered his ID and password.

     "Good afternoon, Andrew," said Bunter, the main AI, his synthesized face appearing on the large, central monitor. "I have a text message for you from the Black Mask."

     Immediately, the small screen at his station came to life. Feeling both relieved and anxious, Randy began reading.

     "If we have not returned by the time you get this, contact any of the teams on the appended list and tell them we need help at the location given. Due to circumstances nearly all of our staff are off today, so you are the only one besides the AIs available for this task."

     That was it. Short, simple, direct and easy to follow; standard Black Mask. Only the fact that he had felt a need to leave it indicated a very non-standard situation.

     Randy called up the attachment which, in typical attention to detail, not only listed the teams but gave the preferred method of contact for each. Assuming they were listed in order of preference, Randy started at the top of the list, with the Specialists, who were based less than two hundred klicks away. The Intrepids had a direct audio/video connection with them through a dedicated communications link. He got a message on the main monitor that no members were available and to leave a voice message.

     "I had a message from Black Mask to call you if the Intrepids hadn't returned by a particular time," said Randy, wondering if this would result in a pickup.

     When it didn't, he gave the current time, how long the Intrepids had been gone and the location they were going to. He waited a bit before cutting the connection, just in case; then he sat, scowling, as he thought hard, for several seconds.

     He went to the second team on the list, the oxymoronically-named Independents. He dialed the 900 number listed, got what sounded like a standard business automated system, and after the list of options was finished pushed a number the synthesized voice hadn't given. This took him to a live connection with no recorded voice and no pickup. Randy pushed three more buttons, expecting to get the team's hotline. Instead, he got a recording telling him no-one was available and to leave a message. He gave the same information as before. When he tried the third team he got a disconnected signal. He used the backup contact he had been taught, and sent them an instant message. Then he went to the fourth name. Again, he got an automated response to his phone call, with no live person answering. Again he left a message. A check showed no response to the instant message he had sent the third team.

     All those teams had been local. There were also two non-local groups listed, the bottom two. Randy skipped down to the bottom of the list, to the most remote, the Bay Area Guardians, the only other team given who, like the Specialists, had a direct audio/video connection. That resulted in a live person answering.

     "Thank God," said Randy, relieved. "I'm an auxiliary with the Intrepids. I got here to find the base empty, and a message from Black Mask to call someone if they hadn't returned. You're the fifth team - and the only non-local - I've tried, and the only one to actually have someone on duty."

     "What other teams did you try?" said the woman in the green, web-like cloak, with matching hat, gloves and mask.

     Randy told her, as other Guardians team members began arriving beside her.

     "That does sound worrying. We just heard there was some sort of major event brewing in your area, with several teams involved."

     "And none of them are back, yet," said Randy, his relief turning back to worry.

     The woman conferred briefly and quietly with one of the others, then spoke again to Randy.

     "We can't get a team there for over an hour. Is there anyone else you can call to help sooner?"

     "Only one person," said Randy, with a growing sense of dread. However, at least he actually had come up with an appropriate mask name on the spur of the moment. "Super named Template. Been training with the Intrepids for a few weeks, but hasn't been on any missions."

     "Call her, and get her to go check the area out," said the woman. "Have her contact us on the way."

     Randy started to correct the gender mistake, but the woman in green was already giving radio communications details, and signed off immediately after. Randy sat for a few seconds, convincing himself he really had to do this. Then, realizing time could be important, he turned on the speed and dex and headed for the costuming section

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Once in a Lifetime" by The Talking Heads

     Randy realized, while rooting through the lockers, that he should have shifted powers as soon as he noticed there wasn't anyone around to greet him. He should have been more alert, more cautious, thinking like a super. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

     He found the first part of what he wanted and headed for a dressing room, barely noticing that the items which he had tossed aside appeared to be drifting lazily to the floor, due to his accelerated state. Surrounded by mirrors he quickly stripped out of his flying clothes and slipped into the neutral gray body stocking. He grabbed the dark blue mask, and raised it towards his face.

     Randy froze, neck bent, the mask in his hands. He was startled to note that he was actually trembling. He took a deep breath... and pressed the mask to his face. It adhered instantly and fully, forming itself to his features. He looked up, at the mirror, and felt a strange shock. He looked different. What he saw was not just him in a mask, but a super, getting ready for action.

     He was also aroused by the experience, something made obvious by the skin-tight outfit. He quickly pulled on a pair of deep blue trunk tights. True to their name, they fit snugly enough to leave it obvious he had an erection.

     "I don't have time for this," Randy growled.

     He tried to take his mind off the problem by finishing the costume. He hunted down the lettering and stuck a large black "T" in the middle of his chest. Then he tried to find some appropriate footwear. The only thing even close to his improvised color scheme and general theme was a pair of rather fey booties, with pointed, up-curled toes and folded down tops. They were also too small, even though somewhat stretchy. He was scowling at these, wondering if he should just start over and very aware that his erection wasn't going away, when he had an idea. They were, after all, expecting a woman...

     He quickly walked back into the dressing room and turned into Arielle. At first Randy thought that would be enough, since she had been retired for years, but the way she filled out the costume - especially the top - was more than Randy wanted to deal with. She gave herself Falsity's bosom, then shifted her hair to Colossa's color, but made it straight and long like Falsity's. Randy turned and posed, examining her reflection. She turned her rump into Amazonia's, winced, then switched to Falsity's. That actually made for a very trim and attractive package. However, her prominent nipples made obvious the fact that she was still quite aroused. Those, however, were easily dealt with. Randy quickly hunted down the drawer of cup liners.

     When she pulled down her top to insert them she noticed with a start that her breasts were much darker than the skin around them.

     Oh, right, thought Randy. Probably my ass, too.

     She did something tricky, shifting her skin color all over to Colossa's (a medium tan, nice and even) without changing anything else. Satisfied, Randy inserted two of the least generous pads and checked the result. After a bit of adjustment she was satisfied. Off came the trunks and body stocking, and a pair of panties and a liner went on. With the body stocking pulled back in place she donned a powder blue piece shaped like a woman's swimsuit bottom. Next came the booties - which fit fine, now - a basic utility belt and, on a whim, a short, silver-blue cape. Then back to the mirrors.

     The effect was startling. Randy couldn't believe the figure in the mirror was actually him... or her. Realizing time was shrinking rapidly, she shook free of her reverie and hurried to the flyers' port. She entered the code to open the door then close it after a few seconds, shifted to a balance of speed, flight and resilience, took a deep breath, hit the execute button and lifted off.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "One Vision" by Queen

     Randy - or rather, currently, Template - knew the general direction. Once under way she pulled out the belt's basic GPS unit to check. The distance was over a hundred thirty kilometers. About half an hour at current speed. Randy put the gadget away, made sure it was securely fastened, and shifted enough resilience and speed to independence to keep herself from needing to breathe for a while, then poured on the speed. Ten minutes later she slowed and checked again, and found she'd just flown past the location, a bit too far south. Fussing mentally, Template turned back. She was heading straight for the site when something told her this might not be a good idea. She slowed more and descended, weaving between the taller trees as she made an indirect approach. She saw something out of the corner of her eye and braked, actually flipping past upright and making backpedaling motions.

     Template moved towards what she had seen - a large flash of bright blue which just had to be one of the team transports - keeping a tree between her and it. Alighting on one of the larger branches near the trunk, she carefully worked her way out to where she could see what was going on.

     It was definitely a Hawk, and five men in unfamiliar uniforms were working on the door. Under other circumstances she would have at least considered that these might be government agents or legitimate security guards. Here and now, she gave herself a boost, shifted her flight to strength on the way, and tackled the men actually at the door. Still moving at four times normal speed, she was able to corral all of them in seconds, removing their helmets and equipment vests and tying them together before any could call for help. She stepped back from the sorry-looking group of henchmen, converted her speed to resilience, put her fists on her hips and glared at them for several seconds before speaking.

     The pause was also necessary to get her shaking under control. This was the first fight Randy had been in since grade school, and the first in female form. The experience was simultaneously exhilarating and frightening. Finally, she had her breathing back to normal and thought she could speak without squeaking.

     "Where are the Intrepids?"

     There was no response except surly glares. Template picked up one of the bulky helmets and casually tore it into two pieces. She didn't bother repeating the question.

     "They're all inside!" said one of the henchmen, despite threatening words from the others. "You'll never get them out!"

     "Inside where?"

     No answer.

     "Are there any air defenses?"

     No answer. Template thought about making another show of force, but time was passing and she couldn't count on any answer they gave to actually be the truth. Instead, she pulled out her com and tuned it to the Guardian's frequency.

     "This is Template."

     "Good to hear from you," said the same woman as before. "Any news?"

     "Found their jet, with some guys trying to break in. Caught all of them. They say the Intrepids are inside - not sure inside where. No idea what sort of defenses the bad guys have, outside or in, but given their equipment, and the fact that even the Black Mask hasn't managed to get out or report, I'd say they're pretty well set up."

     "We're still over half an hour out," said the woman. "I suggest you sit tight until we get there."

     Template had been watching the men the whole time, and noticed a couple of them look relieved when they heard that last. She realized that she shouldn't have let them know the Guardians were on the way. Oh, well; no help for it now.

     "I think waiting could be bad. For one thing, these guys will be missed soon. I'm going to gag them and leave them tied in the tallest tree near the jet and do some more scouting. Maybe even find a way in."

     "It's your call," said a new, male, voice. "Good luck."

     Dealing with the henchmen took longer than she liked but she made herself do the job right. Then she flew off and circled the area, again below treetop level. She soon found another jet, this one covered in camouflage netting. Soon after she came across a camper likewise concealed. Though the latter seemed normal from the outside, inside it was a rolling headquarters. Template called the Guardians to report both finds.

     Coming back to the first clearing, she saw men checking the area around the Hawk. Glad she had taken the time to hide what she had removed from her captives, she watched for a few moments from concealment. They obviously knew something was wrong. That decided her. She backed away, then flew towards the access road she had passed over earlier which led straight to the low hill. The base had to be under that. She flew along beside the road, still in the trees, until she saw ahead what looked like a storage shed built against the side of the hill.

     There were no guards visible, but she knew that if this was, indeed, an entrance that it would be carefully monitored. In fact, they might already know she was there. Given that, and her lack of expertise with sneaking into places, she simply flew up, converted everything to resilience and independence, and let herself drop.

     The shed wasn't armored; she went through the roof, and halfway through the floor. She didn't go any deeper because her feet had impacted on something very solid. Template was relived to see there was no-one in the shed, but neither was there any sign of an entrance into the hill. Shifting a quarter of her resilience to strength, she tore the wooden floor apart, discovering - very much not to her surprise - that what appeared to be old, weathered wood was backed by strong lumber. The ground below her feet was actually pavement, which ran all the way to the front of the shed, where it must merge with the access road. But she found no door.

     Wading through the floor, making a horrible racket and sending chunks of wood bouncing around the inside of the empty shed, she moved to the back of the building and shoved her hands through the wall. There was definitely something hard, there, and flatter and smoother than natural rock. A few seconds of mayhem uncovered a large, metal door, as well as signs that the shed somehow opened up to allow vehicles to drive directly in or out. Template pounded on the door a few times without making so much as a dent. Hearing activity from outside she decided not to try a full-strength effort. Instead, she took a good look around, trying to get an idea of how the door was controlled.

     Her efforts were interrupted by the shed blowing to splinters, the explosion also throwing her onto the ground a good twenty meters away. Startled, she leapt into the air, shifting strength to flight. She backed away until the door - unaffected by the blast, naturally - was just a shiny speck. And pondered.

     She had to get in there quickly. While her presence might not cause whoever was behind this to kill their hostages, that was a consideration. As was the fact that, having discovered she wasn't easy to hurt, they would escalate their efforts against her. She remembered something the Black Mask had said, about the door to a place often being the toughest part to get through. Template flew above the hillside beyond the door, positioning herself as best she could above where she thought the presumed tunnel behind it was. She flew upwards even further, until the cold and thin air were starting to affect her. She put just under half of her power into speed, the same into flight, and the remainder into resilience. Then she flew feet-first, straight downwards.

     With gravity helping, she quickly passed the sound barrier, the slipstream whipping her arms around over her head. She saw the hill getting larger, and frantically switched all her speed and flight to resilience. She felt a huge impact. There was no pain, and though she was stunned Template didn't lose consciousness. However, she found herself being tightly held by what felt like dirt. And rocks; definitely rocks. She shifted some of her resilience to strength, tried to move but found herself pinned. She kept putting more and more of her power base into strength, until, finally, she shifted her arms. Soon she had broken through into light, and once the dust settled some saw that the light was artificial. She had done it!

     Looking around, Template saw a huge mound of dirt and rock, completely filling the corridor behind her. Fortunately, she was on the side away from the door. Men in that odd uniform lay all around, moaning, some trying to push themselves to their feet.

     Just how fast was I going when I hit? Template wondered. And, I hope there aren't any of them under all that dirt...

     No time for that now. She shifted her strength to an equal mix of speed and flight and flew down the tunnel. She soon entered a large, open area, filled with structures and devices.

     People were shouting and shooting at her, so she quickly found cover on top of a beam just under the ceiling and reached for her com.

     "Template to the Guardians," she panted. "I'm inside! Just look for a hole in the hillside, with the remains of a shed nearby."

     There was a brief pause, and Template wondered if the com could actually reach from this far under ground. Then she remembered she was still accelerated, and slowed just in time to catch the beginning of the reply.

     "Guardians to Template," said the woman. "Good work. We'll be there soon."

     "Defenses don't seem to be very strong in here. I'm going to keep moving, to keep them from bringing some heavy weapon out to use against me, and to try and find either the control room or the prisoners."

     "Be careful. We're only about ten minutes away."

     Template signed off and put her speed back up. The whole time she had been talking she had been under fire, and between the noise of the weapons and the shouting had experienced trouble hearing and making herself heard. Now, the beam she crouched on was starting to get hot, so she knew she didn't have much time left here. Being able to think more than five times faster than normal meant she could make the time to consider things thoroughly. So far she hadn't seen any sort of major weaponry, even that grenade or whatever they used to destroy the shed apparently being pretty standard light military arms stuff. So how had they captured all those teams? Gas? Coming up with a plan, based on what she had already seen and some reasonable guesses, she divided her power evenly between speed, flight, resilience, dex and independence. She took a deep breath, held it, and launched back out into the air.

     Several shots from energy and projectile weapons immediately found her, but her speed kept the henchmen from being able to concentrate their fire, and her resilience meant that the effects of what did hit her were minor. She flew a fast, erratic course around the room, basically trying to get a better idea of what was there. She saw no corridors leading out except for the one she had entered by, but several of the structures backed up against the wall and there could be exits through those. She did notice several men in different uniforms, each carrying an odd weapon, coming out of one of the buildings. She swooped down low, actually below the heads of the troops to get a better look at one of these, and was surprised when the wielder was able to bring his weapon to bear on her in spite of her speed. She dodged frantically, and looked back to see several of the standard troops frozen in some sort of shimmering energy field.

     Okay, thought Template, that must be how they captured those teams.

     Template doubled her speed, sacrificing flying power. Then, on the assumption that what could make such an effect could also remove it, she swooped up, looped over a beam, came down along the wall of one of the internal structures, and shot back out into the room, heading for one of the men with those strange weapons. She was barely able to reach him and knock his gun aside before he shot.

     These guys aren't normal henchmen, Template thought, as she yanked the thing way from him, with a bit of difficulty. Stronger than normal, as well as faster.

     She dropped down, feet on the floor, knees deeply bent, held that for a two-count, then kicked off, flying upwards as fast as she could. The man she had taken the weapon from, and several regular henchmen around him, were all caught in that freeze effect as another of the special henchmen shot where she had been.

     Template turned the weapon around and shot frantically down at those shooting at her. She quickly exhausted the weapon's power supply, but also managed to reduce the opposition by more than half.

     I like this thing! she thought.

     She had focused on those carrying the strange weapons, and only one of them was still unfrozen, running towards a building as he fumbled at his belt. Template caught him from behind and flew the two of them up to the top of a structure, momentarily out of the line of fire.

     "I take it these are the power packs," said Template, yanking the thing he had removed from his belt out of his hand, then backhanding him halfway across the roof.

     She knew he was tougher than a normal human, but still didn't want to use her fist. Fortunately this seemed to do the job, he was still moving but appeared stunned. She quickly figured out how to switch the power packs, took the last two from the man's belt and zapped him. She then examined the gun more thoroughly. Experimenting, she moved a control from one position to another, pointed it at the man and pulled the trigger. Nothing.

     "Okay, that must be the safety," muttered Template.

     She moved that control back, and tried another. This time the weapon removed the field. Nodding, she flipped that back.

     This weapon, and the way it operated, explained a great deal. Someone would wait in ambush, freeze the teams, then move them to containment. The more dangerous ones could simply be left in stasis for later... or forever.

     The man had been heading for this building... Template wondered what was in here. Shifting powers again, she kicked through the roof and dropped inside.

     Several minutes - and several floors - later Template realized she was well below the level of the large chamber. The she was now in had a solid stone floor, as opposed to the concrete used in the ones of those above. So this most likely was the lowest level. And a good place for the prison. There were few guards here. From the alarms she was hearing - distorted by her accelerated speed - they might be having other problems. Like the Guardians arriving. If she had taken out all of the stasis gunners, then the bad guys were about to be in a world of hurt. And might just realize that and be evacuating.

     Ignoring the few henchmen she saw, Template wandered around the level until she found a large room full of exotic laboratory equipment, scientists and technicians... and supers.

     "Bingo!" Template shouted.

     She shifted her speed to resilience. Keeping an eye on the fleeing techs and scenists (it felt odd, having people run in terror from her, but also satisfying) she identified the Intrepids and - standing well back - hit them with a reverse charge.

     To their credit, they reacted immediately, taking defensive positions and preparing to fight.

     "I'm in the clear!" Template shouted, using a team code phrase to identify herself as a friendly.

     Still, she didn't just rush in. She let them have time to evaluate the situation. The Black Mask, after a quick look around, turned to Template.

     "And you are...?"

     "Template," she said. And, in case that wasn't enough, "You wouldn't send Rapscallion to recruit me."

     They needed a couple of seconds to interpret this; then Colossa and Bowman actually laughed. Amazonia just rolled her eyes.

     "Is that really you in there?" said Colossa, approaching.

     "Yeah. It's just a little something I threw together."

     "I could almost kiss you," gasped Rapscallion. "And for me that's saying something!"

     "Situation report," barked Bowman, bringing them back to the moment.

     Template gave a quick and concise account of what she had done since she - or rather, Randy - had received the Black Mask's message.

     "So what happened to you folks? I assume from the poses I saw you in before I released you that you were walking somewhere and got zapped."

     "Uhm, yes," muttered Bowman, looking a bit embarrassed. "We rendezvoused with the other teams, agreed to a plan, split up and moved in. About halfway we were ambushed. We had just enough time to realize we were under attack. Then we were here."

     He shook his head.

     "True temporal stasis from a portable projector. Somebody's been doing a lot of lab work."

     "We can admire their efforts later," said the Black Mask. "Now, we need to free the others."

     "I think these are the Specialists. And those the..."

     The floor rocked from a distant explosion.

     "Maybe we should get out of here!" gasped Template. "If they're in stasis, they won't be hurt. We'll just dig them out later!"

     "Oh, they never actually blow these things up," said Rapscallion, airily. "They just want us to think they tried, so we'll believe the fake data they leave behind is real, and accidentally survived."

     "She has a point, though," said Bowman. "Still, even real destruct sequences usually give time for people to get out. Let's release them."

     The other teams did not come out of it as gracefully as the Intrepids had, but in seconds all the supers were freed and briefed. After a quick discussion, the assembled supers decided to split up and capture the base and as many of its occupants as they could.

     "Poseurs," muttered Amazonia, glaring at the retreating backs of the Specialists, as the Intrepids headed in another direction.

     "That's right," said Template, nodding, "you were a founding member of the original team."

     "The only genuine Specialists," the strongwoman said, firmly.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Walk - Don't Run" by The Ventures

     As they reached the floor level of the large room they could see through rents in the wall of the building that the floor outside was mostly empty. As they stepped out through one of these into the large excavation they saw several costumed figures - plus one in shorts, running shoes and t-shirt - walking out of the main entrance tunnel.

     "It's the Guardians!" cried Bowman, with relief.

     "No wonder we were having such an easy time of it," said Colossa.

     "That was easy?" said Rapscallion.

     The two teams came together and hurried introductions were made and information shared.

     "Thanks to your dramatic entrance, we had no trouble finding the place," said the green-clad woman to Template.

     Her mask name turned out to be Steel Lace, which Template thought was rather odd.

     "Of course, thanks to your dramatic entrance we also had to dig through a small mountain of displaced earth and rock to get in here!" said Tiger, the man in street clothes.

     "Don't listen to him," said Amazonia, giving him a hug which would have pulped a normal man. "Template, you and this guy should get along fine. He doesn't like wearing costumes, either."

     Steel Lace caught Template's eye.

     "You did good. Thank you."

     "The work is not done," said the Black Mask.

     "Right!" said Mesa. "Let's get to it!"

     In half an hour the base had been completely secured, all personnel captured or fled.

     "Feds are on the way," said Tiger, when he encountered the Intrepids a short time later. "Just came from the com room. FBI, Federal Marshals, Super Task Force, the works."

     "I'll be glad when I can get out of here and to a place where I can clean up," said Template, feelingly. "I've got rocks and dirt in several places I can't get to without stripping!"

     Tiger gave her a strange look, then left to continue spreading the word. As Template finished stuffing henchmen into a room and jamming the door firmly shut, Rapscallion approached.

     "Not to mention you're probably feeling rather all too concave, just now," he said, in a low voice brimming with mirth. "You do realize that's going to be your super ID from now on, right? There's no turning back."

     "So?" said Template, shrugging. "It's not like this is the real me, or that I'm planning to stay this way full time."

     "Why did you pick a female?" asked the Black Mask, now that they had a few moments.

     Template sighed, and explained about Steel Lace's gender mistake.

     "That's interesting," said the Black Mask, giving her an evaluating look. "And feasible. But isn't there something more?"

     Template looked furtively around, and leaned in close.

     "I had a hard-on, okay?! I couldn't get rid of it any other way!"

     "Why didn't you just wear a modesty pouch?" asked Rapscallion. "That's what most guys with snug costumes use."

     "I... never heard of that."

     "Ah," said the Black Mask, nodding. "It appears we left something out of your training."

     "Too late now!" crowed Rapscallion.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "19th Nervous Breakdown" by The Rolling Stones

     The debriefing was short and informal, though Template would be required to write a full report and turn it in before the end of the next day.

     "Now, any questions or remarks?" asked Bowman, when the more formal part of the meeting was over.

     "I'm amazed at how easy it was," said Template, simultaneously thrilled and uncomfortable. "I mean, they had captured five entire teams, and I just breezed through their defenses, and..."

     "We were ambushed," said the Black Mask, dismissing her confusion with a short wave of his hand. "You, effectively, ambushed them, being forewarned by our failure to return."

     "Also, you are rather powerful," said Bowman.

     "There are dozens of supers with ratings of around a thousand," said the Black Mask. "There are dozens with multiple powers. There are only a handful with both capacities."

     "We did some checking into this Dr. Herford," said Bowman. "Turns out it was an alias. The man - one Dr. Eugene Hartford - was a US citizen of German descent who was a Nazi sympathizer in the late Thirties."

     "He didn't look that old," said Template, startled.

     "He was a biological researcher, working with powers," said Rapscallion. "Do the math."

     "He moved to Mexico after the US declared war and he was placed on a detention list back home, and was heard from only sporadically - and never in a good way - for decades before being arrested in the raid on Anderson-Blodgett. Supposedly, he died in prison seven years ago, but there is some evidence he faked his death and escaped."

     "That's... mildly worrying," said Template.

     "Well, we doubt he'd be after you. Still, his history puts a new light on his work with you. We think you were a trial effort at creating super soldiers with a specific set of abilities."

     "So... his choice of people whose powers he wanted me to template was deliberate. I mean, he wanted to create someone who would be generally effective in combat."

     "That is our speculation," said the Black Mask, nodding. "It would definitely explain the particular combination of abilities."

     Template sighed and scratched, wincing as she realized anew how dirty she was.

     "Is that it? Good. I really need a shower. Only... my clothes are scattered over two widely separated sections of the headquarters."

     "You can use my suite to clean up," said Colossa. "Then you can just take my form, put on some of my clothes, and go get your stuff together."

     Template was actually still buzzed enough from the afternoon's events to not realize what Colossa really wanted until after the door to her quarters was shut and locked. That done, she turned, smiling, and put her arms over Template's shoulders, moving in close.

     "I want to give you the proper hero's reward," Colossa purred.

     "Oh. OH! Well, just let me get cleaned up and changed into something more male..."

     She was silenced by Colossa's finger on her lips. Which was replaced by Colossa's lips. The kiss started mildly, but quickly escalated. Template found herself backed against a wall, Colossa's arms around her shoulders, tongue in her mouth, breasts pressed against breasts. Template herself was kneading Colossa's firm ass with both hands and grinding their hips together. It felt a little odd that Colossa's legs were between hers, though.

     When they finally broke they both were breathless and having trouble standing.

     "You did tell me I'd know when you were serious," gasped Template.

     "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," said Colossa, panting. "I'm bi. And I'm really looking forward to showing you both sides of my sexuality."

     "In other words," squeaked Template, voice weak but game, "I'm going to be sore in the morning."

     That brought a laugh. Followed by another, briefer kiss.

     "Come on," said Colossa, taking Template by the hand. "Let's get you cleaned up. But definitely stay in that body. For now."

     "I just hope Rapscallion doesn't feel this appreciative," said Template, with a theatrical shudder.

     They both broke out laughing at that one.

Chapter 2:Veiled Threat

Prologue One

Theme music: "Goldfinger" by John Barry

     The mastermind was called into the security room, meaning this was more than a simple alert.

     "Status," he said, calmly.

     "We saw an unknown super approaching the main entrance. This may be the person who took out Vehicle Security Team Two. She entered the shack and found the door and started

pounding on it. Sensors revealed at least level 300 strength, so we detonated the shack to buy

time. She shook that off, and flew away. Only she came back, in a dive which penetrated the tunnel behind the door."

     "Impressive," murmured the man, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he watched the woman's antics inside the main chamber. "Both power and intelligence. She could be trouble."

     "Sir," another called out, "communications says she's using a com to talk with someone in a suborbital hopper heading here. We can't crack the encryption this quickly, but given the type of com signal and the type of hopper we think she's with the Intrepids, and the hopper is from the

Bay Area Guardians."

     The mastermind winced, and made a decision.

     "Send out the capture team. If they can't deal with her in time to go set up an ambush of the hopper before it gets here sound the evacuation. I'll be in my office, preparing."

     "Sir, do you really think that's necessary?" said the other voice, as the mastermind spun around and quickly left. "Sir...? Sir...?"

     The mastermind arrived in his lab shortly thereafter and turned the main monitor on just in time to see the intruder procure one of the stasis rifles. He allowed himself a few seconds to gape in surprise at her swift and agile movements; then he quickly set to work.

     He tied his kinesthetic analysis unit into the video feed and started it working. While that perked he piled everything but that day's records and the red herrings into the vaporizer. If procedure were followed nothing would be lost; every evening all computer files were backed up

offsite, and when the evacuation signal sounded all technical personnel were under orders to take the day's records with them.

     Fake "destruct charges" would cause enough damage that the effort would appear genuine, but allow the planted evidence - with all its false leads - to be found. Those in the upper ranks who escaped capture would regroup at preplanned locations and move to an alternate facility. But it shouldn't have come to this!

     It had all seemed so simple, so straightforward. During a downswing in super activities, wait until several regional "hero" teams were shorthanded, then lure them into traps. With them out of circulation his group would be able to attract substantial super help, using the captured heroes as inducement. Use them to carve out a niche, working quickly and quietly, to consolidate the area before those supers outside it could react. Governments - local or federal - were irrelevant, of course. Politicians, lackeys and bureaucrats were all easily handleable. It was only the freelance supers, with their damnable independence, and their powers making them less susceptible to bribery and intimidation, who couldn't be properly handled. How did you tempt someone who could fly or punch through reinforced concrete? And threats to loved ones simply made them proactive against you...

     Well, the base was probably lost, but not the overall project. He'd retrench, regroup, and develop another plan. With more and better augments. This installation had been designed to be expendable, after all. The equipment definitely was, the structures mostly so, and even the personnel largely so. Only the data, himself and a few essential staff members were not. And their survival was all but ensured.

     He checked the monitor, and marveled at how quickly events had changed in the past few minutes. The strange super had not only placed most of the augments on the capture team in stasis - along with a surprising number of regular troops - but the damn woman had figured out how to both reload the weapon and reverse the stasis! A quick check of the analyzer confirmed his suspicions: she was accelerated, thinking and acting much more quickly than even his augments.

     "Strength, speed, flight, durability...," he murmured. "Where do such people come from? Well, we knew the Intrepids were recruiting... it looks as if they hit the jackpot with this one. She will definitely need to be accounted for in future plans."

     As the woman plunged into the headquarters building he shook himself to alertness, and moved quickly to hit the evacuation alarm, since that fool in the control room hadn't, yet. Every helmet radio among his troops would now be repeatedly sounding a quiet but unmistakable chord, and every monitor would flash a red symbol, superimposed on what was already there, every three seconds. He then turned on the vaporizer, leaving it on to make sure. Finally, he took the disk from the analyzer and put it into the attache case with the rest.

     And with that, he left.

Prologue Two

Theme music: "Centerfold" by The J. Giles Band

     "You fly more than any other super I know," said Rapscallion, seeing Template heading up the corridor towards him with no visible means of support or propulsion. "Especially indoors. Say, is that the new costume?"

     "Like it?" said Template, stopping in the air, rotating vertical and turning to give him a good look, her cape floating behind her. "Colossa and Mrs. Grey helped me fine tune my kludge to make an official version, with a little assistance from the Black Mask and some gadgetry from Bowman."

     "Nice," said Rapscallion. He grinned. "I hope you're not one of those girls who changes her costume every five days."

     "Me, too," sighed Template, settling to the floor.

     "Anyway, the boss wants to have a short meeting in the common room before you go flying off on vacation. Starts in ten minutes."

     "Thanks!"

     Template arrived second last, Rapscallion hurrying in behind her. She sat herself primly down, sitting upright and properly, as had been drilled into her. The Black Mask was a master of disguise and subterfuge, and also a firm but fair teacher. Rapscallion simply plopped into his seat and sprawled in a manner only vaguely included in "sitting." The Black Mask sighed tiredly, then began the meeting.

     "We've been asked if Template, Bowman, Colossa, Amazonia and Rapscallion would be interested in posing for a charity fund raising calendar," said the Black Mask, his manner for once a bit awkward.

     "Sounds okay to me," said Template, though the expressions of the others made her uncertain.

     "It's a pinup calendar," said Colossa, smirking.

     "Oh..."

     "They have three editions each year," said Bowman. "One all female, one all male, one mixed. All the participants wearing revealing outfits, or nothing at all, and holding suggestive poses. For some reason the first one outsells the other two combined by a considerable margin."

     "What is this charity raising money for?!" demanded Template. "The Dirty Old Men's Binocular Fund?!"

     "Oh, I am so gonna steal that," chortled Rapscallion.

     "It's sponsored by a fitness product company," said the Black Mask. "The money goes towards funding medical care and physical rehabilitation in countries which can't afford them."

     "That... actually makes sense," said Template, almost reluctantly. "Supers tend to be very fit, after all. If the images aren't too daring... do you know where I could find a copy to see for myself?"

     "Be right back!" said Rapscallion, hurrying off.

     "Of course, it'll be the all-male edition," said Bowman, dryly.

     "Oh, hush," said Colossa, giving him a playful whap on the arm.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Paranoia Will Destroy Ya" by The Kinks

     Randy scowled as he sat across from the federal agent in the interrogation room.

     "I don't understand why you hauled me in here!"

     "We just want to clear something up," said Agent Carstairs, smiling insincerely. He shuffled some papers, in no hurry, until he found what he wanted. "According to your credit card report, you charged something to your Visa at 9:47 today..."

     "What are you doing poking around in my credit card account?!" said Randy, outraged.

     The man gave him a level look.

     "If I may continue. According to your credit card report, you charged something to your Visa at 9:47 today, in Nashville, Tennessee. The next account activity was at 10:52, at the Hilton, here in Atlanta."

     "So?"

     "Are those charges both valid."

     "Yes," said Randy.

     The agent closed the folder, rested his hands on it, and stared at Randy for several seconds before speaking.

     "We have no record of an airline ticket in your name."

     "So?!" Randy repeated, with emphasis.

     "How did you get from Nashville, Tennessee, to Atlanta, Georgia, in just over an hour, without taking a plane?"

     Randy stared, astounded.

     "You hunted me down at DragonCon and hauled me in here just to satisfy your curiosity?!"

     "Mr. Devon, I work for Homeland Security. My job is to use my curiosity to spot strange occurrences and find an explanation for them. So far, you aren't helping."

     "What were you doing poking around in my credit card account?!" Randy repeated.

     "That is none of your business."

     "Of course it's my business! It's my credit card account! And how do you know those times are even accurate?!"

     "Mr. Devon, I suggest you cooperate. Because, under the law, we can hold you until you do."

     "Am I under arrest?"

     "No."

     "Then why can't I leave?"

     "We're holding you for questioning."

     "Without arresting me."

     "Exactly," said Agent Carstairs, smiling, and this time he meant it.

     Randy scowled again, fidgeting. He did not want to give this creep any satisfaction whatsoever, but neither did he want to miss any more of the con than he already had. He decided to try something.

     "You looked through my wallet, right?"

     "Of course."

     "You saw my photo ID as a civilian volunteer for the Intrepids."

     "Of course."

     "And you know who they are."

     "Some sort of rock band."

     Randy stared at the idiot, wondering how he remembered to breathe.

     "Actually, they're one of the oldest and most respected superhero teams in the country."

     "Oh, you mean that Intrepids? I thought they disbanded."

     "The just recently added a major new player - I mean member - Template."

     "So you are associated with a superhero team. That still doesn't explain how you got here so quickly."

     "I had one of the team members give me a lift," said Randy, smugly.

     That made no impression.

     "Can you verify this?"

     "Call the toll-free number on the back of my ID card."

     "You seem very fit," said Carstairs, changing the subject and making the new one an accusation. "You must lead an active life. Train hard."

     "Hey, I'm dating a superhero. We both have high standards."

     "Let me guess. You're dating Template."

     "No; I'm dating Colossa," said Randy. He smiled. "She's got a better figure than Template."

     "This is ridiculous," said Carstairs, for the first time showing something like anger. "I want real answers, not these adolescent fantasies. You aren't leaving this building until I get them."

     "Agent Carstairs," said Randy, slowly and deliberately. "I am going to be missed, soon, if not already. I am known to be a responsible person. That's why the Intrepids let me help at their headquarters and do these sorts of favors for me. Not long after I am missed the Black Mask will learn about my absence, and he will find me. And you do not want to get on his bad side."

     That actually made an impression. Carstairs straightened a bit, is demeanor now more serious. Without a word, he rose, picked up his folder, and exited the room.

     Randy waited patiently, sorry he'd had to use such a trump card, but feeling satisfied he'd used it in such a skilled way. Several minutes passed before the door again opened. Carstairs entered, an older, taller man with him.

     "You're free to go," said the older man.

     He and Carstairs immediately turned around and left, the door remaining open behind them. Randy stared after them for several seconds, not believing how rude and petty these people were. Then he hurried out into the hallway, just in time to see the two men disappearing around a corner.

     "Hey! Where's my stuff!"

     They ignored him.

     "Don't worry, kid," said the uniformed guard outside the door. "I'll show you where it is."

     Well, at least some of the people here were decent.

               *             *             *

Theme Music: "Once in a Lifetime" by The Talking Heads

     Randy picked up his gear and began walking through the lobby of the building towards the main entrance, still fuming. No apology, no ride back to the con, nothing. He realized someone was calling his name and turned to see, to his vast surprise, Angelina Thurgood approaching him at a fast walk.

     "Randy! What are you doing here?"

     "What are you doing here?" said Randy, startled.

     He knew Angelina lived near Atlanta - a chance to get together with her again was one of the reasons he had come to the con - but how had she...

     "I asked you first," Angelina responded, smiling, though there was a sourness behind the expression.

     "I went to my room to get something and found the door open, with half a dozen federal agents inside, going through my stuff."

     He didn't mention the near panic attack this had brought. He had his Template costume and the accompanying super equipment mixed in with the other stuff, and wasn't sure how thorough the search had been, or how alert the searchers.

     "Ow," said Angelina, wincing. "I asked for you at the front desk, the attendant asked me to wait, and after a few minutes three big MIB types told me I was wanted for questioning."

     "The told you they could hold you as long as they wanted without arresting you, right?"

     "Yeah. Then they just let me go. What's going on, anyway?"

     "The only thing I can think of is that when I checked in the clerk asked if I wanted to double my points from my stay by putting them on the same card as my airline ticket. I told him I didn't have an airline ticket. And the guy interrogating me kept asking about credit card charges. Wanted to know how I got here so quickly, going by the times recorded for two purchases."

     "Guess he doesn't know how crazy you drive," said Angelina, grinning. "But why'd they let us go? This type doesn't give up so quick; they keep digging until they find something, or are told to stop."

     "I pulled rank on them," said Randy, proudly. "Remember, I told you I'm doing volunteer work for the Intrepids? I threatened to sic the Black Mask on ‘em."

     That made her laugh, and it was a relieved sound.

     "Wanna share a cab back to the con?" he said, holding his hand out.

     "Sure. Thanks." Angelina handed him her bag.

     As the exited the cab back at the hotel Angelina and Randy were both reluctant to part. They had talked some in during the trip but hadn't wanted to mention personal stuff in the cab, and the public areas of the con were, well, public. Also, Angelina seemed to have something on her mind, which she shared with Randy as they passed through a quiet area with no-one else nearby.

     "So, when do I get to meet Template?"

     Randy missed a step.

     "You figured that out, did you?"

     "C'mon, Randy," she said, grinning. "I'm one of the few people who knew you had powers. Or did you forget you showed me back when we were kids? And you e-mailed me you were working for the Intrepids. Then this new super shows up, with the sorts of powers you have."

     "Do I dare hope your interest in Template is more than Platonic?"

     "I am in a stable, monogamous relationship."

     "How is Cindy, anyway?"

     "She's fine. In fact, she just got a new contract. It's gonna bring in enough that we think we can finally start a family."

     "Great! You adopting, or finding a sperm donor?"

     "The latter. And it'll be me for the first one."

     She looked over at him.

     "You're in the running, if you want to be."

     Randy stumbled again.

     "Uhm..."

     "We'd prefer an indirect donation. So get your mind out of the gutter. Or, rather, my pants."

     "Sorry," said Randy, blushing.

     She laughed and gave him a brief hug.

     "Actually, I'm flattered you still think I'm attractive."

     "Oh. Wait," said Randy, looking worried as something occurred to him. "Do you really want a kid who may have powers?"

     "I thought yours weren't genetic... That they came from that experiment."

     "The specific powers did. My natural power potential is actually unusually high."

     "Wow, did you sound smug, just then," said Angelina, smirking.

     "Wouldn't you be smug if you could lift a semi, and potentially fly to the Moon under your own power?"

     "No need to get defensive. I've always been impressed by your powers. I was just commenting on a change in the way you feel about them."

     "Well, if you want to meet Template it'll have to be in private," said Randy, changing the subject slightly. "Your room or mine?"

     "You said they trashed your room," Angelina pointed out.

     "Mine then," he said, grinning. "You can help me clean up. Besides, the costume and gear are there."

     As they approached the door, Randy thought of something.

     "Oh; just talk about innocuous stuff until I check for bugs," he said.

     "I hadn't thought of that," said Angelina, looking embarrassed.

     "I wouldn't have, either, except for the training they gave me."

     Randy opened the door and turned on the lights, and they stood for a moment, looking around.

     "Not as bad as I was expecting, actually," he said, finally. "I looks like they mostly just dumped stuff on the bed to check inside the luggage."

     With the door closed he found his cell phone, and activated one of the special functions. While slowly touring the room, sweeping the phone around, he tried to maintain a conversation.

     "I assume you brought all your costuming gear."

     "Hardly. 'All' of it takes two rooms to store. I brought some commissions for final fitting, and a bunch of stuff to sell. That's already down in the dealer's room. I'm also sharing a table with the Mortons. Did my turn this morning and don't need to go back until closing time."

     "Okay," said Randy, closing his cell phone and smiling. "Looks like it's safe for Template to come out and play."

     He shifted, shrinking a bit, hair growing longer, body reshaping.

     "Well?" said Template spreading her arms. "What do you think?"

     "Actually, I wanted to see you in costume," said Angelina, though she looked impressed.

     In spite of her earlier words and her calm tone, she was obviously excited by the situation. Though the type of excitement wasn't what Template was most interested in seeing...

     "I'm getting to that," said Template, smiling.

     She moved to a jumbled pile of t-shirts, searched for a moment, then held up what looked like a grey velour top with metallic highlights and long sleeves, plus inserted breast forms.

     "You're kidding."

     "No. It stretches."

     "I know about super fabrics, dummy. I meant, those idiots did all this damage and completely missed a super costume."

     "Well, it is designed to look innocuous when not worn," said Template. "Though I'm surprised they didn't notice the pads and have the interrogator make some snide comment about me crossdressing. The cape folds up and - with the lower half - tucks inside the top, and the gloves tuck inside the sleeves. All folded like this it looks and feels like a heavy sweatshirt for a woman. The utility belt looks like a normal cloth belt. The items which go on it look like normal grooming and hygiene items, plus a cell phone, GPS, Palm Pilot, and so forth. Real spy movie stuff. Add a pair of panties, and you have a super costume."

     Template found the rest of the costume, entered the bathroom and closed the door. A surprisingly short time later the door opened and she stepped out, in full uniform, shoulder-length hair now tied back in a ponytail.

     "Like it?" she said, posing.

     "Wow," said Angelina, walking all around her, examining the details. "You have a six-pack? Which shows through your costume?!"

     "That's airbrushing. Y'know; part of what some people in the business call 'the costume discretion.' Although I am in the best shape of my life. In both forms."

     She flexed and posed a bit; then broke out in giggles, which Angelina immediately caught.

     "You are such a girl," she teased.

     "One hundred percent. When I first chose this form I had to piece it together from several templates, but they were all female. After the third or fourth time I went through that process, I got an idea; I templated this form."

     "You're lucky you didn't turn into a black hole!"

     "Bowman muttered something about recursive powers," said Template, shrugging. "Anyway, it worked. Even my DNA is unique for this body, a blend of that from all the people whose templates went into it. And completely female. XX and everything."

     "But what about the fact that the bodies of those people you copied are different ages from each other, not to mention you?"

     "If I turn completely into someone I've templated I take on the age they were when I did the template. But, if I just take parts and use them to replace mine, they are the same biological age as me. I don't change into other bodies; I alter mine. My biorhythms run the show."

     She grimaced.

     "Which is why my periods are regular."

     Angelina laughed at that.

     "You know, if you had done something like this back when we were sixteen, after I told you I liked girls instead of boys, you might have had a chance. Instead, you turned into that top-heavy woman in her thirties and made a pass at me."

     "Can we just chalk that up to adolescent stupidity?" said Template, sighing.

     Angelina gave her a hug and laughed.

     "Oh, I did that a long time ago."

     "Well, if you don't want to make out I need to change back so we can actually get to see some of the con."

     "Why change back? I saw at least two other Templates running around, earlier, and your costume is less flashy than either of those were. One of those women was showing enough cleavage to shame a Klingon."

     "I just never wanted to parade around in a hall costume. You know that. Besides, my name tag says Randy Devon."

     "I have a Guest Of badge so people modeling my costumes can get into function areas," said Angelina. "And I'll help you clean up your room before we leave, if you do go out like that. Just leave that tag here, and we'll stop by my room for the other on the way."

     Template hesitated. She looked around the messy room, and winced.

     "Deal." She sighed. "The Black Mask says I need to get used to being in public in costume, anyway."

     "The Black Mask is the guy in the old-fashioned formal evening wear, right?"

     "Yeah. Only it's actually a lot more than that."

     "Well, I certainly can't fault his sense of style," said Angelina.

     They set to work, still chatting, mostly about personal events since last they met. Angelina obviously also had something else on her mind. Unfortunately, it wasn't what Template wanted her to be distracted by.

     "I love the way that cape flows," said Angelina, with professional envy.

     "There are weights in the hem," said Template. "Well, widely spaced all around the edge, actually, but most of them are in the hem. Here, watch."

     She stopped and spun in place, the cape trailing a bit but not wrapping around her.

     "The trick is to have the right amount of weight in the right place. The Intrepids use this wonderful older woman who got started as an apprentice to Bridger Henson during World War Two. She made this costume, after Colossa, the Black Mask and I finalized the design."

     "Wow," said Angelina, taking the cape in her hands and feeling where the weights were. "Oh, I like this feature. Velcro tabs hold it to the shoulders."

     "Yeah. Nobody with any sense has used a securely attached cape since Cloud Buster got his caught in that DC-3 propellor in the late Thirties."

     "The booties are a little... I don't know..."

     "Don't start," growled Template. "Between Rapscallion singing 'Shake Your Booty!' every time someone says the word, Amazonia saying they were 'cute' while looking like she had swallowed something sour, and Colossa teasing me about how 'fem' they look, I've become very protective of this footgear."

     "I was just going to say that something like a slipper would work better with the rest of the outfit."

     "Ah, but can a slipper do this?" said Template, triumphantly, as she put her right foot on the bed. She rolled the top up to reveal several items secured underneath. "This one has a foil pouch of water, two ration bars with a day of nutrition each, a fishing kit and a space blanket. The other has an emergency beacon - radio, strobe and built-in whistle - a small utility knife and ten meters of cord."

     "And you don't even rattle when you walk!" said Angelina, laughing.

     "Hey, even the military doesn't have gear this good. That's Bowman's work."

     "I've heard you could strip that guy to his underwear and he'd still be able to produce a bazooka."

     "A slight exaggeration," said Template, grinning.

     "If you're going to stick with the boots, though," said Angelina, frowning a bit in thought, "you really need more heel."

     "Well, maybe," said Template, reluctantly. "You aren't the only one to tell me that."

     "There is one thing - one favor - I'd like to ask you for," said Angelina, after they had finished a basic reordering and were getting ready to leave the room. "Can you take me flying? I enjoyed it when we were kids, and would really like to do it again."

     "Sure. You can wear Randy's flying gear. That's the helmet and stuff, over there."

     "Do you always refer to your alter ego in the third person?"

     "It's drummed into us, actually," said Template, looking a bit uncomfortable. "'Always be aware of who you are supposed to be.'"

     As usual, there was a long wait for an elevator.

     "Oh, if anyone asks, just say I'm Template. If they press, explain that, yes, I am the real thing. I heard one of our volunteer workers talking about the con and thought it sounded interesting. So I gave him a lift down here, and decided to stay a while to look around."

     "Clever," said Angelina.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed

     Template was pleasantly surprised at how little attention she attracted. Or rather, that she didn't attract any more than was typical for hall costumes. Aside from the occasional request to pose for a photo (sometimes with someone) there was very little bother. She commented on this

to Angelina when they finally broke for supper.

     "Super heroes are a bit passé these days," the costumer explained, looking disappointed. "I doubt half these people even realize you're in the costume of an actual super hero. They're just too common to keep up with all of them."

     "A common misconception," said Template, remembering her - or, rather, Randy's - early conversation with Colossa - or, rather, Karen - on that subject. "There's fewer heroes and teams now than at any time since about ten or twelve years ago."

     "You're kidding!" said Angelina. "With all the media attention - the movies, TV shows, toys..."

     "These things tend to run in about twenty year cycles, since about the mid-Thirties," said Template, philosophically. "It starts with a few talented amateurs, dressing up for thrills or who feel compelled to help anonymously, or both. Those soon inspire more amateurs, of varying competence and effectiveness. That's when you get people like Captain Sticky, the Mister of the Mastic Arts."

     "You've got to be kidding me!" said Angelina, with a brief grimace of distaste. "There really was somebody who used that name? Sounds like a porn star."

     "That came later," said Template, straight-faced. "I understand he did more to reduce crime with his skinflicks than he ever did with his adventuring, due to his effect on the blue movie industry."

     Angelina laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair.

     "During the second phase you still get folks who don the mask simply out of a sense of dedication or for the thrills," said Template, when her friend could listen again. "Of several kinds. Next come the professionals. People who actually earn a living fighting crime, or who have some sort of professional training in fighting crime, or both. Most are overtly or covertly sponsored by a government. They often look with disdain on the amateurs, and may even try to get them off the streets."

     "Like the Intrepids," said Angelina, still gasping and wiping tears from her eyes. "Ahem! I mean, about the professional part. Not that they'd..."

     "Yeah, though groups - even incorporated ones - which provide financial support for members are different from super corporations, where everyone is in it for a buck. Like the Specialists have become. That's usually the next phase.

     "Then there will be some sort of trouble, usually a big scandal involving one of the super corporations, and governments try to make all supers 'official' by requiring them to join a recognized group, or push for a complete ban. That's when you get people like the American Guardsman; decent, competent folks who are both figureheads and effective crime fighters. This phase usually ends in a ban on all private supers no matter how it starts, and sometimes even all super groups, with supers legally required to operate as part of regular police and military forces. There will be a quiet period, during which pending court cases are settled, the laws overturned and supers made legal again. Few become active, though, due to lingering distaste over how they were treated. Then there will be an even bigger scandal, involving an official super or team if there are any left, or regular law enforcement otherwise, causing the government to disband them. Things will be quiet for a while, while the courts eventually declaring the law or laws invalid. Then one of the hard-core private supers who's probably been active in the background the whole time gains attention, or some newcomer does the same, and the cycle starts over. And in each part of the cycle you have holdouts from previous parts, so it gets complicated."

     "I didn't know any of this," said Angelina, wondering. "I mean, I knew that super stuff ran in cycles, but never paid any attention to the details."

     "That's probably for the best," said Template, with a sigh. She drained her cup. "Supers seem to work best without a lot of public attention. Which may be why comics, books, TV shows and movies lag reality by about ten years. Serious trouble usually starts in the part of the cycle where you have corporate teams, public defenders and official heroes. And because of the lag in popular media, people have the wrong ideas about how supers operate, and which type are responsible for the trouble."

     "Well, I need to go help close the table down," said Angelina. "Then get cleaned up for the room parties. You going like that?"

     "You know, I've had so much fun this afternoon I think I will," said Template, surprising herself. "Though I need to get cleaned up, too. Not to mention pee."

     "What, you shy about using public restrooms?" teased Angelina.

     Template leaned forward and spoke quietly.

     "There's no opening in the crotch of this thing. And my socks go all the way to my jaw. I have to strip to my thighs just to get to my panties."

     "Oh!" Angelina laughed. "Now that is a substantial design flaw!"

     "Not really. There's several good reasons for it. Rape prevention among them."

     "Would you mind if it became known that Template is a lesbian?" said Angelina, as she began gathering her stuff. "I mean, if you hang around me, there could be gossip. And the way you look at women makes it pretty obvious you're attracted to them."

     "Not... really," she said, frowning a bit. "But, please, don't try to make me some sort of champion of the cause. For one thing, it wouldn't be honest."

     "All right." Angelina checked her watch and sighed. "Gotta go."

     "Well, I'll see you around the con later, then."

     Angelina stood, then leaned over and gave Template an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

     "You know, that's the first time you've kissed me since we were ten," said Template, putting her hand to the spot.

     Angelina blinked, looking startled.

     "I... didn't mean anything by it. Just a show of affection between long-time friends."

     "I'm not complaining," said Template, smiling. "Go. I'll see you later."

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Momma Told Me Not to Come" by Three Dog Night

     The parties, unfortunately, were less comfortable for Template than the public areas of the con had been. Among other things, they were more crowded. And both alcohol and the party spirit resulted in many lowered inhibitions. Template found herself groped for the first time in her life, and barely kept herself from overreacting. Fortunately, most of the male responses to her were far more polite, and she even found the attention flattering. Still, she was growing increasingly uncomfortable, especially after a pair of shapely women in slave girl outfits caught her eye. She realized they had stirred her libido, and that they had somehow picked up on that, and weren't happy about it.

     She was at one fun but particularly loud and crowded party when she began to feel claustrophobic. The closest exit was out onto the suite's balcony. That, too was occupied, mostly by people wanting privacy for engaging in intimacy. While none of those there were actively copulating, some were getting close. Embarrassed, Template lifted into the air and flew out into the warm Atlanta night, to an accompaniment of astonished exclamations.

     What am I doing here? she wondered, flying slowly around the city.

     Her mood was not so much one of self-doubt as general melancholy. Randy had sometimes experienced such moods at cons before, but this seemed more intense, more pervasive.

     I hope I'm not turning into a 'weepy dame' as Rapscallion puts it.

     She smiled at the phrase, but her mood was not really lightened. She sighed, and started looking for an innocuous place near the hotel to land. The night was still young, at least for a convention, but she had learned that the best therapy for such moods was a good night's sleep. She landed, headed inside and went to her room.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "I Can See Clearly Now" by Johnny Nash

     The next day, rumors abounded that one of the attendees was actually a real super. Which particular super - and even the gender - were subject to often vigorous debate. Randy stopped by Angelina's table, to drop off the loaned Guest Of badge and some breakfast.

     "Bless you!" the woman exclaimed. "For both of those. I have someone lined up to model my new barbarieanne outfit later this morning."

     She peered at Randy.

     "You didn't get laid, did you?"

     "Well, no," he said, blushing. "I got tired and crashed early."

     "You should have come to the Lambda party. I know several women there who'd love to explore that firm, athletic super body of yours. Wouldn't even have to go beyond a semi-erotic massage, if you didn't want it to."

     "May make it tonight," said Randy, wile thinking that was doubtful.

     "Come back here and sit down," said Angelina, patting the seat of an empty folding chair. "Now, what's bothering you?"

     "It's... hard to describe, actually," he said, sighing. "Just feeling a bit disoriented this morning."

     "You didn't find yourself being attracted to guys, did you?" said Angelina, with keen interest.

     "No. In fact, I almost got in trouble ogling a woman too closely. She became hostile, and I had to leave."

     "Hmph. I bet I know what it is. Some people wearing costumes get too much into character, then have to decompress afterwards. Mostly happens to folks not used to the experience."

     "You know, I think that's it," said Randy, beginning to feel relieved. "That was the first time I'd worn that in public. At least in a casual setting, I mean."

     "It's a tricky and often subtle thing," said Angelina, in a philosophical mood this morning. "Wearing a costume, being someone else. I've seen people do things they'd never do as themselves, and act surprised or embarrassed when asked about it after they take the costume off."

     "I think I'm also missing Colossa," admitted Randy.

     "You were serious when you said you were dating her?"

     "Oh, yeah. She's a bit too wild, sometimes, but she calms down if I ask her."

     "Let's hear it for stable, monogamous relationships!" said Angelina, with a laugh. "Oh! I heard that something like thirty attendees were reported to Homeland Security, with over a third being picked up for questioning. Seems one of the desk clerks doesn't like fen and would report someone any time he thought he could get away with it, just to make trouble. The feds eventually twigged that they were getting bad information and stopped."

     "Oh, boy," groaned Andy. "Why do people have to be like that?"

     "I don't know. But I do know that there's already plans for a class action suit against both the hotel and the feds. You interested?"

     "No," said Randy, smiling a bit. "I think I'll have someone else handle this. Someone who just loves putting the fear of the mask into people who abuse their authority."

               *             *             *

     As he had promised, Randy - as Template - took Angelina flying later that day. 

     "One benefit of this is that since you're wearing my gear, people will me more willing to believe that Template gave me a lift down here and back."

     "Can you circle that tower, over there?"

     "Sure," said Template, grinning.

     They spent nearly an hour just flying around the city, taking in the sites and occasionally stunting a bit. Template took it easy with the latter. Finally, they touched down in an alley near their hotel.

     "Thank you," said Angelina, giving Template a very vigorous hug. "That's the most fun I've had all weekened!" "And I didn't even cop a feel," said Template, as she helped Angelina off with the flying gear. "Of course, you didn't, either."

     The costumer gave Template a mock punch on the arm.

     "Is that enough feel for you?"

     They walked around to a side entrance, laughing.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult

     Agent Carstairs was tired. All those people questioned, all those reports filled out. He'd even caught a known associate of several supers lying about his relationship with two of them. And not only had nothing come of it, despite hard clues of questionable activities for some of the subjects, but now he'd been told to drop the investigations and destroy his records! He was catching flak over just doing his job! Well, he had no way of knowing all those reports of suspicious activity were coming from the same man, or even that the subjects of investigation were in town for the same convention! It wasn't his fault! The worst part was, someone else had been given the job of investigating the source for providing bad information.

     Despite the stuffy heat of his office he suddenly felt an odd chill, and a shadow fell over his desk. He looked up, startled.

     "You illegally acquired information on the credit card account of one of our volunteers," said the Black Mask.

     "It wasn't illegal!" said Carstairs, trying hard to keep his voice from cracking... and failing. "We are authorized under the Patriot Act..."

     "Which specifically did not supercede the Hostings Act, also known as the Right of Super Privacy," said the Black Mask. "This has been tested in the courts before, including against the Patriot Act, and has stood up every time."

     He leaned forward, expressionless face inches from the agent's.

     "If there is a question about one of our members or associates - including volunteers - you come to us."

     He spun around and strode from the office, opera cape swirling behind him, cane gripped lightly but firmly in his left hand.

     Carstairs gaped, and gasped for breath for several seconds, then grabbed his phone.

     "What do you mean no-one has been here?!" he demanded, after telling security to grab the man who had just been in his office. "I don't care what the security cameras showed! The Black Mask was here!"

     In the distance, a quiet, menacing chuckle could be distinctly heard, chilling Carstairs' blood...

Chapter 3: This Mortal Veil

Theme music: "Brick House" by the Commodores

     Randy had to wait for the particular piece of workout equipment he wanted to use next, but definitely didn't mind. Amazonia was currently occupying it, and Randy was very much enjoying watching her. The thin sheen of sweat on her skin, the well-defined muscles standing out even through her unitard, the sheer aura of might and vigor she projected, were entrancing. Randy had never had a thing for musclebound women, but while Amazonia was muscular, she was by no means bound. His rapt attention wasn't so much due to sexual attraction - though that was definitely a component - as to admiration of a body in perfect condition. When she finally finished and began climbing out of the contraption Randy actually started. Amazonia grabbed her towel and began wiping off as she walked towards the showers.

     "You better be glad I like an appreciative audience," she joked, passing Randy.

     She snapped her damp towel at him, making the young man yelp and jump.

     Randy was still staring at the womens' locker room door when Colossa came out of it.

     "Hey! What are you doing still male and in civvies? We've got that photographer coming in here in just twenty minutes!"

     "That's today?! Damn. I haven't even finished my workout."

     "Well, one of the types of poses he wants is us using the equipment. So get girly and get changed."

     "Uhm, is Amazonia still in there?"

     "I think she just finished. Why?"

     Randy muttered something about not wanting to make a fool of himself, switched to Template and hurried in to change clothes.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "I'm Your Venus" by Shocking Blue

     The Black Mask blinked in surprise as Template came flying into the monitor room wearing only her mask and a string bikini.

     "Sorry," she said, blushing all over, as she settled to the floor. "This was the least daring thing the photographer had. You should see what Colossa is wearing!"

     The Black Mask proved he was both human and heterosexual by simply and obviously staring. Template sighed, lifted just off the floor, raised her arms to shoulder height and rotated once, slowly, before landing again.

     "Satisfied?"

     "Uhm, yes." A quick shake of his head and he was entirely back to business. "We just received an urgent message from Tiger. He needs help with escorting a witness to a senate subcommittee hearing. They were traveling cross-country in an innocuous motor home when something went wrong. He didn't go into details, saying he'd brief whoever came to help when they got there. He also said he didn't want a high profile, so that means no aircraft. Since you are our only flyer, you get the job."

     The Black Mask handed her a printout with GPS co-ordinates, a cell phone number and a description of the motor home.

     "All right," said Template, nodding. "I'll go change and fly there immediately."

     "Excellent."

               *             *             *

     Template, back in costume, flew to the coordinates given, which were in a state wilderness area set aside for camping and hiking. She quickly found the camper. Because it was surrounded by over a dozen vehicles with federal markings. Men and women clearly identified as FBI and Federal Deputy Marshals were swarming around the area. The camper was damaged, the front left wheel lying flat on the ground and the vehicle heeled over in that direction. She landed in a clear spot in front of the camper, and immediately had agents drawing a bead on her.

     "Take it easy," she said, calmly, raising her hands. "I'm Template, with the Intrepids."

     "We know who you are," said one of the older men. "You are interfering with a federal kidnaping investigation and will leave immediately."

     "I could..."

     "You will leave, NOW, or be arrested for obstruction of justice!"

     "Could you at least point me towards the Interstate?" said Template, fuming. "I just wanted directions."

     There were snickers from among the other law officers, and the man's face colored. He pointed, mutely. The wrong way, almost certainly deliberately.

     "Thank you," said Template, smiling sweetly.

     She lifted off and headed in the direction he had indicated, but as soon as she was out of sight she slowed and pulled out her cell phone.

     "Yes?" said a man's voice.

     "This is Template," she said. "I kinda got lost. Can you give me directions, please?"

     "Fly straight up and watch northeast for the flash."

     She did, and she did, and she clearly saw the flash, apparently sunlight reflecting off something. She went higher, to make sure she was out of sight from the ground, even with binoculars, flew over the location of the flash, and descended quickly. The small, mountain meadow grew rapidly larger as she actively flew downwards, adding that to gravity, braking hard at the last moment. Feeling wary, she shifted most of her power to resilience and independence, and hovered just above the tall flowers, turning slowly. She tensed as she saw movement, then

relaxed when she recognized Tiger, motioning her over. Underneath the cover of the trees was a small, neat camp.

     "We have a serious situation," he said, without preamble. He motioned to a short person in a strange but functional-looking costume, complete with back pack, utility belt and combat harness. "This is Gadgetive. She's an important witness in a federal child slavery case."

     Looked again at the girl. She might have been ten, eleven years old at most.

     "There were feds all around the camper," said Template. "They said they were investigating a kidnaping case."

     "Yeah. When I said 'federal child slavery,' I meant a black ops program sponsored by a - hopefully rogue - branch of the US government was kidnaping and holding kids with powers to   brainwash them into working as agents. Someone high up in the administration fabricated the kidnaping story, and put a notoriously anti-super FBI agent in charge of solving it."

     Template whistled in astonishment.

     "Gadgetive was smart enough to play along until she could..."

     "I can talk for myself," she snapped. She looked Template up and down. "Was this bimbo all you could get?"

     "'Bimbo'?!" said Template, startled.

     "Did you know that word originally referred to stupid young men?" said Tiger. "If you're going to tell the story, tell it. Otherwise keep quiet."

     "All right," said Gadgetive, sighing. "A few of the other kids - mostly older ones - were planning a break. I helped, but also worked on a project of my own."

     She smiled, nastily.

     "I got the goods on the guys running the place, and some of the high-ups backing 'em. Made copies, gave them to some of the kids I trusted. When we got out I sneaked away from the others and went straight to the Guardians. Downloaded my stuff to them as a precaution, since most of the others who got out vanished, and were probably recaptured or killed. But enough kids got to the authorities for the press to get wind of it and raise a big stink. So big that Congress had to call a special investigation. I'm on my way to testify first-hand. Unfortunately, some of those caught had copies of what I'd downloaded. That means the people in charge know I know who they are. And they want to be sure I don't testify in person, since most everything else could be shrugged off as malicious cracker work."

     "I heard something about a child slavery ring in the news," said Template, nodding. "But none of the details you just told me. Not even that they were supers. Well, I'm here, what can I do?"

     "Right now, nothing," said Tiger. "And you better hope it stays that way. I'm worried that whoever is behind this might get desperate enough to use either the military option or the super option."

     "I was already pretty good at taking out paramilitary agents on my first outing," said Template, smugly. "You know that. I haven't had much experience actually fighting other supers, but I've had nearly a year's training by Amazonia, Bowman, Rapscallion and even the Black Mask.

     "We also think I'm more than ready to template someone else now, if I need powers I don't have." She grinned, reached out and threatened to touch Tiger on the shoulder. "Any volunteers?"

     "Won't work on me," said Tiger, unconcerned. "My power's magical. Go ahead and try."

     Template was startled. She had known there was more than one source of powers, but until now simply assumed every super she had met was genetically based, since that was by far the most common type. She touched Tiger's shoulder, tried to template... and immediately realized there was no power contact.

     "It's like you're a normal human," she said, surprised in spite of his warning.

     "Actually, I wasn't normal even before I got my powers," he said, grinning to reveal long, pointed canines. "Anyway, that's why I don't show on the SMS."

     "The which?" said Template.

     Tiger pulled what looked like a GPS unit out of his fanny pack.

     "The Super Monitoring System. It's an invention of Ike Kenniman's. Detects the distinct energy signature of genetic supers - as well as a couple of other types - and shows where they are. That's how I knew you - or some flying super - were in the area. See?"

     The display showed an overhead image of the area they were in, with two glowing dots in the center.

     "Brightness shows approximate power level," Tiger explained. "Color shows the power type. You're the red one; she's the blue one. The colors are pretty much arbitrary, with higher frequency meaning the mix tends towards the non-physical. So it's pretty obvious from this that you're a brick, and Gadgetive's a mentalist, a big brain or a gadgeteer."

     "I refuse to be arbitrarily categorized!" said the girl.

     "Sorry, kid. I sympathize, but this is something which doesn't require your cooperation. If you plan on a public career as a super you better get used to this sort of thing."

     "Do you think this is how they found you? Or, rather, Gadgetive?"

     "No. Ike only lets people he trusts use the system. And good luck trying to break in; when it comes to gadgeteers, he's pretty much it. We found a tracker planted on the motor home."

     "It was on a time delay, and coupled to a cutting charge," said Gadgetive, suddenly sounding quite professional. "At a preset time it made a burst transmission, then blew, cutting the left A-arm."

     "So they learned where you were and took out your transportation so you'd stay at least nearby," said Template. "No wonder you left it and called for help."

     "Still don't know who planted it," muttered Tiger. "Explosive residue covered the scent. Bagged it for analysis later, though, so we may find out."

     The unit, still in Tiger's hand, beeped, as an orange, blinking dot appeared.

     "That is bright," said Template, startled. "And why is it blinking?"

     "Means the display can't go bright enough to accurately show the power level. Hold on."

     He tinkered with the thing, and suddenly the display changed to a readout. "Oh, great. It's Energex."

     "Wait a minute," said Template, feeling a chill. "You mean the guy..."

     "Yeah." He shifted back to the satellite view, and zoomed out a bit. "Looks like he's flying a search grid. And will be flying right over us in about fifteen minutes."

     "Do we fight or run?"

     "We can't beat this guy," said Tiger. "Not in a straight fight."

     "I thought you beat him," said Template, reluctant to believe they were outmatched. "At that desert battle. And your power level is only thirty."

     "Where'd you get that number?! My strength's a 20, but my power rating is over three-fifty," said Tiger. "And as for beating Energex, I didn't. I caught him while he was recovering, right after he expended a huge amount of energy taking out several world-class bricks, all of them more potent than you are. If he has a weakness it's that he recovers much more slowly than his maximum expenditure rate. Even during the Battle of the Desert Dome, I just kept him busy until some of the bricks he'd hurt could recover, and a few more just arriving, could assemble and dog-pile him. There's not more than three people in the world who could match him, physically. Four if you count Zeep."

     "Who?"

     "Later," said Tiger. "Now, mentally is another matter. He's intelligent and stubborn, but within human limits. Mentalists can deceive him or even dominate him outright... But none of us has that sort of power, unless you're hiding something."

     "No. But are you sure...?"

     "Hold out your hand, palm up," said Tiger. "Put your power into resilience. All of it."

     Template did so. Tiger lowered his index finger, stopping just beyond touch. A gleaming, white claw materialized at the tip, the point just touching Template's skin. Tiger pressed down, gently. Template started, and grimaced, as the claw bit into her flesh.

     "Okay, I get the point," she said, jerking her hand away. "Pun definitely intended. You actually drew blood!"

     "I hit him full power, with all ten claws, multiple times and he barely felt it."

     "We need to get out of here, then."

     Tiger returned to the GPS device.

     "See this gully, over here? We wait until he's at the far end of his sweep and head for it. You fly carrying Gadgetive, low as you can. I'll keep up, don't worry."

     That he did, actually taking the lead, by running, making shallow jumps, sometimes kicking off tree trunks and occasionally swinging from limbs. Once in the gully he bounced from boulder to boulder. They quickly reached the upper end of the gully. Tiger called a halt there until he had checked for spies overhead; then they made a quick dash over clear ground to the wooded crest of a ridge. Once under cover he checked the device again... and growled, raising the hairs on the back of Template's neck.

     "He's shifted. This way. We've got maybe ten minutes."

     He turned to the youngest member of the small group.

     "Gadgetive," said Tiger, "you sure you found all the bugs?"

     "There was just the one," she said, firmly. "I used a multiplex pulse to trigger resonant responses, so even if the transmitters were turned off, I still would'a found 'em."

     "Did you understand any of that?"

     "Yeah, actually," said Tiger, nodding. "I'm the engineer in residence for a superhero team. That sort of bafflegab is SOP."

     "So what do we do now?" said Template, starting to feel desperate.

     "We can't beat him in a straight fight," repeated Tiger, slowly, still thinking things through. "I could use my projective empathy to startle him, but he's seen the tiger before and that wouldn't help much..."

     "What?" said Template, seeing his expression change. "You've got an idea, haven't you?"

     "Yeah. It'll be dangerous, but not as dangerous as getting caught running."

     "You're senior man on the scene."

     "Okay, here's the plan..."

               *             *             *

Theme music: "Heroes" by David Bowie

     Once they were ready, and saw Energex heading their way, Tiger and Template didn't bother hiding. They stood, on the uphill edge of the clearing at the top of the gully, waiting for him. Even Energex wasn't so overconfident as to just drop straight down. He landed nearby and walked towards them. He was smiling, just a bit.

     "Where is she? I'm not being paid to kill you two, so let me do her and I'll leave you alone."

     "Forget it," snarled Tiger, taking an aggressive stance.

     Energex started to say something, but was interrupted by an explosion behind him. For just a moment he was distracted. Template, everything in speed and flight, launched towards him, just before impact switching to an even mix of strength and resilience. He still almost dodged her punch, her fist barely clipping his chin. His return strike sent her flying backwards into the side of the hill, hard enough to leave her partially embedded in the tough, clay soil.

     Tiger had started moving at the same time she had, covering the distance with several short bounds, moving in a staggered, irregular pattern. Energex turned to face him just as he made a final lunge... only, instead of fighting a man, he found himself being pounced by a glowing tiger. The response was instinctive, hard-wired deep into the brain. For just a moment, Energex recoiled from the predator. And Tiger struck, right hand raking claws across the villain's face, before dodging away, his tiger-striped aura still distinctly visible.

     Energex screamed with a mixture of rage and fear, and fired an energy blast from his right hand, barely missing Tiger. He was now facing away from Template.

     Template lurched free of the sticky soil, raised her right fist over her head and pulled her trump card: she expanded to huge size. She had put most of her power in this one ability, but it granted her heightened strength and resilience besides additional mass to better apply that strength. She put what was left into speed. Her mammoth fist slammed down squarely on top of Energex, smashing him to the ground.

     For just a moment, she thought she might actually have stunned him. Then her hand was shoved upwards so hard it carried the rest of her body over backwards with it. She impacted the hillside even harder than before. Staggered, she shrank back to normal size. Struggling to sit up,

she saw Tiger leap towards Energex' back, only to have the man almost casually swat him away before returning his attention to Template.

     "You think that's enough to stop me?" roared Energex, stomping towards her. Template noticed, in an odd moment of clarity, that there were five red lines on his cheek from Tiger's earlier attack. "I should do both of you for free, just for being stupid enough to fight me!"

     Though she couldn't move much yet, she was alert enough to put her power into resilience. It still hurt when he grabbed her ankles and swung her chest first into a boulder, the impact shattering it and sending chunks of broken rock flying. It hurt more when he followed this by whirling her around his head several times before flinging her into the forest.

     There was a flurry of crashing and snapping sounds; then all was still.

     Surely that's enough, she thought, lying there, trying to figure out how badly she was hurt. But maybe it wasn't. She staggered to her feet, too dazed to even reapportion her power, and lurched at a shambling trot back to the clearing. She noticed, in a detached fashion, that one of her booties was missing.

     She got back just in time to see Gadgetrix bolt from cover, heading uphill. She heard a loud "Aha!" from Energex. He raised his hands and fired. The double beam completely engulfed the small figure. Multiple secondary explosions went off, as items in her backpack detonated. Then came silence. Only a smoking smudge was left.

     "We've got... reinforcements on the way..." gasped Tiger, who looked broken where he lay partially curled the wrong way around a tree trunk. "People... you can't beat... Stay and finish us... and they'll get you..."

     Energex made a slow, sweeping turn, giving both Tiger and Template hateful glares. Then he leapt into the air.

     Template collapsed into a sitting position, but the pain from the jarring impact made her vision go red, and when that cleared she found herself lying flat. Several long minutes passed.

     She could hear Tiger starting to move, but he was still hurt worse than her. There was a scrambling noise, and Gadgetive's face appeared above hers.

     "Hah! Can you believe he fell for that? A simple holoprojector with lift unit, speakers and some fireworks, and he thought that was me and my gear!"

     "Gadgetive," said Tiger, barely audible. "Check how badly she's hurt."

     "Oh, right."

     The face disappeared and there was some clumsy prodding of various parts of her anatomy, which made Template moan in pain.

     "I can't tell! I don't know anything about medicine!"

     "Then ask her!" said Tiger, already sounding stronger.

     The face came back.

     "Can you blow me the way to pampers?!" said Gadgetive, anxiously.

     "What?!" said Template.

     "Can you blow me the way to pampers?!"

     "What the Hell are you talking about?!" groaned Template.

     "She's fine," snickered Gadgetive.

     "No, I'm not," said Template, trying to rise, feeling a stab of pain in her side and changing her mind.

     Tiger - apparently already well on the way to a complete recovery - came over and checked her. He didn't actually touch her, but simply moved his hands around her body.

     "Broken ribs," he murmured. "Sprained wrist. Probable bruised kidney. Multiple cuts, bruises and abrasions."

     There was the sound of a helicopter, distant but getting closer fast. Tiger turned to Gadgetive.

     "You, in the hide. Stay there until the Black Mask or Bowman arrive."

     "Gotcha," she promised, nodding. "I'll be working on that force field projector, just in case."

               *             *             *

     The medevac chopper arrived less than five minutes later. The EMTs split up and checked both Tiger and Template, then concentrated on the latter. They weren't as gentle as Tiger had been, but they worked faster. She was on a stretcher and in the chopper inside of fifteen minutes, Tiger with her. They both hated leaving Gadgetive here, but the best way to convince her pursuers she was dead was to act as they would if Energex had been successful. That meant Tiger going with Template.

     The trip took longer than it seemed like it should have, though perhaps that was only because the EMTs kept working on Template, monitoring her vitals and checking for damage the whole trip. They were very professional, very thorough. Tiger had to explain three times that, yes, he'd been hurt, but he had fast regeneration and was almost well.

     From the landing pad they wheeled her directly across the parking lot into the emergency room, Tiger following on foot despite two EMTs trying to get him into a wheelchair. A well-ordered group of two doctors, four nurses and a pair of techs immediately swarmed over the fallen super.

     The younger doctor took a pair of scissors and started cutting the neck of Template's costume.

     "No," she protested, "don't cut that."

     "Ma'am, this is the only opening we can find in this thing, and we have to get it off to work on you. Don't worry; I know not to touch your mask."

     Template winced, but stopped protesting. However, the man seemed to be having trouble.

     "Damn, what's this thing made of?!"

     "This is your first time working on a super, right?" said his older partner. He handed over a pair of metal snips. "That stuff is tougher than kevlar and has been around a lot longer. It's so expensive that about the only people who use it are those who really need it."

     The snips did their work, and in seconds they had a cut all they way down to her sternum. Then the team simply peeled the suit the rest of the way off, working quickly but with surprising gentleness. Template still had to twice clench her teeth to keep from crying out. Her panties came

next. Now she was naked on a table in a room full of strangers, the cool hospital air making her nipples embarrassingly erect. A sheet was quickly produced, but they only pulled it up to her knees, since from there down was about the only part of her not visibly damaged and being worked on. An IV kit was produced. Template was tempted to keep her resilience up and let them wonder, but sighed and lowered her power. The needle went in smoothly, hardly producing a wince.

     "Ma'am, are you having your period?" said the younger doctor.

     "No," she said, starting to get worried. "Not for another week and a half."

     "Are you having any bladder pain?

     "No."

     "Well, there's blood on your panty liner, here. Probably from your urine. That could mean a damaged kidney."

     "Tiger said I had a bruised kidney," she told them.

     "It may be more than bruised," said the older man. "Don't know, yet. Just keeping you in the loop, here, since you're conscious and lucid."

     "I appreciate that."

     They put her costume in a bag and sealed that, since it held possibly dangerous implements. Not to mention super blood, which sometimes contained substances not usually associated with living things. Her cuts and bruises were treated and the worst bandaged. Her wrist was X-rayed and pronounced unbroken but severely sprained. That was therefore lightly splinted. She also had two broken ribs, painful but not serious. None of that would have been cause for concern, though an overnight stay for observation would definitely have been in order.

     The possible kidney damage worried them. However, there was only a trace of blood in the urine sample she gave them, her output was good, and her vitals were steadily improving. The doctors consulted briefly, and decided to hold off on any sort of invasive kidney exam on an unfamiliar super. As a precaution, though, they put in a catheter - something Template found even more hideously unpleasant than her first pelvic exam - and sent her to ICU with instructions to watch the urine for blood.

               *             *             *

     Though only mildly drugged - they weren't sure how her metabolism might react to anything stronger - and still in pain, Template quickly dozed off. She was vaguely aware of Tiger persuading the staff that she might still be in danger, and not only getting them to post guards but let him stay with her.

     An hour and a half after the fight she suddenly came awake, as she heard familiar voices. Soon, Bowman and Amazonia appeared by her bed.

     "How are you feeling?" asked the former.

     "Not good. That guy... I thought I was strong, but he..."

     "It's over," said Bowman. "Rest."

     "Along the way we picked up a doctor we've worked with before," said Amazonia. "He'll check you over, and if it's safe to move you we'll take you back to the hill."

     "What about the cleanup?" Template deliberately let cleanup of what out.

     "Being handled, by the Black Mask," said Amazonia, with a slight smile.

     Reassured Gadgetive was safe, Template closed her eyes and drifted off.

               *             *             *

     Bowman was surprised when he saw Randy walk into the monitor room just a day and a half later, wearing a set of clothes he kept at the base.

     "Aren't you supposed to rest for at least a week? And not change back until fully healed?"

     "It's been ten days for me," said Randy.

     "Oh. You accelerated."

     "Yeah. Biggest problem was getting our medical staff to keep up. Even Dr. Whiskers had trouble understanding just how often I needed to eat. I got pretty hungry."

     "All right. For now, though, you're still off the active duty roster. If nothing else, you deserve a vacation."

     "Okay," said Randy, shrugging. "Just remember that I'm available if there's an emergency."

     "Oh; we've already got Ingrid working on a new costume. And somewhere along the way your booties got lost."

     "One came off when I went crashing through those trees." Randy sighed and sat down. "Don't know what happened to the other. Why doesn't someone do something about that guy?"

     "Energex? For one thing, he's so powerful that keeping him locked up is just short of impossible. For another, he's still officially in the JYB facility."

     "Huh? But... Oh. That's federal."

     "And someone federal is pulling strings." Bowman leaned back over his chair, stretching, and smiled. "The good news is that every active US team, some outside the US, and a bunch of independents, are all working together on this. There's a big meeting here late this evening."

     "I think I'll go train, then," Randy said, rising. "I feel rather puny, as Amazonia puts it, after lying in bed so much."

     "Sure. Just make sure there's someone to spot you. You are still recovering."

               *             *             *

     "It's not hard to believe that this team used to have over twenty members," said Randy, as he walked down the wide, high hallway. "This place is huge!"

     "Yeah, and almost all of it was dug in the early Fifties," said Theo. He shrugged. "It was an ambitious era. It went unused for a while in the late Fifties and early Sixties, then got reopened and expanded a bit by a new version of the Intrepids, with some of the original members and a bunch of new ones. Since then it's stayed pretty much unchanged in structure, and staff size and makeup. Even with the reduction in team size, much of the support staff is still in place. I don't think you've even met them all. Hell, I didn't meet you until you'd been here nearly three months."

     "Yeah, you wanting to know what I was doing using the Magnum Nautiloid," laughed Randy. "I know you weren't worried about me breaking that thing."

     "I just didn't want you getting hurt. And also wondered if you were supposed to be there. When you told me your name, though, I remembered the memo that you'd be joining us, and were allowed to use the equipment."

     "I am so glad the Black Mask is the thorough type," laughed Randy. "Anyway, I appreciate you spotting me."

     Randy was just about finished with his speed training when Amazonia came in. The three of them waved back and forth as she headed for the strength training machine; dubbed the Magnum Nautiloid at some time in the distant past of the team, it was what had been used to test Randy's strength his first day here. He was finished with his run and doing some hydrating when he heard a gasp, and the clatter of the machine dropping to the ready position. Startled, he looked over to see Amazonia sitting up, bent around her gut, looking pasty white.

     "Are you all right?" said Randy, he and Theo hurrying over and crouching down beside her.

     "No," she husked. "I don't think I am. You better get me to Dr. Whiskers."

     She tried to stand, gasped again, and dropped back down.

     "I'm going to be sick."

     "Theo, go tell Dr. Whiskers we're on the way!"

     Randy helped her up, having to increase his strength until he was half carrying her, and hurried her into the women's locker room. He helped steady her while she vomited into the sink. Amazonia seemed to recover some after that; she rinsed her mouth out and laved her face. Then she looked at Randy in the mirror, and gave a sick smile.

     "No need to change just for me," she said, with a trace of her familiar spirit.

     Randy was startled to Template staring back from the mirror. Well, that was something to worry about later. Since the clothes didn't fit Randy changed back, and started helping Amazonia to the team's clinic.

     By deliberate foresight, the headquarters' medical facility was just down the hall from the training room. Randy took Amazonia out the other locker room door, into the hall, and a short distance to the infirmary entrance. Dr. Whiskers and Theo came out as they approached, both looking worried.

     "Bring her in here," the alien felinoid told Randy, directing them to one of the examination rooms. "Theo, thank you, but I think you better leave the rest of this to us."

     "Okay," the tech said, reluctantly. "But let me know what happens!"

     Randy had to lift Amazonia onto the examination table. Dr. Whiskers pushed some buttons. The table hummed and beeped, and a printout emerged.

     "It's gotten worse, hasn't it?" said Amazonia, sighing.

     "Yes. It has advanced more rapidly than expected."

     "How long?"

     "Perhaps... six months to a year."

     "Who wants to live a year like this?" said Amazonia, sourly.

     "Wait a minute," said Randy. "You mean she's gonna die?!"

     "We all die," said the strongwoman. "I'm older than I look, kid. I've been at this for nearly thirty years, even longer than Tiger. Like a lot of supers I haven't aged much since turning twenty. But that doesn't mean I'm immortal."

     "But... what is it?!"

     "SCS, or Super Cancer Syndrome," said Dr. Whiskers. "Specifically, a type of ovarian cancer. Not particularly deadly in normals when caught soon enough, but in many supers the same protections which keep them from harm also protect their cancerous cells."

     "I never heard of this," said Randy, outraged.

     "It's not something we talk about much, even among ourselves," said Amazonia. She took Randy's hand, grabbing it hard enough to hurt even with his strength up. "Take care of yourself. You've got more to worry about than most of us, what with being both male and female. Do your breast self-exams, get your Pap smears, have your prostate checked. And don't let something go just because you think you're a super and don't need to worry."

     "But..."

     She sighed and dropped back. She looked... beaten.

               *             *             *

     "The resources arrayed against us in this matter are worrying," said Majester. "Even the kidnaping charge is persisting."

     "I thought all this would be settled, after Gadgetrix testified," sighed Bowman.

     "Doubt was cast on her testimony, based on her being under age," said the Black Mask.

     "No to mention a super," muttered Rapscallion.

     The discussion slowly grew more heated, and louder, as the two-dozen plus supers in the room mostly griped about the problem without offering much in the way of plans for remedying the situation.

     "I have a question!" Tiger said, loudly, after sitting and fuming for several minutes. He looked around in the silence following his outburst to make sure he would not be interrupted. "These people have been ahead of us in just about every way so far. What if they still are? What if they're getting ready to hit us back first?! If so, when and where better than here and now, with so many in one place?"

     The Black Mask quickly reached out to the com station in front of him and punched a button.

     "Class One alert," he stated, flatly. "Full lockdown. Maximum surveillance."

     "Think bigger," said Tiger.

     The Black Mask scowled, but whether from thinking or irritation the others couldn't tell. He worked his com again.

     "Oh, clever," said Rapscallion, leaning over to get a look. "A pre-emptive strike."

     "What did he do?" said Tiger.

     "He's putting in calls to several hero teams, including the Guardians, tying them all together in a conference call. He's asked the other teams to listen but stay quiet while he explains the situation."

     "Make sure the information is well distributed," said Tiger, nodding. "Might do some good. Not sure that is enough. We're talking about people willing to hire a psychopath to kill a ten year old child, and who have access to at least some of the resources of the federal government of the United States. Including a way to track supers at a distance."

     "What do you suggest, then?" said Bowman.

     "Find a way not just to protect ourselves, but go on the offensive," said Tiger, emphatically. "Some of you folks are a lot better at this than me. Come up with something."

     The suggestion gave them focus, and within minutes a rough plan had been made. The details would have to be worked out later, some of them requiring additional information, but there was a general feeling of satisfaction. At least they had something to do, and were actually doing something besides just worrying.

     "Anything else before we break for the evening?" said the Black Mask.

     "I'm gonna contact some other supernaturals," said Tiger, rising and stretching. "See if their peculiar means might acquire information more conventional ones can't. I'll get back to you when I have something."

     He walked out of the room. Not noticing it go dark, quiet and empty behind him.

Chapter 4: Just on the Border of Your Waking Mind...

Theme music: "Ants Marching" by the Dave Mathews Band

     Randy woke from the bizarre dream with a gasp, sitting up quickly in bed. It hadn't been a nightmare - though certain aspects had been frightening - but it had been... disturbing. Dreaming he was a female superhero? What would his therapist (assuming he had one) think of that?

     The morning news was full of stories about terrorist attacks, civil rights violations, government corruption and corporate scandals, punctuated by unconvincingly cheerful local color segments. Feeling disgusted, Randy finished his breakfast and left for his job early. Not because he was eager, but because he wanted to get it over with.

     Work started out much as usual, Randy entering data from page after page of hand-filled forms into the computer. Just another day at the office. But he still felt unsettled, and his mind kept wandering. He would catch himself making a mistake, and wonder how many he was missing. Finally, he gave up. Randy was more than bored. He was distracted. He kept thinking there was something he needed to do, something important. He finished his immediate tasks, made certain everything was saved, and went to his superior to ask for the rest of the day off. He had to do some persuading, but he was a good employee and Evelyn could tell something was wrong.

     Randy walked around the downtown area, gazing at the sights without seeing them, hands shoved deep into pockets. He did notice, with disapproval, the drab and dreary state of most of the buildings. And that the cars were not only nearly all old, but that many had damage which obviously had gone unrepaired for a long time. Several sections of sidewalk were broken, with loose pieces threatening to trip pedestrians. That the concrete had been left unrepaired for several years was obvious from the fact that the broken bits had been largely ground to fine gravel by foot traffic. Many of the store windows needed washing, and some of the walls. Some of both were cracked. There were few other people out, and they tended to be furtive, taking quick, small steps and keeping their gaze down. The long "recession" had been hard on everyone; besides not having money to spend on things like new cars and sidewalk repairs, many people had just stopped caring. And started fearing.

     Of course, a case could be made that the fear had started decades earlier, when the supers vanished. The normals hadn't come to depend on the supers so much as see them as inspiration, a source of wonder and encouragement. To have them just... go away had taken something from their lives. Even after forty years, their absence was still being felt.

     Randy came to himself with a start, realizing he had stopped in front of a clothing store, and was smiling at a Summer dress, one of the few bits of bright color visible, outside of garish signs.

     That would look good on... on...

     Who had he been thinking of? He hadn't dated in nearly two years, deciding to take a break from that following three unfortunate relationships in a row. And why in the name of sanity had he had a flash of trying it on himself to make sure it would fit?!

     What the Hell is wrong with me? he wondered.

     The last time he'd felt like this had been due to a mild reaction to a pain killer. But he hadn't had so much as a beer since they had celebrated the... the...

     What had they been celebrating, and who were "they?" He'd had a brief impression of colorful costumes on what looked like the set for one of those fantasy TV shows about supers, but... There'd been no supers since the Sixties, when their powers just... stopped working.

     A wave of dizziness and disorientation forced him to quickly find and use a bench. The world seemed to go all wobbly around him, his senses giving contradictory information. As he slowly recovered, Randy became aware of someone standing in front of him.

     "I know this will seem like an odd question, but do you know who I am?" said the tall, muscular man.

     "Yeah, you're... you're... We met at..."

     Randy stopped and shook his head. Despite a brief flash of recognition, he knew he'd never seen this man before.

     "Another strange question: Have you been having odd dreams?"

     "Yes!" blurted Randy, startled. "How did...?"

     "May I sit down?"

     Randy gestured at the bench beside him. The man sat, looking thoughtfully at Randy for several seconds.

     "I generally go by the name of Tiger. I'm not from here. That's why I didn't have nearly the trouble you're having with the recent changes."

     The sense of dissociation returned, much stronger. He knew that Tiger was part of a super team, even though such had been officially disbanded in the Sixties. Only the outlaws had been left, and even they had soon stopped operating, some hanging on for a while after powers stopped working, but finally even the most persistent retiring, getting captured by the law, or being killed by criminals or cops.

     "This isn't real," said Randy, holding his head, moaning and rocking back and forth.

     "In a way, you're right," said Tiger, sympathetically. "In another way, it's more real than what you're actually seeing out there."

     "Tiger," said Randy, suddenly sitting up and looking at him, eyes wide. "Colossa. The Black Mask. Rapscallion. All the others..."

     "Currently do not exist as such," said Tiger. He frowned, and somehow made what should have been a mild expression convey deadly anger. "Someone has attempted what's known as a Small Coup. They altered reality from its normal course."

     "I've read about such things," said Randy, wondering. "But... Agh!"

     "Don't force it. Try thinking about something else."

     "How? My life is gone, replaced by something I never lived or wanted!"

     "Then focus on my voice, my words. Those who are not solely bounded by mundane rules of reality are less affected by such acts as that which changed this world," said Tiger. "Your templating ability includes a limited type of reality alteration. That's why your different forms can have different masses."

     "And you're from an alternate universe," said Randy, nodding, as more came back to him.

     "So is Dr. Whiskers. She's the one who gave me your civilian name and work address. I was on my way there when I saw you wandering around."

     "So... what do we do? I mean, we have to do something!"

     "There are others. Some also from other places and times. Some who have reality alteration as an ability. Mystics and shamans and travelers, people whose awareness extends beyond the immediate and the physical. When someone attempts to change reality like this we get together and usually decide to put things back the way they were. This time, though, there's a problem."

     "You're not going to leave things like this!" said Randy, waving his arms at the greyness around them, ignoring the other people as they ignored his strange actions. It wasn't safe to draw attention to one's self, even by reporting someone behaving oddly.

     "Not if we can help it. The problem is, whoever did this botched the job. Which causes complications that actually make fixing things harder."

     "What can I do to help?"

     "Spoken like a true hero," said Tiger, smiling. "Can you access your powers, now that you know you used to have them?"

     Randy tried. He tried shifting his power into speed. Nothing. He tried accessing his Template form. Nothing.

     "Sorry," he said, distressed at how much this loss hurt him.

     "Don't force it," said Tiger. "They could come to you as you put yourself more in tune with the old reality. Even without powers, you're one more person in the resistance."

               *             *             *

     "God, it's depressing out there," said Hawkins, returning to the lab with food.

     "Depressing?" said Sheverda, looking puzzled. "It's like a breath of clean, fresh air! No supers around, spreading their stench."

     Hawkins stared at the man, wondering how he could think this was in any way better than what they'd had.

     "What was a mild, short recession before is a full-blown depression now," he stated, flatly. "There are more terrorist attacks, and the results are far worse than they were. Eight thousand dead in the September Eleventh attacks alone, because the government couldn't react in time and there were no private heroes to stop them! The technology is years behind..."

     Sheverda waved him to silence.

     "Those are details, which we can fine tune," he said. "We still have our little editing setup. The best part is that only we know what happened! With the supers gone we can take our time and make this world a paradise!"

     Hawkins had frequently wondered about the man's sanity. Now he knew for certain. And there was nothing he could do. Sheverda would smile comfortingly in Hawkins' face while preparing to stab him in the heart, if he thought the younger man was a threat to his mad plans.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "I Am the Walrus" by the Beatles

     Chadrana stirred from his meditative trance. Visitors. He rose smoothly and walked to the entrance, bare feet making little sound on the immaculately clean floor.

     "Ah. Tiger. And this is the one you promised?"

     "This is Randal Devon, also known as Template," said Tiger. "Randy, this is Chadrana. Mystic, supernatural scholar and drummer for the band Optimistic Buddhists."

     "Pleased to meet you," said Randy reflexively, extending his hand.

     The odd little man peered at his hand absently for a moment, then smiled and shook it.

     "Welcome to my retreat," he announced, warmly. "Please, come in."

     "Any luck, yet, finding the source?" said Tiger as the entered the bare room.

     "Alas, no. I fear we need someone far more perceptive than I for that task."

     Chadrana, fortunately, turned out not to be a complete aesthete. He led them through the mediation room into a fairly normal-looking kitchen and invited them to sit at the table.

     "You think we should to see the Crystal Oracle?" said Tiger, once they had told their host the didn't need anything to eat or drink.

     Chadrana nodded solemnly. Then smiled.

     "What can I say? It likes you."

     "What is this Oracle?" said Randy.

     "A crystalline elemental, which specializes in learning and information storage and retrieval," said Tiger.

     "It is an ancient creature of great knowledge."

     "And it's not all that far from here," Tiger added.

               *             *             *

     "Not all that far" turned out to be over two hundred miles. Soon they were in a wild section of the Appalachians, a place never settled by humans, at least not for long. The road went from worn concrete to rutted asphalt to gravel to two lines of bare dirt to just a hint of a path. Randy's car eventually could go no further.

     "The oldest mountains on Earth," said Tiger, awe in his voice he walked steadily uphill.

     "I miss flying the most," said Randy, panting gamely along behind Tiger. "Yeah. Definitely flying."

     The amount of effort this climb was taking pointed up the fact that without the encouragement of his super friends and the motivation of his super activities, Randy was in terrible physical condition.

     "Never tried it myself," drawled Tiger, breathing easy.

     "Levitation, rather than flying, is something I have managed on occasion," said Chadrana, somewhat less out of breath than Randy. "It actually requires more effort than, say, climbing a ladder. But, then, you don't have to go get the ladder."

     They soon broke out of the weeds and scrawny trees and onto a short, steep talus slope with little growth. They scrambled up this to a jagged, nearly vertical slit in a cliff face. Tiger stopped and stared at the slit, looking nonplused.

     "What's wrong?" Randy gasped, actually having to hang onto Tiger to keep from sinking to the ground.

     "It hasn't been cleared. In the prime reality for this line this cave mouth is kept clear of rock."

     Muttering irritably, Tiger moved to the opening and began digging with his hands. The other two moved quickly to the side to avoid the flying and sliding rock. After several minutes Tiger lay on his side and squirmed through the hole, disappearing into the cliff. Randy and Chadrana glanced briefly at each other, then moved to follow. Being slimmer, they managed more easily than Tiger had.

     Once inside they were able to stand, though Randy had to crouch. They followed Tiger into darkness, neither of them having thought to bring a light. Fortunately, there seemed to be a source of illumination ahead.

     "He sees in the dark, you know," said Chadrana, conversationally.

     The narrow cave suddenly opened into a huge cavern, lit by an eerie glow. In the center stood a massive growth of crystal, vaguely shaped like a heavily weathered old tree, or perhaps a elderly human with arms raised to the sky.

     "Wait here," said Tiger, quietly. He literally hitched his pants up and strode forward.

     Just short of the base of the crystal he stopped, placed his palms together and bowed his head until his chin touched his fingertips.

     "I greet you, Crystal Oracle, keeper of lore and legend."

     WHO ENTERS MY PRESENCE?

     "I am Tiger, a humble seeker of the knowledge you possess."

     WELCOME, LITTLE TIGER. WHAT DO YOU WISH TO LEARN?

     "The source of the disturbance which has twisted this reality."

     ROOM S342, OF THE JYB FEDERAL DETENTION FACILITY, IN NORTHERN KENTUCKY.

     "Thank you, great Oracle."

     OH, AND YOU'RE GOING TO NEED THIS.

     Randy yelped as he was suddenly in Template's form, complete with costume!

     "Thank you, great Oracle!" said Tiger, smirking at Template's surprise and discomfiture.

     MAKE IT QUICK, IF YOU CAN. THIS IS A MOST UNPLEASANT SITUATION.

     Tiger strode quickly back to where Template was examining herself, took her by the arm and guided her and Chadrana out of the cave.

     "Play with yourself later. We've got a reality to restore."

     "This is so weird," Template gasped, too astounded to note the remark. "I remember this, but I also remember never being like this before! It's... like it's the first time all over again!"

     "Well, I just hope your powers are back, too. We'll need them to get in the JYB Detention Facility."

     "I thought that thing already knew you. Why the introduction?"

     "It's a formal being," said Chadrana. "Obey the formalities and it will speak to you. Ignore them - no matter how dire the situation - and you are also ignored."

     The trip back to the car was actually worse than the journey out had been, what with slipping down the steep, rock-strewn slope. That is, except for Template, who was inordinately pleased to confirm that her powers actually were working again. She flew, nearly upright and at low level, keeping pace with the others. Once they were back at the car, Tiger sighed, and shook his head.

     "Be nice if we could find some of the others we could reasonably expect to have a connection to the old reality," he muttered. "Happy Jack. The Anomaly. Oh, and Faith; she's from my world."

     "What's her power?" said Template.

     "Faith can move mountains," said Tiger, solemnly. "She's a big girl."

     "I believe we may be able to acquire Quirk on the way," said Chadrana

     "I believe that acquiring Quirk on the way would cause more problems than it would solve."

     "I understand your feelings about him, but, seriously..."

     "All right, all right," sighed Tiger. "He might just come in handy, at that. As a diversion. Or cannon fodder. Or sacrificial lamb."

     Their planning was interrupted by a wash of disorientation as reality shifted. The others turned to look at Template as she gasped in surprise.

     "What the Hell is this!" yelped Template, looking down at herself.

     "Oh, now, that is weird," said Tiger, unable to help grinning. "It appears to be a Thirties adventuress' outfit. Jodhpurs, short-sleeved shirt, calf-high boots, hair down around the shoulders with a bit of curl-in at the ends. And no mask! You look like Pat Savage, though your skin is the same Mediterranean deep brown as before, rather than bronzed. At least you, physically, don't seem to have changed."

     "But..." said Template.

     "This actually increases our urgency," said Chadrana. "Whoever caused the initial reflux must not have been satisfied with the results, and moved the termination of super powers back further in time."

     "But why would that change my costume?!" fumed Template. "And why didn't either of you change?"

     "Perhaps that change marks the last period supers were now present in this world," said Chadrana, shrugging. "As for us not changing, we don't change forms as you do."

     "Well, if you're prone to changing like that, looks like I better drive," said Tiger. "Besides, I know where we're likely to find Quirk, so you won't have to drive in unfamiliar territory."

               *             *             *

     The trip was even longer in distance than the one to the Oracle had been. They finally pulled into the driveway of a nondescript house in a nondescript suburb. Tiger sighed resignedly and got out.

     He was halfway to the door when a rather normal-looking man yanked it open and stepped outside to greet him.

     "Tiger! Old friend! Long time no see!" He noticed the others, standing beside the car. "And you brought the wife and kid! Come in, come in! Sorry the missus is at work, just now."

     He chattered, mostly in sentences ending with exclamation marks, as he ushered them into his living room. And then, somehow, he was suddenly behind them, plopping party hats on their heads. As Template started, and looked around, confused, Tiger and Chadrana just looked put-upon.

     "Just a little something for the occasion. By the way, what is the occasion?"

     "We... need your help with the recent reality alteration," said Tiger, through gritted teeth. "You do realize reality has been altered, right?"

     "Oh, sure,"

     "And you're not concerned about that?"

     "Nah. Somebody will put it right. They always do."

     "Well, this time, the somebody is us."

     "Oh. Okay. Lead on, then. I'll leave a note for the little woman."

     Another shift in reality swept by. Template was now in a bodystocking, cape and slippers, her hair in a tight bun.

     They all stared, Quirk gaping, then whistling in appreciation.

     "Looks like a Victorian circus acrobat's outfit," said Tiger.

     "I will be so glad when we fix this and I can get back to my regular outfit," said Template, sourly, as she tugged at the silk garment. "At least I don't seem to be changing."

     "There is one thing you should keep in mind," said Tiger. "Reality won't just blink and everything be the way it was before. Especially since it's been changed more than once. It could swing past the original condition, in any of an infinite number of directions. All the what-ifs and if-onlys of existence could potentially be expressed. However, things will eventually settle down. The world should be better than 99% restored in under a minute, but some after effects could linger for days. There's a good chance that a few trivial details could be permanently changed. Reality is flexible, but not completely elastic."

     "The responsible party keeps pushing further back in time, possibly hoping to improve the present by completely eliminating supers from history," said Chadrana. "The problem with that is that supers - even only their mention in history - go back thousands of years."

     "We need to get to northern Kentucky right away, then," said Tiger.

     They hurried to the car, even Quirk for once quiet and serious.

               *             *             *

     The facility was in an isolated region, but serviced by both an Interstate highway just to the south, and the Ohio river to the north. In Template's base reality, both routes had been used to transport construction materials and prisoners to the federal prison.

     "These roads are in horrible shape," muttered Tiger. "I mean, this is an Interstate, but it's broken and tilted and potholed..."

     "Each change seems to make the world a worse place," said Template, saddened. "Or is it just this part of it?"

     "I suspect the degree of deterioration will vary with location," said Chadrana, "but that few places will actually be better off."

     "Supers is good for you!" crowed Quirk. "Mebbe the people making the changes will realize that, now, and put things back!"

     As if on cue, yet another wave of change flooded the world. Things did not go "back." Template was now wearing an outfit which appeared to date to the mid-Eighteenth Century.

     "Oh, this is just ridiculous!"

     She was in black tights and white, voluminous blouse, hair again loose but shorter and straighter, with black gloves, riding cape, tri-corner hat, domino mask, knee-high boots and large belt, the latter holding a brace of flintlock pistols tucked in it and two pouches attached.

     "That's a good look for you, actually," said Quirk.

     "I'm really starting to miss Rapscallion," Template muttered.

     She twisted and turned, peering at herself. Once again, the body had stayed unchanged, at least in obvious ways.

     "Let's get this over with before she winds up wearing bear skins," said Tiger, his tone reminding them that cats could growl.

     They reached the road to the prison soon after. Tiger drove along that a short way, then turned off on an old gravel drive which had led to the foundations of a house torn down when the prison was built.

     "The car won't be noticed soon, here," he explained, as the got out. "The trees which have grown up in what was the front yard will keep it from being seen."

     By fortunate coincidence the time was nearing dusk. They crossed the perimeter fence with ease, and crept towards the prison, Tiger and Chadrana using their heightened and mystic senses to help avoid being spotted. Template was left the task of keeping Quirk under control, a job more difficult than might be expected. Despite that, they were soon at the base of the main wall. Tiger and Chadrana concentrated for a moment, then announced no guards on top.

     "Chadrana, use your abilities to mask our presence," Tiger whispered. "I'll jump. Template, you fly up, with Quirk and Chadrana."

     "Gee, thanks," she muttered. "Leave the girl to do all the heavy work."

     Tiger ignored her and jumped to the top of the wall. Soon, they were all on the grounds inside. Tiger led them to what appeared to be an administrative building. They entered through the window to an unlighted office.

     Gesturing for them to follow, Tiger crept silently to the door. He listened for a moment, then carefully turned the knob and eased it open. He checked again, then led them quickly along a hallway to a door with a security card scanner in the wall beside it.

     Tiger pulled the swiper off the wall and peered at the back, trying to decipher the wiring.

     "Would you stop humming the Mission Impossible theme?" growled Tiger, softly, without looking up.

     Quirk scowled at him, but went quiet.

     "Here, let me," muttered Template, moving up beside Tiger.

     She abruptly lost height and weight, her archaic costume nearly swallowing her, her hair also changing color. She took the swiper from Tiger, examined the back for a moment, then yanked one wire loose and shorted it against another. The door opened.

     "How did..."

     "I templated Gadgetive, remember?" she said, smirking, and she shifted to normal. She began tugging her outfit back into the right places.

     "Try saying that three times fast," said Quirk, snickering, as Tiger led them inside.

     "I'll be glad when I can use her power without needing her form. I didn't like being ten years old the first time..."

     It was a storeroom, filled with shelves filled with boxes. Tiger and Template quickly lifted a full set of shelves and maneuvered it across the door, blocking access with a minimum of noise.

     "Okay... This is room 142," said Tiger, dusting his hands and thinking. "So S342 should be three levels down, directly below this."

     "How do you know this place so well?" said Template.

     "In your primary reality I worked for the company which designed and built this place. There are some differences, but the general layout seems the same. Now, I figure the time for stealth is over; we need to break through this floor and two more as quickly as we can."

     "Allow me," said Template. She started to crouch down and pound the floor, but winced and had to rearrange some of the components of her new outfit. "Ow. These damn pistols keep jabbing me in the belly and thighs. Not to mention how hard it is doing this in riding boots."

     "Wait... no, it's all right; go ahead."

     "What?" said Template.

     "I forgot that this version of the prison wasn't built with supers in mind."

     "So there's no counter-super measures built in."

     "Right."

     Template smiled, resumed her pose, then punched her fist right through the floor. There was a monstrous bang, and the whole building rattled.

     "I never get tired of doing things like this," she said, as she widened the hole and peered through it. "Dark in there."

     "Let me," said Tiger.

     They switched places.

     "Looks like another storeroom." He squeezed through the hole.

     Template and the others quickly followed him.

     Two more floors down, and they were in something which was definitely not a storeroom. Mad doctor-styled equipment occupied most of the space. In the middle were two padded, reclining chairs placed side-by-side, with a figure in each. Massive helmets covered their heads down to their chins, and their bodies were otherwise wired and plumbed.

     "The Surrealist and Rewind," said Tiger, even without being able to see their faces. "That combination explains a great deal."

     "The architecture and technology are distinctly different in here," said Chadrana. "This is the unchanging center of the alterations."

     "But where are the controllers?" said Template.

     A pop from the room's PA system made them jump.

     "Hey!" called Quirk, from a glassed-in balcony overlooking the room, speaking too loudly into a microphone. "I'm in charge!"

     "How do we figure out how to work all this stuff?" said Template, hoping that he wouldn't start pushing buttons. She winced and smacked herself in the head. "Of course! I just change into Gadgetive again!"

     "Probably not necessary," said Chadrana, examining the two men. "They appear to be both drugged and connected through some sort of artificial telepathy. Necessary, I assume, for combining and amplifying their powers enough to have this great an effect on reality. They must be continuously focused on maintaining the effect."

     "So just waking them should fix the problem?"

     "Yes. I suspect that the instigators of this situation do not realize that if they are disturbed, their alterations would be undone."

     "Oh, we realize it," said a new voice. A man in a suit stepped out from behind one of the electronics cabinets, pointing a gun at the heroes. "But we also know that if we can hold one reality for long enough, it will self-stabilize."

     "You've got to be kidding," said Tiger, sneering. "Not only with this crazy plan, but to expect any of us to be cowed by a handgun."

     "Oh, I'm quite serious," the man replied. "And you're forgetting that we're all equal here. No powers, you see."

     "And you are...?" said Template.

     "Gabriel Sheverda, at your service," the man replied, with a slight, mocking bow. "Assistant head of federal super research. Or, rather, I was in our previous, corrupted reality. We noticed your little break-in, and had to rush to get here before you could ruin things. Now, we can simply have our tool eliminate you from the timeline."

     "If you've been following us, you know we have powers," said Tiger, very deliberately not looking up at the booth, where Quirk was standing behind the man now at the controls there, miming karate chops at him. "Otherwise, how did we break through the floors?"

     "Explosives, of course. This building wasn't designed to be super resistant, since there are no supers any more, so a small charge would do the job. And God knows you supers - even powerless - aren't averse to causing mass property damage."

     The assistant had finally noticed Quirk and was doing a good job of having a conniption. Template looked over at Tiger, who nodded. Shifting all her power into speed, she blurred beside Sheverda and knocked his gun hand upwards.

     "What?!" was all he managed.

     Template quickly (given all that speed she had little choice in the matter) disarmed the man, breaking a finger or two in the process. She was thinking about what to do with the gun when she heard an odd noise, and realized Tiger was just starting to move and shout. She turned her speed down a bit, and saw he was indicating that she throw the gun at one particular piece of equipment. With half her power in speed and half in strength, she did so. There was a disappointingly anticlimactic shower of sparks.

     The world changed. This wasn't so much seen - since this room had been excluded from the transformation - as felt.

     "Noooo!" cried Sheverda.

     Up in the control booth, Quirk had somehow tied the other man with wires and cable to a chair. He made the OK sigh, then leaned forward to the mike again.

     "You are so gonna get it!" he crowed.

     "You think so, do you?" hissed Sheverda. "You people are trespassing on a secure federal facility. Most likely, security is already on the way here! And who are they going to believe? A set of freaks, or two people who work here?"

     GABRIEL EDWARD SHEVERDA!

     The voice was deep, loud, angry and familiar, at least to the masks in the room. Sheverda looked around, startled, but saw nothing.

     WE, THE MONITORS OF CAUSATION, HAVE FOUND YOU AND YOUR ASSISTANT GUILTY OF UNAUTHORIZED TAMPERING WITH THE VERY NATURE OF REALITY. YOU ARE SENTENCED TO ETERNITY IN THE SERVICE OF TIME.

     "No! No!" cried Hawkins, shrilly. "I didn't want to! He made me!"

     "What is this?!" demanded Sheverda. "Some sort of ridiculous bluff?"

     Abruptly, he was gone. Up in the booth, Quirk was laughing and pointing at the empty chair with its slumped wires and cables.

               *             *             *

     "Turns out everyone on Earth heard that voice, in their native tongue," said Bowman.

     "We knew the prison guards had," said Template. "They... didn't show any enthusiasm at all about arresting us. I gather that none of them had liked Sheverda, anyway."

     "We didn't realize anything had happened until we heard the voice," said the Black Mask. "None of us remember anything about that altered timeline."

     "Be glad," said Template, sighing. "Anyway, we tried to explain what had happened to the facility people. Turns out security cameras in the room caught us suddenly appearing, talking with Sheverda for a few moments, then the voice rang out and he disappeared. They couldn't say for sure we had done anything wrong except be there - there weren't even any holes in the floors any more - so they let us go."

     Template grimaced, then laughed.

     "They made us take Quirk, after he insisted he be put in a cell overnight."

     "You're still in the Revolutionary version of your costume, I notice," said Colossa.

     "Yeah. Before we split up, Chadrana guessed that since I had been put in it by the Crystal Oracle it might not change back when I switch to Randy. Glad I had Mrs. Grey make a couple of spare Template costumes for me."

     "Well, it's late, and everything is apparently back to normal. I say we break for now. We can get a full report tomorrow."

     "Thanks. I'm certainly glad you folks are back!"

     "This from someone who never wanted to associate with us in the first place," said Rapscallion, grinning.

     Template rolled her eyes at him. Then, they all rose and left the conference room.

               *             *             *

     "Finally!" gasped Template, slumping against the door.

     "Was it really that bad?" asked Colossa, coming to her.

     "There was a period of several hours when I thought I'd never see you again!" said Template, giving Colossa a quick hug and kiss.

     Colossa returned those with interest, then stepped back, smiling.

     "Let me give you a proper hero's reward," she husked, starting to peel off her costume.

     Template grinned and shifted back to Randy.

     Only she didn't. She was still Template, and now naked.

     "That was quick," said Colossa. "And I thought you'd be Randy by now... in both senses of the word."

     "I can't change back!"

Chapter 5: Same As it Ever Was

     "Template! Pay attention!"

     "Sorry," she replied, starting, then looking apologetically at the team leader. "I was thinking about Amazonia."

     "We are all concerned about her," said the Black Mask, sympathetically, "but how do you think she'd feel if she knew you were neglecting your duties because of her?"

     "Point taken," said Template, sighing.

     "To review, whether Gabriel Sheverda was the mastermind behind the group which kidnaped Gadgetive and those other young supers, or was even associated with them, is unknown. Neither he nor his assistant were mentioned in the records Gadgetive acquired. The JYB facility is, but only as a candidate for potential future expansion of the effort. Sheverda's specific involvement - if any - is likely to remain unknown in the near term, since the federal government has imposed an information blackout, claiming that whether the charges made against him were even valid was 'under investigation.'"

     "Bastards," muttered Template. "Wouldn't hear what we had to say. Just told us to get out. We don't even know what they did with the Surrealist and Rewind."

     "Yes, well, you can rest assured that the super community won't simply let this go. We will keep working on it, collectively and individually.

     "Getting back to the previous topic," said Bowman, "has anyone heard how Gadgetive is doing since she finished testifying?"

     "She's currently being mentored by Ike Kenniman, aka Dr. Device," said the Black Mask. "She's been fostered out to a couple in the area who have experience with super children."

     "Good," said Bowman, nodding. "Especially the part about Dr. Device. He's a good teacher, and good with kids. He also has strong industry connections. If she behaves, she's just about guaranteed a prime job."

     "Isn't he - Dr. Device - another founding member of the Specialists?"

     "Yes, though he didn't start going by that name until later. He wore the suit of powered armor which some members of the press gave the unfortunate nickname of 'Man in a Can.'"

     "Ow," said Template, with a distinct wince. "Yeah, I remember that, now. No wonder he quit the business, the way people made fun of that name."

     "On a related matter," said the Black Mask, trying to get the meeting back on track, "the special joint Congressional hearings on the Super Child Slavery Ring has turned its evidence over to the FBI, with orders to find those responsible and arrest them for trial.

     "Now, to team business," said the Black Mask. "Amazonia is taking an indefinite leave of absence, in an attempt to find an effective treatment for her cancer. Or, failing that, to settle her affairs."

     "Damn' shame," muttered Rapscallion.

     "Template is still unable to return to her Randy form, but can switch between two versions of her costumed form, the only difference between them apparently being the differences in costume."

     "We tested those flintlock pistols," said Bowman. "They seem to be real, authentic, period pieces. Except that besides their mundane functions she can put part of her power in them and use them to shoot energy beams. Pretty powerful ones."

     "That could be useful," said the Black Mask, thoughtfully.

     "I've been trying to convince her to establish a second mask ID," said Colossa, though her grin, and mischievous wink at Template revealed that this was being done in jest.

     "I went to see the Crystal Oracle," said Template. "I remembered how Tiger got its attention and did the same thing. It told me that being unable to change back to Randy was temporary, a result of a combination of several factors, including being at the center of the timeline change when things went back, since the contents of that room were exempted from the reality changes. Only I couldn't pin it down as to how long this would last, or any other details."

     "Typical of such oracles," said the Black Mask, actually sounding dismissive. "Most likely because they are reluctant to admit they don't know everything."

      "When I asked about the Revolutionary form, it just mumbled something about payment for services rendered," Template continued. "Anyway, using a voice synthesizer Bowman helped me rig, I told my mundane boss I needed to take off a few days to help you folks with something. She had no problems, just wants me back as soon as I can get there."

     "At least that's one thing about this situation which shouldn't cause a problem," said the Black Mask, nodding. "Hopefully, you will soon be able to change back into your civilian ID. That bit about the synthesizer reminds me, though; how are you doing at applying the gadgeteering ability you copied from Gadgetive?"

     "Bowman gave me a list of references to read, and also some actual reference material, besides teaching me a few basics. The weird part is that stuff which is perfectly clear when I'm in gadgeteering mode makes almost no sense otherwise. And sometimes stuff I know about normally takes on an entire new dimension. Oh, and for some reason, to be effective at gadgeteering I have to put most of my power into it."

     "Hmmm," said the Black Mask, rubbing his chin. "That fits. It is a true power, and apparently one which is difficult to use."

     "I always thought The Knack was something you had to be born with," said Bowman, "but she's definitely got it. Part time, that is."

     "There's something else I learned about recently which could be useful," said Template. "Colossa and I were playing around with our powers last night, and - based on something I felt when Bowman and I were experimenting with the guns - I tried putting my power into her the way I did with those. And it worked! I can boost someone's own power level, or actually share one of my abilities."

     "I manfully refrain from making the obvious snide comment," said Rapscallion, grinning. "Ow..."

     "Serves you right," muttered his cousin, tucking her foot back under her chair.

     "That could be very useful," said the Black Mask. "I wonder if that is your true power? Such a transfer effect is very rare, and Dr. Hartford may not have known to look for it, when he was testing you. And it would explain your deft allocation of your base power into various super abilities."

     "Or it could be something the Crystal Oracle gave me," sighed Template, "or a result of all that reality twisting."

     "Even a genetic analysis wouldn't be able to say, since the process - whether reality alteration of supernatural gift - might have changed your genes." Bowman shrugged. "I hate to not be able to help settle this for you; my suggestion is just accept it and learn to use it."

               *             *             *

     It was nice to handle something fairly mundane, for a change, even if there had been lives at risk before the team captured the responsible parties. A store robbery had turned into a hostage situation when police responded to a silent alarm while the thieves were still scarfing up jewelry. Bunter had notified the Intrepids of the police radio calls it had noticed, coming from the nearby city. They contacted the police there, volunteered their services, and were told to come ahead. One of the team hoppers got them there in just twelve minutes, landing in an empty lot three blocks from the store, where they were met by the police Chief. A simple plan was quickly devised.

     Colossa grew to full size and walked to the front of the store, where she (from mid-shin down, at least) could be seen by those inside. When this attempt at intimidation failed to bring the criminals out the Black Mask entered covertly, and began rendering the men unconscious one by one while they were distracted by the appearance of a giant super outside. Bowman, Rapscallion and Template stood by, just in case, but they weren't actually needed. The last man fell to a blowgun dart without incident, and the Black Mask called the police in.

     They finished handing the miscreants over to the cops, spent some time giving their statements - occasionally being interrupted by expressions of gratitude from former hostages - then got ready to leave. Template felt rather embarrassed when the team received cheers and applause from the onlookers who had gathered following Colossa's entrance on the scene. She didn't think they had done all that much. Still, she smiled and waved with the others. (Well, except for the Black Mask, who was probably already back at the hopper.)

     What came next pretty much ruined the moment for all those involved. It was one of those events where someone happens to speak loudly over the crowd noise to someone beside them, just as there is a random quiet moment.

     "I'm glad they got that new gal. She's a lot sexier than that dyke they used to have."

     Template spun around and stared, stunned that someone would actually say something like that about Amazonia. Colossa, on the other hand, was halfway to the man before Rapscallion jumped in front of her. He spoke quietly but fervently to her for a moment. She nodded. They both rejoined the group, neither looking happy.

     Template was angry the whole way back to base, but that was nothing compared to Colossa's reaction. Even the Black Mask was obviously irritated when he heard about the comment.

                    *             *             *

Theme music: "Kid Dynamo" by the Buggles

     Template had expected to have to comfort Colossa once they were back. She wasn't surprised when her friend went straight to her quarters, skipping the post-mission debriefing. The others simply let this slide. Once they were finished Template hurried to find Colossa. She was sitting at her computer, writing in her diary, still wearing her costume, except for her mask. That was on the desk, beside a nearly-empty box of tissues. Colossa barely acknowledged when Template came in. Her eyes were red, her face flushed.

     Template watched for a moment, feeling very aware that while she was currently female she had not been born that way. Randy had actually been good at helping girlfriends through such situations, but Template still felt that she might come across as a faker. Sighing, she pulled a chair up beside Colossa and sat. She gave the slightly older woman a brief hug, which Colossa returned. Colossa gathered herself, finished her entry, hit SAVE, and turned to say something to Template. Then, instead, abruptly broke down in tears again.

     "It's just... I've never met anyone more solidly heterosexual!" said Colossa, sobbing.

     Well, that was an interesting start.

     "She recruited you for the team, right?"

     Colossa nodded.

     "I had actually started a career as a costumed crime fighter - GrowGirl - on my own," she explained. "Had some minor successes. Then ran into Amazonia during an armored car robbery, my first big crime. We just... went to work. No discussion, no argument. Handled the situation, me mostly just following her lead. Afterwards she invited me to the base. She was also the one who suggested changing my mask name."

     "Is it true she and Tiger were an item?"

     "No!" said Colossa, almost smiling. "Tiger brought his wife with him when he came to this world. Tal's another of the Gifted. By the time he met Amazonia their first child was on the way. They had similar tastes in many things, but never any reason to hook up. Besides, I think Amazonia was a bit wary of Tal. Her name, by the way, is short for Thunder And Lightning. Or, as she puts it 'Think of me as a toaster. You're the toast.'"

     Template had trouble imagining what sort of woman could marry Tiger. He was friendly enough, but it would be like living with a large predator. Very unnerving. Any woman who could deal with that must, herself, be rather wild. Their kid must be like them, squared!

     "Amazonia just never had time for romance," said Colossa. "Oh, she occasionally tried, but things always fell through. Especially since - the way she's built - she never bothered trying to maintain her civilian ID once she started crime fighting."

     "I'd wondered about that," said Template, nodding. "She's probably the only full-time hero I've met."

     "She was always a bit of a freak," said Colossa. "All that 'pursuit of ultimate physical fitness' was too much for most people, even before her powers manifested."

     "And most people just don't accept anyone different," said Template, sourly. "Especially someone who can pick them up and break them over her shoulders. Without powers."

     She hugged Colossa again, and for a long time they just sat there, holding each other.

               *             *             *

Theme music: "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred

     "Then there was the time Payback, Rebound, the Reactionary and Instant Karma got in a fight, and they all just stood around, each waiting for someone else to make the first move!"

     The laughter which followed was genuine, and companionable. Only Template wasn't feeling much like company just then. She had been on her way to the lounge area, only to find Rapscallion and Bowman entertaining some supers she didn't know. Not wanting to intrude - and not wanting to feel like an outsider - Template changed course for the pool without the others realizing she had been just outside the room.

     She was heading for her locker when she noticed clothing draped carelessly over one of the locker room benches. She hadn't seen anyone in the gym, and the showers were empty. Since all team members, staff and regular visitors had assigned lockers that meant someone she most likely didn't know was in the pool. Template dithered; a swim would be nice right now, but she felt uneasy about being around a stranger, given her condition and mood. Six days she'd been stuck as Template! She was starting to worry that "temporary" as used by a timeless entity meant something more like "permanent" on a human scale. Muttering, she opened her locker and pulled out the modest one-piece she had - in spite of Colossa urging her to get something more daring - purchased several weeks back as part of the project of filling out her female wardrobe. She was still awkward putting the thing on, but with no-one else in the room to make her nervous managed with minimum trouble.

     The pool area at first appeared deserted. Then she spotted a towel and pair of sandals laying on one of the lounges. Stepping closer, she saw a woman - no, a teenage girl - swimming under water in the main pool. Template put her own towel on a lounge near the other's, and went down the steps into the warm water. Before she could start swimming, though, the girl came over, staying submerged until just before reaching Template. She breached like a dolphin and settled back down, grinning, standing breast-deep in the water.

     "Hi," she said, in a honeyed voice. "I'm Solange."

     Template couldn't help but stare. The girl was stacked, and wearing what appeared to be a pair of eye patches tied on with threads. Though she couldn't tell for certain through the water, Template thought the bottom of the suit appeared to be just as immodest, and the bottom of the girl just as curvy. The youngster moved to the steps and draped her arm casually over the hand rail.

     "Uh, hi. I'm Template."

     The girl smirked; almost snickered. She straightened, shoulders back, posing to deliberately emphasize her endowments.

     "You look surprised. Didn't they tell you my parents were sending me here to intern?"

     "I remember something about that," said Template, not wanting to admit she'd been focused on her own problems during that part of the morning briefing.

     "Well," said Solange, reaching out to trace a long, bright red nail down Template's left bicep, "you should have been listening. I'm definitely worth paying attention to."

     Template shook her head and backed away.

     "Okay, let's get one thing clear," she said, trying not to sound angry - or uncomfortable. "I'm in a committed, monogamous relationship."

     "I hope he's not selfish," said Solange, moving languidly - almost liquidly - towards Template.

     The mild shock of hearing someone think she could be involved with a man helped Template resist the effect of the girl's attraction.

     "I'm serious," said Template, putting up her hands.

     Seeing that Solange wasn't going to stop, Template flew up out of the water and towards the locker room, leaving a trail of dripped water. Once inside, she could hear Solange climbing out of the pool. Not bothering even to dry, she grabbed her clothes from her locker and headed quickly back to Colossa's room.

               *             *             *

     "Yeah; she came on to me, too," said Colossa, not sure whether to treat the matter as humorous. "I was showing her the pool, and she said she was so enchanted with it she wanted to go for a swim. I took her to her quarters, she got her stuff, and we went back to the locker room. I was already starting to feel that there was more going on than just a swim, when she started this very deliberate strip tease. I quickly made an excuse to leave. So when you came in, wearing your swim suit and obviously flustered, I had a good idea what had happened. And what to do about it."

     "She can't be more than eighteen!"

     "She's seventeen," said Colossa, cuddling closer in the bed. "I am really glad you got here when you did. I was... wound up pretty tight after leaving her."

     "What's the deal with her, anyway? Is that effect a power, or is she just good at, well, seducing people?"

     "I don't know the details. Her parents are both long-time supers who had to go in a witness protection program after a villain outed their civilian IDs about a twenty years ago. They said Solange was having some issues and they felt it was time for her to get some outside training, anyway, so Bowman and the Black Mask both agreed to take her in."

     "I have a bad feeling about this," said Template, sighing. "As much as I hate to spread malicious gossip about someone, I think we better warn both our fellow team members and the hired help."

               *             *             *

     Template had trouble sleeping that night. Besides the incident with Solange, she was having another episode of "guy sleeping in a girl body." She was pretty used to this form by now, but occasionally something about it unsettled her subconscious male mind. This time it didn't seem to be her breasts shifting as she moved in her sleep, or anything else obvious she could actually deal with. Her next period was due in less than a week; she wondered if early changes in hormones could be the problem. Or maybe the problem was just the impending one-week anniversary of getting stuck as Template which was bothering her. Especially since the others - while sympathetic - didn't seem to realize just how much it did bother her.

     She wandered around the base in nightgown, robe and mask, every now and then startling one of the night staff. There was no requirement for any of the team members to actually sleep here, though through informal arrangement there was almost always at least one doing so. Template and Colossa both spent about a third of their nights here, together. Right now, it was just them and the night shift, most of whom she didn't even know by name. There was no-one to talk to. Template was bored and sleepy, looking for something to do, but the night was quiet. Even worldwide, there was little going on which could interest her. She suddenly realized it was still early evening on the west coast, and headed for the private communications room.

     Tiger came on the screen just a few minutes after she called the Guardians. She remembered that though he and his family lived some distance from the base, he tended to work late hours. Something about being naturally (or supernaturally) crepuscular.

     "What's up?"

     "Are you private on that end?"

     "Yes."

     "Okay." She spent a moment obviously taking a deep breath, while collating her thoughts. "You knew me as Template before you knew me as Randy. So I'm wondering if you would have a different viewpoint from that of my teammates about something which has been bothering me."

     "Shoot."

     "It's just that... everyone seems to want Template more than Randy. We have the same powers, the same mind..."

     "Well, you could take that as a compliment on your skills as a designer of beautiful women," said Tiger, dryly. "Look at it this way. You created Template to be your public persona. She's attractive, she's a super in a flamboyant costume, she's mysterious to most people, and she's, well, more vivacious and social than Randy. I don't know whether that latter is due to different hormones, acting the role, or a combination."

     "It's just... even before I got stuck like this, I felt that Template was taking over my life."

     "That's something common with supers," said Tiger. "Their super life is more colorful and active than their civilian life, and often far more rewarding. And you chose this form for your super identity, so you and everyone else associate it with being flamboyant and exciting. After a while, though, most supers come to value the quiet of their existence out of costume."

     "You mean I'll enjoy being Randy because he's dull?" said Template, sourly.

     "Don't twist my words around," said Tiger, firmly. He decided to change course. "Look, my world was almost completely mundane until about twenty years ago. Then we had an eruption of magic. One of the effects was that over five thousand people became what we call Gifted; among other things we had our secret wishes and desires granted. Many of the Gifted changed form - I know a female centaur and an anime character - and many gained the power to change forms. I, personally, know nearly two dozen males who have female alternate forms, much as you have. I only know three females who gained male alternate forms."

     "That still doesn't address my problem. Is it just that people - men and women - would rather socialize with an attractive woman than Joe Average?"

     "Don't dismiss the power of social instincts," said Tiger. "Humans are social animals. Females in social species do tend to be more, well, social than the males. And Randy is hardly average in appearance or charm, something Colossa appreciates."

     "You're right about that," said Template, thinking. "She prefers Template most of the time, but not by a large margin."

     "It could be that people prefer Template because that's what you prefer to show them," said Tiger. "How do you view your Template character? Is she a mysterious and charming superhero, someone better than human? Beyond normal cares and woes? I notice that you're wearing your mask despite being in your base late at night. How often do you go around as Template without the mask?"

     "Uhm, never."

     "Try creating a female civilian ID, just as an experiment. Go shopping, go out to diner, just see how much of the difference comes from being Template, and how much from wearing the mask."

     "That's... probably a good idea," said Template, reluctantly. "Especially if I do have to stay like this for a while. Thanks."

     "Night!"

               *             *             *

     Template overslept by a considerable margin the next morning, naturally. The others were already finished with breakfast and well into the morning briefing when she finally arrived, carrying a plate with a couple of bagels and a large orange juice. She noticed immediately that the other team members seemed agitated.

     "What's up?" she said, mumbling around a mouthful of bagel.

     "Congress, staying late in an extended session, passed the Carstairs Bill last night," said Rapscallion. "The POTUS is expected to sign it this afternoon. This new law is expected to severely restrict super activity. Idiots."

     "How did that man get elected president of the United State?" said Template, astonished. "Much less re-elected, after all the stupid things he did his first term. What is this bill, anyways?"

     "You remember, about three years ago, a guy driving a million-dollar plus exotic car got t-boned by a drunk who ran a stop sign?"

     "Yeah. The insurance company of the drunk tried to get out of paying the full amount it was liable for by arguing that it was irresponsible of the owner of the exotic car to drive something so valuable. That their estimates of insurance policy costs were based on averages and it wasn't fair for them to have to pay for that expensive of a car, just because a rich man had a bit of bad luck."

     "They lost the case, of course," said Rapscallion. "All the defense had to do was point out that their payments were also averaged over the long run, as repair costs varied from case to case, so they tended to come out even. However, California passed a bill not long after the trial ended, declaring that insurance companies only had to pay a 'typical' amount for damage to cars. In other words, no matter what you lost, your insurance company only had to pay the average of what cars in the state were worth."

     "I remember that, too. Most insurance companies quickly stated that they'd pay the full amount, regardless of what the law allowed. Because those which didn't lost a big chunk of their customers. Just about half their income, in fact. Since nearly everyone with a car worth more than the average amount wanted to be covered by someone who would pay for the whole thing."

     "Well, someone proposed a modified version of the California law in the US Senate. It passed, then went to the House. There, someone added a clause requiring the law to apply to all insurance, not just car insurance. And specifically including damage caused by supers. In other words, if you get in a fight with a reckless powerhouse, and there's a lot of damage, the insurance companies now only have to pay based on the amount of damage an average person could have caused in the same situation. Last night the Senate approved the House version. All other damages are left for the supers in question to pay."

     "But... how would an average person even get into such a situation!" said Template, astounded.

     "That, I think, is the whole point." The Black Mask sighed. "One of the justifications given by some for voting in favor of this law was the fuss with Gadgetive. Several members of Congress noted that if the Bay Area Guardians had just worked with the FBI they could have avoided having Tiger charged with kidnaping. And all the costs the manhunt caused."

     "But... but... That manhunt was caused by one of the people behind the whole Super Child Slavery Ring to try and stop Gadgetive from testifying!" said Template, confused. "It had nothing to do with not cooperating with the feds. In fact, if the Guardians had cooperated with the feds Gadgetive and Tiger and maybe several others would probably be dead!"

     "Don't try to confuse them with facts," said Rapscallion, sourly.

     "The worst part is, that supers who aren't specifically covered by insurance for their actions, or actually bonded, can be charged and arrested," said the Black Mask. "Much as many states can punish drivers who can't provide proof of insurance when stopped for a violation."

     "The law does leave an out, though," said Bowman. "Supers who get approval for their actions ahead of time from the US government - each action, individually and specifically - are exempted from that law."

     "So how long does getting approval take?!"

     "Forever, right now. There's no provision for a mechanism to provide it in the new law."

     Please note that the US president portrayed here (affectionately referred to by the characters as POTUS) is not intended to be any particular real US president. He is a composite of the worst points of several politicians, current and historic.

Chapter 6: Destruction, Creativity, One of Those...

Theme music: "Eve of Destruction" by Barry McGuire

     The super business was pretty quiet the next two days, as almost every team and most independents declared that they would not act until the courts had decided whether they would be liable for doing so. Bizarrely, crime in general and super crime in particular were down. Partly this was due to the villains also waiting to see how the matter resolved itself, partly due to people being more careful due to awareness that there would most likely not be any supers available to help them for a while, but mostly due to the fact that criminals - super and normal - knew that cops were far more likely than superheroes to just shoot them.

     "Template! Got a mission for you!" Bowman announced over the base PA.

     Startled, she quickly climbed out of the Magnum Nautiloid and went to the closest intercom. 

     "But what about that new law?!"

     "In addition to a federal court injunction against its application just this morning, this is a request directly from the legislature. That's got to be considered official permission."

     "Okay; I'll be right there."

     She arrived momentarily in the command center, still in her training costume.

     "Sounded urgent," she said, when she saw that Bowman had noticed her attire.

     "It is, actually. Just got an urgent call from the lieutenant governor. Escapade showed up at the capital building and started her usual shenanigans."

     "Oh, is that all," said Template, sourly.

     "I know, she's mostly harmless," said Bowman, smiling. "Still, one of the things her activities put on hold is a measure condemning the Carstairs Act."

     "It still sounds more like Rapscallion's speed than mine."

     "He is too much like her, and too easy for her to influence into her mode of thought," said Bowman. "You're more disciplined and much less of a prankster. Just stay aware that she can be very subtle with her influence."

     "Ah," said Template. "Okay. I'll change and fly there immediately. Should take about, uhm, fifteen minutes total. Do you think she'll still be there?"

     "You know how she likes to work a prank too long."

     "Right."

     She flew out of the room.

               *             *             *

     Template arrived at the designated spot, the helicopter pad on top of the parking garage, to find the lieutenant governor and a bunch of others waiting for her.

     "She's still in there! Says she's not leaving until the Seacacus Seven are released!"

     "But... that's..."

     "I know," said the lieutenant governor, rolling his eyes.

     She got directions, then flew towards the capital building. It was obvious from the reactions of the security men standing outside that they were surprised to see her. Well, this whole request smacked of a rush job.

     The ground-level side doors were all propped open. Template flew through those, through the hall with the exhibit of First Lady inaugural dresses, and out into the rotunda. Then up three levels, roughly halfway to the top of the dome, and over, to the entrance to the visitors' balcony for Senate Chambers, almost at the top of the main structure. She landed, entered the access hallway, pushed through the doors and walked quietly past the rows of empty seats to the railing, and peered cautiously over.

     Template stopped, stared, closed her eyes and shook her head, then opened them and stared again.

     A pair of Mark 8 Kenniman Industries Guardian security robots were having a square dance in the middle of the House floor. The half-tonne metal and ceramic monsters were currently doing a Left Arm Turn Full.

     Escapade was sitting in the front row - actually in a page's seat - clapping in time to the hoedown music playing over the PA system.

     Abruptly, the two machines lurched to a stop, both pointing at the balcony and chanting "Intruder alert! Intruder alert!"

     Template, knowing the jig was up, launched herself over the railing and down towards Escapade. Who was already running for the main entrance, making Curly sounds. The prankster ran full speed across the polished stone towards the drop to the stairs below. Escapade, laughing, vaulted over the balustrade without hesitation. Template remembered that in addition to mental influence - apparently affecting robots, now - Escapade was physically low-level super in her physical attributes, actually approaching Rapscallion's abilities. Which meant she had a chase on her hands. Oh, well; at least she had Escapade out of the chambers. As Template flew down after her, the other woman jumped another railing, to land on the floor of the rotunda. She was now as low as she could go, and instead of running was dodging around the bronze statues of famous historical figures. Template pushed her speed higher, and began catching up. The prankster, noticing this, suddenly changed course, darting through one of the side doorways. She was heading out of the building, opposite the side Template had entered.

     Escapade dodged and twisted and wove and eluded all the way out onto the side lawn. There, Template finally managed to grab Escapade's hair, and dragged her down to the ground. There was a frantic few seconds of activity, but eventually Template had the prankster in a solid pin.

     "You're under arrest," panted Template.

     She was surprised to find herself breathing hard. And not all of that was from exertion; during the grappling there had been several instances of contact on the part of both parties which could reasonably count as grounds for sexual assault charges. Template knew that wasn't deliberate on her part, but wasn't so certain about Escapade.

     "Car," gasped Escapade.

     "You have the right to remain silent..."

     "CAR!!"

     Though she knew it was probably a trick, Template looked up... and saw one of the legislators' cars about to land on them. She still had flight and speed up, and frantically yanked herself and Escapade out of the way.

     "Ow," groaned Escapade. "When I find out who threw that..."

     "Did you think I'd let you get away with tricking me like that!" roared a male voice. "It's payback time!"

     Template quickly located the source of that sound. And froze. Energex was standing in the parking lot, fists raised, looking furious.

     "Oh, shit," squeaked Template.

     She did not panic. Expecting that Energex might seek revenge, her teammates had worked with her on figuring out a strategy for fighting him. He was faster than a normal, but not by a large margin; if she pushed her speed to max she would be at least three times as fast.

     Template pumped her speed up to almost full and put everything left into resilience. And just in time, as Energex started to fly towards her. He slowed to a crawl, barely moving. Template grabbed a fist-sized rock from the border around a tree, wound up like a major league pitcher, and threw it as hard as she could, putting her whole body behind it. The impact was at roughly Mach One, right in his face. Energex was far more surprised than hurt, but by the time he recovered Template and Escapade were gone.

     "Ow," Escapade repeated. She peered around. "Did we teleport?"

     "We're both accelerated, to about five times normal speed," said Template. "This will only work for you if we stay in physical contact."

     "Cool," said the prankster, grinning, as she looked around, obviously enjoying the slow motion effect. "So, we run then call for backup, right?"

     "How good are you at making people do things they don't want to do?"

     "Oh, no," said Escapade, starting to pull away. "Not on your life! There's no way I'm getting that guy mad at me!"

     "Then I'll put you back out beside the wrecked car," said Template. "And don't try influencing me, either. You do anything to mess up my concentration and we both drop back to normal speed."

     "But..."

     "No buts. That guy is entirely capable of wrecking the capital - and I mean the whole town, not just the building - to bring me out, and it will take too long for any backup to reach here. We have to stop him."

     "But..."

     "Think of it as a public service which will reduce your sentence."

     She frowned, thinking it through. Then slowly began to smile.

     "Yeah. And won't that mess with their minds. Especially if you make it seem like I volunteered."

     "I won't lie, but if you help me take him down - and I mean good enough to keep until someone can get here who can take him to prison - I'll testify you were a willing participant."

     "Okay, I'll do it," she said, nodding. "That big stiff needs a time out, anyway."

     She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration.

     "I have contact... boy, is he mad! He's looking for us."

     "Let me know if he heads this way," said Template, who hadn't known Escapade's abilities had a telepathic effect.

     Though, come to think of it, they would have to.

     "Nope. He's heading for the parking garage. There's a bunch of people there. I think he wants to take hostages."

     "Do something!"

     "I'm trying!" she said, almost whining. "Between being mad, and really focused on what he's doing, he's smart enough to spot anything overt."

     "Can you make him think he sees me flying away?" said Template, suddenly remembering how they had tricked him before.

     "I think so..." Escapade scowled. "Nope. He got wise."

     "Great," said Template, groaning. "Wait. How about making him think the real me is an illusion?"

     "Ooh, I like that! Yeah, for some reason he's very wary about being tricked like that. Yeah. Hang on."

     Template heard Energex yelling. Something about not being tricked again.

     "Got him. Never tried exactly this before, but I have him convinced that if he sees you attacking, it's an illusion."

     "Now that is good work," said Template. "Keep it up. I have an idea for taking him out, but it'll take a few seconds of preparation. And if you stop working on him..."

     "I know, I know..." she sighed. "Don't... take too long. This is hard work. The guy's really mad, and my powers work best on people who are in a good mood."

     "I'm letting go, now."

     Escapade nodded, biting her lower lip.

     Template pumped her resilience into flight and headed at low level towards a small park on top of a nearby hill. There were several large boulders there. She grabbed the biggest, put everything into strength and hauled it out of the ground. Then came enough flight to get airborne. She flew in an arc back towards the capital grounds. She made a minor course correction as she saw that Energex was now walking along the drive between the capital building and the Annex. As she came over the top, with the rock weightless, she put her strength into growth. With that providing both strength and mass with which to apply it, she put everything else into strength and hurled the huge boulder down at Energex. He never saw it coming.

     The nearest bystanders were over 300 meters distant, but the impact still knocked some of them off their feet, and shattered several windows. Fragments flying out from that point totaled a few cars, shattered more windows and did some cosmetic damage to both buildings. Seismographs in three cities registered the shock. Energex was slightly stunned.

     Template shrank to normal, putting enough of her power into speed to roughly match Energex and the rest into strength. She landed - fell, actually, since she was no longer flying - with a thump behind him, then tensed as he turned to look at her. He scowled, and resumed looking around. Template let her breath out in a nervous gasp. The whammy was still working. She headed straight for Energex. Template boldly reached around his neck with both hands, thumbs crossed over his spine and fingertips digging in on either side of his larynx. Energex tensed, which also made Template tense. He looked around, seeming confused. He could see that Template was behind him; however, the mild sensation associated with the attack reinforced the way Escapade was convincing him that any direct confrontation was an illusion. Energex didn't need to breathe. Only... this type of choke cut off the blood supply to the brain. Template could feel his pulse thundering under her fingertips... but only the bottom ones. Presumably, the fuzzy thinking which came with anoxia would help Escapade do her work. If she could just hold on, keep him from getting wise, for ten seconds... Energex wavered. He put a hand to his head.

     Energex started down. Template held on, waiting until he was flat on the ground, motionless, and several more seconds for good measure. Then she released the hold and quickly stepped back. Energex stayed still.

     "I can't believe that worked," said Escapade.

     "I can't believe you're not only still here, but actually closer!" said Template, noting that the prankster was only a short distance away. "Do you think you can keep him out?"

     "Yeah, that's easy. I had to get closer as I got tired. I'm about wiped, now, but without him consciously resisting me, it's not a strain."

     "Then I'm calling this in," said Template, pulling her com out. "Oh, and one more thing..."

     "Yeah?"

     "You ever grope me again and I'll break both your wrists."

     "Gotcha," said Escapade, grinning. "But what if it's by invitation?"

     "Then it won't be groping."

     "Gotcha," Escapade repeated, leering at her.

     They were both just sitting on a low stone wall, resting, catching their breaths, watching bystanders gather around the scene, when two men in security guard uniforms pushed through the throng and came hurrying towards them. They gave Energex a wide berth, heading directly for the super women.

     "You! You! You can't do this!" one of them yelled, jabbing his finger at them. "You people are supposed to let us handle these things, now! And look what happens when you don't!"

     Well, the road was impassible due to a huge hole with Energex at the bottom. And there were many broken windows and places where stone on the buildings was chipped. All-in-all, though, Template figured this was only a fraction of what a full-blown Energex rampage would have caused.

     "Tell you what," said Escapade, grinning, tiredly. "If you really think that I'll let him wake up and you can handle him."

     "The Carstairs Act prohibits unauthorized super activity!" the man yelled, ignoring her.

     "Gee, maybe you should tell Energex that..."

     "I'm here at the invitation of the lieutenant governor," said Template, tiredly.

     "He doesn't have the authority to do that! Only the US Congress! They told us this very specifically!"

     "And there's a federal injunction currently prohibiting enforcement of the Carstairs Act," said Template, unconcerned. "Came out this morning."

     "Which was just overturned!"

     "Oh. Well, then, I guess you'll just have to arrest me."

     She stood and held out her hands, wrists together.

     "What?!" said the guard, startled.

     "You said I'm in violation of the Carstairs Act. That's a federal felony. You have to arrest me."

     "Yeah, like you'd let us ordinary humans arrest one of you!"

     "I am letting you arrest me," said Template, in a loud voice. "I will not resist an officer of the law carrying out his legally mandated duties. Arrest me. You folks are a branch of the state Secret Service, right?"

     "What is the matter with you?" hissed the man, leaning close, obviously angry.

     "I'm a law-abiding citizen of this country," said Template, still loud enough to be clearly heard by the bystanders. "If you say I'm in violation of the Carstairs Act, you are required by law to arrest me. I won't resist."

     "You know," said Escapade, seeing Template in a new light. "There may be hope for you. Clever and possessing a perverse and ironic sense of humor."

     "I'll arrest her," snapped the other guard, cuffs already out, moving in. He glared at the first man. "I'm not afraid of these freaks!"

     "You'll do nothing of the sort!" snapped the first man. "Can't you see that's just what she wants?"

     The second man ignored him, and put one cuff around Template's right wrist before roughly spinning her around to put the second on her left. As he patted her down and removed her utility belt he told her she was under arrest for violating the Carstairs Act, then pulled a card out of his jacket pocket and read her the Miranda rights.

     "You idiot!" said the first man, furious. "You've just bought yourself a place in history as the first person to arrest a super under the Act!"

     "Some of us aren't afraid of history, either," snapped the second man.

     Template looked over at Escapade, who had both hands over her mouth in an exaggerated show of mirth. The guards were ignoring her, who had just been creating a major disturbance which had caused the capital building to be evacuated, to focus on Template, who had stopped her. Of course, they'd just been told that she was the one keeping Energex unconscious, so maybe they figured she'd keep until later. Many in the crowd were apparently aware of the irony of these events. There were jeers, angry shouts, whistling and laughter.

     "Don't worry about me," said Escapade, waving as Template was hauled away. "I have them ignoring me as a minor nuisance. I'll just stay here and keep this goon out until your friends get here. I can use the good karma."

     With the first guard trailing ineffectually behind, the second guard herded Template towards the building, ignoring the glares and even catcalls from bystanders. Until one elderly man stepped in his path.

     "Young man," he said. "I am a retired federal judge. I'm telling you, right now, that this arrest not only won't stand up in court, but leaves both you and your agency open to discrimination and civil rights violation charges."

     "Yeah? If you were such a good judge, why didn't you fix this super mess when you were on the bench?"

     "I did," the old man stated, flatly, staring the younger in the eyes without flinching. "I was one of the first judges to refuse to apply the Hortman-Goldinger Act, which though worded differently and coming from a different direction had the same effects on supers as this new law. My decision was ultimately upheld by the US Supreme Court."

     "Well that was then," the young man said, steering Template around the man. "We've got a new Court today, for a new, fairer and more honest nation!"

     "If you truly think that last, you are a fool," said the older man. He turned to Template, as the agent shoved her towards a security door into the basement of the capital building. "Young lady, here's my card. I may no longer be on the bench but I will provide what legal help I can."

     "Thank you," said Template, astounding her escort by reaching a hand out to take the card, then returning it behind her back.

     "What the... How did you...?!"

     He spun her around and saw that she was still securely cuffed. He simply stared at her for a moment, then snarled and shoved her against the wall while he held his ID card to the lock's scanner. As he hustled Template through the door, she turned to give the old judge a conspiratorial wink. To her surprise, he returned it.

               *             *             *

     "I'm surprised you were the one to trigger this," said the Black Mask. "You always seemed interested in keeping a low profile."

     "I also have a long history of political activism," said Template, casually leaning against the wall next to the bars of her cell. She reached out and flicked a bar with a file-hard fingernail, causing a muted ringing. "Can you believe they put me in a normal jail?"

     "Facilities designed to detain supers are rare and expensive to operate," said the Black Mask. "Since you have stated, repeatedly, that you will co-operate, and since you have no criminal record, this makes sense."

     "Well, I had a go-round with one of the matrons after they booked me," said Template, sourly. "When they had me switch from my costume to prison garb she insisted I take my mask off. I told her they couldn't do that until at least the first set of appeals had failed. She tried to pull the mask off anyway. I just flew up out of reach. There was a long standoff, until they got one of the department lawyers to come in and explain to her that she couldn't remove my mask, and why. That under Coltman v. Dachshund recognized costumed heroes had a right to privacy under the law, which continued until after conviction for a Class II or higher felony, since they, as public figures, were so often falsely accused of crimes. Even then, I don't think she believed what people were telling her or understood why she couldn't strip me completely, but they made it clear that if she tried to remove my mask again I could file charges."

     "It's astounding what poor training some law enforcement agencies have, especially in regard to the law and supers. That decision is right up there with Miranda in protecting the rights of the accused."

     "Well, before that they tried to get me to tell them my civilian name when they booked me. I remembered what you taught me about C v. D and quoted chapter and verse until they gave up."

     "Excellent," said the Black Mask, nodding. "You appear to be doing everything correctly. Even getting arrested was a good move."

     "I'm glad somebody thinks so," she said, sighing. "I'm really uneasy, here. Even if the law itself is overturned in the Supreme Court, that could take years. I don't want to spend time in prison. Besides the inconvenience, I'm not sure how I'll react to showering with a bunch of naked female inmates."

     "Jail time is possible, but unlikely." The Black Mask smiled. "We are currently working on bail. It's late, yes, but there are judges on second shift, so to speak, and someone put in a good word for you."

     "That old, retired judge from the Capital," said Template, nodding.

     "He's actually more than that, but I can't go into details here."

     "Oh?" said Template, curiosity piqued.

     "Let's just say you have a champion of civil rights and liberty on your side." The Black Mask actually smiled. "Hopefully, we'll have you out on bail before midnight."

               *             *             *

     True to his prediction, Template was back at the base in time to join the others in watching the eleven O'Clock news.

     "I'd still like to know how Energex showed up so quickly," said Template, relaxing on the couch between Colossa and Rapscallion. "And also what happened to all the gear in my utility belt and boots."

     "We have people checking on the latter," said Bowman. "As to the former, I suspect he has access to something like Kenniman's super tracking system. He waited until you were some place without us but in public where his victory could be witnessed, and attacked."

     "Hush!" said Solange. "I'm trying to hear this."

     "This just in," said the announcer. "A tape of the actual signing of the Carstairs Act by President Thurlin has been released by an anonymous White House source. We're going to let what it shows speak for itself."

     There was a small crowd gathered in the Oval Office for the ceremony, made up entirely of the President's supporters and top aides. No press had been invited; neither had anyone not fully committed to the President and his agenda.

     Thurlin signed in several places, using a different pen each time and gleefully handing them out as souvenirs. Muffled chatter could be heard, but nothing clear. Some of the President's comments did seem rather ribald or risque, however. When he was finished he sat back and sighed, a delighted smile on his face.

     "Good!" said President Thurlin, his voice now clearly heard. "We can finally start getting all the weirdos off the streets! The supers are gone. Next we need to work on the queers, the hippies and tree-huggers, those people who call themselves artists but can't even draw anything so you can recognize it. All that nonsense! Maybe we can even keep those cripples in their motorized wheelchairs at home, so they won't block traffic or make people put in those short drinking fountains! The world will finally be fit for normal people!"

     Some of those present in the Oval Office were looking aghast at this, but most were nodding in agreement. The President stood and mingled with the men (there were no women present) laughing and shaking hands and slapping backs. A few of those looking distressed toughed it out. Three slipped away, obviously disgusted, or even frightened. The video ended with the President standing and leaving the Oval Office to announce the law's signing to the waiting press.

     "How can..."

     "That idiot!"

     "Did he just...?!"

     Those were some of the comments from those viewing the news segment in the lounge of the Intrepids' headquarters.

     "The President's press corps is claiming the tape is a fake," said the announcer, "one made by supers using their powers. Some of the people who were there - all of them supporters of the measure - are proudly saying it's genuine. The President is saying he didn't authorize the taping, even though he is the one who insisted concealed cameras and microphones be installed and left running whenever he was there. A few apologists are claiming that wasn't President Thurlin at all, but an imposter, probably a super shapeshifter or master of disguise, and demanding the person be arrested and the real President Thurlin found and rescued. Some are even stating, flatly, that the man currently known as Harvey Thurlin is not the man they first met when he burst so successfully on the political scene seven years ago, and hasn't been since his initial election to the office of president."

     "Always, they go too far," said the Black Mask, quietly. "Normal folk think getting what they want will appease fanatics, but in truth it only encourages them. Until, eventually, their evil is so blatant that no-one can deny it."

     "So is the law history?" asked Template, hopefully.

     "Not yet. But even before it is overturned, I doubt there will be many cases of it being enforced."

     "Holy fucking shit," said Solange, a smile spreading slowly over her face. "That son of a bitch really is as stupid as people say!"

     "You, bed," said Bowman, who had two younger sisters.

     "Aw..." said Solange. She yawned hugely. "Okay, maybe you're right."

     Muttering sleepily, she staggered out of the lounge.

     "Now that she's gone, I want to try something," said Template, standing. "I've felt for the last few hours like I might be able to finally change back to Randy, but I couldn't try because of the people around me. Now..."

     She closed her eyes and concentrated. And abruptly changed.

     "Yes! I'm back! After seven days, nine hours and," he checked his watch, "thirty-six minutes, Randy the dandy is back!"

     "'Randy the dandy'?" said Rapscallion, his smirk threatening to advance to laughter.

     "Hey, give me a break. I'm still working on my super patter."

     "You're also wearing Randy clothes," observed the Black Mask.

     "Huh," said Randy, examining himself. "Yeah, this is the outfit I was wearing when we went into the Crystal Oracle's cave. Or, rather, my base reality version."

     "Maybe your clothes change with your body, now," said Colossa.

     Randy shifted to Template, who was, indeed, in her costume.

     "Cool!" she said, posing a bit.

     She shifted into Revolutionary.

     "Still have this, too."

     Randy was next, again, and he looked very relieved.

     "Man, that would have been bad," he said, with a chuckle. "If I had to wait another almost eight days to change back to me again."

     "Of course you realize," said Rapscallion, smirking, "you have to go to work tomorrow."

     Randy groaned.

Chapter 7: Death of Cold

     Solange arrived for the morning briefing wearing a costume which appeared to be kept in place entirely by the perversity of the universe defying the wishes of those who wanted to see what little was left to the imagination. The second-largest swatch of fabric in the outfit was her mask, by a small margin.

     "Solange," said the Black Mask, trying to be diplomatic. "That costume..."

     "Hey, my parents approved it," she said, casually, as she seated herself, sitting more like Rapscallion than Colossa or Template.

     "No, they did not," said the Black Mask. "They showed me the costume they approved. That is not it, or even just part of it. You will not be presented as a member of this team until you chose - and continue wearing until you are at least eighteen - a decent costume."

     "Stuffy old fart," she muttered.

     "If you wish to be taken into our confidence you must prove yourself worthy of it," said the Black Mask, firmly. "That includes both demonstrating a willingness to put aside your own wishes for the good of the team, as well as showing respect for your teammates."

     "If nothing else," said Rapscallion, casually, "you want to put something over the gap to keep bits of hot stuff and such from dropping in unexpectedly."

     "He's kidding, right?" said Solange, looking around at the others.

     "That is how Miss Teak received a brand from a 9mm cartridge in a rather private area," said the Black Mask, matter-of-factly. "She literally dodged the bullets from the machinepistol, but one of the fired empties went in the opening of her top and lodged between the fabric of her costume and her left breast. Her delicate, sensitive flesh was painfully burned, leaving a permanent mark on the soft, dark, tender skin of her..."

     "You've made your point!" said Solange, cringing.

     So were both Colossa and Template.

     "Shortly after this she sewed sheer translucent nylon the same color as her skin over the gap," said Bowman, smirking. "I think she cut up a pair of pantyhose to get the material."

     "Okay, okay," the teenager muttered. "Sheesh. What ever happened to being proud of your body?"

     "There's proud," said Rapscallion, "and there's showing off. Which is my job on this team."

     "Well, it's too late to do anything about it now," said Solange, waving her hand dismissively. "I'll get to it after the meeting."

     "The only real business this morning is a request from a Canadian diamond mining company for near-term super help," the Black Mask continued. "Template, this would require an ability to travel long distances, perhaps in a hurry, so would you be willing to take this on?"

     "Yeah," she replied, sitting up and nodding. "I have a four-day holiday weekend coming up with no plans."

     "Excellent. See me after the meeting and we'll work out the details."

               *             *             *

     The details involved a video conference call with someone from the US government. Even with the Carstairs Act still in effect this made their actions in the matter legal.

     "I'm Murchison David, Commissioner of Special Exchange Projects," the man said. "We have received a request from American shareholders in a Canadian company to send someone up there to deal with a strange sort of vandalism. Seems some sort of cryogenic effect is damaging their equipment. No-one hurt so far, but both the on-site crew and upper management are worried."

     "I hope no-one has reinvented the Brownian Tube," said Bowman.

     "Well, I am available, for a few days, anyway," said Template.

     "She can fly there on her own, and pretty quickly," said Bowman. "She tops out at over Mach 3. So the fact that the area is isolated won't be a problem."

     "Well, it's tricky, flying Mach 3 plus," said Template, modestly. "Actually, supersonic flight in general is different from subsonic. But at my top speed things get kinda hairy."

     "But you have been clocked at better than Mack 3," said the man, nodded.

     "Mach three plus," said Template, emphasizing the proper name. "And I can hold that indefinitely."

     "Well, we've had a request from an American company for some American special help," said the Commissioner, redundantly. "So we want you to fly at Mark 3 up to Canada."

     "I'll need more information than that," said Template, giving up for the moment. "Where in Canada, for instance?"

     "We've arranged for some of our fighters to escort you to the border, where some Canadian fighters will take over the job."

     Template looked over at Bowman in confusion.

     "I didn't know we had any fighters which could fly as high and fast as I do."

     "We don't," said Bowman. "Not until the Brown Racers come into service. Mr. Commissioner, I think you better put us in contact with someone in the Air Force in regard to this escort business. It sounds like there are some technical details to iron out."

     "Sure thing!" said the Commissioner, actually seeming relieved.

               *             *             *

     The US and Canadian Air Forces, upon learning that Template could fly supersonic for long distances, decided to use this opportunity to practice high speed interception and formation flying. They had no manned aircraft capable of matching her top speed, even in a dash, but decided that Mach 1.8 would be good enough for the practice, and still get her to the scene in an acceptably short time. They set a rendezvous time and location for the next morning, the start of a holiday weekend in the US.

     Going faster than sound always produced odd sensations. Various buzzes and vibrations would start in places on her body where the local airflow went supersonic before she did, these moving around and increasing their amplitude and frequency as she flew faster, as well as being joined by others. Under her chin was a particular problem area, since the pressures there could actually choke her if she didn't have enough resilience up. And she had to add several times human strength to the mix or she couldn't even hold herself in the desired, low-drag posture! Of course, she'd heard that certain buxom flying women had even worse problems than she did...

     Still, the effort was worth it. To see the sky getting dark overhead, while the land below began rolling past faster and faster... Just knowing she was doing something impossible for even the vast majority of supers gave her a thrill.

     She slowed and reduced her altitude as she approached the border. As agreed, US Air Force planes joined in formation with her at Mach 1.8. They guided her towards the spot where the Canadian planes were waiting to take over. She could hear their chatter over her earplug, but reply was impossible due to ambient noise swamping her voice. Not to mention that if she opened her mouth much past Mach 1 it tended to stay open until she applied so much strength her speed dropped subsonic anyway. She waved carefully to the pilot on the left, who nodded and told her she was right where she should be. Moments later he announced that the border was just ahead. The US planes peeled off, she crossed, and was picked up by the Canadian aircraft. Template waved as she went by, expecting them to match speeds.

     Paul Coulver tracked the approaching jets on radar until it was time to turn and burn. He and his wingman pushed their CF-18s until they were going their maximum allowed supersonic speed, in the same direction as the US jets. Seconds later a female form flew between them. The woman shot ahead, not slowing to match their speed.

     Paul muttered under his breath, and he heard Jean swearing in French.

     "Control, target is pulling away, at more than our top speed," he reported. "She appears to be slowly accelerating and climbing, as well."

     "Blue Escort, you are to accompany target all the way to goal."

     "I'd love to, Control, but as I just said she's.... Jesus, she's past Mach 2 already!"

     "Language, Blue Escort," said the cultured voice. "The target has been told to fly with you at Mach 1.8."

     From the way he spoke and some of the things he said, Paul figured he wasn't a real military air traffic controller, but some politician who had decided to handle things personally. Joy...

     "That's still faster than us, Control," Jean put in.

     "Gentleman, do I have to explain the capabilities of your aircraft to you? Your Canadian-built F/A-18Gs have a top speed of Mach 1.8."

     "Normally, yes," said Paul, striving to keep his tone civil. "The engine control systems have been adjusted to save fuel and extend engine life, limiting us to Mach 1.5."

     "Then readjust them!" the man snapped.

     "You bloody great fool," said Jean, his words and accent clashing. "That can only be done on the ground by trained technicians!"

     "This deficiency will go in your permanent record," was Control's frosty response.

     There was more swearing, this time in French, which oddly brought no remonstration.

     Template was having trouble gauging her speed without the jets as a reference, and wondered where they were. Carefully, she looked back and saw them far behind her. Even though they were using what appeared to be the same type of fighter as the US Air Force planes had been, the Canadian planes seemed somewhat slower. She dropped back so they could catch up.

     Despite the problems this particular one was causing, Paul had nothing against supers, even US supers. Including the villains, they'd done far less damage to Canada than her own politicians, and had even managed to help occasionally. So when the young woman - physique reshaped oddly due to the pressures generated by her supersonic flight - rejoined them, he simply waved, smiling under his mask. She seemed to be smiling back, though distance and distortion of flesh made telling for certain impossible. Unlike other supers Paul had seen photos of, she flew with her arms at her sides. She had her back slightly arched, head slightly back and her toes pointed like most, though.

     "Control, we're with the target at Mach 1.5 and holding steady speed, altitude and heading," said Paul.

     "Finally, Blue Escort," said Control, sounding exasperated. "Continue as planned."

      Of course, I've never seen photos of any super definitely flying supersonic, he thought, very little of his attention on that annoying voice. Maybe they all have to do that at high speed.

      At what felt like about half Template's top speed they flew almost straight north. Soon, Paul's trip alarm buzzed for attention, and he noted they were only a few minutes from rendezvous.

     Good thing, too; after this prolonged supersonic dash we're low on gas and will definitely need to hit the tanker on the way home.

     "Template, if you can hear me, please indicate," he said, over the designated radio channel.

     The woman looked over at him and waved a hand at her hip.

     "We're about to hand you off to the next set of escorts. We've already contacted them and they're straight and level just ahead of us and just a bit slower. You just fly between them at this same speed and they'll match you. Understood?"

     Template nodded, slowly.

     "Good. Well, good luck. Maybe we'll be your escorts on this leg back out."

     The two aircraft peeled away. Ahead, Template could see two more. She followed instructions, and in minutes was again in the groove.

     "'allo, luv," said a startlingly English accent. "Can you 'ear me okay?"

     Template nodded carefully.

     "Excellent. We'll just tag along like this for a while. You've got one more switchoff before reaching your destination."

     The leader of the third flight was a bit less cozy, a bit more professional. After confirming Template could hear him he said nothing for several minutes. Below, the terrain had gone to relentlessly bland, seemingly unending tundra. The effect was mesmerizing. Template was actually startled when her earplug popped back into life.

     "We are approaching the site. In a few minutes we'll pass over a large pit, with a pond to the east and north and several piles of tailings around the rest of it. We'll fly past, as if we're on our way somewhere else. You are to circle back and land at the east edge of the pit, where the road goes between it and the airfield. Do you understand?"

     She nodded cautiously.

     "Good," said the pilot. "Okay here it comes...

     They shot over the pit, so far above that their sonic booms sounded like distant thunder to those working below.

     "Did you see it?"

     Again the nod.

     "Excellent. Good luck to you!"

     Template pulled ahead, then up into a steep climb which became a loop, with a roll at the top. She distorted her maneuver to the east, so that when she reached bottom (now subsonic and hugging the terrain) she only had to turn west to follow the road to the mine. She landed beside the road, and waited. A giant earth-hauling truck piled high with rock and dirt rumbled by, the driver giving her an astonished look. That vanished into the distance. Several minutes later another appeared, empty and headed towards the pit. Finally, she saw a utility truck with the same company logo hurrying in her direction. It stopped, and two men and a teenage boy got out. They were all wearing heavy pants, flannel shirts, and parkas with gloves in the pockets, even though the season was late Summer.

     "I'm Phil Taylor, foreman and chief engineer on this pit," the older man said, extending his hand. "This is Edgar Harper, my assistant, and my son, Joey."

     The boy looked more than a bit awed, but recovered enough to stammer a greeting and shake hands briefly, following the lead of the two men.

     "Excuse me for asking, but... would you like something warmer to wear? Or maybe some hot coffee?"

     "I'm fine, actually, Mr. Taylor," said Template. "I flew most of the way here in the stratosphere, which is colder than the heart of the Antarctic."

     Of course, she'd also been supersonic the whole way, which tends to have a warming effect. Still, standing here in the bright sun, even with the periodic breeze, she was quite comfortable.

     "Well, then, let me give you the nickel tour," the foreman said.

     The rode to a good viewpoint and exited again. Taylor didn't bother saying anything, but just stood there and let her drink the site in.

     "That's a sizeable hole," said Template, finally, and obviously impressed. "I thought the pipe was only a few hundred meters across."

     "It has an oval cross-section averaging just under three hundred meters," Taylor acknowledged. "However, we have to allow for access roads, of a slope the equipment can traverse. So the actual excavation is an inverted spiral, currently over half a kilometer wide. As we go deeper that will get even wider."

     "The chain-link fence around the perimeter of the site is to keep wildlife out," said Edgar. "Very few humans in this part of the world, and they tend to stand out, but we've had problems with caribou falling in the pit and polar bears raiding our garbage bins."

     "I guess that's why you aren't worried about anyone seeing me," said Template. "I mean, the impression I got talking to the Canadian Air Force people was that this whole mission is supposed to be secret."

     The two men and the boy looked at each other, puzzled.

     "No..." said Edgar. "We've made no secret we wanted super help, or that some had been arranged."

     "The problem is that we're so far from any centre of government that no-one wants to deal with us," Taylor explained. "And they certainly don't want to admit that such a profitable business is having problems. We had some Mounties come out, but they're not trained in technical forensics. They decided that the damage was of natural origin. After the second incident our parent company complained directly to the Prime Minister. Some national security people came out after that - never did learn exactly what organization they were from - and they took some evidence back with them. We never heard anything from them, though. So I made the suggestion we bring in super help. The bosses agreed, but couldn't get the government - any Canadian government - to cooperate so - since the president of the company is a US citizen and over half the company's stock is held by US citizens - he used a special agreement between the Canadian and US governments which allows US interests in Canada to request super help from the US government."

     "Just what is the damage?" said Template.

     "The first example isn't far from here, actually," said Edgar, indicating a direction. "And easier to get to on foot than by driving."

     Indeed, less than five minutes' walk away from the road they stopped at an obviously repaired section of fence.

     "Here's the first site," said Taylor, indicating a swath of ground with his hand.

     Template could see that the tundra was covered with small, silvery pieces of something. Those turned out to be the remains of the replaced section of fence.

     "It shattered like tempered glass," Taylor explained. "So did the excavation equipment which was vandalized in the subsequent incidents. Just one of the dump trucks the first time. The second attack on equipment - the third, overall - cost us a crane and a digger. In the fourth attack a helicopter and all the attendant gear on the landing pad were shattered, just like this. Each time, there was a trail of frost and cold damage starting about a klick out and sweeping to just past the location of the vandalism. The first path was about ten meters wide where it faded out; the second about fifty meters; the third nearly a hundred meters."

     "Sounds like escalating warnings," said Template, uneasily. "Any threats of any kind, besides the actual acts of vandalism?"

     "Not a peep," said Edgar.

     "Looks like we've got an audience," said Taylor, looking down into the pit with a mixture of resignation and amusement. "Might as well go introduce you, and explain what you're doing here. And also explain what our normal operations are, so you know what to stay out of the way of."

               *             *             *

     The men were quite eager to meet Template, and not just because she was there to help them. Template had become quite comfortable being in public in this form over the past year. However, "public" usually meant mixed company, where she wasn't the only woman. Everyone she could see here was male, and the majority were rather rough looking.

     What am I uneasy about? she wondered. I'm stronger than all of them together.

     That didn't help. And neither did the way that they, well, ogled her. They weren't trying to be rude. They were just being men who hadn't seen a woman - any woman - in weeks. Taylor seemed to sense her discomfort, and after a brief tour of the facilities drove back up to ground level and to the complex of buildings nearby. Soon she was in the foreman's office, where Edgar produced samples of materials from each attack.

     "That almost looks ground," said Template, shocked.

     "Yeah," said Joey, obviously trying to participate in order to impress her. "To do that would take really cold temperatures. Like, a thousand degrees below zero."

     "Can't go below absolute zero," said Taylor, absently, as he poked through the debris. "Hence the name."

     He shook his head.

     "This doesn't make sense. I know materials, and I know how cold affects them. Not only is cold embrittlement primarily a steel problem, which shouldn't affect aluminum or some of these other materials - tanks for cryogenic rocket propellants are made out of aluminum alloys which actually get stronger when really cold - but all our equipment is designed for the environment."

     "Some sort of magical effect, then?" mused Template. "In that case, they sent the wrong super."

     She noticed that the men found that bit of news unnerving, and felt a bit guilty about disillusioning them, but she wasn't going to lie. Still, she now felt an obligation to reassure them.

     "I have a suggestion. Instead of just hanging around the office, waiting for something to happen, I'll fly around the area, looking for suspicious activities. I won't go too far out, and I'll give you my com frequency in case something happens. With my flight speed I can be back here in a matter of minutes, and not many of them, and also cover large areas faster than even a helicopter."

     "All right," said Taylor, though without much enthusiasm. "Actually, I was hoping you'd stay around the mine area, as a deterrent and morale booster."

     "I'll do that, too," said Template, nodding. "I'll vary my patrol randomly, and just maybe catch the responsible party off guard."

               *             *             *

     An interval of three days had passed between the first and second incidents. Five had gone between the second and third, with a like interval between the third and fourth. The fourth had happened three days before Template arrived. This was four days after that. So far there had been no sign of a recurrence, and Template was running out of both vacation and patience.

     "Any luck getting someone up here to replace me?" said Template, as she updated the Black Mask on the situation

     "Sorry, no," said the Black Mask. "The Canadian government won't assign any of their few official supers and the US government won't ask anyone else because you're already there. I've tried getting volunteers, but without a federal request they're quite wary, especially with this being an international situation."

     "So how are you holding up?" said Colossa. "Need a CARE package?"

     "This is an all-male culture," sighed Template. "There's women's restrooms, because Canadian law requires it, but no womens' shower. I'm having to bathe and wash my costume in an Arctic lake a few klicks from here."

     "I trust you are using bio-degradable soap," said the Black Mask.

     "Oh, yeah. They're pretty good about that sort of thing. Mr. Taylor was actually bragging about their wastewater treatment and how careful they are to produce a minimum long-term impact on the environment. He showed me photos of their previous mine, which they've restored. You can barely tell the difference from undisturbed tundra. I just wish I had as much patience as the management seems to have."

     "Isn't that water cold?" said Colossa.

     "I just keep my resilience up and it doesn't bother me," said Template.

     "Well, be careful; wouldn't want you to catch a cold," said Colossa.

     "I doubt that will happen," said Template, smirking.

     "If your presence is acting as a deterrent, that is actually preferable to a confrontation," the Black Mask observed. "If nothing happens in two more days, I will come there and see if I can find any additional clues as to the culprit and motivation. I did task you with this assignment, after all."

     "Thank you," said Template, feelingly. She sighed. "This means more leave time from work. My boss is starting to have problems with that."

     "I'll have a talk with her. In the meantime, continue to make your presence obvious, and perhaps, just casually, demonstrate your abilities. Though be careful about making your presence so obvious as to be published in an exposé magazine."

     "Huh?" said Template, as he signed off.

               *             *             *

     With that advice in mind (the advice about showing what she could do, that is) when she saw people gathered around a stopped dump truck the next morning she dropped down to see if she could help.

     "What's the problem?"

     "Oh, the Euclid found a soft spot," said one of the warmly- dressed workers, "and the left rear tires sank in enough that it's stuck. Even though it wasn't fully loaded..."

     "Where's a safe place to push on this thing?"

     "Huh?"

     "Is there some place on this where I can push, to try and help it out of the hole?"

     "I'll have to ask the foreman about that," the worker said, looking dubious.

     Edgar Harper was summoned, and the situation explained.

     "I don't know," he mused, rubbing his chin. "Normally we'd use heavy jacking gear to lift the wheels out of the hole and fill it with rocks and gravel. Not that I doubt your abilities, but the liability..."

     Template moved close and spoke quietly.

     "So far, my presence seems to be acting as a deterrent," she said, for his ears only. "If I can make a big enough impression by doing the job of heavy jacking gear..."

     Edgar nodded, and made a quick estimate.

     "You're talking about lifting a portion of a load of around 90 metric tonnes. At a rough estimate you'd need to lift over twenty-two tonnes. That's a force of better than two hundred kilo-Newtons. Can you do that?"

     Template thought for a moment, then nodded.

     "Yeah, if I can lift with my legs."

     Edgar nodded in turn, then resumed rubbing his chin as he compared Template's height with that of the axle. He directed her to stand under the truck. He examined at the situation for a moment, then nodded.

     "I have a plan," said Edgar, looking oddly pleased. "Looks like the best place for you to lift is about halfway out from the differential, which means you have to lift more than at the wheel, but can do all of it with your legs. However, you'll need solid footing. Boys, bring the lady one of the large steel plates we use for jack supports!"

     This was quickly hauled over, dangling by chains from the bucket of a backhoe. Template smiled, thanked them, then startled them by lifting it, holding it until they could unhook the chains, and carrying it like a sheet of cardboard to the spot indicated by Edgar. Once it was in place and settled, Template crouched, stood on it and slowly straightened until her shoulders were pushing against the underside of the axle.

     "Okay, all the other wheels chocked? Fill ready for the hole?" Edgar called out, stepping back, holding up his hands and looking around. He dropped his hands. "Okay, ma'am, we're good to go. Any time you're ready."

     Template nodded and slowly straightened her knees. There was a startling pop, then a long, loud groan, as the axle lifted. The truck was heavy! By far the heaviest thing she had ever actually lifted. The effort was within her limits, but she was definitely straining. With her legs straight, and her back nearly so - her shoulders were hunched forward just enough to provide a good support for the axle - she stopped. The stuck wheels weren't quite at ground level, but Edgar signaled that this would be enough. Working quickly, four of the men placed a pair of very stout jack stands on either side of her, their bases resting on the same steel plate as Template's feet. They raised these until they were just touching the axle, and stood back. Template's knees were locked out straight, so she slowly and carefully slumped. The axle settled onto the jackstands with little fuss. The load faded, and Template gasped with relief.

     Template moved out from under the truck, working her shoulders. She could actually see faint impressions of her boots in the steel plate.

     "Okay," said Edgar, grinning, "I'm impressed."

     "So am I," said Template, now rubbing her shoulders. "I never realized just how, well, capable heavy construction equipment is. People who are afraid of supers because of what we can do need to be shown what this stuff can do. And does all day, every day, as a matter of routine."

     She grimaced, and not because of her sore shoulders. She began brushing her costume off.

     "I didn't realize how dirty I'd get doing that. I'll have to wash it later."

     After the hole was filled and tamped, Template resumed her position, lifted the axle enough for the jackstands to be removed, then lowered the tires to the ground. The task seemed much easier this time, probably because she didn't have to lower nearly as far as she had lifted that first time.

     All those on the ground stepped back, the truck was started, and it drove away with no trouble. There were cheers, and a blushing Template bowed to her audience.

     Later, as Template searched in a storage closet for soap and laundry detergent, Edgar came in.

     "That was very impressive, what you did with that truck," he said, smiling a bit and moving close. "While you didn't save us much time or work, you did save us some. And made a big impression. Morale is pretty high, right now. Even if that demonstration didn't work to stop the attacks, the men feel better about their safety."

     "A mystic once told me 'Levitation takes more work than fetching a ladder... but I don't have to fetch a ladder,'" said Template. "In this case you didn't have to fetch jacks."

     She spotted the box of soap on a high shelf, reached for it and halted, wincing. She pulled back, and used her other hand to rub her shoulder.

     "Need some help with that?" said Edgar, indicating her shoulder.

     "No offense," she replied, with a slight laugh, "but you'd probably need a hammer to do any good."

     Edgar laughed as well. Despite Template turning down his offer, he stepped in and began kneading both her shoulders. She was about to object, when she realized, with a start, that he was making a pass at her. She started to protest...

     He kissed her. Just... leaned in a bit and kissed her. And she was caught with her mouth open.

     Template was so surprised she needed a moment to react; then she put her hand against his chest and slowly but firmly pushed him away.

     "Edgar. Don't do that."

     "But I thought..."

     "I'm in a committed, monogamous relationship. I'm not looking for anything else."

     He became angry, but kept his words civil.

     "If that's the way you want it..."

     "Yes. That's the way I want it."

     He spun around and stomped out.

               *             *             *

     "Phil, tell me... did I do anything which could remotely be taken as leading him on?"

     "Not that I saw," said Taylor, sighing. "Let's just chalk it up to him having his tour extended because of this mess."

     "I'm willing to leave it at that, as long as he doesn't try again," said Template, surprised to find that she was trembling. She rushed ahead, trying to get what she wanted to say out and get the matter over with, before she had to choke back tears. "Y'know, I like the guy, but only as a fellow professional. I didn't take up superheroing to get dates. When I'm on the job I try to be friendly and polite, because it puts people at ease, and I expect those I'm helping to take this the same way they would from a paramedic or fireman. I don't mean anything more by it..."

     "Stop beating yourself up about it," said Taylor, flatly. "Edgar went over the line, and he knows it. Or he better. I'll have a talk with him."

     Template nodded. Despite her words, though not despite her tone, she was still upset by the incident.

               *             *             * 

     The Black Mask arrived as promised, somehow showing up in Phil's office in the middle of the Arctic tundra without anyone seeing him arrive. Template was so delighted to see him that she almost kissed him. Once the managers got over his unnerving arrival, their welcome was nearly as intense.

     "So, what little evidence there is does, indeed, point to some sort of power or super device," said the Black Mask, after reviewing the situation. "There are definite signs of water vitrification; that is, water cooling so rapidly that ice crystals do not form and instead you have a glassy material. The powdered metal could be explained by the cooling being so rapid the outer layers shrink and fracture away before the rest cools appreciably. So we're up against something which rapidly cools things to very close to absolute zero. Under those circumstances, most solid objects would shatter from the uneven temperature change alone. However, the actual cause is not apparent."

     "Well, that..."

     "Hold it," said Edgar, interrupting Taylor with a raised a hand. "Is it colder in here? I mean, we're pretty sharp about noticing cold where it shouldn't be, because..."

     "Look over there!" cried Phil, pointing.

     Frost was forming on the right wall, spreading rapidly up, down and sideways. Moisture in the air began to freeze in a small volume in front of the center of the frost patch, creating a dusty snow. The snow was expanding towards them.

     "Everyone out!" the Black Mask snapped, ushering them towards the door.

     He was just in time. As he left, the snow was reaching the door frame.

     "Is it spreading into the corridor?" asked Template, moving down the hall a bit. Out here she could see that there was also an odd shimmering in the air, as if she were looking down a road on a hot day. She tentatively reached out a hand into the snow... and jerked it back. "Ouch! Yeah. That is... cold."

     "Don't sound so surprised that it would affect even you. Whatever is doing this is literally pumping all molecular movement somewhere else. In a sealed room the atmosphere would likely freeze solid, becoming nothing more than a finely-divided powder on the floor. We appear to be at the far end of the effect; that is why the temperature is dropping so slowly."

     Someone entered the hall from a door past where the cold effect was blocking it.

     "Do not move!" said the Black Mask, in a tone not to be disobeyed. "Do not come any closer! The cold effect which has been damaging your equipment is filling the hallway! Back away!"

     The man turned and ran.

     "We need to warn people about this," gasped Phil. "Before someone blunders into it!"

     "Where is the nearest location you can use the Public Address system?"

     "In my office, unfortunately," said Phil, grimacing. "The next is the dispatcher room, just up the hall. I'll take care of it."

     "From what I remember of the plans of both this building and this base," said the Black Mask, turning to Edgar, "the room where this effect appears to be centered is empty."

     "Yes. It's a strongroom, where we keep valuables." He looked thoughtful. "I wonder if they're after the diamonds?"

     "Diamonds," said the Black Mask. "The second-best normal conductor of heat known, after certain types of Buckytubes. Could there be a connection?"

     "I'm heading outside, to try and find the source," said Template.

     Once outside, she could actually see the effect. There was enough moisture in the air that at the right angle the cone of the tiny bits of ice the unnatural cold produced were clearly visible. The target appeared to be a large, freestanding tank of propane, with the office building just happening to be the next thing past that. The conical beam lead to a low promontory just half a klick from the mine, where she could see someone standing with some sort of large device on a tripod. Template curved around to come at him from the side. She swooped down, feet crashing into the cold cannon, knocking it over. It wasn't very sturdy; a shower of sparks erupted and the beam sputtered out. She thought she smelled smoke, as well. The stranger looked pretty fragile, as well, so she didn't hit him or try to grapple him, instead whipping her open hand past his face fast enough that the miniature sonic boom this produced stunned him.

     With the presumed culprit out of action, Template quickly searched him. Removing his oversized, heavy coat and his cap and face mask she was startled to realize he was only a boy, in his late teens. A rather scrawny boy. She quickly removed a strange harness and belt, plus emptying his pockets of a surprising amount and variety of junk.

     Gadgeteer, all right, she thought.

     She'd have to use her own gadgeteering later to figure out what all this stuff was.

     "A bit of an anticlimax," said the Black Mask from behind her, making Template gasp and jump.

     "How'd you... no, never mind. It's just a kid!"

     "Yes," said the Black Mask, "but a dangerous one."

               *             *             *

     "That's Timmy Thurlough!" said Joey, when the young man was presented in the office.

     "You know him?!" said Taylor.

     "Yeah. You should, too. He lives just a block over from us. Goes to the same school I do, but is in some sort of advanced, pre-college science program."

     "You told me they wouldn't care!" said the subject of their conversation, roused enough by now to speak for the first time.

     "Huh?" said Joey.

     "You said this place was abandoned! That's why I decided to use it to test my cold ray!"

     "Not this place," said Joey, confused. "This one just opened a few months ago. The other place. Jeez, when you were asking me about abandoned mining sites up here I never..."

     "There's nothing there!"

     "Not now, there isn't," said Taylor, heat in his voice. "We returned it as close to the original conditions as we could."

     "Well, I used my teleporter to go there, didn't see anything I could test my cold ray on, so I figured he'd told me wrong," said the boy. "So I came to the other place he told me about, and there's all this wonderful junk, and nobody around..."

     "What do you mean nobody around?!" said Edgar, angrily. "There's over two hundred men working twenty-four hours..."

     "Hold," said the Black Mask, raising a hand. "Template, how frequent is visible human presence outside the buildings and the pit?"

     "Not very," she said. "It's cold enough, even in Summer, that nobody goes outside unless they have a reason to. The trucks come and go every few minutes, but when they're not around it looks pretty empty."

     "So it's not unreasonable he wouldn't see anyone around if he was only here for a few minutes at a time."

     "He should have heard the equipment!" snapped Edgar.

     The Black Mask examined the boy's cap, and nodded. He held it out for the others to see.

     "Ear muffs."

     "You're telling me," said Taylor, slowly, "that he honestly thought he was alone here, using abandoned equipment to test his invention?"

     "His honesty in this matter is for the courts to decide," said the Black Mask. "Even if that were true, he is still guilty of negligence, and perhaps criminal irresponsibility."

     "It's not my fault! Joey told me wrong!"

     "No, I didn't! You just listened wrong!"

     "I think that's enough out of both of you," said Taylor. "Edgar, call the Mounties."

     "But I didn't do..."

     "Oh, you most certainly did," said Template, though she had trouble keeping a stern expression.

     The boy looked so miserable she almost wanted to hug him. Almost.

               *             *             *

     "Oh, I am so glad to be back home where it's warm!" Templated stated emphatically, sighing as she settled into the team's Jacuzzi.

     She'd wanted to soak as Randy, after spending several days straight not only as Template but in costume. However, she realized, after checking the clothes she kept at the base, that she didn't have a man's swimsuit on hand. Oh, well; the bubbles and fizz were actually more entertaining this way.

     "I told you," said Colossa, teasingly.

     "It's more psychological than physiological." Template peered around. "Where's Solange, anyway? Not that I'm complaining."

     "You aren't the only one," said Colossa. "She's being tutored."

     "And thank Ghu for that," sighed Rapscallion, sinking into the hot, bubbly water all the way to his chin.

     "Don't tell me she's been tempting you?!" said Template.

     "No, but not for lack of trying," said Rapscallion. "It's just... the way she waves those two-litre jugs of hers around makes me uncomfortable."

     "I remind you that she is underage," said the Black Mask, who had actually joined them in the Jacuzzi. For some reason, even in just a swimsuit they still had trouble getting a good look at his face.

     "Well, legally," said Bowman.

     The Black Mask gave him a long, evaluating look.

     "Is there something you want to tell us?"

     "All right," sighed Bowman, rubbing his head. "I promised I wouldn't reveal this unless I had to, but I think this qualifies. Up until five years ago, Solange was a boy."

     "Oh, great; another one," said Rapscallion.

     "What happened was, they caught Pete - his name back then - using his emerging powers to make people do things. Including making girls have sex with him. This blew up into a huge mess, exposing his parents' super IDs in the process, and they had to relocate again. This time they had a morphologist permanently change their physical appearances. At the suggestion of a psychologist they were sending Pete to, they had him changed into a female. His parents figured that besides being an appropriate punishment, being Petra might teach her to respect women."

     "No luck so far," said Rapscallion. "In fact, I'd say they just doubled their troubles."

     "Pete was sixteen; the change included making all three of them younger. So Petra was now a twelve year old girl. From what her parents tell me, and what I've heard from other sources, Pete basically went berserk from the moment he was told what would be done to him until several days after it was done. Fortunately, Pete/Petra's mind powers were being held in check by psianninul. They didn't even reduce the dosage until a year after the change. Then they made the mistake of trying to make Petra act like a young lady instead of a tomboy.

     "It was shortly after this that Petra began acting, well, like a slut. Trying to seduce every attractive male or female in sight, and often succeeding. They put her back on the pills, but that had little effect. Between her appearance, her learned abilities and maybe super pheromones, she made people who would never otherwise think of even dating her have sex with her. Several girls have accused her of drugging them, claiming they're straight and would never willingly sleep with another girl. Petra's response was not only denying their defense, but accusing them of being ashamed of their sexuality."

     "Oh, great," groaned Colossa. "I think I see, now, why they sent her here. They know about me."

     "And Template," said the Bowman. "No, not any details; just that she's a lesbian."

     "Oh," said Template, relaxing. "Still, I hate being labeled like that."

     "Then you should be willing to help Petra/Solange reject such labels," said Bowman. "It's pretty certain that at least part of the reason she's acting like this is assumption of a role based on stereotypes."

     "I'll give it a try," said Template, sighing.

Chapter 8: Signs and Portents

     Note One: Power evaluation is a tricky business, especially when it comes to estimating power potential (that is, how much energy a super has available to feed their powers). Rating

scales and methods have changed through time. Today there are three scales in common use, all of them having been around for at least twenty years, but these still leave a lot to be desired. Partly this is because a thousand points (on whatever scale) in one power - strength being a good example - may produce spectacular results, while in another - such as super speed - that level would only give moderately impressive results, and for a third - such as gadgeteering - that may be the minimum required to produce any result. Also, the increase in effect which comes with an increase in power potential is not linear. For most abilities the improvement in power rating with increasing potential tends to change asymptotically, sometimes with several plateaus. So someone who improves their power potential by twenty percent may see a 20% increase in strength, a 10% improvement in energy blast and a 30% improvement in resilience. Finally, powers are as individual as the people who have them, and the rules vary from user to user, often wildly.

     Note Two: I consider undercover work almost as boring to read as it is to write. So I'm just going to hint at what the Black Mask and Template did over the weekend. It's more fun that way. ;-)

     Randy was enjoying himself. In full flight gear - looking not unlike a motorcyclist dressed for a long trip - he soared up the hollows and along the ridges, occasionally spooking some hiker on the Appalachian Trail. At one point a pair of small birds flew up, giving alarm cries, not settling back to their nest until he was well gone. All this simply made his smile broader. After a long weekend of undercover work with the Black Mask (both in civies, with Template playing Susan, the wife) they had uncovered some important clues about who - or what - might be behind the odd behavior changes of the POTUS.

     With the Black Mask off consulting with "an elf I know" about the situation. Randy had dutifully gone to his civilian job Monday, but now, off duty, off work and feeling a need for some masculine recreation, he was just having fun. The fact that the weekend duties meant Template didn't have to be at the Intrepids' base until the next evening help Randy's mood no end.

     I don't get to fly enough any more, he thought, as he performed a steep climb just meters from an equally steep cliff. Or, well, not just fly for myself, I mean. It feels so good to

just come out here alone and play around!

     Unfortunately, as he rose to clear a high peak, he gained some company. A pair of US Air Force F-16s pulled up, one on either side of him. Randy, feeling too mellow to assign any motive but curiosity, waved amiably. He was comfortable with the situation, since his helmet completely covered his head, and his visor was reflective, concealing his face.

     The fighter pilots, their faces almost as well concealed by helmets, visors and oxygen masks, gave no clue through expression. However, one of them - presumably the leader - began

motioning with his left hand. Randy, not sure what he meant, shrugged exaggeratedly. The pilot made the same motions, more emphatically. Randy got an idea, and moved closer, turning his

head and pointing to the back of his helmet. On it were numbers; a civilian aviation frequency. Sure enough, a few seconds later there was a pop over the helmet's built-in earphones, followed

by a human voice.

     "You are ordered to follow us to our base at once!"

     "What?" said Randy, puzzled. "Is there some sort of emergency? I'm not..."

     "You are unauthorized, and will be arrested upon landing. Failure to comply will result in more serious charges."

     "Okay, I realize the Posse Comitatus Act was modified in 1941 to let the military participate in civilian law enforcement matters when there are supers involved," said Randy, with

a sigh, "but just what is it I'm supposed to be doing wrong?!"

     "You are an unauthorized flight," said the pilot, more firmly. "You will follow us to our base. Attempt to flee and we are authorized to open fire."

     "No, you aren't," said Randy, obviously angry. "So don't try to bluff me. You still can't use deadly force against civilians unless lives are under immediate threat. Look, I'm covered

under the ultralight regulations. Even have EXPERIMENTAL painted on the back of my jacket. And this is civilian airspace. So I'm not doing anything wrong."

     "You will accompany us to our base NOW!"

     Randy sighed and slowed, pitching up into a vertical posture. The Vipers stayed with him at first, but Randy came to a complete stop, in a rock-solid hover even a Harrier would have had trouble matching. He stood there, hanging in the air, hands on his hips, watching as the planes went into full afterburner and shot ahead. They pulled a tight formation turn and came back. Out of afterburner, they began circling Randy.

     "Guys, I can stay here indefinitely, or simply land in the forest and walk away. You're just wasting fuel and time. Go away."

     They did, eventually, but Randy saw more F-16s approaching. Four, this time. Sighing, he took off straight up. Once above the sensible atmosphere, he flew northwest until over the Ohio River, then dropped straight down. Flying just subsonic, he followed the river for a while, then turned off and flew nap of the Earth until reaching a park near his apartment. Landing in a secluded area, he took off the helmet, gloves and jacket and walked home, his mood thoroughly soured.

               *             *             *

     "I'm glad you called yesterday to report your little encounter," said Bowman, when Template arrived for duty at the Intrepids' underground base the next evening. "We got a call shortly after that, asking us to find and arrest a flying super who ignored a request to land and explain himself, and evaded the planes sent to escort him."

     "Argh," said Template, blowing her breath out in an exaggerated sigh.

     "I pretended to know nothing about it, and asked what the charges were. Assuming you told the truth, they're lying through their teeth. I assured them that if we encountered anyone who had performed such acts we'd arrest them immediately."

     "Thanks," said Template, feeling grateful. "I'm worried that someone will connect Randy with this, though. The records showing I was one of the victims of that big scandal at Anderson-Blodgett were a lot easier to unseal once I turned eighteen. All someone has to do is enter the right parameters in the right database search engine and I'll be on the list."

     "I've looked at those records, actually," said Bowman. "They mention that you gained the abilities of flight, strength and invulnerability in an illegal experiment performed on you at age 8, but nothing else. And all the records of the experiments were either destroyed during the raid, or are still classified. So even if someone does connect Randy with the flying man, they will most likely not connect either with Template. Flight is a not uncommon power, after all, and the fact that you wear protective gear when flying as Randy whereas Template doesn't should help throw them off, what with her level of resilience being uncommon."

     "I'm not as sure as you are," said Template, sounding a bit depressed. "People like to speculate. Ah, well; we'll have to talk about this more later. I have an appointment with Dr. Whiskers."

               *             *             *

     "You're quite healthy," said the felinoid alien. "Was there something in particular bothering you?"

     "I first became Template a bit over a year ago."

     "Correct."

     "And I've been spending about a third of my time as her."

     "A reasonable estimate."

     "And Template's is physiologically a normal human female."

     "With the exception of being a super, yes."

     "I have pretty much adjusted to being a part-time female. I've actually had people who know my situation joke about how girly Template is at times."

     "A combination of hormones, brain structure and stereotypical expectations, most likely," said Dr. Whiskers. "The exact balance of those would be difficult to determine."

     "So why am I not straight? I mean, heterosexual, or at least bisexual?"

     "Your brain is overall female in structure," said Dr. Whiskers. "However, it does contain some distinctly male features. This is something also found in many lesbians and bisexual women."

     "Oh," said Template, startled.

     "I suspect that you unconsciously retained those structures unchanged when you designed the body. Also, something of Randy must carry over to the other forms you possess, or you would not retain your Randy memories in them. You would, instead, possess the memories of the person you templated at the time you templated them."

     "Wow, that's... spooky," said Template, shivering. "I could have forgotten who I am!"

     "Unlikely. We have evidence of humans possessing powers as long as at least twenty thousand years ago. Genetically-based powers which would reduce the chance of reproducing and passing along the power genes - and memory loss would almost certainly do that - would soon fade from the gene pool."

     "So you're saying that evolution has made powers safe for the people who have them. Makes sense. Folks with heat vision don't roast their own eyeballs, and so forth."

     "Exactly."

               *             *             *

     The Black Mask returned that evening, looking as inscrutable as ever. All he would say was that he had a team of experts working on finding Evelyn Hind, the woman he and Template had uncovered as the possible cause of President Thurlin's odd change of mental state.

     With his help, Bowman found the reason the military was hunting Randy.

     "Seems some influential - or at least self-important - person saw you flying around while they were visiting a park in the area, and called their Senator," said Bowman. "And I mean called directly, on their cell phone, right then. Started ranting about unauthorized super activity in a federal park - which it wasn't. Anyway, the Senator got on the phone to an Air Force General he knew, elaborated on the story to make it seem like this unknown, flying super was a known eco-terrorist who was an immediate threat to homeland security, and got him to scramble some fighters to intercept."

     "I've put a word out through some contacts in both Congress and the Air Force that this matter was a harmless situation misinterpreted by one idiot, and blown far out of proportion by another," said the Black Mask. "It should die quietly."

               *             *             *

     Nearly a week after that, with no further word or activity from the Air Force, Template was on monitor duty, chatting with the other adult team members while Bowman worked inside an open wall panel, upbraiding some gadget or other. Solange walked in carrying a newspaper. She looked around, spotted Template, and went straight to her, an odd smile on her face.

     "Why didn't you tell me you were a lezzie?" said Solange, tone somewhere between irritated and amused. "And why don't you act like it?"

     "I was going to explain things, that night at the pool," said Template, frowning in irritation, "but you were too focused on trying to seduce me. And as for acting like it, I do. Or did

you think that all lesbians were also nymphomaniacs, chasing after anything with boobs?

     "Anyway, what brought this up, of a sudden?"

     "This article," said Solange, holding up the tabloid. She snickered. "You made the cover."

     Template gaped at the fuzzy, black and white photo. Of her, naked, standing in water up to her knees, bent over, washing her costume. Her privates were covered with a black bar, but

otherwise nothing was left to the imagination. She grabbed the paper from Solange and stared.

     "How the fuck did they get that photo?! There was no-one within sight! I was always careful about that!"

     "I did warn you, though I admit even I put the odds of someone actually having sufficiently sophisticated photographic equipment available very low."

     "At least they didn't get my unmasked face. I just automatically turned away from the mining camp; I thought I was being paranoid." She shook her head. "They must have taken the photo from there or near there. But I sure didn't see anyone."

     "A good quality telephoto lens on a tripod would do it," said the Black Mask. "It's possible that once the responsible party noted your hygiene habits he waited until he saw you

head for the lake, then walked straight out from the camp. Since you were facing away from there you wouldn't have seen him. Or, given even better equipment, this could have been taken from

the roof of a building."

     Template sighed and tossed the tabloid onto the desk in disgust.

     "It's just... why do people do things like that?"

     "Money," said Rapscallion.

     "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it," said Bowman. "Well, I mean that you'd be willing to do. As long as they don't jeopardize your secret ID - and not only does this not show your face, it's pretty grainy - you can't press criminal charges. And in the US civil charges would run up against freedom of the press."

     "After that calendar, this really doesn't reveal much which hasn't been seen before," said Colossa, placatingly.

     "You kiddin'?" laughed Solange. "Without that bar, you could practically give her a GY exam!"

     "Enough," said the Black Mask, firmly. "Solange, thank you for bringing this to our attention."

     "Oh," said the teenager, a bit startled. "Okay..."

     "I'd say our best bet is to just ignore this," said Bowman, picking the tabloid up and leafing through it. "Yeah. If someone asks about it you can get a bit huffy about your privacy

being violated and such, but..."

     "Stop staring at my photos," growled Template.

     Bowman quickly closed the tabloid and put it back down.

               *             *             *

     "Yes?" said the Black Mask, as he opened the door to his quarters.

     "Taking a break, and this is the first chance I've had to ask you about something," said Template. She shifted, strangely uneasy. "Just wondering if you'd heard anything more about

Evelyn Hind."

     "Nothing significant, yet," he admitted. "But my contacts report that they are making progress."

     "Okay."

     "Are you certain that's all you wanted to ask about? You've been rather brusque with me lately. I wondered if you were upset because I declined to have sex with you in that hotel in

Louisiana."

     "Not upset," said Template, blushing. "Just... realizing I may never again have the opportunity when I'm also in a mood to experiment. Though I do appreciate you showing restraint on my account. While I regret that we didn't, I'd probably also regret if we had."

     She grinned, though not too convincingly.

     "Or did the idea of sex with someone who you know is usually male turn you off?"

     "Actually, my primary reason was that neither of us had any method of birth control on hand," said the Black Mask, dryly. "I'm certain you don't want to be a mother just yet."

     "You got that right," said Template, with a slight twitch of her lips. "Actually, though, I'm already a father."

     "Ah, yes," said the Black Mask, nodding, "that childhood friend of yours."

     "You knew about..." sputtered Template. She stopped, and held up a hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

     "However," said the Black Mask, as she turned away, "I do have some condoms in my quarters."

     Template jerked back around and stared, turning a deep shade of red. She sputtered something about this not being a good time, and hurried away. She could swear she heard him laughing, softly, all the way back to the monitor room.

     "Back already?" said Bowman. "Say, what's the matter?"

     "Personal," she muttered. "Thanks for relieving me."

     He gave her an odd look, but let it go.

               *             *             *

     "I'm not surprised," said Colossa, later, as she and Template were getting ready for bed. "Did you know he's the son of the original Night Master? He's also over sixty."

     "I did not know that," said Template, surprised. "Either of those. I guess he just gets amused at us kids being awkward about sex."

     "Oh, that's part of it," said Colossa, as she hugged her lover. "But! He does have a sense of humor. Anyone who ignores that can find themselves taking the brunt of some subtle joke."

               *             *             *

     "I've been doing some checking in regard to our newest member," said Rapscallion. His customary smirk faded into a scowl. "I thought there was something funny about what his parents did to him, and there is. Their psychologist is from a school which thinks everyone who puts on a costume and fights - or commits, for that matter - crime does so because they're sexually messed up. That many of them are not only gay and in deep denial, but some are transsexuals who haven't admitted it."

     This was in the meeting hall, the Saturday after the tabloid incident. The Black Mask had taken Solange on patrol with him the night before, and actually been impressed with her performance. However, as a result of their activities she was sleeping in, while he was off wherever he went when he wasn't with the team.

     "That's the craziest thing I ever heard!" said Template, outraged, as she digested this information. She threw her bagel into the trash in disgust, actually knocking the can over. "And that's from someone who doesn't want to live full-time as a woman!"

     "They claim they've found a statistical connection between people with powers and alternate sexualities," Rapscallion continued, sighing. "They also say there's evidence that the genetics behind both are connected. Even though their studies include people whose powers aren't genetic!"

     "I can see where they're coming from, though," said Bowman, nodding. "There are fields where the stereotype is that it's safe or somehow appropriate for gays to work. Like gay men are

supposed to be good at interior decorating. But it's based on a popular appearance more than reality."

     "Well, some groups are more accepting than others," said Rapscallion, reluctantly, really not wanting to get into a discussion of stereotypes and the truth - if any - behind them.

"Supers tend to be more tolerant of those seen as different from normal, 'cause we're not only not normal, we're all weird in different ways! But that still doesn't help Petra."

     "Supers also tend to be bolder than normals, and less likely to be coy about being different," said Colossa. "Not many of us actually in the closet. But, yeah; how do we use this to help the girl?"

     There was a long, thoughtful pause. Then the others all turned to look at Template.

     "What?"

Chapter 9: Ego and Odd

     Template entered Colossa's room rubbing her arm and wincing.

     "You okay?" asked the size-changer, startled to see her normally upbeat friend looking positively depressed.

     "Yeah," said Template, sinking into a chair with a sigh. "Dr. Whiskers had an idea for something she thought might help Amazonia. The doctors at that special clinic she's at in California want to try a new radiation treatment, but it would destroy her bone marrow. So they need to get some marrow before they do this, to put back in after. Except the only way to get it requires a high-powered, diamond-tipped drill, and between the damage that would do and the fact that anesthetics and analgesics still don't have much effect on her they don't think she'd survive."

     "But you can turn into Amazonia!" said Colossa, in sudden revelation.

     "Yeah. Dr. Whiskers found out that even though I templated Amazonia after she had the cancer, I don't have it. As best she can figure it out, I don't template a person's body, I copy their

DNA and the way it is being used at that time. Which may be why I can only template supers."

     "But there's a problem?"

     "Oh, they got the sample. Drugged me to the eyeballs and it still hurt like Hell, but they got it. I had to wait for over an hour so the drugs would wear off enough not to kill me before changing into anything else. My arm still hurts, too."

     "Poor baby," said Colossa, moving over to sit by her and give her a hug. "But they did get the bone marrow?"

     "Yeah. Not much, but they can clone it to however much they want. They say they can put it in with a regular IV - well, an IV designed to work on her - and the marrow will migrate into her bones on its own. Thing is, they don't really expect even this to do anything but buy her some time."

     "Ow," said Colossa. She sighed. "That poor woman. I mean, this would be bad for anyone, but for someone so proud of her body, to have it betray her like that..."

     "Yeah," said Template, sighing again as she let her head drop back onto the top of the couch cushion. "Ow. Even though I'm not injured in this form, I still feel what they did to me.

Dr. Whiskers said it's psychological. Then she said that psychological pain is just as real as any other, which didn't help at all. I actually feel kind of sick. That's probably from the drugs, though. I've got everything pumped into resilience right now."

     "Go lie down and rest for a while," said Colossa. "Just remember, you're supposed to have that talk with Solange later."

     "I'm actually dreading that more than I did the bone marrow extraction," said Template, struggling to her feet. "I'm worried that if she focuses her power on me I'll lose control."

     "I really don't think she would do that," said Colossa, thoughtfully. "But... since she used to be a man, she might find sex with a woman after an emotionally stressful situation reassuring."

     "So?" said Template, suspiciously.

     "I'm not possessive. If you honestly think it would help her..."

     "Don't tell me you're getting excited by the prospect of me having sex with an underage girl," said Template, sourly. "To be honest, this is my first time since finishing puberty I've been worried about an attractive girl coming on to me."

     "Remember, she's actually over 19. You're only a few years older than her."

     "It still makes me uncomfortable. The whole situation does."

               *             *             *

     "All right," said Template, uncertainly. "I'm trying to help you, here, so please don't blow me off. This is serious business, and potentially very serious for you."

     "Okay," said Solange, now looking very uncertain herself.

     They were in a small break room, near the vehicle bay. It was quiet, private and small enough to be intimate while roomy enough that Solange shouldn't feel trapped. Or so Template hoped. At least the girl had modified that outrageous costume she'd tried to get them to accept before. What she now wore was still too daring, but wasn't likely to get any of them arrested. Realizing she was stalling, Template took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

     "If you could change back into a boy, would you?"

     The younger woman scowled, briefly glaring at Template, before shifting her attention to her hands, the right wall, all around the room. Finally, she settled down enough to answer civilly.

     "No. Besides, that's just... useless wishful thinking. The change is permanent."

     "Not according to what I've been told," said Template, surprised. "Any competent morphologist could change you temporarily back into your old gender, and the really good ones

could make it permanent."

     She gaped at Template. Then slammed both fists down onto the lounge table.

     "They lied to me! Those..."

     Template let her vent, occasionally wincing at some particularly vehement outburst.

     When she started to wind down, Template broke in.

     "They told you it was permanent. Now that you know it isn't, does that change your answer?"

     She thought about it. Seriously thought about it long and hard. Then shook her head.

     "No. I went through puberty as a girl. Well, for the second time, but... It's what I'm used to, now. Besides, as a guy it wouldn't be as socially acceptable for me to do this."

     Solange threw her shoulders back, arched her spine, and smiled at Template. Who was almost overcome with a flood of lust.

     "S-stop that!" she gasped, turning away, pushing herself back from the table.

     "Sorry," said Solange, sounding genuinely apologetic as her influence faded. She gave a nervous laugh. "Guess my powers have gotten stronger lately. I didn't mean to do more than, uhm, titillate you."

     Template took a few minutes to get herself under control; moving to the sink to wash and dry her face and drink some water. Even when she returned to the table she still found herself

staring at the younger woman's cleavage, through the sheer fabric there. Template shook her head, forcing herself to lift her gaze.

     "I don't mean to carp, but I have to make sure I've gotten down to what you really want, and not just what you think you should want. Yes, you're used to being female. But you could get used to being male again, too."

     "Probably. But since I am used to being female, why bother? I mean, seriously, it freaked me out at first, but they took me back right to the beginning of puberty. My brain changed, first

being made almost sexless, then going through puberty as a girl. I am a girl, now. All the way through. I don't want to be a boy. Changing back might work, after an adjustment period, but it

might also screw me up worse than I already am. I mean, people just aren't that flexible, mentally."

     "You'd be surprised," said Template, dryly.

     Solange gave her a long, evaluating look.

     "You were a guy, weren't you?"

     "How'd you guess?" said Template, only mildly surprised.

     "A lot of little things, including some in-jokes Rapscallion made."

     Template shrugged, and changed into Randy, making Solange start.

     "I gained my abilities at age eight, as part of an illegal experiment, and they allow me to template other supers. Including their physical forms. As you can imagine, a boy that age wasn't

very interested in turning into 'icky girls.' But I did experiment a lot in my teens."

     "So you literally grew up with this," said Solange. She shook her head. "I can understand experimenting, but why did you choose to be female as Template?"

     "It was for..." Template started at the sound of her voice. She'd changed back without consciously intending to! Well, she could worry about that later. "I got caught up in events. And

once I'd chosen this form, I pretty much had to stick with it."

     She smiled, folding her hands together.

     "It's not that bad, actually. After a year and a third I'm pretty much used to it. And I don't have any trouble keeping my super and private lives straight - if you'll pardon the expression. In fact, the distinct difference in physical forms makes that easier."

     "You've never had sex with a guy, have you?" said Solange, a slight smirk on her face.

     "Well, no. I've considered it a couple of times but was never able to act on the thought."

     "But you're just curious. You aren't attracted to them."

     "No."

     "Well, I am," said Solange. "I wasn't as a guy. Oh, I had close male friends, and sought the approval of my peers, but as far as sex went I was strictly interested in girls. And I took pride in the fact that I didn't have to chase after them; they chased after me."

     "That's not how your parents and some others describe the situation," said Template, pointedly.

     "They didn't know the situation!" said Solange, angry again. "Look, even as a guy I liked to primp and look nice. I enjoyed physically pleasurable things, like haircuts and massages. I took pride in being well-groomed! But I wasn't gay! I mean, I was open minded; even had a couple of gay and lesbian friends. It didn't bother me. But I knew I wasn't like them."

     She stopped, realizing she was starting to cry. Now it was her turn to take a break. She came back to the table holding a damp paper towel, which she twisted in her hands, absently, as she resumed talking.

     "Then I got changed, for what seemed, to me, no reason. Okay, maybe I was unconsciously influencing people; my powers were just starting to work and I don't know for a fact that I didn't use them that way. But if that was the case they should have sent me for training, not drugged me and treated me as a repeat sex offender! And those therapy sessions... That crazy doctor my parents use is just... Well, they came to the decision that the way to make me respect women - As if I didn't already! - was to make me one. I swore I'd never yield to them, never really become a girl. But I started growing tits, and having periods..."

     She gave a short, sharp, bitter laugh.

     "Then, not long after I turned fifteen, I was buying bras - I was already a D-cup - and realized my main criterion for what I was choosing was how sexy they'd make me look. To boys."

     Template winced, then nodded.

     "Yeah. You were right that I still don't feel anything towards men, but I do realize that I'm a sex object for most of them."

     "You don't get it! I wanted to look good to guys!"

     "Actually, I do get it. I've had several talks with Dr. Whiskers about why I'm not straight as Template. It actually worried me for a while. I didn't think I was normal. She put things into perspective for me. 'You can punch out a tank, and you're worried about being normal?'"

     Solange snerked. Then actually laughed out loud, Template joining in. Not for the humor, but as a release, for both of them. They finally had to stagger to the sink for more towels, to mop up the tears streaming from their eyes, and wound up holding each other until the finally calmed down. They parted - reluctantly, both of them - with Solange dropping into the nearest chair on one side, and Template on the other.

     "Oh, God," said Solange, weakly. "I haven't laughed like that in years."

     Template simply settled for gasping and fanning herself.

     "This is actually another reason I'd like to stay a girl," said Solange, after a few quiet minutes. "Guys just don't do this stuff. So, well, I'm glad you changed back. Just wouldn't have

been the same if you were still that guy."

     "That's mostly social," said Template, philosophically. "I've known guys who could comfortably do that stuff. It varies, how acceptable it is, from place to place and person to person."

     "Still," said Solange, sighing, "given how little understanding and affection my parents show me, I need this sort of girl commiseration."

     "I can understand that," said Template, nodding. "There have been times in my civilian life when I wished I could turn into Template so I could demonstrate more empathy to someone hurting. Most people in our society think that if you're a man and do things like that, there's something wrong with you."

     They moved back to the table and sat, talking, for a long time. The therapy session was over; this was two people with something in common chatting. Template was amazed that she was coming to like the younger woman, and not just feel attracted to her.

     "Oh, wow," said Template, finally. "We've been in here for over three hours!"

     "That's why my bladder is so full," said Solange, grimacing. She reached over and briefly squeezed Template's hand. "Thank you. I feel better - especially about myself - than I have in

years."

     "Just remember you'll be legally able to decide your own life in another year and a bit," said Template, firmly. "Just keep your options open."

     "Thanks... but I doubt I'll change my mind." She smirked, and struck a milder version of the pose she'd used before. "I like being stacked."

     "But is it really worth the cost of all those custom bras?" said Template, mock-seriously.

     That brought another, though much briefer, round of laughter. The two women briefly held hands again. Then they parted company.

               *             *             *

     "Bunter, old boy! What's the status? And where is everybody?"

     "Good afternoon. I take it from your demeanor the talk with Solange went well?"

     Bowman and the computer techs kept insisting that the AI wasn't really conscious, but he certainly passed at least an informal Touring test.

     "Very well," said Template. "I'll file a full report later. But why are you on monitor duty instead of Rapscallion?"

     "An emergency call came in from Cincinnati. There was a hostage situation. It was resolved with no loss of hostage life, but several police officers were killed or seriously injured.

The police commissioner is blaming the Intrepids, and holding them pending charges to that effect."

     "You should have called me!"

     "I was instructed not to interrupt you except for a class three or higher situation," said Bunter. "This is rated as a class two. There is no threat to life or health of team members."

     "What information do you have about the situation?"

     "Video and audio from on-scene television reporters," said Bunter, "as well team communications."

     "Show the digest version."

     Everything had been going well until the city's new police commissioner arrived, obviously determined to show he was in charge and in control. After speaking personally to one of the criminals on the phone line the negotiators had been using - successfully, before the man's intervention - and being insulted because of his clumsy technique, he'd ordered the SWAT team in. They'd been cut down by the criminals who, naturally, figured they'd be coming, since the commissioner had stated, flatly, he was sending them in before slamming the phone down.

     The local precinct captain, who had called the Intrepids in on the case, immediately authorized them to act. Colossa charged forward, blocking the criminals' gunfire with her body; at her size the bullets were less than gnat bites. Rapscallion and Bowman had grabbed her shoulders as she grew. With the SWAT team members being carried out of the line of fire by other officers, Colossa ripped the front of the building open to expose the criminals and hostages. Bowman used stun, smoke and net arrows to good effect to the right, while Rapscallion battered and tossed criminals into submission on the left. Only two of the bad guys managed to avoid them; they headed for the hostages. The Black Mask dropped both.

     The situation was resolved in under a minute, and no hostage received more than minor injuries. Except for the SWAT team members, no law officer was harmed. Even the criminals received no life threatening injuries. As the team members exited the building they were arrested by several officers under the

direction of the screaming - ranting, actually - police commissioner. Who, in an interview with one of the reporters on site, said the Intrepids would be charged with murder.

     "How can he do that?!" Solange demanded, from behind Template.

     "Whoa! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

     "They saved lives. It's that crazy old guy who got people killed!"

     "Technically, the team members who participated in the hostage rescue did so in violation of federal law," said Bunter. "When someone is killed during a criminal act, all those who

participated in such an act may be charged with murder, whether or not they had anything to do with the actual death or deaths."

     "But that's crazy!"

     "It was part of a crime control measure passed several years ago," said Template, tiredly. "It's effectiveness has been argued, but it is the law."

     "So how do we get them out?"

     "Bunter, has the team's lawyer been contacted?"

     "Yes, Miss Template. He is, in fact, currently speaking with the jurisdictional judge, attempting to have the charges dropped or, failing that, bail set."

     "Then I guess we'll just have to wait and see," said Template, sighing.

     "Hey!" said Solange, excitedly, "that means you're in charge!"

     "God help us," said Bunter, drawing strange looks from the two women.

     "I think Rapscallion has been messing with his mind," muttered Template.

               *             *             *

     Template had Bunter contact several other super teams, while she called a few herself. Then she contacted the Intrepids' public relations office.

     "Yes, I just saw the footage. I already have people getting statements, from police personnel, news crews, hostages, bystanders, even the guy on the other end of the phone the police negotiators were talking to. Looks like a political appointee got in over his head and is trying to put the blame everywhere but on himself."

     "Yeah, that's what the news commentators on the scene were saying after he made that statement," said Template. "I'll be here all night if you need to talk to a team member. Oh, and be

sure to include something about how the Intrepids will not be able to answer calls for help until they're released."

     "Oh, right; yeah, and you better call your government contacts."

     "Yeah, that's next on the list," said Template, sighing.

     "What a fucking mess," said Solange, shaking her head. She looked over at Template. "You get me to this police commissioner guy, and I'll get him to call the whole thing off."

     "No, that's the last thing we need," said Template. "If it got out - and it would - that we had an underage trainee seduce someone who filed charges against team members into letting them go, they'd not only throw everyone ever connected with the team in jail without trial, they'd weld the door shut."

     "It was just a suggestion," said Solange, innocently.

     "And don't try to do it on your own! You can't even fly the hoppers or Hawks, yet."

     "Great. One heart-to-heart talk and you think you're my big sister."

     The rest of the day passed with little news and few developments. Cincinnati had declared a news blackout "to prevent riots." That simply meant that local stations were sending people and tapes to studios in other towns nearby, or feeding directly to the networks.

     From what Template was hearing from other teams they were all on alert. Which prompted her to put the Intrepids' base on security alert, as well. While there had been no moves - by governments or villains - against the other teams this sort of situation had in the past led to such. Several teams - even some from outside the US - offered to send members to the Intrepids'

base to help, but Template told them to hold off.

     "Let's see what our lawyers can do."

     Solange, after the initial excitement, became bored and wandered off. Template checked to make sure she wasn't trying to leave the base, then focused on keeping the place operating. The civilian employees were nearly all long-time veterans, and most made little fuss about the lockdown. After three hours of that, with no signs of anti-super activity anywhere in the US, Template decided to let anyone who wanted to leave out. Most stayed, which impressed her.

     As night fell Template was relieved to get a call from the chief lawyer, George Sturgis.

     "The judge who has jurisdiction in the case has stated on the record that not only are the charges against the team obviously politically motivated, but even if they were justified the team would be covered by the Good Samaritan laws. They're coming home."

     Template actually cheered. Then she got on PA and spread the news, and more cheers could be heard.

     "There is a news conference regarding the release of the Intrepids," said Bunter. "Shall I put it on?"

     "Put it on the base's internal com network, channel one," said Template. She announced that, too, to more cheering.

     Screens came on throughout the base, all showing one version of another of the scene outside the courthouse. Accompanied by several lawyers, the Intrepids - still in costume and looking slightly rumpled - strode down the steps to the plaza in front of the building, where news crews were waiting. Bowman stepped forward to read a prepared statement. He was interrupted by a disturbance. Several men and women, all with badges, some with FBI jackets, moved in, pushing the reporters back. One man approached Bowman and handed him a paper. Bowman glanced at it, then handed it to Sturgis.

     Reporters were yammering in the background, and some on camera, describing what was happening, some actually getting in front of their camera and keeping people from seeing what was happening. Shouted questions from them were ignored. The team members and the lawyers went into a brief huddle, then reached an agreement. The Intrepids turned and walked with the agents towards several federal government vehicles. They were separated, forced to ride alone with strangers. The vehicles drove off.

     "What the fuck!" shouted Solange, again startling Template. "They can't do that! We won!"

               *             *             *

     President Thurlin scheduled a news conference in regard to the matter for later that evening. He made a few preliminary comments, then plunged in.

     "When I learned that a liberal judge had dropped the charges against the vigilantes I was shocked," he stated, flatly. "I called my legal advisor and asked what we could do about it. He said he'd handle it. Good man. We all have him to thank for our safe streets tonight."

     "Can you believe this guy?" groaned Solange.

     "The jurisdictional judge is actually rated as rather conservative," said Bunter.

     "Hush! Both of you!" hissed Template.

     "I have ordered this action to maintain the status of law and order in our great nation," said the POTUS. "We cannot have people ignoring the law. Then we would become a lawless state. The whole country would become lawless, in fact. Everywhere this happened."

     There was a disturbance off-camera. The President's eyes flickered in that direction; he scowled.

     "We have to... have to... What the Hell is going on here?"

     The President turned to look to his left. There were several popping sounds. A large, black man in a three-piece suit, his ear plug hanging by its cable and with blood on his left shoulder, came into camera view. He tried to push the President down, but Thurlin, looking confused and a little frightened, stepped back. The Secret Service man fell. There were more popping sounds, and screams from the audience.

     "Hey!" the President shouted, pointing off-camera. "Hey! Stop that man! I'm giving a speech, here!"

     There was another pop, and the fabric in the center of the President's suit puffed out. He gasped and bent forward, hands going to his chest, looking shocked.

     "It... hurts! It wasn't supposed to hurt!" He turned to look at the audience. "They told me it wouldn't hurt, that the vest would pro..."

     Another pop; the President's head jerked around, a groove now in his cheek. With blood beginning to stream down his face he staggered and, as more pops sounded, dropped to the floor.

Chapter 10: Time and Consequences

     Randy was awake well before the clock radio came on, just lying in Colossa's bed - their bed - staring into the darkness. Colossa's clock was one of those which also put on a dim light with the alarm, to help sleepy people find their way around. However, he was still not eager to get up. It seemed that all he had done lately was sleep, eat, train and sit at the monitor board. Six and a half days since the other Intrepids were arrested; six nights sleeping in this bed alone. The last of Colossa's scent had faded from the sheets and pillow beyond his ability to detect, and still he was locked up in here. He lay still for a while, staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the news, until a particular segment caught his ear.

      "Vice President Gould has ordered all federal law enforcement agents to cease arresting supers under the Carstairs Act, and to release all those already being held under it. He stated that enough significant Constitutional issues had been raised to justify this action, saying that the law was likely to be overturned by the Supreme Court, and that he didn't want federal law enforcement agencies tied up in civil rights lawsuits over this."

     Finally, a bit of good news! If they actually carried through on that, the rest of the Intrepids could be home by evening!

      "However, members of President Thurlin's staff, as well as the heads of most federal law enforcement agencies, say that until they hear this from the President himself, or are told by him that the Vice President is to act on his behalf during his recuperation, they will continue following the President's last orders to them."

      And down again. Randy felt an urge to put his fist through something, but at a minimum that would have required a bank vault door to satisfy his need, so he suppressed it.

      "Meanwhile, rumors continue to spread regarding the President and the failed attempt on his life last week. Some are even speculating that the attempt didn't fail, and that the President's death is being kept quiet in order to prevent panic. Whatever his actual condition, and whatever his reason for remaining secluded, there is apparently a power struggle taking place within the administration, with the Vice President and a few of the President's cabinet members and advisors on one side, and the rest of the President's staff on the other."

      Randy groaned, slapped the alarm off, and rose to head into the bathroom.

      As much as he just wanted to lie around, he needed to present a brave face, in spite of the burden he felt and the effect it was having on his emotional state. If for no other reason than to support Solange and the civilian staff in the base. That was why the main parts of his Template costume were currently soaking in the tub, being cleaned with the special agent supplied by the maker of the fabric. The boots and belt were nearby, having been wiped down the night before.

      Randy drained the tub and filled it with rinse water. By the time he was ready for his shower that had done its part. He opened the drain again, wrung the body stocking and cape out and hung them to dry, then washed himself. Then Randy shifted to Template, stripped off the training outfit she'd put on after leaving her costume to soak, and washed herself. She wasn't sure that was strictly necessary, but some things did carry over from form to form and she didn't want to take a chance on presenting an unwashed appearance - or atmosphere - to the others.

      The costume was nearly ready by the time she finished blow-drying her hair. She decided to let it hang a bit longer while applying the small amount of makeup she normally wore, then deodorant. She also made the bed and performed a few other chores around Colossa's quarters. She didn't think about being naked; there were no windows at all in the base except for the observation deck, at the very top of the low mountain it was built into. Finally, the outfit was dry. She skinned on the body suit and sat down to pull on the boots.

      After her initial adventure, the low-topped booties - along with almost every other component of her makeshift first costume - had been replaced with custom designed footwear. The new booties kept the same general form around the foot but had high, fold-down tops. Those had been lost in the first fight with Energex, and replaced with proper, low-heeled boots, since those would stay on her feet more securely. When those, in turn, had been confiscated by the feds, Colossa had insisted their replacements have more heel. Template had compromised, starting with two-centimeter heels and increasing that by a centimeter a week, until calling a firm halt at six, which was actually more than Colossa wore. Years of flying had produced an exquisite sense of balance; with a little practice these heels proved to be no hindrance for any activity except high-speed running. Since Template flew when she wanted to get somewhere fast, that meant the boots had become a part of her regular costume. However, getting them on was still a struggle.

      Finally came the mask, the only part of her original costume remaining. As always, she hesitated a bit before putting it on. Wearing a mask was intimidating, but also exciting. It was her declaration to the world that she was both willing and able to contribute more than the common citizen. Of course, it also committed her to taking a female role when acting as a hero. Well, so be it.

      Template posed in the mirror, unable to help smiling.

      "Damn, I'm sexy," she purred.

      With sparkling-clean hair, freshly-scrubbed and made-up face and pristine costume, she looked like she was ready to take on anything. She just hoped she could handle the rest of the day...

                *             *             *

     "I'm sorry to be putting you through this crash course, but with just you and me here..."

     "No problem," said Solange. She grinned. "Honestly, I'm enjoying it. I do have an IQ of over 130, and am enjoying being challenged for a change. This is a lot more interesting than high school. Of course, that's mostly because I went through most of it twice."

     "When do you plan to start college?" said Randy, suddenly reminded of the girl's educational status. "You're parents insisted on you graduating high school before letting you come here, I remember, and most universities start their Fall season soon."

     After their talk of a few days earlier, Solange's attitude had greatly improved. She was still saucy and flirtatious, but friendlier and more respectful. She had even modified her chosen costume, making it much less daring while somehow making it seem more so at first glance. Randy had found that while Solange was more comfortable - and casual - with Template, she seemed to take instruction better from a male.

     "Wasn't planning to, actually," said Solange, dryly. "I figured if I could get into a team, that was it; don't even graduate high school."

     "Well, you can learn a lot from people like the Black Mask and Bowman," said Randy, "but they can't really provide the sort of well-rounded education multiple, trained teachers can give you. Not to mention what you can get from your peers."

     "I didn't have any peers at any school I attended," said Solange, flatly. "Why doesn't anyone have a school for super kids?"

     "That's a good question," said Randy, nodding thoughtfully.

     "Excuse me," said a new voice.

     "Oh, hi, Paul," said Randy, turning and waving. "What's up?"

     "Have you two heard about Hurricane Katrina?"

     "I thought it had been downgraded."

     "It's back. Looks like it's going to go through Louisiana, and hit New Orleans square on. Could be bad."

     "Thanks. I'll check on it, and contact teams in the area to see if they'll need help."

     Randy was proud that the support staff counted him as one of them, even though most knew he was also Template. They were a remarkable group. Even those who had left to be with family were keeping in touch. Which is how Randy had learned that they were being repeatedly questioned by federal agents. So were the relatives of those staff members still in the base. Calls to the ACLU and a couple of similar organizations had reduced that harassment, but not stopped it.

     "So, getting back to these caches you were telling me about..."

     "Oh, right. The Black Mask told me about these. During the Cold War a federally funded private think tank came up with the idea to supplement things like the petroleum reserves and military and Civil Defense stores with caches of supplies necessary for long-term survival and reconstruction. These would be used to help the nation recover after a nuclear war or other major national disaster. They came up with a series of standardized caches, placed near civilian government centers as well as in places which were designated as refugee relocation areas. They were designed to withstand anything up to and including a direct hit from a low-yield nuke."

     "Wow..." was all Solange could manage.

     "They contain a mix of food, clothing, medical supplies, shelter, reference books, weapons and ammunition."

     "Everything you need to restart civilization," said Solange, with a smirk.

     "The caches come in three sizes. The most common is the smallest, a cube with dimensions of two meters in each direction, internally. About one in ten have twice the volume, being two meters by two meters by four meters. The largest, about one in a hundred, are three meters in each direction. The walls were high-quality reinforced concrete, strong enough to resist some overpressure value which I don't recall offhand. All of them are buried at least two meters under the ground, with an access hatch under either a half meter of dirt or a ten centimeter concrete slab. No locks; the idea was that if you knew they were there you could get access just by digging and prying."

     "Those sizes sound rather bureaucratically arbitrary."

     "Well, decisions had to be made in matters for which there were inadequate data to do any better than make educated guesses. However, by packing them solid with everything their plan called for - and this was location-specific - plus filling any surplus space with whatever random items they had on hand, they addressed the problem pretty well. These were largely considered adjutant caches for Civil Defense supplies and such, and about half were located near shelters but outside of them, with the rest being in pre-chosen relocation areas. Keep in mind that these were strictly for storage; even empty they'd be hard to live in, unlike the actual shelters."

     "So how do you find these things?"

     "Barring some super sense, you have to already know they're there, and where," said Randy. He called a map up on the main viewer of the monitor room. "Looks pretty straightforward, right? Numbers by an X marking the location, with a description of specific features to look for to find a cache entrance, what type it is and a general note of what's in it. Except that you'd never match that map against any real place. Because while the writing is correct, the map itself is reversed."

     "Oooh, I like that," said Solange, grinning. "Really sneaky. Say, why haven't these ever been actually used? I mean, you'd think people would have heard of it if they had. Wouldn't they be useful with this hurricane thing coming up, for example?"

     "There are other agencies and resources to deal with those types of disasters," said Randy. "The caches were designed with the assumption that only a fraction of the population would survive, and most disasters leave the majority of the population intact, just dislocated or without access to food, water and power. Also, while the perishables are replaced about every ten years, and the entire contents occasionally updated, some of them have non-food, non-medicine contents which are over forty years old."

     "Collector's items!" crowed Solange, greatly amused by such age.

     "Of course, there have been situations where the contents of these caches would have greatly helped some people. But because they're for 'big emergencies' and aren't widely known about they were left unused."

     "Typical bureaucratic waste."

     "Okay, I think that's enough for this morning. Just remember that if you need to find any of these caches to print the maps out on a transparency and flip that over before trying to use it."

     "Gotcha."

               *             *             *

      Template chewed her lower lip, worried. Most of the super teams she'd contacted in regard to the hurricane were playing wait and see, reluctant to take any action - even planning - due to the feds still enforcing the Carstairs Act. Yet as time went on, and the likelihood of New Orleans taking a major hit increased, she could hear their determination fading. She, at least, had a good excuse for staying out of it, being the only adult member of her team not of jail.

     Speaking of which, here came a message from the Intrepids' chief lawyer, George Sturgis.

     "I'm glad I caught you," he said.

     "Where am I going to go?"

     "Oh. Right. They finally arraigned the team today. The Black Mask made this wonderful speech about the long and honorable tradition this country has of engaging in civil disobedience to protest unfair and unjust situations. Everyone expected him to vanish between the courtroom and the prison, but he obediently went straight back there."

     "That's just like him, actually," said Template, unable to keep from grinning. "Do you finally know which facility they're being held in?"

     "Yes," George said, making a face. "Reasonably, you'd expect them to all be in different locations, to reduce the chance of teamwork, but they're all in the JYB federal detention facility. In the same wing, yet!"

     "And they couldn't tell us this until today."

     "We kept running into 'national security' and 'need to know' people," he muttered. "Finally had to file a third Habeas Corpus to get the information. With the President still incommunicado - and possibly incapacitated - and the Vice President fighting with others over who is in charge we can't get anything done on the federal level. Too many career bureaucrats who don't want to rock the boat and jeopardize their positions."

     "Well, you got this much done," said Template. "But what did the judge say?"

     "He was willing to throw the charges out, given the upper court decisions already made on some similar cases and the Veep's determination to not enforce the Act. That surprised the prosecution; they thought the team was all but convicted. However, we requested that as long as the feds were still willing to take the case to trial we should go ahead, so as to leave no doubt. Which also surprised them. However, they rallied and provided some convincing arguments against bail - mainly that the team members were likely to repeat the offense if free to do so - so they're still behind bars. The judge did schedule the first session for next Tuesday, actually moving other stuff around to make room."

     "That's great!" said Template.

     "Yeah, especially since we wanted a quick trial and were prepared for it, while the prosecution didn't and isn't." He smirked and shook his head. "Those people don't know the first thing about super law! They're just the members of the local federal office legal staff whose numbers came up. Boy, were they unprepared! I think that's part of the reason the judge is on our side; he didn't like that they weren't ready for today's hearing."

     "So things are going pretty much in our favor."

     "So far."

     "Okay. Now I have a question about a different legal matter. If Hurricane Katrina hurts New Orleans as bad as they're saying it will, what will happen to supers to go to help?"

     "I thought they'd downgraded that," said the lawyer, nonplused.

     Template filled him in on its revised status.

     "Okay. As your lawyer, I'd advise sitting tight and letting the civil authorities handle any problems. However... I didn't get into super law because I wanted to let the government do everything. I think, morally, you are obligated to help, even if you know you'll be arrested for it."

     "That's... pretty much what I had decided," said Template. She sighed. "Several other supers I've spoken to are waffling. But I bet most of them will be there as soon as the winds die down. And some of them sooner than that!"

               *             *             *

      Randy had deliberately developed the habit of training at least an hour a day. However, with little else to do, he had lately increased that to two hours, twice a day. Even Solange was working out hard, though she preferred to get most of her exercise through swimming. She was remarkable for someone with no physical powers. Well, no overt physical powers. Randy - supported by Dr. Whiskers - suspected there was at least a little enhancement in that area. Solange's ability to almost casually swim two laps of the large pool under water was pretty impressive.

     Hard exercise was usually a good way to work out frustrations and tensions. Lately, though, Randy had been taking less satisfaction than usual from this, and as a result was pushing himself harder than ever before. He knew there was a risk of injury from this, but so far had only experienced some sore muscles and tiredness afterwards. As a rule, being a super meant gaining benefits from training or practice at the same rate as a talented normal, with the exception that the upper limits were much higher. Essentially, supers tended to see their abilities continue to improve for as long as they used them. That, and practical experience plus the occasional boost from some environmental stimulus, meant that a super with a long career was going to be much more formidable than nearly any newcomer.

     As usual, Randy exercised in his base form; for some reason Template tended to attract an audience. Of course, even as Randy he often had people watching him. For instance, when he moved to the treadmill Solange came in from the women's locker room. She was still toweling her hair, though thankfully she was back in costume instead of wearing that set of strings and quilt patches she called a swimsuit.

     The Intrepids had never had a true super speedster as a member. Randy wasn't one, but could run far faster than any standard treadmill could cope with. He - in gadgeteering mode - had helped Bowman build this one, which not only was capable of speeds of up to 500 kph and able to automatically adjust its speed to how fast the person using it was going, but also had a net at the rear to catch the user if something happened at high speed. Additionally there were special sound-dampening features, to keep the continuous thunder of super-speeding feet from deafening the user or bystanders.

     Randy made sure his special running shoes were on securely, put his power into speed and started the treadmill. He was already nicely warmed up by his previous exercises, and quickly advanced past 100 kph. Focusing on the pace, Randy moved faster and faster, feet a blur. He was vaguely aware of Solange staring at him, but more concerned about the buildup of body heat. His limit, as usual, was determined by how much of his power he had to put into resilience to keep from cooking himself. After several minutes at top speed he slowed, the treadmill accommodating, and cruised at a leisurely 50 kph to cool down. Finally, he stopped and stepped off the machine to head for the water fountain to rehydrate.

     "Wow," said Solange, wide-eyed. "That was incredible!"

     "Haven't you watched me use the treadmill before?"

     "Yeah, but not like that. You were doing over two-fifty!"

     "Huh? But my best ever is just barely over two hundred."

     "Go check the thing, if you don't believe me!"

     He had not only topped out at two fifty-eight, but had held close to that for over five minutes. Randy whistled, impressed with himself.

     "I haven't been paying attention to the speed, lately, just trying for a good workout. Guess I've been improving."

     "So fantastic!" Solange gushed. "I mean, really..."

     "Did you cut your swim short today?" said Randy, a bit embarrassed and trying to change the subject.

     "Yeah. I could feel some cramps starting to come on and was worried my period was starting. Turns out it was gas." She shook her head. "It's weird. I'm usually pretty regular, but since I came here my periods have been shifting to later in the month. So I should have a while, yet, taking that into account."

     "Yeah, and for some reason mine have been moving earlier," said Randy, frowning thoughtfully. "The next one should start soon."

     Solange burst out laughing. After taking a moment figure out why, Randy flushed and joined her.

     "I guess that did sound pretty weird," he said. "I meant Template's periods, naturally."

     "Oh, it's not just that," said Solange. "I just remembered that when women are together for a while, their periods tend to get in synch."

     "Oh. Oh!"

     Solange laughed even harder.

     "Boy, those feds better not try anything this week! They'd be up against two super gals with full-blown PMS!"

Note: This story is not a dig at the current administration. The problems of New Orleans have been known for decades; a college hydrology course I took 30 years ago gave that city as a good example of how not to protect from flooding. Other problems which came to a head after the hurricane also have deep roots. My point is less that politics is evil than that unmoderated bureaucracy is evil.

Chapter 11: The Rains Came Down and the Floods Came Up

     They sat and watched as the hurricane approached the coast, the main screen showing a live satellite image, others providing different data, including a network feed.

     "I don't understand why some of the weather control types don't move these storms to somewhere safe," said Solange, frowning. "Or the super-scientists build a weather control machine."

     "About half the time, when someone tries to meddle with a storm this big it works fine," said Template. "The other half, well... Back in the early Sixties, as part of an experimental program to see if doing what you suggest would work, some gadgeteers used an airplane with weather control equipment on board to try and reduce the strength of a hurricane which had crossed Florida and was already well out into the Atlantic, heading northeast. It immediately picked up speed, made a very tight turn and headed due west, going right into the US east coast."

     "Oh..."

     "It looks like the various government agencies have things well in hand," said Template, yawning and stretching. "The Vice President has declared a state of emergency, and for once no-one on the President's staff is disputing him. They're evacuating the city, and opening the Superdome and its convention center to those who can't leave. Even using school busses to take those without cars. FEMA's on alert and primed to go even if they don't get official requests, since they'll probably lose at least some of their communications. Most likely, they won't need any super help. Which would sure make the choice of whether to help easier."

     "Well, it's supposed to hit the coast again about seven AM, our time, tomorrow," said Solange. "Think I'll get up early to check how it's going."

     "Since when is seven AM early?" said Template. "And since when are you so dedicated?"

     "Hey, you've been a good example," said Solange, grinning at the older woman.

               *             *             *

     Template was surprised the next morning to find that Solange was, indeed, already at the monitor board.

     "Looks like it's going to be worse than the low predictions, but not as bad as the high ones," she said, as Template sat beside her at the monitor board. "Sustained winds of over 230 kph. Flooding already reported in several areas of New Orleans. They don't know yet if that's just from rain or if there's been an actual breach of the levee. There's also unconfirmed reports of damage to the Superdome. I talked to some of the gadgeteering and organizational types on other teams and they said moving so many into one place was a mistake; that it could lead to, uhm, 'a single-point failure mode' or something like that."

     "When did you have time to do all this?" said Template, suddenly suspicious. She leaned in and examined the girl more closely. "You've been here all night, haven't you?"

     "Uh, yeah," she admitted, smiling tiredly.

     "Bed! Now!"

     "Oh, this is so sudden," said Solange, coquettishly.

     "Go!"

     "All right, all right..."

               *             *             *

     Throughout the day the reports became almost uniformly worse. One levee breach was confirmed, and others listed as possible. Despite pleas for help from individuals and low-level government managers and workers on the scene, the response from city, county, state and federal officials was bland assurances that everything was going well. Yet late in the day the Governor of Louisiana ordered that even the Superdome should be evacuated. Without saying why in any detail, or suggesting how, given the flooded roads and washed out bridges. Confirmed reports of governors and mayors desperately requesting additional federal aid were waved away by those in Washington as either rumors or minimized as routine and expected. Oddly, even bits of good news - such as the Corps of Engineers working to close the 17th Street Canal breach - could not be confirmed at the federal level, despite being shown on network news.

     One of the more bizarre orders given that day was for the New Orleans police to stop looking for people in trouble and rescuing them, and instead work to stop looting. Much of which was being committed by desperate people breaking into closed stores to get needed supplies.

     Local communications were so bad that even the one super team in the area was out of touch. Many other teams - spread throughout the region - were also not responding, some because of communications difficulties, others simply not answering except by machine.

     Template began to dread what the next day would bring. She decided that she would get up early and fly down, no matter what the news was. If nothing else, she could gather first-hand data on just how bad things were and what could be done to help.

               *             *             *

     "This is the third place I've been to!" said Template, angry and not bothering to try and hide it. "I keep getting told by people on the scene that things need to be done right now, but when I try to find out who can give me permission, or even details on how to do a job, I get stonewalled!"

     "Look, you're not even supposed to be here!" snapped the harried city official. "Why don't you go punch a supervillain, or something."

     He turned to someone else, and had no clue how close he had come to being the target of just such action.

     Frustrated, enraged and close to tears, Template flew into the still-cloudy skies. She stopped, hovering, and turned a slow circle trying to take it all in. Much of the city was flooded, and the water was still rising. With water which looked, smelled and even sounded nasty. Okay, then. The first task was to stop the water, if she could. She had trouble finding landmarks, which was one reason she kept stopping to talk to people.

     "Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink," she recited, sourly, as she scanned the turgid flood below.

     Template headed for a construction site she had spotted earlier, planning to find something to use to plug those gaps. As she flew closer, however, she saw activity there. Several people - about half in costume, the rest in hard hats and rain gear - were working on filing some sort of metal mesh blanket with rocks and chunks of concrete. She had never met any of these people, but recognized Atalanta, Cosmic Ray and Eagle, and a couple of the other masks looked familiar. She landed nearby.

     "Hi," she said, a bit uncertainly. "I'm Template. With the Intrepids."

     "Good to see you," said an older mask, white haired but looking like he could still spit through a tank. "I'm Antaeus, one of the founders of the Devonian Club. How much weight can you fly with?"

     "Uh, a couple of tonnes," said Template, marveling that anything human-sized could have a voice that deep. "Look, I'm trying to find something to use to fix the levee breaches..."

     "Exactly," said Antaeus. He gestured towards the work. "If you can lower this against the upstream side of the dike, the mat will hold that in place and the rocks will keep the mat from washing away. Then we can expand outward from that."

     "Oh!"

     The big man chuckled.

     "I'm the only one here with any significant super strength, and I can't fly. Thought I was going to have to drag that thing all the way."

     "Well, who do I...?"

     "Just go over there and tell them not to load it too heavy."

     Template did just that.

     "Uhm, okay, we're probably over two tonnes already," said the group's gadgeteer, who called himself Access. "Well, guys, finish hooking those cables to the blast mat and let's let her try."

     Under his direction, two very heavy (and quite rusty) steel cables were hooked to opposite ends of the mat. Template took these, looped one over each shoulder and lifted off. Part of the mat came off the ground; then she stalled. Frowning, Template put more power into flight, and - obviously straining - managed to lift it clear. After a few seconds, though, she had to land.

     "You need to take a few hundred kilos off," she said, reluctantly. "And I'm going to need some sort of padding."

     The construction workers started on the first task, and by the time they were through Access had finished the second, handing her a pair of curved aluminum plates with grooves to keep the cables from slipping. Template looked at those dubiously, then slipped them over her shoulders.

     "Try crossing the loops over," said Access. "Put the right one over your head to the left shoulder, and so forth. Should help keep them from slipping."

     Template did as told, and tried again. The mat lifted off on the first try, this time, the relatively soft aluminum bending to conform perfectly to her body.

     "I'm still straining, but can fly with this for a while," Template yelled down. "Which is the closest breach?"

     "I can show you," said Eagle, lifting off to join her in the air.

     Template had never actually flown formation with another super before. She found the experience rather odd, especially since he was holding the typical horizontal posture while she was upright. Her speed was greatly reduced, too; Eagle started pulling ahead immediately, but thought to look back to check and promptly slowed. The trip to the levee took nearly eighteen minutes, by which time Template was definitely hurting. She maneuvered her load into the proper position with some guidance from Eagle, then lowered it into the water. As cables went slack she could already tell the flow of water through the breach was significantly less. There were Corps of Engineer personnel and equipment present, and they had obviously been working hard to narrow the gap from the ends. From the way they cheered and waved, Template's contribution should help considerably. She and Eagle waved back, grinning like happy kids, and flew off.

     Once free of her burden Template poured on all speed back towards the construction site, taking Eagle by surprise. Seconds later, though, he pulled ahead of her, grinning back over his shoulder. Template smiled, too; in a less serious situation the two of them could have had quite a race.

     No mat this time; instead the construction workers were assembling I-beams.

     "Switching strategies," said Access. "Antaeus took off with a load of beams, a couple of the lower-strength supers going with him. They'll reinforce what you've done by driving these into the levee around where you put the mat. The Corps of Engineers can then start piling debris against those to complete the patch. What they took should be enough for that hole; I need you to take as many as you can carry to the next breach and start doing the same."

     "Gotcha," said Template.

     With a little hurried experimentation, she found she could carry eight of the smaller beams in her arms, in front of her. Eagle was her guide again, and though this breach was further away, the trip went faster. As she descended, however, she saw military people running out onto the levee. She thought they were the Corps... until they started shooting at her.

     "What are you doing?!" she screamed down at them.

     One of them produced a bullhorn.

     "Put down your weapons and surrender! You are under arrest for..."

     Template groaned.

     "They're nuts!" said Eagle.

     "If you're not bulletproof, you better head back and tell the others what's happening."

     "Okay," said Eagle. "Handguns don't bother me much, but assault rifles... Oh! There's a main assembly area for supers over near the Superdome. If they've already left the construction area when you get back, check there."

     "Thanks!" Template called out as he flew off.

     Template dumped her load in the shallow water pouring over - and quickly eroding - the gap. She grabbed one of the beams in both hands, flew up and hurled it down. Then had to straighten it and push it deeper. The second went better. By the fifth one she had the procedure down. Her biggest problem was the occasional bullet hit. They stung, a bit, and if one had managed to hit an eye or ear could have done some real damage. About then she heard someone shouting orders to cease firing. She glanced over, saw another soldier giving the fellow with the bullhorn a hard time, and figured someone with some sense had taken over. She finished her task, then flew down to the guy who had stopped the shooting.

     "What was that all about?" she said, glaring at Mr. Bullhorn.

     "Sorry about that, Template," said the other young man. "We had been told that there were supers breaching the levees to help them loot the town, but I recognized you. Also, you were obviously not making things worse."

     "Well, thank you for stopping them," she said. "Look, this job isn't finished, and I don't know when anyone will be back here to do the rest. Can you have these men start hauling stuff in to finish closing the gap?"

     "Men and women," said the soldier, pointedly. He smiled. "Sure. We can at least make a good start on it."

     "Thanks," said Template.

     She winked, playfully blew him a kiss and lifted off, blushing a bit but satisfied she'd made his day.

               *             *             *

     She found the Superdome easily enough. Template wasn't sure where the city government was currently operating out of - information of any kind about what the various government agencies were doing was scarce, hopefully because they were too busy to give interviews - but there had to be a major command center at the Superdome to handle the influx. Small wonder it had been chosen as the place to also locate the center of operations for the super relief effort.

     She saw other flying figures as she approached, some arriving, some departing. She aimed for where the latter were taking off from. As she approached the ground, she realized those brightly colored patches which had puzzled her were costumes. Dozens, scores of them. And as she dropped lower she began to recognize specific individuals.

     There were legends here. Many of them supposedly retired; a few even dead! In just a few seconds she recognized The Amplifier, High-Beam, Doomstar, Automote, half the Bay Area Guardians, most of whom she had met before, several members of the Guiding Principle, two from the Superlative Seven, and several whom she recognized but couldn't think of names for, plus dozens who were complete strangers to her. And more were arriving constantly!

     Template landed near the Guardians, who recognized her and waved as she descended.

     "Wow," she gasped, turning and looking around. "I didn't know there were this many supers in the country!"

     "Some are from Canada," said Steel Lace. "I think I even saw one fellow from Panama."

     "It's impressive," said Mesa, the team's strongman. "By the way, we really appreciate what you did for Amazonia. Thank you."

     "Just wish it could have been more," said Template, sighing.

     "The best organizers are gathering data - and sending appropriate people out to get it - analyzing it and assigning teams," said the woman in green. "They have a roster you can sign, where you list your powers and what you're willing to do and when. Over there."

     "Thanks. See you later!"

     The process was quick and professional, and in minutes she had handed the completed form over.

     "Where did all of you come from?" she asked the smiling civilian woman who took the form. "When I left our base, uhm..."

     She checked her watch and was surprised at the time.

     "Wow, over two hours ago. Anyway, when I left, only a few others were even saying they would come here!"

     "Well, the news casts and early reports from the first supers on the scene showed that the situation was pretty bad, and the emergency services slow to respond," the woman explained. "So that sort of encouraged people. The first team leaders on scene started the process, and added people with the right talents to their ranks as they arrived. Anybody who didn't want to be a team player was given other tasks, or sent home."

     Template nodded, smiling, feeling proud to be a part of this community. She waited as the woman entered the data into the laptop and waited for it to check with the other machines on the haywired LAN and correlate.

     "Wow, you're in the top ten percent," said the woman, impressed.

     "So I've been told," said Template, dryly.

     "We can certainly find something for you to do, and pretty quickly. Just hold on."

     Template was soon teamed with a couple of New Horizon members she'd heard of but not met before. Magni was supposedly the son of Thor, and himself a Norse god of strength. Fireburst was a flying thermal manipulator. The three of them were assigned as a roving repair team and immediately sent out to help get a Nineteenth Century pumping station working. The water flowing into New Orleans had been reduced to a relative trickle, thanks to quick and proper super action; now they needed to get what was already there back out.

               *             *             *

     "Done!" shouted the city engineer, as the massive engine rumbled into life. "Thanks, you three. This could have taken weeks without your help!"

     "Glad to be of service," said Magni, smiling graciously. He turned to Fireburst. "Shall we proceed to our next assigned task?"

     "Lets," she replied, taking his arm.

     Template was both amused and embarrassed by their open affection, but had to admit they made a good couple. She made an excuse about wanting to fly, and took to the air to let them have the hoverfoil the trio had arrived in to themselves.

     Template was feeling both very satisfied and a bit smug. All she'd heard from the people on the scene was how sluggish governmental response had been. And how welcome the quick response from the super community was. If there weren't still lives and property in danger, she'd be feeling even more gratified just now. About the only problem the supers themselves were having was lack of communications; too many had coms which weren't compatible, or none at all, and local cell phone service was out. And none of them could get through to the local or state governments, while FEMA simply kept telling them their help wasn't needed, that everything was under control.

     Take that!, Carstairs Act, she thought to herself.

     Her smile broadened as she saw someone flying ahead, off to the left, carrying some large object. Then she frowned. Something didn't look right about that figure, or the cargo. She veered in that direction to get a better look. And stiffened with a mix of strong emotions.

     It was Energex.

     She should have run, and then called for help. But he was carrying what she now realized was the vault of a bank. And she became angry. Angry enough to be reckless.

     Template caught Energex square in the middle of the back with a kick which - along with his explosive grunt - was heard over two kilometers away. She immediately altered course, flying up and around, as the villain spun to see who had attacked him, again catching him from behind, this time ramming him in the same spot with both her fists. That was enough to momentarily stun even him. As he dropped, Template caught the falling vault, flew up and over with it, then down straight at Energex, slamming it into him just after he hit the water.

     Template flew away for a bit down what was normally a broad avenue, turned around, waited until she saw him burst from the water, scattering debris, then poured on the speed. She rammed her shoulder into his short ribs. This time, instead of flying off, she started pounding on him. She backed him up to - and through - a concrete wall, punching furiously, concentrating on his face, but striking anywhere he wasn't guarding. For a handful of seconds, she was winning.

     Energex had been taking the occasional swing, usually without hitting and doing little damage when he did. Suddenly, however, he managed through blind luck to catch her in the solar plexus with a hard punch. Template flew out through the same wall, and skipped several times off the surface of the filthy water before coming to a halt against another building. She was just starting to lift groggily into the air when he caught up to her.

     Several hard punches later she was barely conscious. Satisfied she was momentarily out of the fight, Energex grabbed the front of her costume and flew to the roof of the building. He landed and, snarling profane threats, took the neck of her costume in both hands and pulled, trying to split the fabric.

     "I've had enough of you, bitch! I'm going to teach you a lesson you never forget!"

     The ultra-strong material resisted for a moment; then a swatch tore away in his left hand, his right actually tossing Template around with the sudden loss of resistance. He threw her down, then grabbed the crotch of her trunks with one hand and her jaw with the other, obviously intending to pull the trunks off, and perhaps the entire body stocking with them.

     A golden-haired thunderbolt tackled him from the side. Magni and Energex shot off the roof, almost taking Template with them. Fireburst landed beside Template as she struggled to rise.

     "How badly are you hurt?"

     She had known, in a dim way, that she was hurt, but this focused her attention, made her take stock. Bloody - perhaps broken - nose, split lip, maybe a broken rib, numerous bruises and contusions. Overall, she'd been lucky.

     "M'all right," she slurred, wondering if she needed to add one or more loosened teeth to the list; her mouth was too numb to tell.

     Fireburst gave her a quick check, then helped her to her feet. On a patch of nearby high ground the two powerhouses were slugging it out, the impacts of their blows not only causing waves in the water around them but shaking the nearby buildings. Energex, at least a little rocky from several surprise attacks in quick succession and the whaling Template had given him, decided to take advantage of the fact that he could fly and Magni couldn't. He leapt into the air, changing course when Magni jumped after him, then pushing his hands out to blast the Asgardian.

     Instead, it was Fireburst who blasted him. Energex cried out, but it was more in surprise and anger than pain. He dove into the turgid water to cool himself, then surfaced under the falling Magni. Before the Asgardian could react, Energex hurled him at the rooftop where Template and Fireburst were standing. Fireburst managed to dodge, but Template stumbled, and was clipped by Magni as he crashed down, on the way through the roof and several floors below. Fireburst shot again, but Energex was watching for it this time and dodged.

     Gotta clear my head, thought Template. And that reminded her of something. If only it wasn't broken...

     She sat up, unfolded the top of her right boot and reached into one of the small pockets there to pull out an armored case. Miraculously, the capsule inside was unbroken. She'd been warned to only use this in an emergency. She figured this counted.

     She held the capsule under her nose and inhaled as she crushed it. The odor was strong, bitter and penetrating. Immediately, the powerful stimulant started working, absorbed into her blood through the soft tissues in her respiratory tract. Her thoughts became more coherent, her mind more alert. Unfortunately, her pains also became more distinct. She groaned, shook her head, stood and took a quick evaluation of the situation.

     Magni had charged out through the wall of the building, into the water, and caught the circling Energex by surprise, jumping up from below. He clung to the villain with one hand while pummeling him with the other. Unfortunately, that was not a good position for delivering a solid blow, and his grip was slipping. Template crouched, prepared to spring back into the fight... then had a better idea.

     "I can boost your powers," she said, moving over behind Fireburst. "Your speed, too."

     "Do it! He's too fast for me to hit!"

     Template put both hands on her shoulders. Half her power she put into speed, shared by the two of them, which made them nearly a match for Energex. The rest she poured into Fireburst. The other super gasped, then clenched her jaw, and waited. Sure enough, Energex knocked Magni loose. As the Asgardian fell, and Energex began to turn back towards them, Fireburst let him have everything she and Template had.

     The blast flashed the water under Energex to steam, and the sudden influx of heat fractured the brick, stone and concrete nearest him. It also burned Template's hands and face, making her wish she'd kept some power in resilience. She quickly ducked her head and slid her hands down Fireburst's back as the attack continued, glad the other woman was immune to her own power. This time Energex' cry was almost entirely one of pain. Template felt Fireburst lower her arms, and assumed this meant Energex was falling, or at least flying towards the water. Abruptly, Fireburst gasped, and sagged, Template having to catch her.

     She saw that Energex was, indeed, falling. Right towards where a rather scorched and very angry Magni stood, braced against solid pavement. The Asgardian timed the uppercut perfectly, catching the stunned Energex right under the chin. The recoil from the punch drove Magni knee-deep into the asphalt, while Energex shot straight up, out of sight. Then water came flooding in, to replace what had boiled off.

     Template eased Fireburst to the roof, then flew down and brought Magni up there. He was a sight; nearly as battered and bloody and Template herself, and far more heat damaged. His face was red and blistered, and half his hair burned off. But he was smiling, actually laughing. Fireburst was already recovering when they landed.

     "Where did you get such strength?" he demanded joyously, hugging his teammate.

     "She boosted my powers," said Fireburst, smiling at Template.

     Template was looking in the direction Energex had gone, scowling.

     "Should I try to find him and finish him off," muttered Template, wiping at the blood dripping from her nose with the back of a hand, "or just hope he lands in water and drowns?"

     Magni clapped her on the back, almost knocking her down.

     "Spoken like a true warrior! I am honored to have fought beside you!"

     "I think you've had enough for one day," said Fireburst, surprised. "He beat you, then tried to rape you!"

     "Yeah, well, I started the beating..." She stopped and took a deep breath, shock starting to set in, especially with the realization of what she had narrowly avoided. "As for r-raping me, the joke would have been on him. I'm having my period."

     Fireburst gave her an odd look, but let it drop.

     "Both of you need medical attention," she said, firmly. "And we all need some rest. Besides, unless you have some super sense I haven't heard about, Template, I doubt we'd find him easily."

     "She has a point," said Magni, reluctantly. "Come; we can have our wounds tended and rest a bit at the rallying site, then resume helping these poor people."

     Note: I am actually glossing over a lot of the hurricane-caused problems, especially those complicated by human errors. Not only is much of this well-known to anyone who has been following the news, it's both depressing and unnecessary to the story.

Chapter 12: Homecoming

     "My God," said Solange, breathing through her mouth as she helped the battered Template strip off her damaged costume. "You're bruised all over! Not to mention smelling like you've been swimming in a sewer."

     "Well, in effect, I have been swimming in a sewer," said Template, sourly, occasionally wincing and gasping. For once she wished this stuff were easier to cut. "They gave me first aid there, and suggested I go somewhere and rest a few hours before coming back. Dr. Whiskers said she didn't need to do anything more today except give me some ointment and bandages, and some pain pills so I can sleep. Just... toss all that stuff straight down the chute to the disposer. The body stocking's ruined, and I don't really want to try and clean the rest."

     "Oh, you're not going back!" said Solange, trying to make it an order, as she opened the hatch and shoved Template's contaminated costume in. "Glah! I'm glad they have that plasma furnace in the basement. Eeewww!!!"

     "Oh, yes, I am," said Template, firmly. "Ow. They have healers, but there are a lot of people more hurt than I am. Even my broken ribs are minor, if painful. And they still need my help."

     "Let's get you cleaned up and into bed," said Solange. She flushed. "I mean, you go to bed and sleep until about Noon, then decide if you're fit to go back. I'll... decontaminate this place, or something."

     "Just tell Frances to do it," said Template, with a vague, tired gesture. "Part of her job is biohazard cleanup. Use the staff for the things they are supposed to do, so you can save your resources for what they can't."

     "Okay, okay," muttered Solange, taking Template's arm and helping her to the showers.

     The hot, soapy wash felt so good... Template was tired enough she barely noticed that a naked Solange was helping her scrub. And, surprisingly, not taking advantage of the situation. Then came an equally slow and careful drying, followed by application of antibiotic ointment and fresh bandages. Finally ready to leave, Template opened her locker, and groaned.

     "Argh. I forgot. Everything that isn't dirty is in the closet in Colossa's room. Looks like we burned that costume too soon. Should have kept the bodystocking, washed it out in the shower..."

     "You can wear my costume," said Solange, smirking. "I'll just put my swimsuit on."

     "Oh, wait; I have a spare," said Template.

     She turned, smiled tiredly at Solange and changed to The Revolutionary.

     "Oh, yeah!" said Solange, startled. "I remember you telling me about that!"

     She examined The Revolutionary with a critical eye.

     "Y'know, if you're ever going to use that, you need to change the figure some. It's just like Template's."

     "Well, actually, this is Template; just an alternate history version."

     "You told me you can mix and match from the people you've templated. You could make your bust larger to fill out that loose top, change your height and coloring..."

     "Later, okay? I'm really starting to need those pain pills and sleep."

     "Oh. Sorry. Let me get dressed and I'll help you to your room."

     She picked up her costume, then stopped and smirked.

     "Or I could just streak the base."

     "No."

               *             *             *

     The next morning, apparently in response to criticism that various government organizations were responding poorly to the emergency, several speakers for said agencies began trying to blame the supers for all their problems. Currently, CNN was showing a press conference in New Orleans. Template and Solange watched some of this in the team members' break room, as the former finished a rather large breakfast. Template, though stiff and sore, was feeling much better today. This state had been aided greatly by her boosting her speed before going to bed. She had actually spent the equivalent of three days resting and healing, even staying accelerated to take her meals. She had only slowed this morning to have breakfast with Solange. A message waiting from another super team stating that they'd found and taken prisoner a still-unconscious ("What did you do to him?!" was their impressed inquiry) Energex helped her mood no end.

     "Where were the supers?" the Governor of Louisiana demanded. "Where are the supers? None have contacted us in our hour of need! You'd think at least some of them would be out here doing their public duty!"

     "Governor, there are hundreds of supers working in and around New Orleans, in spite of the Carstairs Act," said one confused reporter. "Their center of operations is in a parking lot at the Superdome Convention Center."

     "Then why aren't they doing anything? Instead of chasing criminals and beating each other up they should be here, using their powers to help us mere mortals!"

     The rest of the conference went same way. The governor was so upset at people shouting corrections or asking why the government didn't know something, the event was cut short. Cameras showed the governor storming out of the meeting hall.

     The station cut back to the studio.

     "Obviously, a problem with communications," said the announcer, dryly.

     "And you're still going back," said Solange, disapprovingly. "Despite them trying to make all supers - and you, specifically - look bad."

     "I don't do this because I want politicians to like me," said Template, firmly, around a mouthful of grits. "I do it to help people. Okay, I have a clean costume with full equipment, my ribs are feeling much better, I'm well-rested and well-fed. I can go relieve someone else so they can get food and rest."

     "You mean five or ten someone elses," said Solange, with a smirk. "Okay, go. I'll call if you're needed. And, yes, I'll only do it for something important."

     "Thanks," said Template.

     She gave the girl an affectionate peck on the cheek and flew out of the monitor room.

               *             *             *

     What seemed like a month later Solange and several of the civilian workers met Template as she entered the base through the flying entrance. This time she was reasonably clean, if tired and rumpled. There was a brief and informal welcome; then at Solange's insistence they went back to work so Template could get some rest.

     After a quick shower (in Colossa's quarters ths time) and change of outfit (her replacement costume had come in) Template sat with Solange in the monitor room, each catching the other up on recent events.

     "The case went to jury two days ago, and from what the lawyers tell me it's they're almost certainly to find in favor of the Intrepids."

     "That's good news," said Template, nodding. She sipped her hot cocoa. "Man, this tastes good."

     "You look like you've lost weight," said Solange. "And you didn't need to."

     "Well, my tour of duty is up," said Template, tired but content at what she'd been able to do. "The water's going down, there's few immediate tasks which supers could perform significantly better than regular rescue and utility workers, and those are finally out in force, after days of being sidelined, waiting to be used. The people who organized the super relief work told all but a few of us to go home, that they'd call if they needed us again, and thank you very much for the help. So I can take some time to rest and recuperate."

     "I'm so glad you're away from that Superdome," said Solange, with a sour expression. "According to the news, that place was a death trap, and the dead were just being left lying around."

     "Actually, and contrary to what that reporter said, they made us move five days ago," muttered Template. "Said we were interfering with their logistics. After hearing that, I'm wondering if it was just to keep us from seeing how bad things were getting there. A local business let us use their offices, fortunately. The city turned down Red Cross offers of food, water and equipment, too, giving the same reason, that they weren't needed. And now they've completely evacuated the Center. Said it was unfit for human occupation. And implying it was the refugees who made it so. This after keeping people cooped up in there for over a week."

     "My, you're getting cynical," said Solange, grinning. "Or maybe just world-wise. One city official was on the news earlier, saying they had rejected outside aid because it would only encourage people to stay in the city."

     "God..." groaned Template.

     "Why don't you go to bed? You've been at this for over a week, and you're so tired you're gonna start making stupid mistakes if you don't get some sleep."

     "Well, at least the worst is over."

     "All the more reason. Go!"

     "And the trial is going well," she mumbled, as she staggered off.

               *             *             *

     The next day those in the base heard that not only had the jury for the Intrepids' trial declared the team members not guilty of murder, they used jury nullification to declare that the team's violation of the Carstairs Act was legally acceptable. (Which somehow got twisted into an accusation of "judicial activism" by some politicians.) The prosecution had the nerve to look surprised, and promised to appeal.

     The team came home that evening, to a party celebrating their return and, belatedly, Template's. Besides the team members and base personnel, many guests - both super and non - were present. Much gossip was exchanged, and tales of recent experiences. Someone had the idea to make the theme song of the party "With A Little Help From My Friends," which honored both the team members and their support staff, as well as all the other members of the super community who had helped or offered to while most of the team was incarcerated.

     Template was introduced to several supers she hadn't met, and greeted anew several she had, including some from the effort in New Orleans. Many of the guests were older men and women (with a couple for whom that distinction wasn't appropriate). Those often grouped together, and Template found listening to them fascinating.

     "So my friend said to me 'Saul! Learn to speak proper English! Do you want people to think you're just some little Jewish guy from Brooklyn?' and I said 'Marty, I am just some little Jewish guy from Brooklyn!'"

     "I never tried to hide my background, either," said the black woman the man was talking to. "I just knew that in some inappropriate situation I'd slip out with a 'Y'all' or some such."

     "Having a good time?" said Colossa, coming up and putting an arm around Template.

     "Wonderful," she replied, nuzzling the other woman affectionately. "Oh; should I not do that around..."

     "Honey, don't worry about it. Who was it made the point recently that supers tend to be more accepting? Besides, anybody offended by us deserves to be."

     Colossa and Template left early to celebrate in private, much to the combined amusement and disappointment of Solange.

               *             *             *

     When Randy woke the next day the difference in the feeling of the base was quite noticeable. Even though all of the "Cincinnati Four" team members were again absent - off taking care of personal and other business which had been delayed by their incarceration - by the time Template was ready to leave Colossa's quarters, there was a full shift working. Some of the guests from the night before were also still there, helping to take up the slack. Once assured that she didn't need to do anything for the team that whole day, Template hummed happily to herself as she walked into the team members' break room for some bagels.

     Solange was still in bed, though in her case that was because she had been up late partying. Once she finally rose, Template announced she was going to take care of some personal business. Randy then went down to the base's garage.

     "I should have put a charger on the battery," said Samuel, the head of ground vehicle care and feeding, when he realized Randy was going to use his car. "Sorry; just didn't think of it."

     "Battery's only six months old," said Randy, amiably. "Should still work."

     Indeed, though it cranked slowly the engine caught after only a few seconds, and ran fine. Randy let it idle for a bit while he and Samuel checked the tire pressure.

     "I'm just glad this was one of the few times I drove it here," said Randy. He suddenly realized that Samuel might not know he had powers. "I mean, instead of parking it in the lot of that supermarket, or catching a lift from my apartment. No telling what would have happened to it."

     "Well, everything I checked is fine," said Samuel. "Pull over to the pump and I'll top off the tank for you."

     "Thanks!"

     With the end of the trial and the outpouring of public support supers in general and Template in particular had received due to their efforts in the areas impacted by Katrina, there had been an official easing of tensions between the federal government and the Intrepids. Some on both sides of the super issue were saying this adulation would eventually backfire, causing bureaucrats and elected officials to come down even harder on the heroes in revenge for making them look bad. For now, though, Randy and the other staff members were free to enter and leave the base as they pleased. Randy headed back to the city to visit his apartment for the first time in over three weeks.

               *             *             *

     Oddly, there was no mail in his box. He figured one of his neighbors had gotten it in. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open, then stopped dead in his tracks. 

     "Mom?! Dad?!"

     "Randy?!" said his mother, gasping and putting her had to her mouth. "Oh, Randy! How did you escape?"

     "Escape?"

     "Those kidnapers!" said his dad.

     "I wasn't kidnaped. I've been holed up in the Intrepids' base because of this fuss with them being on trial."

     "But... the police told us you'd been kidnaped by a bunch of rogue supers! The ones who murdered those police officers in Cincinnati."

     Randy was too astonished to respond for several seconds.

     "We've been staying here for a few days, since the crime investigation team finished," said his dad, looking confused, and starting to get angry. "Ever since we tried to track you down and found out you'd quit your job and not been seen."

     Many thoughts vied for priority in Randy's head. The winner was a quick evaluation of what the cops might have found. Fortunately, since gaining the ability to store Template's costume with her form he didn't keep much super stuff here. He relaxed a bit, then tried to figure out what had happened.

     "Okay. My old boss was upset because I'd been doing so much volunteer work for the Intrepids," said Randy, both explaining to his parents and reviewing in his own mind. "We agreed to an amiable termination, and that I might be able to come back part-time later. The Intrepids then hired me full-time because I'd been doing such a good job for them. When most of the team was arrested the only two members left free decided to institute a security lockdown. Some of the civilian staff was allowed to leave the next day, but most of us stayed. Then came Katrina, and a lot of work to help there. Now things are quieter, so I came home to pick up my mail and check on my apartment."

     "But what about the kidnappers?" his mother demanded.

     "I wasn't kidnaped!" said Randy, exasperated.

     "Don't raise your voice to your mother!"

     "Well, the police have your mail," said his mother, huffily. "Said it was evidence."

     "Great," muttered Randy. "One thing I wanted to do was pay my bills before they were overdue."

     "I suggest we all go down to the police station. Once they realize you're free, they should return it."

     "Dad, I haven't been a prisoner," said Randy, patiently. "This whole thing is just some sort of misunderstanding."

     "You should have called us if you were in trouble," his father insisted.

     "Except I wasn't in trouble. Just inconvenienced. I would have called, except that we had evidence the feds were listening to the regular phone lines at the base."

     "Now that's just paranoid," huffed Randy's father.

     Randy sighed and gave up for now.

               *             *             *

     Randy was sleeping in his own bed for the first time in weeks. He was very tired. Between arguing with the police about not being kidnaped and getting the "evidence" back, trying to tell his parents what had actually happened ("You still haven't explained about those murdering supers who were supposed to be holding you. How would you know such people?") and sorting out the mess the cops had made of his bills so he could pay them, he was exhausted. Then he had to convince his parents that A) they didn't need to stay with him and B) he wasn't going to go home with them. He went to bed as soon as he finished preparing the most urgent bill payments to put in the mail, planning to get at least ten hours. So when the phone rang less than half an hour after his head hit the pillow, he almost ignored it. After all, if it was an emergency at the base they'd have used his pager. Still...

     It was from Mesa, at the Bay Area Guardians' base in San Francisco. He sounded as tired as Randy felt.

     "Amazonia just died," said Mesa, flatly, with no preamble. "Sorry."

     "Don't... apologize. Thanks for letting me know."

     Randy felt numb as he hung up the phone. Oddly, the thought occurred to him that people who worried about supers being too egotistical shouldn't; losing a teammate happened to most of them, and was a definite humbling experience. All their powers, and they still couldn't do everything...

     Not until laying back down to sleep did he wonder why he had been called, instead of Template.

               *             *             *

     This time it was the pager. The Sun was just barely peaking over the horizon, so at least he'd had a bit over eight hours sleep.

     "The base is under attack!" yelled Solange, sounding more than a little panicked. "All the guests left yesterday, and none of the others are back yet!"

     "I'll be right there!" Randy promised, already jumping out of bed.

     "Get this! It's the Specialists!"

     "Wh-what?! You're sure?"

     "I'm sure. Bunter is sure. The staff members here are sure."

     "Great..." said Randy, feeling a sinking sensation.

     Ribs barely healed, and he was heading into a fight with an entire super team, possibly under mind control. And according to Solange, there was no-one else within an hour's travel time to come to the rescue. He desperately needed some way to take out as many of the team members from a distance as he could, but Template didn't have any ranged attacks except throwing things. There were weapons in the base, but getting in to get them...

     "No," said Randy, remembering. "Not Template. The Revolutionary."

     "What?" said Solange, over the noise of the assault.

     "Expect The Revolutionary," said Randy, signing off and pumping everything into speed.

     He went into the bathroom, stood before the full-length mirror and changed into The Revolutionary. Taking Solange's advice, she began adjusting her form. Her bust swelled, filling out the flowing, long-sleeved, fine white linen shirt. Her legs became longer, though only a bit, due to still needing to fit the breeches. Her skin and hair became lighter, her face a bit more square, her eyes brown. The Revolutionary twisted in front of the mirror, quickly examining herself, and nodded. With the top-boots - and the stockings inside - the black tricorn hat, the black kid gloves, the riding cape, the domino mask, the heavy belt with loading equipment and the brace of pistols, she looked like something from a bad period movie. Yet the garb was not only authentic - if meant for a man - it had been carbon dated to the Revolutionary War period. The Revolutionary smoothed the folded-down collar of her shirt and nodded again. This would definitely do. Not what she'd want to wear every day, but for an emergency alternative to Template it was fine.

     Randy had been saving a template slot for a special occasion. Making one last check of herself, The Revolutionary templated her new form. A quick change to Randy and back showed it had taken. With a quick nod, she headed for the door. And stopped. Too much chance of being seen, that way, even this early. In too much of a hurry to change back to Randy, walk somewhere unseen and change again, The Revolutionary went into the kitchen. She opened a window onto a little-used alley backed up to the blind side of a store, flew out, hovered while she pushed the window closed, then shot straight up.

     The Revolutionary was already noticing some shortcomings of this form. Not only was her lack of a bra obvious, but her large, unsupported breasts wobbled distractingly with every movement. Worse, the cool morning air was making her nipples both quite prominent and very sensitive to the rubbing they were doing against the inside of the shirt. The Revolutionary gritted her teeth and ignored the sensations, pouring on the speed.

     She arrived high over the base in just a few minutes. It did, indeed, look like the Specialists were attacking. With the glare of the external lights supplementing the still-rising Sun, The Revolutionary could see Brobdignag - their brick - tearing huge boulders out of the ground and hurling them at the main entrance. Between rocks, X-Burst shot at it with her energy beams, apparently to clear away the debris for her teammate's next shot. The others weren't actively attacking, but Roundabout, the team leader, was obviously giving orders, and the others were on watch. Only... this didn't look like an all-out attack. It looked like an effort at intimidation. The Revolutionary got on her com.

     "Yeah, they haven't actually tried to break in; just throwing and blasting," said Solange.

     "Call them on the external PA and ask what they want," The Revolutionary suggested.

     "We have an external PA?"

     "Oops," said The Revolutionary. "Looks like your training in base operations has a gap."

     She explained what to do. Seconds later Solange's voice came ringing out over the woods.

     "What the FUCK do you maniacs want?!?!"

     Okay, she needs training in negotiation, too, was The Revolutionary's sour thought.

     "You will turn Template over to us now!" Roundabout cried, jabbing his finger dramatically at the nearest camera.

     "Her trial's not for another two months! Go away!"

     "We have been hired by an agency of the federal government to bring her in for questioning!"

     "If that were true you'd have knocked and shown a warrant," said Solange, after a quick consult with The Revolutionary. "We're getting all this on tape, y'know. You're the ones who will be going to court, now!"

     "I'll knock," said Brobdignag, throwing another boulder.

     The Revolutionary had seen enough. They were either mind controlled, or far more corrupt than she had thought. They knew better than to act like this for a legitimate arrest. She flew back over the forest and landed. She put her hands on the grips of her brace of flintlock pistols and began charging them while she pondered her course of action. She couldn't simply let them keep hammering at the base; too much chance of someone inside getting hurt, and important, expensive equipment getting damaged. And those things would happen sooner rather than later, the way they were pounding on the side of the hill. Waiting for someone else to show was therefore out. The Revolutionary sighed. With as much energy in the pistols as they would hold, she crept up to where she had a clear line of fire, and drew with both hands.

     Bowman had drilled her on proper shooting technique, and under his instruction she'd become quite accurate with both hands. Time to put that training to the test...

     Note: The hoppers are suborbital VTOL-only craft, capable of traveling anywhere on Earth in under 90 minutes. However, for trips of more than one-third maximum range they need to be refueled before the return flight. Also, because they use cryogenic propellants (LOX/LNG) which will evaporate with time due to ambient heat leaking in, they are not used for long missions unless a supply of both liquid oxygen and liquified natural gas are known to be in the destination area. The Intrepids' hoppers can carry four people comfortably, plus they have a pair of jumpseats which can be folded down for two additional passengers.

     The Hawks are VTOL supersonic craft which can also take off and land using conventional runways. They are fueled by common airliner or military jet fuel, and capable of aerial refueling. Normal round-trip range is only about a thousand kilometers. Cruise speed is Mach 2.5; dash speed just over Mach 3. The Intrepids' Hawks can carry six comfortably, up to ten with a bit of crowding. They also have a wing and fuselage design which minimizes sonic booms, but they still normally only go supersonic over water, outside the three-mile limit.

     Most long-established teams have some variation on one or both of these types of vehicles.

Chapter 13: Retaliation

     Except when going against Energex, Randy/Template/The Revolutionary had not needed to combine skill with might. With normal bad guys and even most masked villains, simply ignoring or taking their attacks while disarming them and then holding them was usually enough. Against Energex even skill plus power had not been enough. But the Specialists were medium-level supers, roughly in Template's league. Template had never really fought an equal before, except in practice, and The Revolutionary wasn't looking forward to doing so. This could be a long, painful fight with a doubtful outcome... unless she fought really smart.

     Bowman, Colossa, Rapscallion, even the Black Mask, had all in various ways made the point that a fair fight was one you won. No-one had criticized Template for ambushing Energex in New Orleans; he was so powerful that practically any tactical advantage would be accepted. And now The Revolutionary was outnumbered by most of a team. She felt no compunction against staging another ambush.

     The Revolutionary moved carefully through the undergrowth, into a position where she had a clear line of sight. With the pistols in her hands and charged, she aimed the right one at Brobdignag. She waited until he was relatively motionless, with a rock over his head and ready to throw, and fired.

     The blue-white beam caught him square in the upper chest. He grunted mightily and dropped, the rock falling on top of him, then rolling off.

     The Revolutionary hoped he wasn't badly hurt. The numbers said that a typical result would be him being left stunned for a few minutes. But an atypical result...

     No time for uncertainty now. She threw herself to the right, rolled to her feet, raised the left pistol, took a quick site, and shot again, only using half the charge. Roundabout was turning to look towards the source of the attack. The beam caught him in the lower chest, under the floating ribs on the right. He dropped as well. Again, he should not be seriously hurt, but put out of the fight for a while.

     The Revolutionary quickly resighted, aiming at X-Burst, and shot a third time, using the rest of the charge. The woman looked startled.

     Should have known an energy beam shooter might be resistant to energy beams...

     Still, that was the team leader and brick both down in under two seconds. The Revolutionary was starting to lose some of her anxiety; as a team, in a coordinated effort, they could have taken her easily. With their big hitters taken out by ambush first, and the other two rushing in without a plan, they had little chance.

     The anxiety came back with the arrival of Skeedaddle, the team's speedster. His fist slammed into her face hard enough to knock her back into the trunk of a tree, a glancing impact from which she bounced, spinning, to the ground. Both guns flew out of her hands. As she tried to rise he came in again from a different direction, this time throwing half a dozen punches. He backed off when The Revolutionary actually managed to block some of those. None of this actually hurt her significantly, but the attacks were so fast she simply didn't have much time to respond beyond reflexive defense moves. Triple speed obviously wasn't enough. The Revolutionary notched hers up to factor five, trading strength to do it.

     The Revolutionary remembered something Tiger had said. "The worst part of dealing with super speedsters is that when you finally start to get the upper hand, they break with one hit." She still wasn't as fast as Skeedaddle, but was now faster than he was expecting. The Revolutionary pretended she was rockier than she actually felt, weaving on her feet a bit as she rose, trying not to overdo it. Skeedaddle considered the situation.

     Be patient, The Revolutionary thought. I've traded punches with Energex. I can handle a few blows from a human-strength speedster, if that's what it takes to lure him in.

     Skeedaddle grabbed a broken limb and charged, swinging his makeshift club at The Revolutionary's head. She froze, as if not sure what to do. At the last moment she threw herself to one side, kicking her legs into his path. He dodged, but by sheer accident the toe of her left boot grazed the speedster's side, almost dropping him. The Revolutionary rolled to her feet, just as an energy blast caused the ground where she had landed to erupt. X-Blast was definitely in the fight, now, maneuvering for a better shot. The Revolutionary dodged behind the cloud of debris the attack had raised. Due to her amped-up speed, it was still rising and spreading. Where was Skeedaddle?

     There! Heading in with his club, again. The Revolutionary had an idea. At the last moment she made as if to throw herself to the side again, only instead she simply jumped up and twisted horizontal in the air. Skeedaddle ran straight into her thighs, realizing what was happening but unable to overcome his inertia in time. The impact tumbled The Revolutionary to the ground in an ungraceful heap, but thoroughly knocked the wind out of Skeedaddle.

     The Revolutionary had hoped that her heightened speed would let her strike at X-Blast before the latter could react. Unfortunately, while not actually a speedster, she had very quick reflexes. The Revolutionary found herself unable to close, dodging beams and taking several glancing hits over the next few, frantic seconds. Abruptly, she dropped, with a yelp, into a dry creek bed she hadn't known about. She thought she might use that to keep under cover while moving to flank, but twin blasts brought down trees on either side of her.

     X-Blast didn't think the toppled trees had caused much damage to their mysterious opponent, but couldn't tell for certain. A quick check showed that neither Brobdignag nor Roundabout were seriously hurt. She moved towards Skeedaddle, keeping a wary eye on the gully. The speedster was already sitting up, though he was still wrapped around his hurt. Okay; now she could in good conscience devote her efforts to making sure that bitch paid for ambushing the Specialists!

     She straightened from checking Skeedaddle, and took a step. One of the trees she had dropped over the gully shot into the air. X-Blast fired at the gully with both hands, then at the flying tree, chopping it into three pieces. She couldn't tell if either attack had hit the woman; couldn't actually see where she was. X-Blast hesitated, then turned back to the gully. A slight sound, an unexpected shift in movement, made her look back up just in time to see that her opponent had grabbed the base of the blasted pine and was swinging it in a downwards strike right at her. The needles whistled with their rush through the air, as X-Blast screamed and dodged. Too late.

     Like some enormous, furry club, the tree slammed down on both her and Skeedaddle.

     The Revolutionary didn't waste time checking them; even if they weren't out they'd be pinned for a while, and if X-Blast used her powers to get free sooner that would be obvious. Instead, she flew towards the access path to check on Brobdignag and Roundabout. Both were out, but didn't seem seriously hurt. The Revolutionary felt a burden lift.

     "Solange, open all doors between me and the equipment room," said The Revolutionary, over her com, remembering to slow her words.

     "Goooottttccchhhaaaaa..." said the young woman, her voice seeming to drag out due to The Revolutionary's still-high speed.

     The Revolutionary fretted while the massive doors slowly creaked and popped open, wondering if they might have been damaged enough to fail before getting wide enough. Fortunately, they had been designed to take punishment. The moment there was enough room The Revolutionary flew towards the gap. Only remembering that she needed more room, in this form, when she banged a breast painfully on the door. Swearing softly under her breath, The Revolutionary flew on, hand to her chest. In the equipment room she grabbed five sets of power-dampening restraints (two for Brobdignag) then flew back outside. Minutes later, all four attendant members of the Specialists were securely bound.

     The Revolutionary found her pistols after a brief search, then sat down on a rock to take a breather, letting her speed drop to just twice normal.

     She felt tired, but elated. She had several bruises and contusions, some minor burns, and her left bicep had taken a solid hit from one of X-Blast's shots, her lip was split again and her left tit hurt. But she had won, with no-one seriously hurt on either side. Solange called to report that the feds were on the way.

     Time for me to fade, The Revolutionary decided.

     She stood, sneering down at the Specialists, most of whom were now conscious and fuming.

     "You will not be the last to fall before The Revolutionary! Let all enemies of freedom beware!"

     And she walked off into the woods.

               *             *             *

     At the post-fight debriefing the next morning Randy was still feeling upbeat.

     "One more thing," he added, after finishing that account. "The Revolutionary has much less equipment on her than Template carries; just her costume, guns and a com. Bowman, can you help me work on that? I don't plan to use her again, but didn't actually plan to use her this time, either. I'd like to be prepared, just in case."

     "We'll work on it," said Bowman, grinning from a combination of Randy's enthusiasm and the chance to put together yet another set of super gear. "I could even try to make most of it seem period... Yes, wouldn't that be an interesting challenge..."

     "The federal agency the Specialists claim to have been working for have denied hiring them," said the Black Mask. "The name of the man who signed their contract is not anyone known to be part of that agency; the branch named does not exist."

     "I don't believe it," said Rapscallion. "Not only that they would hire themselves out like that, to go against another team, but that they wouldn't bother to check things out before signing."

     "There is substantial suspicion that they were influenced in some way," said the Black Mask. "Even they are expressing confusion about exactly how they came to participate."

     "We told the feds and the press that The Revolutionary was someone we knew who wasn't part of the team," said Colossa. "Pretty much the truth, actually. That Solange, inexperienced and panicked, called her when no-one else could arrive in time."

     "Gee, thanks," the young super muttered sourly.

     Colossa gave her a brief hug.

     "It's called taking one for the team, hon. Don't worry; we made sure we praised you for defending the base."

     "Since it is illegal to reveal the secret identity of someone who hasn't been convicted of at least one felony, they aren't pressuring us to tell them who 'she' really is," said Bowman. "You at least don't have that to deal with. Though presenting a second mask ID to the world wasn't exactly the brightest move you've ever made."

     "And what was with that 'All enemies of Freedom beware!' bit?" said Rapscallion, with a toothy grin. "Laying it on a bit thick, weren't you?"

     "Hey, the idea was to make The Revolutionary as different as I could from Template," said Randy, defensively. "Template is pretty easy-going, so I figured I'd make The Revolutionary a real stuffed shirt."

     He blushed as the others laughed.

     "Okay, okay, so she's buxom," Randy muttered, "and desperately needs a bra. You can blame that part of her appearance - and a few other body parts - on Solange. Those were her suggestions."

     "I'll help you with the bra," said Solange, playfully. "You're pretty big up top as The Revolutionary. One of my old ones might even fit."

     "Gee, thanks for offering to share your underwear with me," said Randy, rolling his eyes.

     There was more laughter.

     "Does anyone have any more business?" said the Black Mask.

     "So are we charging them or not?" said Randy. "The Specialists, I mean."

     "They have already been charged," said the Black Mask. "They are in turn threatening to have The Revolutionary arrested for assault, and us hence charged with harboring a fugitive, plus a number of other things. Our lawyers are talking to their lawyers. There is much yelling back and forth, currently, but I think both sides will agree to chalk this up to the Specialists' succumbing to improper influence and let all legal matters drop.

     "On a less happy note," said the Black Mask, turning somber. "Tomorrow is Amazonia's funeral. We will be taking one of the hoppers to the Guardians' base, and commuting with them from there. We leave at eleven AM, Eastern Time."

     "And that reminds me of one more thing," said Randy. "Why was Mesa spreading the news about Amazonia's death, and why did he ask for me instead of Template? I thought only Tiger and Amazonia of that team knew we're the same person."

     "Yours was one of the names on the list Amazonia gave them of who to contact," said the Black Mask, quietly. "She knew you first as Randy, as did the rest of us, after all. And since Amazonia was in a special clinic connected with the University of California she gave the Guardians as the contactees. Mesa just happened to be the one on watch when the call came in."

     "Well, I need to go rest," said Randy, rising with a moan. "I'm got some serious aches, including one in a part of my body I don't even have right now."

               *             *             *

     The return flight in the hopper was a quiet one. They had left Solange on watch at the base, since someone needed to be there and she had never met Amazonia. Template found herself missing the youngster.

     Solange was waiting for them in the hangar, looking nearly as subdued.

     "Welcome home. Uhm, how did...?"

     "It was a nice service," said the Black Mask, "And we had good weather, both for the service and the trip there and back."

     "Well, some stuff came in while you were gone which I think might help lighten your moods. I've got Bunter ready to show it in the monitor room."

     Nineteen inquiries as to whether the Intrepids were accepting new members had come in. Even as the Black Mask went through these, another call was answered, by Bowman.

     "Incredible," said the Black Mask. "There are a few who are obviously trying to take advantage of the gap in our membership left by Amazonia's death, but most seem motivated by a combination of our recent legal triumph and Template's activities in New Orleans."

     "Well, that's flattering," said Template.

     "About half are experienced supers, active for at least five years," said Bowman, sounding a bit awed.

     "That's great news!" said Colossa.

     "For us, yes," said the Black Mask. "However, many of the applicants cite either the lack of a team in their area to join, or the recent disbanding of one, as the reason for their availability."

     "Oh," said Template. "Ow. I remember hearing that some teams were considering disbanding, rather than try to operate under the Carstairs Act. I'm just surprised that so many did so already. Aren't they going to reform, now that it's on the ropes?"

     "That it will be repealed is far from certain," said the Black Mask. "And even if it is, there appears to be a good chance that the people behind it will present something similar, and the pogrom will simply resume where it left off. So they are right to wait and see."

     "We'll just have to wait this political mood out," said Bowman.

     "In the meantime, though, we can evaluate these men and women," said the Black Mask. "I've already eliminated several, but would like your confirmation, Bowman."

     "Uhm, yeah, I agree with all of those," said the archer, nodding. "Yeah, especially this guy. He's been thrown out of three other teams already."

     "That still leaves twelve," said Colossa, peering over their shoulders. "We've often said our ideal team strength is six, with at least three of those having superhuman strength and resilience."

     "There are more than two promising applicants, here," said the Black Mask. "My suggestion is to interview all of those left after this initial cut, and accept at least four of them on a provisional basis."

     "We'll have to adjust the budget some," said Bowman, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

     "We can have a yard sale!" said Rapscallion. "Get rid of some of that old stuff from the Fifties and Sixties taking up space in storage!"

     "No," said the Black Mask.

     "Oh, c'mon; even you have complained about it," said Rapscallion. "There are museums and private collectors who'll pay a mint for that junk!"

     Template, grinning, caught Colossa's eye. She nodded, and the two of them quietly left.

Chapter 14: Exposure

     "Ready to relieve you, Solange," said Template, flying in for her turn at monitor duty. She settled gracefully to the floor beside the seat as the teen rose.

     "Got some stuff saved for you," said Solange. She smiled. "I think you'll like 'em."

     The first item was an interview with famous retired statesmen and scholar David Moine. In response to a leading question from the interviewer about the culpability of supers in the recent mess in New Orleans and other areas affected by Hurricane Katrina, he refused to be led. Instead, he had some very flattering things to say about supers and their work during disasters.

     "The benefit provided by supers in this sort of situation is primarily an enabling process. While they, themselves, do much good directly, they also allow ordinary humans to do their jobs better. As an example, the Corps of Engineers faced a Sisyphean task with the dike breaches in New Orleans, because material was washing away nearly as fast as - and in some cases faster than - they could place it. The supers found non-conventional ways to block this erosion, giving the Engineers a solid foothold from which to fight the flow. The supers then proceeded to other tasks."

     The next item was a short news segment about how the Washington, DC Supreme Court (not the US Supreme Court) had upheld a lower court ruling that the Carstairs Act was unconstitutional. 

     "And there's one more bit of good news, especially for you, Template," said Solange, handing over a printout. "The charges against you have been officially dropped and the bail returned. You'll be getting a registered letter here, probably later today, but the lawyers sent this e-mail announcement to the team, so I went ahead and read it."

     "Whoa!" said Template, grinning. "Three solid good news hits! Thanks!"

     "My pleasure," said Solange, trailing her finger along Template's shoulder and down her arm as she slowly walked away. "Or it would be, if you'd ever loosen up a bit."

     She smiled and sashayed out of the monitor room, leaving a rather flustered Template.

               *             *             *

     Randy dropped towards the secluded area of the park near his apartment, smiling in spite of the problems which still lay ahead, and the sadness left over from Amazonia's funeral. Overall, things were looking up. His parents had gone home convinced that the local police were at least partially responsible for getting them all worried over nothing... though they still wouldn't admit there actually had been no crises. Template was off the hook, legally, for acting in violation of the Carstairs Act. Public opinion was solidly behind the supers again...

     Suddenly, he was in a fully-enclosed room, all metal, with a single, round wall and radiused corners at ceiling and floor, falling...

     Randy reflexively put everything into resilience and independence. He finished dropping to the floor and immediately rolled to his feet, into a defensive stance, a maneuver drilled into him by the Black Mask. There was no obvious threat. He pumped enough into speed to raise himself to factor three, and began a careful examination of the room.

     A portion of the wall slid open, revealing a display screen. On that an image appeared. Randy recognized the man, despite the fifteen years which had passed since their last meeting.

     "Dr. Herford," said Randy, so astonished he needed a moment to remember his speed. "I mean, Dr. Eugene Hartford."

     There were other people in the room with him, most notably a very shapely brunet in a white super outfit.

     "I must admit being surprised, seeing you turn up after all these years," the scientist said. "Still, the delay in follow-up examination may have had benefits. Your power definitely seems to have increased. You disposed of the Specialists almost casually."

     Randy felt an odd chill, but put on a show of denial and defiance.

     "So what makes you think I dress in drag and fight superheroes?"

     "Oh, please. When your name came up in connection with the Intrepids I immediately suspected that you were the person who rescued two of the team members at that shopping center. I began checking into your background, and had covert surveillance placed on your home and the locations around your town which you frequent. I at first thought you might be that Template woman, since she made her first appearance not long after you began working for the Intrepids, and demonstrated powers which coincided with yours. However, I soon learned the two of you were actually lovers, which explained why you were spending so much time at the Intrepids' base. Then the cameras caught a stranger flying out of your kitchen window..."

     "It was an emergency," said Randy, reluctantly, slowly, giving himself time to embellish Hartford's mistake. "Template was still hurt from fighting Energex, and the rest of the team was out of the base. As a reserve member I was next up. I wanted a form nobody would connect to me."

     "Well, had I not known you could change your form I would not have made the association myself," said Hartford, smiling, expression and tone almost paternal. "I admit being surprised you would act the hero at all, much less in such a flamboyant fashion. It simply does not fit your personality profile. I did identify you as the flying man the Air Force confronted over the Appalachians, since even as a child you loved to fly. Given what the Intrepids have suffered as a result of the Carstairs Act, though, whatever led you to decide to take such a risk simply for personal enjoyment?"

     "My uncle has a country place, that no-one knows about," said Randy, seriously. "He says it used to be a farm, before the motor law."

     "Was..." said Hartford, frowning.

     "It's lyrics from a song, about a guy who defies his government to have fun," said the costumed woman, in a voice like honey, her accent possibly Australian. "Based on a science-fiction short story."

     "Hmph," said Hartford. "Stereotypical superhero defiance. I expected better of you, Randolph."

     "Given what I know about your expectations, I take that as a compliment."

      "Would you be good enough to change into that body you used to defeat the Specialists, so that I may see the results of my handiwork?"

     Randy's reply was calm, casual, vulgar and personally insulting.

     "Ah, well," sighed Hartford. He turned to look at the white-clad super. "Clover, my dear, would you be so kind?"

     "Of course, Doctor," she purred, moving to take his place. "I want you to change into the form you used to defeat the Specialists, please."

     Randy felt a strong compulsion to do just that, which he only recognized as such because of his experience with Solange. He thought he could resist it, thanks to the same experience, but had learned from both the Black Mask and Bowman to choose his battles. He grimaced, as if fighting the order, then shifted.

     "Satisfied?" she snarled.

     The Revolutionary drew her pistols and began charging them.

     "Now, now, none of that," said Hartford, quickly retaking his place. "Those walls have retroreflective materials within them. Can you survive your own attack?"

     Actually, she could. Again, however, she decided not to tip her hand too soon. She scowled at the image and shoved the guns back into her belt. Where she could, if not too distracted, continue charging them at a low rate. That gave her two possible surprises to pull when the opportunity came.

     "Y'know, I have nothing personal against you," said the Revolutionary, in a neutral voice. "If I hadn't found out about your other work, and you'd simply asked, I'd probably have come right along."

     "Your inclinations - like your posturings - are irrelevant," said Hartford. "I do not ask. I do"

     "How'd you capture me, anyway?" said the Revolutionary, as much to stall as to gain information. "You must have used something like those stasis guns the Intrepids and those other teams were captured with. Zapped me just as I was landing."

     Dr. Hartford scowled and ignored her, focusing on his control panel.

     The room became warmer. Noticeably warmer. Uncomfortably warmer. Which meant that the room was approaching 500 Kelvins - might already be past that - if the Revolutionary could feel it that quickly. She looked around, trying to find the source of the heat, while also trying to remember if anything she was carrying was flammable or explosive. The powder horn actually carried pepper, since she didn't need propellant but might need to distract someone. The reloading pouch had lead bullets, but they'd just melt, if the room actually got hot enough. Her com was also in...

     Her com! She'd been in here less than a minute, and just hadn't gotten to it yet. She quickly pulled it out of the pouch and hit the call button. No signal.

     "Right," she muttered, "of course you shielded this room."

     Temperature continued to rise. The Revolutionary couldn't determine if the air was being heated elsewhere and pumped in, the walls were being heated, there was some powerful thermal IR source irradiating everything, or a combination. She pulled out one of the lead balls and dropped it on the floor. To her surprise, it immediately began to melt. Yet the plastic on the com was fine, and even the soles of her boots were refraining from smoking. Was the heat strictly in the air? No, the ball had melted fastest where it touched the floor. Template's invulnerability didn't include her costume or what she was carrying. Why did the Revolutionary's? She put the com back in her pocket, thinking hard. The heat seemed to have stabilized, and she was only mildly uncomfortable. Of course, she also wasn't breathing, and really didn't feel like trying. The screen had gone off and the shutters were closed over it, most likely to protect it from the temperature in here. If she'd been able to use her gadgeteering she might have been able to figure out the weak points of the room, but right now she couldn't spare enough.

     The Revolutionary put everything but her resistance into strength, and reached back into her pouch. As she pulled out a handful of .60 caliber bullets, though, she reconsidered, and put about half her strength into speed. Transferring a single bullet from her left hand to her right, she quickly wound up and threw it as hard as she could. She turned a bit to the left and repeated that action, then a bit more to the left and did it again. In seconds - about half a minute, subjectively - she had thrown nearly all of the bullets at various parts of the walls, ceiling and floor of the room, in a nearly even pattern. There was no discernable effect, except a few dollops of molten lead on the floor. With a surge of relief, she put her strength back into independence. She still felt like she needed to breathe, but the urge wasn't so strong, now.

     The heat began to abate, but just as the Revolutionary was catching up on her breathing she realized the temperature wasn't stopping at normal. Mist filled the air as the water vapor condensed into fog. Then turned to snow. The temperature continued to drop as that settled out, and not long after there was more snow; carbon dioxide, this time. The Revolutionary was actually starting to feel chilly as the walls began to wet with liquid nitrogen. She hugged herself and jogged in place. If the room became cold enough that would actually help, since each gas which condensed out lowered the pressure and hence the rate at which heat was conducted away.

     Dr. Hartford apparently realized this, too. The room's temperature soon returned to normal. The screen still remained hidden.

     Over the next several minutes the Revolutionary was shaken (both with sound and by the floor vibrating) stirred (as the room spun in a complex pattern), pummeled with various projectiles and bombarded with radiation of several types. More than once she was forced to put all her power into resilience, but she survived without injury.

     There was a pause, barely long enough for the Revolutionary to catch her breath and take stock. She realized that the reason for the rapid-fire pace of these tests was not due to impatience on Hartford's part, but to keep her from making escape attempts. In keeping with that principle, her thoughts were interrupted by a deep, rumbling vibration.

     The ceiling was getting lower. This was no simple solid piece descending; the domed roof was reshaping, flattening, crowding down towards her. The Revolutionary decided against fighting it, and lay flat on the floor, putting everything into resilience except for enough independence that she didn't need to breathe. The ceiling pushed down against her with an uncomfortable pressure for several minutes, then began easing off.

     As the ceiling rose the Revolutionary quickly got into a crouch and began lifting with her legs. She remembered that the surest way to break a machine was to "help" it, forcing it faster than it normally went, past its normal limits. Until now the sounds of the room's operation had been muffled, almost sedate; as the Revolutionary pushed she began to hear a moaning hum. The ceiling lifted past her normal height; the Revolutionary added growth to the mix, forcing it higher than she could have otherwise, and even faster. There was a muffled thump which shook the floor, and the ceiling lifted all the way as the Revolutionary grew to full height and began to straighten. It wasn't moving all that fast, but she wanted to make use of even that limited momentum, adding it to the force of her lift. The ceiling crashed against its stops with a jolt which made the entire room shudder, fine dust sifting out of invisible seams. The Revolutionary thought the stops might have given some, and heaved. The ceiling and floor deformed, dishing in where she shoved, but then stopped. Worse, when she relaxed the dome started down again.

     "Now see what you've done," said Hartford.

     She couldn't see him, but could definitely hear the amusement in his voice.

     The Revolutionary had definitely broken something. Unfortunately, it was whatever had been holding the roof up. Fortunately, without the equipment forcing it down it wasn't all that heavy. She shrank to where the roof was just above the top of the screen, which was once again uncovered.

     "Remarkable," said Hartford. "I designed in a twenty-percent factor over my best estimate of your current abilities, and you still exceeded the structural limits of the equipment."

     "When the Intrepids get here I'm sure Bowman will be very interested in your technology," panted the Revolutionary.

     "I'm certain he would be, if your friends knew where you were. Or even that you are missing. So far only an hour and," he checked his wristwatch, "twenty-eight minutes have passed since your capture."

     "My stamina is super human, too," said the Revolutionary, boldly. "I can keep this up all day, and so far you haven't found anything to hurt me."

     "I don't need to hurt you. When my tests are done I shall simply place you in stasis again and drop you somewhere. Perhaps into an active volcano. Or I might propel you at hypersonic velocity into the Intrepids' base."

     The Revolutionary managed not to grimace, but she hadn't thought about those sorts of options. She chewed her lower lip, pondering. The experiments seem to have stopped, perhaps because she had broken something important. Now was the time to take the initiative. She could brace the ceiling on her shoulders, grab her guns and try blasting. She could shove the ceiling upwards again, hoping to break it completely loose.

     Her ruminations were interrupted by a distinct bang from outside the room. Hartford and his assistants started; then the doctor shut off the viewscreen.

     I was bluffing about them finding me, was the Revolutionary's first thought.

     Then came another bang, and a distinct shudder. The Revolutionary stirred herself. She shrank to minimum size, actually below her normal height. Then grew as fast as she could, shoving the ceiling upwards. Again, there was a muffled, deep thump, and something seemed to give, but nothing which would allow her escape. She repeated the process. The ceiling might have gone a little higher, but not enough to leave an opening or come off. Once more and she could definitely see a gap around the base of the ceiling. Again, and several of the lights went out, with the gap larger. Still no way to push the ceiling aside or prop it up. She was about to shrink again when a pair of hands even larger than her own currently were squeezed into the gap, one up and one down.

     "Colossa!" gasped the Revolutionary.

     "Try it now," came the giant's base organ pipe voice.

     Together they were able to push the roof up and hold it while Rapscallion and Bowman propped it that way. The Revolutionary shrank to normal size and flew out into the large room which held her prison and the equipment operating it. Quick hugs all around were the order of the moment.

     "How did you find me?" said the Revolutionary. "For that matter, how did you know I was missing?"

     "Those stasis guns caused so much trouble that we persuaded Kenniman to build a detector," said Bowman, grinning. "He figured out that any time those things are used they create a distinct, pulsed distortion of spacetime. The fields also reflect everything, including neutrinos. The biggest problem when his prototype equipment twigged this time was that with just one detector currently operating he could only give us a range from it."

     "We were among those alerted when he detected the application which presumably imprisoned you," said the Black Mask. "Bowman noticed that the arc crossed near Randy's home. On a hunch, we tried contacting both him and you, without success. Then came another application, less than a hundred klicks away. We simply searched along the second arc until we found Hartman's base."

     "I love clever people!" said the Revolutionary, laughing. Getting what had happened to whom could wait until they were private. "What happened to Hartford and his people?"

     "All captured," said Bowman, smugly. "This isn't a proper base, but a rented warehouse. The small staff was all in the control room. A single gas arrow took care of them. The others tied them while I tried to use the controls to get you out. Unfortunately, you'd already caused enough damage that most of the equipment wasn't working."

     "Be careful of the super, Clover," said the Revolutionary. "She's some sort of mind controller."

     "We'll take appropriate measures," said the Black Mask.

     "So was he bluffing about putting me in stasis, there at the end?"

     "I didn't try that function, but I assume so," said Bowman. He looked at her and grinned. "You were a long way from free, and they did have some stasis rifles. But you might have made it out on your own."

     "Well, I'm just thankful to my friends that I didn't have to."

               *             *             *

     The post-mission briefing was over and the team members were sitting around a table in the monitor room chatting, when a call came in. It was for their senior member.

     "I see. Thank you."

     The Black Mask hung up and turned to the others. He looked straight at Randy.

     "That was a contact of mine. One of Dr. Hartford's assistants outed you to the feds."

     Randy closed his eyes, feeling a deep throbbing in his temples. He gave himself a quick, vigorous shake, and sighed.

     "Only the Revolutionary?"

     "Yes, fortunately."

     "Why the Hell would he do that?!" demanded Colossa, outraged on her lover's behalf. "That's another felony on top of kidnaping and torture! Even if he was planning to use that knowledge to try and bargain, why go ahead and tell them?!"

     "Perhaps out of sheer spite," said the Black Mask. "Do not attribute to clever scheming what can be explained by simple enmity."

     "Well, that's not so bad," said Randy, though from his tone he didn't seem sure. He sighed again. "Guess I'm gonna be talking to reporters. Not to mention neighbors, acquaintances and family members."

     "I suggest that you simply try to ignore this until confronted with it," said the Black Mask. "Any voluntary statement will only confirm the information, and the feds themselves are bound by the same laws regarding the revelation of a super's civilian ID. Wait until someone asks a question, and either deny it or give the explanation you gave Dr. Hartford."

     "Yeah," sighed Randy.

               *             *             *

     Tired, sore, emotionally and physically exhausted, Randy staggered into Colossa's room. He was hoping for a hot shower, a friendly massage and some serious sleep. What he got was Colossa and Solange in some very revealing lingerie.

     "We're going to give you a proper hero's celebration," said Solange.

     "No!" said Randy, firmly, backing away, actually shocked. "I'm sorry, but no. Call me old fashioned, call me stuffy, I don't really care, but I just can't do this. Not now, maybe not ever."

     He spun around and walked quickly out.

     "Randy! Wait!"

     Colossa grabbed some clothes and tried to dress as she hopped towards the door. Solange stopped her.

     "No. He's right. We pushed too hard. Just... let him get over it." Solange looked at the closed door. "Maybe he's just been through enough for today."

     Colossa sighed, and just sat down in the floor, a tear running down her cheek.

Chapter 15: Confrontation

Theme music: "The Politics of Dancing" by Re-Flex.

     "I asked you to meet with us because Bowman has noticed something in your training records," said the Black Mask. "The immediate incident was your training session last night. You exceeded all of your previous records, most of them by a margin of more than 10%."

     Template barely refrained from scowling. The reason for her hard workout was her continued irritation at Colossa and Solange. All the next day they had kept trying to "explain" what they were doing when Randy walked into Colossa's room. As far as Template was concerned no explanation was necessary.

     The Black Mask nodded to Bowman, who called up a chart on the main screen.

     "Notice these lines are all trending steadily upwards," said Bowman, using the mouse pointer to demonstrate.

     "Well, yeah," said Template, nodding. "I've been exercising more the past two years than ever before in my life. Of course I'm getting better."

     "Exercise alone could not provide this level of improvement," said the Black Mask. "Also, when the actual data points are considered..."

     The smooth trend lines were replaced by jagged data lines. And all the jags were up.

     "You tend to have a period of mild improvement, of the sort most supers who train hard show," said Bowman. "Then, there's a sudden jump. And most of the jumps are right after you have some sort of challenging encounter. These three, for instance, are all due to Energex."

     "I'm not sure what you're trying to say," said Template, puzzled.

     "We think you still haven't shown your true potential. All those years of holding back, only occasionally using your powers and never to their full extent, stunted their development. And now that you finally are using them, they're making up for lost time."

     "So, what does this mean, Bowman? I mean, how strong will I get?"

     "I can't make an exact prediction," said the archer. "However, before you were captured by Dr. Hartford there appeared to be a slight leveling off over the past couple of months. Even that last fight with Energex only caused a minor jump. I think the reason for this new, largest increase is due to Hartford challenging you in so many different ways. I took that into account and adjusted the trend to what you see here. If that is a genuine trend, and the training data accurately reflects it, I see this."

     Again the trend lines - mild curves actually - were on screen, only now they extended into the future. Within another year her ratings would be more than double the earliest values, leveling off soon after that.

     "Still... not up there with Energex, but... Wow!"

     "That could be optimistic, or a drastic underestimate. The reason the jumps are getting smaller - until this last one, which was due to unusual causes - could simply be that you're approaching your full potential. Or perhaps that, since you're stronger, the challenges are simply less, uhm, challenging."

     "We don't see any problem, here," said the Black Mask, "either for you or the team. We just thought you'd like to know about it."

     "We would also like to perform some tests," said Bowman. "Measure things not normally included in the workouts. Like thermal tolerance."

     "No problem; just let me know when you need me," said Template.

               *             *             *

     The next few days passed uneventfully. Bowman quietly adjusted shifts so that Randy/Template had little contact with Colossa or Solange. None of the younger folk commented on the change. When they did encounter each other they were polite but uncommunicative.

     Despite the Black Mask's previous advice, Randy had told his parents - in a roundabout way - that he'd recently used his powers to help the Intrepids. He left out any details, but asked that if anyone mentioned this sort of thing to contact him before responding. They were puzzled - and surprised - but agreed. Of course, Randy's main reason was so they'd be prepared if his participation in the fight against the Specialists became known.

     The first of the new candidates for membership arrived during this period, which kept everyone busy. Especially Randy, who had to keep track of who had been introduced to whom, and which of his guises should already know what. Though the hours were the same, the work evaluating and training the recruits was exhausting. Randy was very glad when his day off finally arrived.

               *             *             *

     Randy was enjoying a lazy Saturday at home - no duties, no worries, just relax and catch up on things - when his phone rang.

     "Randy!" came his father's familiar response to a phone greeting. "Son, now that we know you have super powers, there's something we need to ask you about."

     "Now that you know?! Dad, you've known I had super powers since I was eight!"

     "Well, yes, but we didn't know you still had them," his father harrumphed.

     "They don't generally just vanish," said Randy, dryly. "And they do tend to run in our family. I have them, Mother has them..."

     "I hardly think being able to change your eye color counts as a superhuman power," muttered his father. "Be that as it may, that bit about running in families seems to have some truth to it. Your niece, Jenny, was recently caught, well, starting fires. Turns out she can absorb and release heat."

     "Whoah, that's cool!" said Randy, grinning at the news, and his own pun. Which naturally completely escaped his father's notice. "Wait a minute; what do you mean by 'caught'?"

     "She and some others were playing super hero make-believe, only she actually did what she was supposed to just be pretending to do."

     Well, that was frustratingly vague. Randy knew from experience he'd get no more details from his father, either. And if he asked his mother, she'd want to know why he hadn't believed his father.

     "So how long has she been able to do that? I mean, that's pretty young; she's, what, eleven?"

     "Something like that."

     "Well, what did the testers say?"

     "Eh?" said Randy's father. "They took her to a doctor, if that's what you mean."

     "No, I mean people specially trained to evaluate powers. Didn't Julie take her to a powers expert for an evaluation?"

     "Where would we find such people?" was the insulted reply.

     "There're some listed in the Yellow Pages, Dad."

     "I'm sure your sister would not take her daughter to some place she found in the Yellow Pages!"

     "Her family doctor is in the Yellow Pages. So is yours."

     "Stop changing the subject!"

     "So what is the subject? Did you just want to tell me the news or did you have something else in mind?"

     "Well, Julie and Max want to know what to do with her."

     "What to do with her?" said Randy, baffled. "Is she causing or having problems?"

     "She's starting fires! Isn't that problem enough?! I mean, really..."

     "I'll call Julie and talk to her directly," said Randy, biting back an exasperated sigh.

               *             *             *

     As it turned out, Jenny was nearly thirteen, and doing far more than starting fires...

     "Flying, too?" said Randy.

     "From what I've read online that's common with fire powers," said Julie.

     "Well, you can't trust everything you read online," said Randy. "Hmmmm, starting fires, immune to heat and maybe absorbing and storing it... This might be energy manipulation, rather than fire powers."

     "So what can we do about her?" demanded Julie.

     Randy chewed his lower lip, thinking.

     "I know - or know of - several people who are experts at determining what powers someone has. Some of them would probably be willing to instruct her, but I doubt they'd want to commute. I'll check around."

     "It's just... this is so out of the blue!"

     "You know Mother has a power," said Randy, treading carefully, "you know I have powers. Why is it so unexpected?"

     "Now don't you start again!" she snapped. "Listen, call me when you learn something."

     She hung up. Randy sighed and did the same. He loved his parents, and his sister, but they could be so unreasonable, for no reason he ever understood. And pointing this unreasonableness out - however diplomatically - only ever brought him grief. Sometimes he wondered if they all had the super power of immunity to logic.

               *             *             *

     Template had only been at work for a couple of hours Monday when the Black Mask arrived with three elves in tow...

     "That's right; you haven't met any of the Bluegrass Elves," said the Black Mask, actually smiling in reaction to Template's expression. "This is Runner - AKA Dr. Fenrisa Freysdottir - and two of her grandchildren, Speartip and Quickstone."

     "P-pleased to meet you," said Template, trying to act as if she met elves every day.

     The first-introduced was the tallest and most feral of the trio, actually being covered in two-tone fur and having a muzzle and claws. Even she only came up to Template's sternum. She looked like a midget werewolf. The other two looked more human - if you disregarded the large, swoopingly pointed ears - but the tops of their heads barely rose above Template's belt. All three looked quite juvenile, and not just because of their size. And she could see that while the younger two generally had no body hair, there was a substantial amount on the tops of their be-sandaled feet.

     "Oh, the pleasure is all ours," said Dr. Freysdottir, in a high, clear voice, as she offered her oddly-shaped hand. "Edgar has told us much about you."

     "'Edgar'?" said Template, confused, as she shook hands.

     "One of his names," said Quickstone, rolling his large, slanted eyes towards the Black Mask.

     "Hey! Runner, Quickstone, Speartip!" said a familiar voice, calling from down the hallway. "Didn't know you were invited to this party, too, but I guess it makes sense."

     Template looked up to see a smiling Tiger approaching. She waved, but was now even more puzzled.

     "Why is Tiger here?" said Template.

     "Because no-one has ever successfully mind-controlled him," said the Black Mask. "And you are being included because you have demonstrated an ability to resist outside influence."

     Template thought about that for a moment, and about the last time the Black Mask had mentioned elves, and smiled.

     "You've found Eve Hind."

     "Yes."

               *             *             *

     This was undoubtedly the weirdest trip Template had ever been on, and the strangest group she had ever been part of. The Black Mask was as untalkative as usual, and Tiger immediately went sound asleep, twisted around into a position which should not have been possible for the human skeleton. That left her and the elves. Template desperately sought a topic of conversation.

     "I'm not familiar with your, uhm..."

     "Species," Dr. Freysdottir volunteered.

     "Species," said Template.

     "We're descendants of some New World elves and some European elves who came here as the Roman Empire was falling," said Dr. Freysdottir. She gave vent to a surprisingly girlish giggle. "Did you know that Tolkien's Hobbits were inspired by us? He knew someone from central Kentucky. Though he gave them human family names. You can still find Hobbits and Bagginses in local phone books."

     "I, uh..." said Template, completely boggled.

     "Grandmother," said Quickstone, smiling, "I do believe you've broken the poor youngster."

     "Oh, posh," said the wolf-like elf, with a dismissive gesture. "If you don't stretch, you don't grow."

     She winked one of her huge, soft, brown eyes at Template.

     "That's why I'm so much taller than most Bluegrass Elves."

     "We're almost there," said the Black Mask.

     Tiger stirred, then yawned and stretched, blinking his eyes to clear them.

     "Sorry. Sometimes changing time zones makes me really sleepy. And airplane flights always do."

     They landed in a clearing of a national forest, not far outside of Baton Rouge.

     "Haven't been in this area since they sent most of us home from helping with New Orleans," said Template, as they exited.

     "Tiger, your job is to guard the plane, and to act as lookout," said the Black Mask.

     "That's it?" said Tiger, disappointed. "I came all this way just for that?"

     "Oh, very well," said the Black Mask, straightfaced. "If something goes wrong you can also be the cavalry."

     "Gee, thanks," the plainly-dressed super muttered.

     Their destination was an antebellum country mansion. There were no modern amenities Template could see, though good design could hide those. Neither could she see anyone about.

     "I wonder if she knows we're coming?" mused the Black Mask, as they walked onto the wide front porch.

     "The three of us have been masking our presence," said Runner. "Eleanthe is quite perceptive, but only if she thinks to look, and with her ego..."

     "So where is everybody?" said Template, feeling very uneasy.

     "There are some people 'way over there," offered Quickstone, pointing. "Eating lunch."

     "Yeah, that's about it," said Speartip, nodding.

     "And it appears that Eleanthe - or Eve as she calls herself these days - is eating her own lunch, on the back veranda."

     "So we go around, then," said the Black Mask.

     "Just stay close together, and quiet," said Runner. "The less disturbance we make, the easier it is to blend us into the background."

     Indeed, they actually reached the door to the screened-in back porch before the woman inside started. The group, seeing her notice them, moved quickly to surround her.

     Template found it hard to believe that the beautiful, gracious, well-dressed woman sitting there was some sort of master mentalist. But believe it she did. Even if the elves didn't already seem to know her, the Black Mask had said so.

     Apart from looking briefly startled, there was no disturbance in "Eve's" equanimity, despite their abrupt and unexpected appearance.

     "My gracious," she purred, in a charming Southern accent. "To what do I own this privilege?"

     "I think you know why we're here," said the Black Mask.

     And like that she changed, as did the feel of the situation. The air was suddenly full of menacing tension, accompanied by a feeling of barely-restrained power. The woman even looked different; older, more mature. More threatening. Her dark eyes sparked with carefully restrained anger. Template could swear she heard a cymbalom playing.

     "Do you know just who and what you are challenging?!"

     The accent was gone, as was the charm. Her intonation was vaguely European, her voice an icy alto. Her expression was much harder, the smile now sinister.

     "Yes, yes, you're a child of the gods, nearly a thousand years old," said Dr. Freysdottir, calmly. "And you know perfectly well that I'm an elf and fifteen centuries old. Now, we're only here to talk, and with my grandchildren helping I seriously doubt you could even escape. So, please, let's try to settle this peacefully."

     "Ask your questions," said Eve, darkly.

               *             *             *

     "This is very worrying," said the Black Mask, as they walked back towards the Hawk. "If word gets... out..."

     He stopped dead. Template and the others had to step around him to see what had caused such a reaction.

     Tiger was ambling towards them, with three men in shredded clothes. That is, Tiger was walking. The men appeared to be unconscious, with one slung over Tiger's right shoulder and the other two being dragged.

     "H'lo," said Tiger, smiling and nodding amiably at the others. "Got bored."

     "I'm going to assume you didn't simply assault three innocent hunters," said the Black Mask.

     "Sniper team in Ghillie suits, with sniper rifles, spotting scopes and so forth," said Tiger. "They were watching the house. Probably government trained."

     Tiger casually laid the men on the ground. At least one of them had obviously wet himself. Template felt a surge of relief that there was no blood, and no readily apparent broken bones.

     "My, are they unconscious," said Dr. Freysdottir, crouching to examine them.

     "Easier to read that way, right?"

     "Yes, Tiger, though a different technique is required."

     "So, while she's doing that, tell me what you learned."

     "Turns out she just wanted to see how gullible the American voter was," said Template. "She found a man with political ambitions but a personality, intelligence and education totally inappropriate to national office. Then influenced him, and those around him. She admits she was surprised he was actually elected, but given his opposition not very. She says that once he was in office the experiment was over and she moved on."

     "I suspect her actual reason was a combination of boredom and wariness," said the Black Mask. "The President is not only under close media and opposition scrutiny, but once elected is guarded by government supers, including some skilled mentalists."

     "I'm so glad we don't have politics," muttered Quickstone.

     "We have politics," said Speartip. "They're just a lot more straightforward."

     "What is really worrisome is the ancillary information Eve gathered before breaking off contact with Thurlin," said the Black Mask. "The main villain in this piece is Armistead Carstairs himself. He hates supers with a manic passion, and would do anything to rid the world of them. One reason I suggest we keep this information to ourselves is fear of what he might do in a panic if he learns he's been found out."

     "He was behind the plot by Gabriel Sheverda to alter reality?" said Tiger, a hint of menace in his tone.

     "Not immediately, but he organized the group which sponsored that. He was also behind the child super slavery ring, and a number of other enterprises."

     "I was surprised that Eve actually seemed upset over the slavery ring," said Template.

     "Well, she's always had a soft spot for children," said Runner. "She's not evil; just very old and easily bored."

     "She still didn't do anything about it," muttered Speartip.

     "We have to go to the press with this!" said Tiger, irritated. "This guy makes Energex look like a Boy Scout!"

     "Let's not," said the Black Mask, sighing. "I believe it might be safer to watch his activities and counter them covertly ourselves. By the time he realizes his efforts are experiencing more than simply a string of bad luck, we should be in a position to take him down before he can perform some desperate act."

     "Good point," said Tiger. He sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. "I just hate the idea of him still..."

     "We will be acting against him," said the Black Mask, firmly. "But subtly. That could be more effective - besides being safer - than a direct confrontation."

     "Okay, got all I'm going to from these yunts," said Runner. "They were supposed to watch the mansion - they're on shifts with two other teams of three - and take out any supers who approach Eve, and Eve as well if any do. Only Tiger got to 'em first."

     She smiled up at him.

     "Thanky."

     "De nada."

     "We need to make sure they don't report this, and that they don't turn up missing," said the Black Mask.

     "I think we three can take care of that," said Runner, confidently. "We'll adjust their memories, heal their hurts, and put them back where Tiger found them. They've had training in resisting outside mental influence, but that depends on them being conscious to resist it."

     "Might have trouble with some of the equipment," said Tiger, casually, "It kind'a... got in the way."

     "We'll fix that, too," said Runner, sighing.

     "And we definitely need to tell Eve about this," said the Black Mask. "It's quite likely to make her an ally in this effort."

               *             *             *

     They returned to the base that afternoon. Two hours later a general meeting was held for all the regular members, Tiger and the elves keeping Solange and the tryouts occupied with some extra instruction. After the information learned in Louisiana had been shared, and points made and questions asked, the Black Mask was about to end the meeting, when Template said she had something important to say.

     "All right," sighed the Black Mask. "What is it you want to talk to us about?"

     "Have any of you noticed anything odd about Solange, lately?" said Template.

     "Not lately," said Rapscallion, strongly implying that he'd long thought there was something odd about her.

     "Is this about...?" began Bowman.

     Template cut that speculation off short.

     "Her body has been changing to fit the development of her personality."

     "Eh?" said the Black Mask, frowning. "I assume you mean something more than puberty is at work, here."

     "Yeah. And Dr. Whiskers agrees with me. We had both wondered at the fact that she doesn't look like either of her parents, when the morphologist who altered all three of them originally gave her features in common with each of them. Neither does she look much like her previous, male self. And Dr. Whiskers pointed out that mind control powers often are associated with other mental powers. So while Dr. Freysdottir was here we had her tested."

     "She's a self-morpher," said Bowman, nodding.

     "Exactly. A Type VII, Class Two, Level V Shapeshifter. She can cause gross changes in her physiology, though only slowly. This explains things like her astounding appearance and unusual swimming ability. She might even in time learn to alter her own DNA, making her a Class One. She'll almost certainly be able to increase the speed of the change, though even a Level I would need hours to completely change gender."

     "So she could turn her own self back into a guy," said Colossa, who had been silent until now. "I mean, if she wants to."

     "I think any restriction on that would be more psychological than abilitative," said the Black Mask. "Given what was done to her, the thought of changing her form - even doing it herself - is repulsive to her now."

     "I wonder if she'd be better off with one of those new teen teams which have been forming lately," said Rapscallion, thoughtfully.

Chapter 16: New Life and Long Term Plans

     Randy skirted the colorfully-foliated maple, flying upright and just fast enough to keep ahead of his pursuer. He could hear her calling to him in amused aggravation.

     "Uncle Randy! You said you'd teach me flying!"

     Grinning, Randy flew to the top of the tree and did a slow-motion dive into it, being careful but still making considerable noise. He could see her, out in the full sunlight, flying in typical super posture, body horizontal with arms outstretched. She was a smart girl, and had already moved upwards in response to the sounds he'd made. Getting a vague glimpse of something inside the canopy, she went down the far side. Randy lowered himself to her level, head down, just as Jenny came ducking under the branches.

     "Boo!"

     She shrieked, but with laughter, from being caught by playful surprise, and from his posture.

     Randy lowered himself clear of the tree and rotated upright. Jenny, chewing her lip in concentration, came even with him, still horizontal and a bit wobbly. Randy backed away slowly, to give her room. Trying to imitate him, Jenny turned herself upright, but lost altitude.

     "This is hard!"

     "Well, I've been doing this a lot longer than you," said Randy. "You just have to practice."

     There was no heat involved with her flying. From their race earlier he already knew her top speed was high subsonic, but that she wasn't immune to the effects; he'd had adapt his sister's motorcycle helmet - with lots of airplane tape running well down the back, front and shoulders and under the arms of the old jacket he'd also had her wear, to keep the helmet from shifting at high speed - before she could even get over thirty kph. He hadn't tried her altitude tolerance, yet. He suspected it would be in the normal human range.

     Randy's sister, Julie, was several years older than him and had married right out of high school. Which meant Randy was more like a big brother than an uncle to Jenny. Given that, and the fact that he enjoyed playing with kids, Randy had a pretty good idea of how to make Jenny work at using her powers well: Provide examples of how much fun they could be.

     He drifted over the small, above-ground pool, much to the excitement of Bowser, the family's Doberman. Jenny watched, puzzled, as Randy grinned, then slowly tucked into a ball, rotated a complete forward roll like a circus tumbler, then straightened, throwing his arms wide. He held that position as he rotated around his vertical axis. Finally, Randy turned a slow cartwheel in place.

     "Your turn," he told her, moving aside.

     Jenny moved into position over the pool, looking a bit intimidated, though not frightened. With the pool below her she knew that while she might get wet if she fell, she wouldn't get hurt.

     Even though Jenny moved through the exercises more slowly than her uncle had, her movements were much less precise, and her position drifted in three dimensions. Still, she stayed over the pool and above the water, while coming close to repeating her uncle's movements.

     "Very good," said Randy, smiling and nodding. "Okay, break time."

     Randy sank gracefully to the deck beside the pool, Jenny dropping down with a loud sigh of relief.

     "Wow," was all she could manage, as Bowser came over to make a fuss for attention.

     Julie had been asked to wait inside during Randy's evaluation of her daughter, to reduce performance anxiety. Now she came out with cookies and milk, which were much appreciated. Jenny somehow managed to chatter at high speed about how much fun she was having while simultaneously downing several cookies and a tumbler of milk.

     "Okay, your uncle and I have some things to discuss," said Julie, after they'd snacked and chatted. "You go fly, but don't go outside the yard or above the treetops. We'll be right here."

     Fatigue gone, Jennie launched herself into the air with a laugh, and proceeded to play a complicated, just-invented game of three-dimensional tag with Bowser.

     "I have to admit," said Julie, after they watched the game for a bit, "when she first started doing that I was frightened. She even scared herself, a couple of times. But seeing her playing with you, and now Bowser... Why wasn't I used to this sort of thing from when you were doing it?"

     "You were already a teenager, in high school and dating, when I got my powers," said Randy. "Super powers weren't really a part of your world. I guess they just weren't real to you, until now."

     She sighed and nodded.

     "So what do we do?"

     "I can help train her with some things," said Randy. "If nothing else, show her what not to do, and why. Like, don't fly high, or the lack of air will make you faint."

     "I hadn't even thought of that," said Julie, startled. She shook her head. "My first impulse was to forbid her to use her powers. But you're right; she needs to be taught. Thank you."

     "I can't teach her everything," said Randy. "I don't know it all myself. But I know at least one super couple who have a kid not much younger than Jenny. They live on the West coast, but have promised to answer questions. And there are people I know who can properly evaluate her powers, and possibly spot problems before they're serious."

     "I'm just surprised she started this so early."

     "Most supers show at least some abilities at the start of puberty," said Randy. "Mine were artificially sparked early."

     He laughed.

     "Just be glad she started showing spontaneously. Some people have to be hit by lightning, or locked in a nuclear reactor."

     "You're kidding," said Julie, not sure whether to laugh.

     "Nope. Several case of both on record," said Randy, grinning.

     She did laugh, then, Randy joining her for a bit. They stopped when Jenny came back to see what was so funny, a panting Bowser following gamely.

     "I just wish there were schools for supers," said Julie, hugging her daughter, while Randy skritched the dog. "Even just a supplemental program of some sort."

     "You aren't the first," said Randy, wryly.

               *             *             *

     The weather had been nice while Randy was at his sister's, but as he flew back towards the Intrepids' base he saw that a storm front had already moved into the area. With the GPS display on his helmet faceplate and the stereo speakers built into the lining letting him DF on the base's radio beacon he had no trouble finding it, but between the bursts of rain and the gusting winds, he had a bit of trouble staying on course. Still, for an experienced flyer with the sorts of powers Randy had the storm was a minor inconvenience.

     Inside the hangar, stripping off his wet flying gear, Randy was surprised to see Colossa approaching, looking contrite.

     "I think I figured something out," she said, softly. "I'm sorry, Randy."

     "Huh?" he said, a bit confused.

     "Seriously. I pushed too hard at a time when you were very understandably not in the mood. Then I kept trying to justify what I did. But what I needed to do was apologize."

     "Oh." Randy sighed, standing there holding his dripping leathers, not sure what to do himself, just now. Finally, he tossed the wet flying clothes aside for the moment, and went to Colossa. "Thank you. I guess I should have..."

     "Don't," said Colossa, putting a finger to his lips. "Let's just... see how it goes, okay? I do still care about you..."

     "And I care - a lot - about you," said Randy, surprising himself.

     "...but if we try to force things to go back to what they were that would just make things worse," said Colossa, getting it out in a rush.

     "Yeah," said Randy, reluctantly, after a moment.

     They looked at each other for a few seconds of silence, then kissed, lightly, more in the manner of friends than lovers.

     "I can be patient. If it helps us get back together."

     "I'm glad," she whispered.

     She looked like she wanted to say more - do more - but forced herself to get to business.

     "We have an unexpected visitor," she said. "Eve Hind showed up, asking us for protection."

     Randy groaned.

     "Let me guess. Somehow, whoever was having her watched found out we'd visited her, tried to have her eliminated, but she caught on and evaded them. Now she's here, thinking we owe her, since we were the ones who got her in trouble."

     "That's close, actually," said Colossa, smiling.

     "Just another day in the life of a superhero," said Randy, philosophically.

               *             *             *

     Randy felt a little weird talking to George Sturgis as his usual, civilian self, in the lawyer's office, but it was as Randy that he needed legal help in two different matters.

     "So you're saying I can't charge Hartford and his cronies with attempted murder?" said Randy, outraged. "Why not?!"

     "There was a jury case, back in the mid-Fifties, where a villain got a murder charge reduced to accidental manslaughter, because his lawyer convinced the jury that no reasonable man would believe that his death trap would do anything more than delay the hero while he escaped," said George. "It just happened that the hero in that case was having a bad day..."

     "Okay," said Randy, sighing. "Guess kidnaping and wanton endangerment will have to do."

     "Well, those are criminal charges, and already filed," said George. "You want to go for mental distress, not only for kidnaping and 'testing' you, but for outing you?"

     "Sure," said Randy, feeling down. "Why not?"

     "Why this interest in civil charges? When we first spoke about the legal issues, you were satisfied with just seeing them tried and put away. Do you need money for some reason?"

     "Yeah...," said Randy, slowly. "I'm working on a special project connected with my niece... and I'd like your firm's help in setting it up."

     He explained what he had in mind.

     "That is fantastic!" said George, actually excited by the idea. "Okay, yeah, and you definitely need money for that."

     "And a few other things."

     "Well, I'll see what I can do. Hartford, himself, isn't worth much - never cared for money, never even patented his own inventions - but some of his backers are very wealthy. We were already planning to go after them with criminal charges. This will hit them where it will really hurt!"

     "Have you been able to connect any of them, yet, with the kidnaping of all those teams Template rescued on her first mission?"

     "You didn't hear? That was Hartford. His scheme, his base, his people. He was still recouping after losing all those resources when he decided to go after you. He apparently wanted to see if he could use what he learned from you to build better powered agents."

     "Then those goons with the stasis rifles were artificial supers!" said Randy.

     "His first operational batch," said George, nodding. "All of them were captured, so he was taking the opportunity to make improvements before starting on the next batch. Only now, hopefully, he'll be a lot longer before getting to that."

               *             *             *

     Days turned into weeks, which became months. Winter arrived late and was cold and wet but not very severe. Spring arrived with the promise of renewal. The President finally came out of seclusion and took up where he'd left off, as if his long absence hadn't happened. New hero teams were forming and old ones reforming. The Intrepids had decided to accept four of the applicants under evaluation; they were just too promising to turn any of them down. Template was starting her third year as a costumed hero, and found herself in the unsettling position of being considered an old pro on the team by the newcomers. Most of them had been wearing the mask for a year or two already, and three had been on teams before; they were doing quite well learning the ropes of working with the Intrepids.

     Randy and Eve (Eleanthe) Hart drew puzzled looks from the other team members for repeatedly sneaking off to have long discussions about something. Even Colossa didn't know exactly what they were up to, but knew it had something to do with Randy's nice. The most puzzling part was that Eleanthe seemed more happy and excited than any of the few who knew her had seen her in decades. Even Dr. Freysdottir commented on the change, during a visit to check on the behavior of the rogue psi.

     Colossa and Randy slowly rekindled their relationship. Solange kept her distance... until the day after her official eighteenth birthday, when she was quietly approached by both Colossa and Template and politely - almost timidly - asked if she'd like to try a threesome with them.

     Settling the legal details following the assault on the base by the Specialists required The Revolutionary to make several court appearances, which attracted some attention. Fortunately, the matter of her "true" identity didn't come up during the proceedings. After several requests by a persistent talkshow host, The Revolutionary agreed to appear on his show... And became a surprising hit, making several return visits. Somehow, the idea that she was actually Randy never became public knowledge, or acknowledged officially, the feds having apparently decided to keep quiet.

     Crime was down, though politics was up. By the middle of Summer several people had already announced their intention to run for President in the next election. Both of the two major presidential candidates - neither of them Vice-President Gould, who had announced he would retire from politics as soon as his current term was up - were avoiding the topic of supers entirely. The Carstairs Act was finally given the coup de grace by the US Supreme Court.

               *             *             *

     It was good to see the huge conference room at close to its intended capacity, but Template had something to bring up just for the more senior members. As the morning briefing approached its end she caught Bowman's ear and whispered something to him. The archer/gadgeteer looked startled, but shrugged and nodded.

     "Okay, Solange, we senior team members have something we need to discuss," he told the younger woman. "Would you take charge of the new member training for the morning?"

     "Sure!" said Solange, though some of the recruits - all older than her - looked a bit confused.

     "Okay, what is it you wanted to tell us?" said Bowman, after the others left.

     Template shifted to Randy, surprising them.

     "I'm glad you selected so many new people," said Randy, quietly, "and that they're doing so well. Because I want to resign from active status."

     That declaration caused a substantial stir.

     "No, no, it's not anything you've done!" said Randy, loudly, hands raised. "Just... I think it's time I went out and did something else."

     "But..." said Colossa, looking distressed.

     Randy gave her a hug and a kiss.

     "Look, I love you folks - some more than others, I admit - and have no problem continuing to socialize or work with you, but I've never really felt like I was a part of this team," said Randy. "No, it's not that you haven't made me feel welcome. It's... most of my hero work has been by myself or with just one or two of you. And when I do go out with the whole team I'm usually the one held in reserve, 'cause your experience and tactics are for the four of you plus, previously, Amazonia. And I'm not Amazonia, in powers, skills or style."

     "I'm sorry to hear that you wish to leave," said the Black Mask, meaning it. "I hope you'll be willing to remain on our reserve member roster."

     "Oh, definitely," said Randy. "These past two and a half years have been the most rewarding of my life - and, yeah, I know I'm young. I've learned a lot from you four. Mainly how to be a hero. And that I need to be a hero. And, I certainly don't have a problem commuting. Uh, for the training sessions."

     "Right," said Rapscallion, smirking. "For the training sessions. Ow."

     "So you're going solo?" said Colossa, with mixed emotions. "That'll be hard. You'll have to set up a lair, and..."

     "Nope," said Randy, grinning. "I have other plans. I'm going to be part of a major project. Already spoken with the team's lawyers about it. You ever hear of Pine Island?"

     "Not far from Bermuda," said the Black Mask. "Used by a supervillain mastermind in the early and middle Sixties. Massive base, complete with artificial volcano. Taken over by the federal government after he was defeated. Simply unraveling all the dummy corporations and blind holdings took some of the best minds of the GAO over four years. Discovering all the hidden laboratories, concealed rooms and secret tunnels and disarming anything dangerous took nearly as long. The hazmat cleanup took almost a decade. The island and its contents was eventually declared a US possession."

     "Solange said something a few days - months, actually - back, wanting to know why there weren't any schools for super kids. My sister had a similar question. Well, a group I helped organize is going to build one, on Pine Island. It's a beautiful place. Many of the people who spent years studying the facilities moved there and brought their families. They created an entire community. Many retired there, buying the island after the government finished their work and closed the villain base down. Many of that original group - including some of the henchmen and lab workers originally brought in on parole to help figure out how the equipment worked - have kids and grandkids who grew up on Pine island. There's already a high percentage of supers in that population. They need super teachers, and my minor is in education."

     "You?!" said Rapscallion. "Running a school?!"

     "I'll be a teacher and the assistant principal," said Randy. "Eve Hind will be running the place."

     That caused a stir!

     "According to everyone I've asked about her," said Randy, loudly, "including Eve, her main problem is that she's bored. She's never deliberately hurt a child, in fact treats them pretty well. We figure if we can give her something interesting and important to do we'll not only keep her out of trouble but get a lot of good use out of her."

     "I take it at least part of the motivation for this decision was your niece," said the Black Mask.

     "Yeah," said Randy, nodding. "I talked to Tiger some, remembering that he has a kid about her age. Tiger said the problem is a common one. Finding a school for an actively super kid, I mean. Not only are there more supers these days, they seem to be discovering their powers at an earlier age. I complained about nobody having any sort of formal training for them. He smirked and said if I felt that way, I should organize one myself. He helped me start doing some checking, gave me a list of contacts. As it turned out, there was already a group trying to create one, just recently started."

     "They must be keeping a very low profile," said the Black Mask. "I checked into that, too, after hearing Solange's complaint."

     "Well, your contacts aren't quite the same as Tiger's, and they may have started right after you checked," said Randy. He took a deep breath, and smiled. "We're going to reopen the base and convert it into a school - K through high school and with some college-level technical stuff. Just this past week we decided to officially start the project next month, and hope to have the school open for the Fall semester."

     "My God," said the Black Mask, obviously impressed. "I'm half tempted to join you..."

     "The beauty is that being a privately-owned island outside the US proper, we'll be free - well, mostly - from government interference. But since it's a US possession, we'll still be citizens."

     "That sounds... wonderful," said Colossa, with mixed emotions.

     "You're all invited," said Randy. "To join the staff onsite, or as guest instructors. We can certainly use you."

     There were thoughtful looks all around. However, the consensus was that while they would certainly be willing to help in various ways, their first duty was to the Intrepids.

     "We're going to miss you," said Rapscallion, actually tearing up.

     "I'm going to miss you folks, too," said Randy, choking a bit. "But not only will I be visiting when I can, you folks have the hoppers and can come down for a tropical vacation whenever you want."

     "Now that's the best offer you've made yet!" cried Rapscallion.

     "When will you be moving out?" asked the Black Mask, as pragmatic as ever.

     "By the end of the month," said Randy, his mood becoming subdued. "To be open for the Fall semester, I'll have to work on the school over the rest of the Summer; don't be surprised if you don't hear from me for a while. And don't be afraid to take the initiative and visit. And not just because I'll be there. There's a lot of people you all know participating in this."

     "Definitely something we'll keep in mind," said Bowman. "If nothing else, I'd love to get a look at that base!"

     Rapscallion managed to grab Randy's hand and looked passionately into his eyes.

     "Call me if you ever feel like letting go," he declared, breathlessly. "And we'll remember the days... of Kid Dynamo..."

     There was more laughter, and Randy gave the other man a friendly hug. The meeting finally ended as they rose to start their day of heroic work.

     This material is © 2006 Rodford Edmiston Smith. Anyone wishing to reproduce it must have permission from the author, who can be contacted at: stickmaker@usa.net