Right. Vice. He was gone. Or at least indisposed long enough for Brad to get away. Survey his options. He continued to make his way from alley to alley until the morning crowds became too dense to avoid. His eyes skimmed along the nearby buildings. There; a fire escape. He made his way up to the roof, climbing along the side. A single one of his fur-covered arms could lift his entire body weight and then some. It was less climbing and more just pulling himself upwards. He hit the roof, his paws splashing in the puddles of slush left over from last night's snow.
He could still call the empire. He was still technically white with blue eyes, they'd probably be fine with it. The whole thing. And it's not like he had to talk about the other thing Vice did to him. The things he made him feel.
No, the Empire would do the exact same thing the PRT would do; shove him in a hole and pretend he didn't exist. The only difference would be that they would bring him out sometimes when he was useful. He couldn't go there. He couldn't go anywhere.
He hopped another rooftop, making sure to scan the skies for flyers. He could cover an absurd amount of ground in a single leap. He was doing 30 foot horizontal leaps above alleyways, and he could probably go farther.
He landed on another roof, a speckled tar-and-gravel. He was moving closer to the Boardwalk, now. He could see countless Christmas decorations spanning the air between the stalls. Red and white and green, over and over. Light-up reindeer and inflatable Santa's. Gingerbread flavored coffee for 10 bucks a cup. Christmas Carols sung by artists long dead over the speakers. And all through it, families. Mothers and fathers, watching over their kids bundled up tight in scarves and coats.
For a time, he sat down on the edge of the roof and watched them. At some point, he figured, one of them would look up and spot him. Brockton Bay was a Cape haven for the northeast. Tourists would be on the lookout for a picture of any of the local flying capes, Dauntless or Aegis or any of the New Wave family.
But right now, all they seemed to be focused on was each other. Not one of them looked up. He knew it was only a matter of time, though. Eventually, some little kid would look up, trying to catch a snowflake on his tongue, and they would see Brad, giant and monstrous, sitting on the roof. Watching.
And then they would scream, and the PRT would be called, and it'd be all over. Stuck in the Birdcage, for the rest of his life, however short it would end up being.
He started to wonder how many people he could kill before that happened. His eyes scanned over the stalls. There was stall selling french fires and chicken wings. Could start a grease fire there. Could stab through a few of the cars driving around, block the roads and box the tourists in before closing in and hunting them down one by one. Could just start running, killing half of everyone he came across, and crippling the other half. Leaving the children alive, and then coming back for another pass, to kill everyone who had rushed in to try to help. The paramedics, the firefighters, the mothers brave enough to go back for their kids. All of them, until someone put him down. It's Christmas. They wouldn't be able to get all the capes here, not all at once, not in time. Just an endless gauntlet of every hero in the city until one of them eventually dealt the finishing blow.
One last endurance round. There would be no running away, not from what he was about to do.
He felt his teeth grit. There. That boy in the blue jacket. Stupid thing was eating ice cream in the middle of winter, tongue stuck to the cone, staring directly up at him. Brad's muscles tensed. A knife emerged from along the back of his hand.
Scream, kid. Alert the herd. End it. Doom your family and everyone you love. You get to die first.
The kid's scoop of ice cream fell off the cone onto the boardwalk, where it presumably wouldn't melt until spring. He just continued to look at Brad in complete and utter awe.
And then he smiled, waved at brad, and wandered off towards his mother.
Brad felt some kind of fire just go out inside him, and for the first time since this morning when he woke up in this god forsaken body, he actually felt cold.
"Hey."
Brad exhaled. There was a lightheaded feeling that he was only now aware of. How long since he had last taken a breath? He slowly looked behind him, but he knew who it was already.
His tank top was torn apart and once again stained with blood, presumably his own. His skin was covered in a thin layer of char, and as Brad watched, he could see parts of his body slowly heal themselves, blackened and burned meat turning red and raw before healing over with fresh skin. Like being cooked in reverse. Well-done back to raw in a few short minutes.
His mask had a single crack down the middle, and it appeared to be bleeding. His normally singular right eye was swollen and burned, but on the left side of his face, one of the three notches had opened, revealing an eye that was the same shade of blue as Brad's new ones.
But beyond all of that, there was one extremely obvious injury.
"Vice, what the fuck happened to your arms?" Where normally the shoulder would connect to his arms, there were instead two cauterized stumps.
Vice's new blue eye sagged in shame. "I encountered Armsmaster. He waylaid me and took my arms," he said, before straightening up, the theatrics returning to his voice. "It was my fault; the name should have given me a clue as to his true power. If he isn't stopped, the fool could gain control over the arms of the entire city. Already he embodies the Long Arm of the Law; who knows what else he's capable of?"
Brad just stared. And then he felt laughter, uncontrolled and almost painful, escape his mouth. It didn't sound like him at all, but that was fine. He wasn't sure he had ever laughed this hard before. It would make sense if it sounded different.
He noticed that the shoppers down below were all staring at him, but none of them were screaming or running. A few had their hands over their mouths in shock, a few were on cell phones, but none were running around in panic. A few were even recording, oblivious to the danger they had been in a minute ago.
The laughter in his stomach settled. He brushed a something wet away from his eyes. A stray snowflake that had melted against his fur, probably.
"That was... that was a good one Vice. I don't think I've ever heard than one before."
He shrugged. "It took me the whole walk over here to think of it. You wanna get something to eat? I need some meat to fix my stumps."
Brad closed his eyes. Nowhere to go, he thought. Nowhere but up, anyway.
He opened them again. "Sure, but you're buying."
"Buy nothing, I was going to rob a grocery store."
Brad felt the laughter almost return again, but he clamped down on it. Mostly because he knew Vice probably wasn't joking.
He walked over to the edge of the roof and hopped down, completely unperturbed by the two-story fall. Vice was a bit more perturbed, but he snapped his broken ankles back in their right places in a few seconds. The guy didn't know how to land.
"I tell you, Brad, you've got the makings of a true supervillain yet. That was a fantastic evil laugh you just gave. Perfect debut material, perfect debut location. Couldn't have choreographed it better."
Brad shrugged. A lot of people just saw him lose his mind in public, but he found it hard to care.
"By the way, did you pick a new name yet?"
"Junkyard Dog," Brad answered.
Vice nodded. "Yeah, one of my better ideas. Wasn't feeling 'knife wife'?"
"No. Also you're an idiot for even putting that to paper."
Vice chuckled. "Well, if all goes well..."
He paused and looked up. his mask split down the middle to reveal a vertical maw of sharp little teeth, from which a long worm-like tongue emerged to whip out and catch a snowflake, before retracting and sealing the mask back up behind it.
"...I can save the name 'Knife Wife' for Jack Slash."
This time Brad was sure Vice wasn't joking. His core began to hum.
He would be getting his gauntlet of capes, one way or another.
"But first we should get you some clothes. I heard there's a clothing based cape in the Bay. You ever heard of Parian?"
Brockton Bay, December 25th, 5:13 PM
It turned out that Vice's method of robbing a grocery store was to simply walk in, have Brad grab a shopping cart, and fill it to the brim with the meatiest, boniest cuts of meat, all wrapped in glossy plastic. Then shove and stuff it all the bottom of a shopping cart, along with a thick layer of canned vegetables. Grocer's Choice generic brand lentils and spinach. The entire bottom of the cart had been lined with cases of beer at Brad's insistence.
Vice had shoved his empty arm sockets into 10 pound racks of pork ribs, and they had flexed and bucked as life was breathed back into them. Almost immediately, they had begun to steam like fresh compost and reshape themselves into human arms. By the time they had gotten into the parking lot they were almost back to normal, sans patches of missing skin. Even then, they were rapidly filling back in, like a marching army of pale flesh and pores reclaiming territory.
Nobody had tried to stop them. Some people called the PRT, but they were already blocks away by the time any black-and-white vans had shown up. The only person who actually got in their way was a greasy young man in the store's uniform asking to know their cape names for insurance reasons.
And now, hours later, they were both laying down on some other rooftop on the boardwalk, staking out one of Parian's shows. Well, Vice was. Brad was currently halfway through a case of beer, and only just starting to feel the effects. It's not like he could go prone the way Vice was anymore; his steel-reinforced wolf tits supported his body like the tripod of a machine gun whenever he tried to lie on his belly. So he was on his back, popping open can after can and watching the loose snow drift down. It had to be below freezing, but there was still heat all over his body, in his chest, his cheeks, his loins, his hands and feet. His breath was heavy, spilling great clouds of hot fog into the gray sky. Fuck, had he actually eaten anything today? No wonder he was feeling so drunk. And warm.
"Hey Vice, you're a fucking biologist, right?"
Down below on the boardwalk proper, Parian was doing some rendition of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer, acted out by sickeningly cute plush versions of all Santa's favorite sleigh-pullers. Vice watched the proceedings, his hands cupped over his eyes the same way young kids on the playground would mimic binoculars.
"A Biokinetic, sure, but most of my theory comes from watching the discovery channel," he answered, still keeping his eyes focused on the show.
"Does alcohol make you more horny or less?" Brad had heard conflicting things. Lars had complained that he, personally, couldn't get it up after 5 or 6 beers, but Brad had found himself much more randy after a few cold ones.
Vice shrugged. "Depends on what alcohol and how much. Getting drunk too much can deaden the sensation, but I've also been told that a glass of wine can increase libido in women."
Brad ignored the unsaid implication. "Damn, what the fuck are they showing on the Discovery Channel these days?" he replied.
Down below, Parian's show continued, where Rudolph's bullying at the hooves of "All the other reindeer" had escalated to the point where the red-nosed little shit was being thrown bodily into the sides of nearby stalls, to the raucous cheers of the kids in attendance.
"Do they sell cans of red wine?" Brad wondered out loud, which he then immediately regretted. Vice would make assumptions.
"I mean probably, but who would buy them?" Vice said. I might, thought Brad.
Vice then turned towards Brad, and he saw that inside the cup of his hands, Vice's eyeballs had extruded themselves forwards into a gelatinous set of lenses, forming a pair of organic binoculars. He removed his hands and his eyes snapped back into his mask with a wet slapping noise.
Brad had the sudden urge to vomit, entirely unrelated to the heavy drinking.
"Junkyard Dog, you've asked me a lot of questions over the past 24 hours, and I think It's fair If I asked you a few."
Fine with him. Unless the question was "Wanna fuck on the roof?"
Brad really didn't feel like answering that question.
"Only if I get to ask some more in return. Take a question, leave a question," he replied. Man, Brad hated negotiating. Negotiation was a prelude to compromise, and compromise was a prelude to everyone being unhappy. At least in bloodshed and intimidation, someone was walking away happy. A net gain for the world. That's like, game theory or something. He didn't know, he was drunk off his ass.
"Alright, first question. How does the Empire make money?"
Brad felt kind of disappointed. He had expected something more personal than that. Fine, he could be educational.
"Well, the Empire's a gang. Kaiser and his kiss-asses will tell you otherwise, shit about concerned empowered citizens using their gifts for the national good or something. Nevermind the fact that like half his capes are imported." Brad took another sip from his beer to stop himself from venting.
"Anyway, point is, we're a gang. Or they're a gang. Whatever. Means we do gang shit. Sell drugs, fence shit, run guns. Myself, I run fighting dens, dudes and dogs. Take bets, make money." Brad wondered idly who would be taking over those when he was gone. Probably Lars. Not a great head for business, but he wouldn't give up an opportunity to make himself the center of attention.
"Everyone does a little bit of everything, but the Empire has a shit ton of capes, and a bunch of muscle, which means that most of the money comes from territory. Empire controls the whole Southside, including the commercial district, up until the river and downtown. We've got a protection racket. Business owners, landlords, they pay protection money to us, and we keep the peace and stop the other gangs from coming in and wrecking shit."
Vice scratched at his chin just below the mask. "Hmm. So like a private police force?"
"Yeah, you got it." Complete with payment being mandatory under threat of violence.
"Alright, that's given me some ideas," he said. Vice glanced back down at Parian's show, where a bunch of her animated reindeer were dragging a model sleigh through the air. "Hey, do you think If I got a bunch of flying capes-"
It was concerning, the way Brad could already tell what he was about to say. Brad pictured the whole of New Wave, turned into sexy reindeer and trussed up in harnesses, pulling Vice around in a sleigh as he shouted "Ho's, Ho's, Ho's!"
Brad was honestly excited to see such a thing, if only to watch Vice get shot down by Anti-aircraft guns.
"Yeah, probably," said Brad, cutting the line of conversation off.
"Something to try next year," Vice concluded. "Your turn."
Brad thought about it. He already knew more than he ever wanted to know about Vice, honestly. What could he ask, and what would Vice actually answer? How was your childhood, Vice? Pretty screwed up, probably! What's your real name, Vice? Like that was at all helpful. You got a day job, Vice? You flip patties for McDonalds in between super-powered fuck-fights? You even have a home, Vice? Are you going to fuck me again, Vice? Now there's a good question. No, not that one.
"Why the fuck am I so horny, still?" he finally asked. "I thought you said this was temporary." If he was going to be this fucking hot forever, he didn't know what he was going to do. Something drastic.
"It is temporary. It should only last a couple of days." Oh, good. He could last that long. "Of course, it'll probably come back every month or so. Hormone cycles, you understand."
Brad sat up and was struck with a sudden dizziness. Woof, he had forgotten how much taller he was now. Or how drunk.
"You-" Brad hiccuped. "You gave me a fucking heat cycle?"
"I mean, not intentionally. For the most part. It was more… a biological compromise," Vice responded, his face unreadable behind his mask.
Fuck, Brad really hated compromise. Especially, since Vice had apparently found one that would make himself very happy while Brad would be like this.
No, you know what? This was fine. He could lock himself in some kind of basement for 2 or 3 days and wait it out like an actual werewolf. This was manageable, with discipline and medication.
Brad cracked open another can of said medication. If he drank enough he'd either stop being horny or wouldn't remember what he was about to do.
"My turn." he said. He turned away from the show, where Parian had introduced a large Yeti doll that was kicking the shit out of Rudolph. The kids were still loving it. Glad to see the next generation knew what was important.
Vice took his finger and taped it against the side of his mask, where, across from his normal brown eye, the top of the three notches on the left side of his mask had opened to reveal another eyeball, one identical to Brad's new icy blue ones. Fuck, Brad should have asked about that instead, but he was too… out of it.
"How does your power work, Junkyard Dog?"
Brad blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I tried to use it against Armsmaster and all it did was tell me about the shape of the dumpster I was in. No knives coming out of my fists, no growing armor out of my skin. What's the deal?"
Brad suddenly felt much more alert. He stiffened. "You used my power?"
Vice made a so-so motion with his hand and pointed back to his new blue eye. "More like I'm currently checking it out of a library. A library with only one book in it right now."
Beneath the Blue eye on Vice's mask, two more notches were present. "And you can borrow 3 'books' at any given time, I'm guessing?" Brad guessed.
"Got it in one. Now spill. I was sold the ability to turn into a giant ball of knives and I feel like I've been fleeced."
The beer can, now drained along with the last half-a-dozen or so, was crushed against Brad's head, taking care to avoid his new ears.
"My power lets me absorb and reshape metal inside my body, and extrude it in any shape I need from my core. I can weave the metal inside my body to protect it, and also retract my body inside my core for protection." To demonstrate, Brad took the aluminum cans from the rapidly forming pile of empties and shoved them into his core, located currently in his chest. It occurred to him that from the outside it would look like he had shoved them into some void between his big honking tits. Kinda funny, honestly.
A second later, he reached inside and pulled out a thin aluminum chain, some 2 feet long. He let go of the chain and remained suspended in the air, still attached to his chest.
"I can move any metal that's attached to my core, and any metal attached to that metal. Works bad over distance though. Can move it around best when it's sticking right out of me."
"I can also- " Brad hiccuped. Fuck, it sounded cute when he did that. "-also shove myself into my core, and reshape my body like my metal, a little bit. Enough to put mend cuts and put broken bones back together. So like injuries where stuff isn't in the right place. More complicated stuff sticks around. Chemical shit." Brad cracked open another can and glared at Vice. "You know, like burns. Or poison. Or whatever the fuck you did to me last night."
Vice twiddled his thumbs shamelessly. "Ok, lot of stuff to work with. Just need to actually absorb some metal first." Oh, so Vice tried using it without actually absorbing anything. Moron. Did he think it just came from nowhere?
"That's another question for you, then, Junk," Vice said. At least say the full name, asshole.
Before Brad could even think of a question, Vice suddenly tensed and glared down at the boardwalk. "Better make it quick, Parian's finishing up down there and it's getting dark. Oughta be the last show of the day."
Brad felt himself become infinitesimally more sober between one blink and the next. How long had he been drinking? He looked down at the can in his hand, and, with a shrug, drained it in a single swig before shoving the empty between his boobs where it disappeared and came apart into raw aluminum. It was weird how they were just going. Wasn't there something they were supposed to do first? He was really drunk, despite being so horny. Wait, no, other way around.
"Vice-" Brad hiccuped again. "What's the plan? Exactly? Just run her down like-" Hic. "-like me?" Can't these vocal cords hiccup any lower?
Vice leapt between roofs, getting ahead of Parian's path. "I make no plans until I contact the enemy, Junk! Now follow me!"
Brad squeezed his eyes shut and blinked a few times. He got up from his crouch and half-stumbled, half-ran after Vice, long white hair getting blown into his mouth and eyes along the way. He misjudged his leap and almost ate shit on the other roof.
He really needed to do something about this hair. It was starting to get annoying.
"Sabah Al-Ash'ari."
Parian flinched at the voice. The fact whoever this voice belonged to knew her name was one thing. The sheer confidence the voice exuded was another. She whirled her head around, hoping the mask would make her look alert instead of frightened.
She looked up and down the alley. She could see the spot where she had stashed her normal clothes; just a few dozen feet down the way, there was a duffle bag and a tarp strung up between some old scaffolding, erected years ago for a renovation that would never be finished. Her whole civilian life was in that bag. Clothes. Books from college. Her design notes, dresses and suits she hoped would one day grace catwalks and fashion shows all over the state. Saying 'All over the world' felt too hopeful.
There. Near the top of the scaffolding. A hand reached out towards one of the building's exterior lights, rotating it until it shone upwards to reveal a male figure standing on an old air-conditioning unit that extended less than a foot from the brick.
His execution was perfect. The light caught the underside of his mask just right so the eye-holes were shadowed to look like empty sockets.
His timing was excellent. Parian's eyes had barely adjusted when he revealed himself, a silhouette slowly gaining definition.
His clothes were complete garbage. A pink tank top, cut almost to ribbons and burned on top of it. A corduroy jacket being used as a makeshift cape, as it was too large to wear otherwise. And a pair of what used to be bell-bottom jeans, looking like their titular bottoms had been fed into a wood chipper.
Parian went from scared out of her mind to annoyed in an instant. "Who are you and what do you want?" she asked.
"My name is Vice," he said, putting an unnecessary amount of stress on his own name. "I'm a supervillain, and I'm here to recruit you for a little project of mine."
Parian took a deep breath. "Not. Interested." She knew she had to be forceful. No amount of politeness would make people like this go away. She knew better now.
"I would hear me out before making any decisions," he intoned. "I think you would be very interested in this offer."
God. Another idiot man looking to insert themselves into her life, not understanding when he wasn't wanted. This could only end one way. No backing down. Not again.
It seemed like everyone was spoiling for a fight tonight. She remembered the way the local kids at the boardwalk cheered whenever she inserted an impromptu action scene into the show. Maybe it's something in the water.
Hopefully this wouldn't take too long. She could sacrifice some of her dolls, get them in his face and keep him from following. Grab her bag from under the tarp and run. She might not have to be late.
Parian's family didn't celebrate Christmas, not the way most Americans did. For her father, any day off from work was an excuse to celebrate, to spend the day in the kitchen making special dishes with her mother. Tonight would be the first time since he died they would be doing their traditional Christmas meal.
Kubba Yakhni. Spiced lamb dumplings in broth.
She didn't have time for this.
She felt the reindeer dolls inside her pack twitch like an arm that had been tied behind her back all day. Slowly, her power slipped inside them and began to expand until it pushed against the surface of the fabric. Her power filled them in waves, like a heartbeat. The dolls began to inflate and push themselves out of her pack. It would look comical from the outside; like a clown car, the fully animated dolls appearing much too large for the space they emerged from. Each one of them popped out and began to take up flanking potions, on top of the scaffolding, watching her back, and getting between her and Vice.
Finally, two massive arms and the top of a white ape-like head emerged from her pack, pushing down onto the street and lifting her up like an extra pair of legs. Her yeti doll. Hopefully this was all she would need. None of them looked particularly intimidating, but quantity had a quality all its own. He was outnumbered now.
And if this wasn't enough, she had one more doll, sitting heavily at the bottom of her pack.
She didn't want to use that one.
"I am giving you one chance. Leave now. It's Christmas. We both have better things to do. I'm not anyone's minion."
Vice took a quick little breath in, hopped off the AC unit and slid down the scaffolding. "I feel the need to clarify, Parian. I'm not here to have you fight for me. I already have plenty of muscle. I want you to consult with me on a project."
Parian had the reindeer circle Vice on the ground as she backed up. A few of them scraped their felt hooves against the concrete for effect. He had just gotten between her and the duffel bag and she needed to lure him away.
"Consult on what? A bank robbery? Some sort of hostage scheme?"
Vice's body language suddenly changed. His laid palms facing up, his shoulders hunched over just a little bit. She could see his eyes in the blank expanse of his mask, now. One a sharp, light blue, and the other a brown that was so bright it almost looked orange. Like a bruised peach.
"No, Parian," he said, his voice becoming earnest, losing all theatrics. "I need your help with fashion."
Parian's dolls all stalled for a brief moment. She wasn't sure she believed what she was hearing. Sure, his voice sounded sincere, but she couldn't glean any clues from what little she could see of his face. His eyes just remained steadily on her.
It was rumored that Parian once had a shop, deep in the docks of Brockton Bay. Custom tailoring by capes. And it was true; or rather, it used to be. She had purchased an old store front, abandoned for years and dirt cheap. She fixed it up, her powers helping to clean. Dustpans and brooms suspended on string, teddy bears chucking rubble out of windows, a scene straight from Fantasia. She bought spools, sewing kits, dress mannequins, and a big, beautiful triptych mirror that men and women could see the beauty of her clothes in.
She didn't even get to open the place before some textile corporation brought the boot of NEPEA-5 down on her. Claimed she was disruptive to the textile mills. As if said mills hadn't been sitting empty for the past decade. It didn't matter. She couldn't afford to contest it. It was shuttered, and the mannequins sat alone in front of a set of dusty mirrors to this day.
Vice had begun pacing, circling around Parian's left side.
There. He had opened a way for her to move forward and grab her bag. Slowly she began circling him the opposite direction, moving closer to the tarp. A few of her reindeer would rear up when he got too close, and he would stop advancing. But he wouldn't back away. Parian felt her breathing slow, and grow deeper as she focused. Steady. Steady.
She still had no idea what his powers ever were. Anything could set them off. She could be under the effects of them right now, each second getting her closer and closer to danger.
And then she was there. She reached one of her arms under the tarp, and felt the cold texture of the bag, brushing her fingers along the zipper. She could run, now. Sic her deer on him. They would have been broken down for fabric after the holidays anyways. Just toss them at him and make a break for it.
She thought of her mother, stirring dumplings into lamb broth with chickpeas and onions. She thought of her shop, dusty, cold, and dark. And she thought of the man in front of her, showing no hostility at all. There's no way he hadn't seen her move over to the tarp. He knew there was something important under there. But he let her do it anyway. Was he being nice, or was he simply so strong that it didn't matter what she did?
He knows my name, She thought. He followed me for who knows how long. He might know where I live. Where my mother lives.
I can't leave. Not yet.
"So," she said, carefully. "You just need me to make some clothes for you?"
So it turned out that Vice himself did not need her to make clothes, although he happily accepted her offer to stitch some of the holes in his tank top. They bothered her too much to leave them alone. The "muscle" he referred to earlier needed some clothes in a particular punk/goth aesthetic, but their frame was much too large for normal stores. He asked her to put together a little ensemble. A Leather jacket, some black jeans and belts, a few white tees, and some tank tops that would expose the belly. And, strangely, some extra large panties. Vice never specified their gender whenever he spoke about them, but Parian could make an educated guess. And some miseducated speculations.
She told him to meet her later tonight at her old shop. He gave up the home field advantage easily, saying they would be there, along with a 2000 dollar payment for her efforts. It honestly felt kind of obscene for just a few jeans, shirts, and a jacket. With her powers it would be less than an hour's work. Maybe crime actually did pay.
She went home to eat with her family. The dumplings didn't taste quite right. Maybe it was the fact her mother had made them alone for the first time. More likely, it was the guilt and fear gnawing at Parian's stomach.
The dishes were washed, the leftovers packed up, some gifts were exchanged. Everyone went to bed. At 1 AM, she began to pack her bag. She took along some spare silk and cotton from her other projects. There should still be a roll of denim in the shop, buried under some boxes. The leather scraps might still be there; if not, she'd have to delay. Tell him she couldn't finish. She would have to hope he would be understanding, but if not…
She took that one doll out of the closet. The one she didn't like using. It was a teddy bear, but instead of cotton or wool, it was made from black leather. On its face, Two stitched "X"'s stood in for eyes. It alone, of all Sabah's creations, might be considered intimidating, if not for how small it was.
Like the rest of her dolls, it was cute. Unlike the rest of her dolls, it could tear a human being limb from limb despite only being 4 feet tall. With her normal cloth dolls, she would fill them with power until their fabric couldn't hold any more, and the telekinetic field that animated her creations would push through the gaps, leak out and dissolve into the air. This meant that bigger was always better, as they could hold more power in them.
With the little leather bear, she could keep filling, filling, and filling. Fill it until the seams holding it together split, and only then would it start to leak. The materials grip on her power was firm, never letting go until it tore itself apart.
As a result, the little thing was monstrously strong. Her yeti was 8 feet tall fully animated, yet the bear could easily destroy it in single combat. It could lift cars over its head, rip the brick straight from walls, and hug someone so hard they would simply split in half at the waist.
Her family always praised her, saying how nice it was that her power could be used constructively to help people, to entertain and bring joy, unlike so many powers which seemed to be only useful to hurt.
The bear was a reminder. That all powers, at the end of the day are created by hurt, and created to hurt. That the things she does with her powers are not the "correct" way to use them.
She took the dark, limp little thing into her arms, and hugged it tight. She was afraid that someone would need to be hurt tonight.
Brad watched from the roof as Vice utterly dismantled the empire patrol. His stance might have been shit, but this wasn't even really a fight. Vice was dancing around them. Any time one of Brad's fellow skinheads would get in a hit on Vice, he would simply take the hit and let the momentum carry him into another combatant. Getting good hits in didn't matter at all, on either side. Vice just healed from anything they did to him. One guy, having the sense to bring a baseball bat, caved in the back of Vice's head with an overhead swing.
Vice responded by putting his thumb up to the place on his mask where his mouth would be. He mimed blowing hard, puffing out his cheeks, and the dent in his head simply undid itself with a wet squelch as if he had reinflated it.
After a while, the Empire boys did what would have normally been the smart thing and held vice down while beating the shit out of him. Unfortunately, Vice didn't need to actually hit you to hurt you. He just needed to touch you. After 2 seconds of uninterrupted wailing, they all suddenly froze. The veins on their hands bulged, wherever they were grabbing Vice's bare arms and legs. The one doing the hitting, he tried to pull away, but his fist simply stick to Vice's shoulder like it was made of silly putty, a stretch of skin connecting them both.
They all held the pose for a brief second, and then fell over as one, unconscious. Like Vice had found an "off" switch inside their bodies.
He dusted himself off and and extricated himself from the pile of dozing men, their snores echoing in the alley. He then walked over to the old black man they had been "forcibly escorting" from Empire territory, as they had put it. Brad didn't understand why the fuck they even bothered dressing the act up at all, just kick the n████ out and be done with it. Don't get pretentious about it.
"Greetings, harmless civilian. If you're injured, I can fix you up," he announced.
The black man, to his credit, got his wits back pretty quickly. "I, uh, yeah, they got me in the back with the bat, and my legs are all wobbly. I don't think I can stand up."
"Here." Vice reached out his hand and brought him to his feet, and at the same time, there was a small "snap" noise as the man's back forcibly straightened out. The man looked bewildered, staring at his hands and legs like he didn't recognize them.
"The jitters," he said, looking like he was about to cry. "The jitters in my hands are gone."
"Yep, full service. You're welcome by the way."
"Those were there for years, the doctor's said-"
"I said you're welcome."
The old man startled, his eyes wide against his wrinkled dark face.
"I'm sorry, mister, uh, Vice, sir. I didn't mean any disrespect. Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to repay you?"
Vice held up one finger in a 'hold on' gesture. "You can repay me…" he swept his hands in front of him and posed dramatically. "…by paying me."
"I, uh, I mean if you want some money-" the black man replied, still a little dazed. He reached for his pants pocket.
"For you see, what you have just experienced was simply the free trial of Vice's Patented Protection Plan."
There was silence as the man froze midway through getting out his wallet.
Oh, boy, thought Brad. Here we fucking go.
"Starting January 1st, you can, with a monthly payment of $59.99, make yourself the proud beneficiary of Vice's very own protection racket! Hostile gangs got you down? Crazed arsonists burn down your grandma? Afraid to go for a walk late at night?" Vice said, gesticulating like the latest of late night infomercial hosts.
"Then, you my friend need the assurance of being protected by Vice. The only protection plan that gives you both preventative and curative solutions to your bodily woes. The next time you are waylaid by bandits on an innocent night walk, you can rest easy knowing that we will not only heal your injuries, but also track down the offending party and ruin their entire shit. Upgrade to the 99.99 gold protection plan and we will cover your entire immediate family."
Vice leaned in close, deepening his voice. "Subscribe now, and I'll throw in this quilt of tattooed nazi skin."
Brad swung his head over to the pile of unconscious skinheads, and sure enough, there were a bunch of square patches of raw, irritated red skin where once there had been Empire tats and ink. He didn't even see him do that.
The black man simply stared at the little handkerchief of pasty tattoo canvas being waved in front of him.
"I, er, I'll take the standard plan?"
Vice gracefully folded up the quilt and placed it in the man's open palm.
"An excellent choice, sir. Tell your friends."
Brad cracked open another beer. He had been right; being drunk made all this nonsense so much easier.
Brockton Bay, December 26th, 1:02 AM.
Sabah sat in her old shop, running the hands of her power over all the loose scraps of cloth sitting on benches, feeling them billow and take shape at her mental touch. She hadn't found any leather. She hoped he would be okay with a delay. He wouldn't get mad because she hadn't found a place willing to sell her a length of leather at midnight on Christmas day, right?
He might. She needed to be prepared for the fact that he might.
She thought about preparing more, but until she actually saw what she was working on, there was no point. Doing any work without taking measurements was just going to waste material. She already had all her tools out. Nothing to do but wait.
The front door opened, jangling a set of bells that hadn't rung in over a year. Vice stepped in, and despite the darkness inside, immediately made eye contact with her. She shuddered.
"Parian! Good to see you took me up on the offer. I've got the money right here." He placed a large stack of crumpled bills on the table. It consisted of several different denominations, bound up with rubber bands.
Parian didn't reach out for it. "Where did you get this?" she asked, dreading the answer. She still didn't know what his powers were, but they were in her shop; countless dolls waited in the rafters and lined the shelves. A swarm of scissors and needles stood ready to descend upon him. There was only one exit, and with a thought she could collapse the old awning on it, trapping them both inside. She made the home field advantage hers. She would not be pushed around.
"There were an inordinate number of skinheads running around tonight," he explained heartily. "You'd think they'd be at home with those white families they're all so proud about, but alas! Running around in the dark, drunk and dangerous! Speaking of which- Junkyard Dog!"
Before Parian could even properly react to the self-proclaimed supervillain's admission of beating up the local neonazis, a 7-and-a-half foot tall wolf woman crouched down through the door.
Oh my god, thought Parian. Those proportions are absurd.
Her breasts were giant, only saved from looking completely ridiculous by how big the rest of her was. An ass that would ruin pretty much any normal pair of pants. An 8-pack that somehow straddled the line between looking as hard as a rock and looking like an incredible spot to rest her head against.
Parian didn't even realize she had gotten up, but she found herself right next to the werewolf, running her thin work-gloves against the fur. It was so soft, like velvet, and a pure, snow white color. And yet, such firm muscles just beneath. She traced her hands up the wolf's arm until she reached her neck, cupping the muzzle in her palm. She raised her eyes just a little and met the icy blue of the wolf-woman's eyes. They were piercing, and almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the shop.
This woman needs clothes, thought Parian. And then, suddenly, she realized that the wolf across from her was naked, and if she looked down at all, there would be bare breasts, large and inviting, and below that…
Parian didn't know how long she just stood there, entranced by the eyes, fantasizing about what lied below but unwilling to actually see for herself. How could Vice want to dress this beautiful creature in punk paraphernalia? She could already picture her in a beautiful strapless dress. Her bountiful bosom, cradled by elegant black fabric, with silver and blue inlay.
Vice was obviously an idiot. He would waste this on spiked collars and Doc Marten chic?
The wolf's expression had been dour and pensive the whole time. As if awaiting judgment. What must people have said about her, the way she looked? She didn't deserve any of it. She deserved to feel beautiful. Parian would let her know.
"You're beautiful," she ended up saying. She watched the wolf's eyes widen, just a fraction.
And then Junkyard Dog responded by belching in her face.
After that little exchange, Vice had left them, saying "I forgot my car back at the warehouse fight. Junkyard Dog, don't hurt her. Do what she says. Parian, I expect you to treat them right."
The wolf woman responded, saying, "Could you grab my truck if it's still there?"
"Junk, I have many super powers. Driving two cars at the same time is not one of them. But I'll see what I can do."
He made to leave. Parian steeled herself and walked up. Vice turned back to look at her. Parian tried to speak. How did she want to do this? Firm and uncompromising or soft and accommodating? She had no idea about Vice, not his powers or his personality. Everything he seemed to do seemed to be some part of an act. She couldn't read him behind the mask.
He began to tap out a fast rhythm with his foot. The only real clue she had as to what he was actually thinking. She needed to say something now, tell him she couldn't make the jacket.
He began to turn dismissively. She panicked. "Vice. Only clothes."
He paused in the door frame. "Hmm?"
"I'll only make clothes. I won't get into whatever plans, or schemes, or whatever this whole act is."
He nodded. "That's all I want from you, Parian. Your talents would be wasted on the battlefield." For perhaps the first time tonight, he didn't sound smug or insincere when he talked to her.
And then he left, the bells on the door giving off a quiet ring.
Parian was left staring at the giant form of Junkyard Dog, now being able to see all of her for the first time. She was happy her mask hid the movement of her eyes, because they lingered perhaps a little bit too long on the dark folds down below. She swore she saw them twitch, and had stared, trying to get another glimpse.
"Hey, uh… how's this work, exactly?"
Parian broke herself out of her stupor. Right. You wanted to do this professionally, Sabah. Be professional.
"We'll start by taking measurements. Spread out your arms, please."
Parian was pleasantly surprised to see Junkyard Dog obey without question, arms out. Her breasts were firm, barely sagging at all. She gave a quiet huff from her muzzle and sent a warm fog directly into Parian's face. Smells like cheap beer. Ugh. What a waste.
As Parian grabbed her tape measure, she watched as Junkyard Dog took in the space, her eyes roving slowly over the interior. The only light were a few candles Parian managed to scrounge from her mother's house. It occurred to Parian that it probably looked pretty creepy in here, what with all the candlelight and silhouettes of old mannequins.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spook you out or anything. No one's been in here for a while."
"It's fine. Didn't really mind you staring." That wasn't what Parian meant at all. She felt her shoulders tense in mortification. She hoped it didn't show to much. Had she really been that obvious? Best to get to work. Finish it soon as possible.
She took her tape measure and got to work. She moved her hands swiftly, using her subtle telekinesis to jot down notes on the table behind her. She swallowed. These measurements were really big. Not like the numbers could really represent the real thing. She moved around the pack and paused when she found Junkyard Dog's tail. She would need to account for it in the design of the jeans, and to fit all that volume in them while still hugging the muscles of the legs to accentuate…
"You're staring again."
Parian let out a quiet "eep!". "I'm so sorry, I'll try to get this done quick as I can."
"It's fine, I know I look fucking freaky," the wolf responded with resignation.
Parian swallowed and grit her teeth. No. This place was meant to make people look and feel beautiful. This wasn't going to stand.
"You're not freaky. You're… exotic. Recognizably a human, with wants and desires and complex thoughts, just put in a large, fuzzy package. Fierce and soft at the same time."
Junkyard Dog let out a barking laugh, her beer breath carrying on the draft again. "Fuck, you too, huh? Lotta dogfuckers around, apparently. I'd repay the compliment, but I have no idea what you look like. So, uh, cute dress, I guess?"
Parian blushed under her mask. "Did Vice tell you? My real name."
"Nah, he just said you'd handle the clothing situation. It's fucking creepy how he knows that shit, right?"
"Yes," Parian confirmed. The sheer confidence with which he said it, the implied threat to her family. "How does he know things like that? Is he a thinker?" If I can get some hints as to what his power is, I could take him out. Keep my family safe.
"I honestly have no idea. He said he knew a powerful thinker or something, but when I asked he said their name was 'Nunya'. Idiot thinks he's funny," she said with another small huff.
Parian finished with the hips and began to move up to the waist. "I'm, ah, I'm afraid I don't get the joke."
"Nunya, like Nun-of-ya business." Oh.
"Wow, what a prick." Parian wrapped the tape around the waist and heard the werewolf take a sharp breath through her teeth. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you hurt?"
"Nah," she said, panting slightly. "Just, uh, sensitive."
"Oh, I can just be gentle around that spot."
"No, I mean I'm like, sensitive everywhere." Oh. Oh.
"Your entire body?" Parian asked, "even-"
Parian moved her hand down to Junkyard Dog's lower back before she could stop herself, dragging her silk gloves over the velvet of the wolf's fur.
"Oh, yes, god." Her back arched, arms still kept straight out. Her tail stood straight up and curled up at the end. Cute, thought Parian.
She ran her hands down lower, cupping them down below the firm furry butt. She watched as the muscles beneath firmed up and became two beautiful white furry pillows.
The woman in front of her began to pant. "F-fuck, are you enjoying this?"
Parian paused. Was she really doing this? Get handsy with someone she just met? But holding her big beautiful ass under her hands, she felt the desire to go further. Despite herself, despite how strange this situation was, despite having just met this woman, she wanted to continue. It only depended on one thing.
"Are you?" she asked, in as sultry a voice she could manage. She began to walk around to Junkyard Dog's front, using a single finger to slowly trace the line of her hips as she did, until she ended up just above the not-so-private privates. She could swear she heard some liquid drip to the floor.
Junkyard Dog's fangs bit into her thin black lips, trying to hold in the pleasure with a sharp bite of pain. "Ah- yeah. I'm enjoying that. Holy shit."
Parian felt herself smile. "Then let me help you out." Carefully, she traced down the privates until she got to the very edge of the lower lips. Also a dark black color, she noticed.
Finding the very edge, she rubbed against it dainty, feeling the silk of the gloves against the soft flesh. Junkyard Dog's legs shuddered and she let out a precious little whine that reminded her of a puppy.
Parian found herself staring again, at the inviting black folds, already glistening. Dinner hadn't tasted like anything tonight, as a result of the stress she had been feeling, but now she couldn't think of a reason to be so worried.
And so she knelt down in front Junkyard Dog's privates, tucking the hem of her dress under her, and took off her mask.
"O-oh, you're really going for it, huh? Oh, Jesus. Alright." She heard the white wolf say. "Already? Fuck me. I guess I am attractive."
Parian smiled. That's right. You are. Everyone who enters the shop gets to feel beautiful.
She parted her lips and gave a long lick of the black folds, all the way from the bottom to the very top, running her tongue along the sensitive top, the fur above tickling the top of her own tongue.
Junkyard Dog had erupted into a full blown spasm. Sabah glanced up and saw that she had closed her eyes tight, and fog was billowing from her clenched teeth like a steam locomotive.And she noticed something else, and she felt herself giggle.
"Junk, you can lower your arms-"
She didn't even finish the sentence before two massive paws swung down, large enough for a single one to grip her entire head. They grabbed onto her hair and pulled her forward into the waiting black lips. Her entire senses of smell, taste, and sight was filled with nothing more than wet sex, sweat, and fur.
She tried to pull back with a yelp, but every time she got a little bit of leverage and managed to extract herself, she was thrust forcefully back into Junkyard Dog's wet snatch. She heard panting from above her, and drops of what she could only assume to be saliva landed on her hair. She took such pride in that hair, but now she couldn't seem to care. There was only the sensation of being pushed, forcefully into the wet font of warmth between a set of thighs that she only now realized could snap her neck like an apple stem.
She kept pulling back, but now she became aware of the claws brushing the skin, the rough pads of the paws holding her in place, and how monstrously strong the werewolf really was. At this point, she was only catching the occasional breath between freeing herself being shoved back in, seeing the white fur for only brief periods before her entire vision was overtaken by the black lips of the hungry sex before her.
It was then she understood. She could get a word in between breaths. How sensitive the woman in front of her must have really been, to succumb like this. She knew what she had to do.
The only way out was through.
She moved back just enough to catch one more breath, and then shoved herself in without help. She brought her tongue even deeper, plunging it into the inner folds. She felt the juices mix with her saliva.
Junkyard Dog's thrusts grew more rapid, and Sabah lost the timing. She accidentally inhaled just as she met the folds and took a deep, deep whiff. The heat, the stench, she almost felt like passing out. But she preserved. She could make it. The happy whining and delirious panting far above spurred her on. She went as deep as she could go, feeling her nose against the top of the vagina while her tongue ran around the inside with wild abandon.
Junkyard Dog's entire body rocked, and the velvety thighs clenched around Sabah's neck, choking her. Juices from the orgasm were flooding into her mouth and she couldn't pull away. Her entire taste buds were taken over, and she forced herself to swallow just for the slim chance of some oxygen. The werewolf's body kept clenching involuntarily and more femcum flowed forth. Good lord, how long can she go for?
Unable to take a breath without choking on a flood and her neck squeezed tight, Sabah began to feel light headed, and one of her arms reached down and rubbed against her own sex. Even though the layers of her dress, the entire thing twitched mightily. She came almost instantly. As her own body wracked with pleasure and she approached the edge of losing consciousness, her velvet thigh prison finally released her and she fell back onto the cold floor with a whump.
They both just laid there, soaked in their own juices, the fires of their love disappearing rapidly in the cool air of the shop. Sabah didn't even want to look at herself. She'd only find a complete mess. Already she could feel where the claws had dug in and tore at her hair. How exactly was she going to explain that? Hey Mom, don't worry about my hair. I snuck out on Christmas eve and met somebody who just ruined my haircut, don't worry about it.
"Holy shit," she heard Junkyard Dog pant. "That was the best fucking head I've ever gotten."
Sabah spat some cum and white fur out of her mouth. "Glad I could be of service. You feeling pretty yet?"
She heard a beautiful barking laugh in response.
"You look, uh, different than I expected."
Sabah looked up from where she was weaving black lace into a bra. She could still do it without looking just from the sensory feedback of her power, but she wanted to make sure they looked good. Junkyard Dog was fitting into her new jeans and panties well, after a strange moment of apprehension when putting on the undergarments. She had finished the white tank top and now all she needed was the bra. There was no leather to work with, so the spiked armbands, collar, and jacket would have to wait for another appointment sometime soon. No great loss.
She then realized what Junkyard Dog was talking about. Her mask.
"Oh. Yes. Not quite what people think of when they see my blond hair and Victorian dress, is it?"
"No, not really. I mean, it's fine. You look cute. You know. Exotic, like you said. Just, like, why though? Why go to the trouble?"
The set of panties were almost complete. A small bone motif had been sewn into the lace, only visible when you held it up to the light. A little joke for herself.
"Junkyard, we live in the Neonazi capital of the Northeast. I don't need any reasons to make myself a target. I'm surprised you haven't had any run-ins with them. They don't tend to like people who look very… different."
She heard the wolf give a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, but you know, I had the blue eyes, and the white everything, so I figured…"
Sabah giggled quietly. "Yeah, like that would work. Could you imagine?"
There was a long period of silence. Sabah glanced over from working on the tank top to see the werewolf's beautiful blue eyes averted, gazing at nothing.
"Junkyard Dog?"
She sighed . "No, it was… I can't. I can't imagine it at all anymore. It was a stupid idea. A dumb joke. From the very beginning."
They both lapsed into silence. Sabah worked quietly, threads floating over one another and weaving themselves into new shapes, black thread glittering in the darkness. The wolf in the corner just watched the entire time, never taking her eyes off of Sabah.
"It looks… good."
"You sound surprised," replied Sabah.
She had finished the entire outfit and it wasn't even 2 AM. The jeans had been made and then altered to allow for the tail, which now wagged slowly above where said jeans hugged the curves of the werewolf's shapely bottom. The white tank top fit snug around the black bra, and made it so you could see the outline of said bra under harsh light, or when it was wet. An inspired choice. The tank top itself was short, which concerned Sabah initially before learning her client didn't really feel the cold at all.
In light of that, having it short enough to show off the abs was a much more pressing concern.
They had even found time to do up her long white hair, into what she had insistently called "viking braids" and not dreadlocks. Sabah's power actually worked on hair just fine. She supposed since they were dead cells, they didn't count as "alive" for the purposes of the Manton limit.
The braids fell across her back in an incredible display. Sabah almost felt sad she couldn't finish the outfit with the collars and jacket, but…
Sabah frowned. She recalled something Vice had said, before he left. Your talent is wasted on the battlefield.
She had some leather she could use.
From out of her pack, the black bear with the "X" eyes stood to attention, snapped a quick salute, and dutifully came apart into scraps as its seams unwound themselves.
The scarps flew around, as drawers began to open, small metal studs flying out and sticking in to create the punk spikes of the collars and jacket. Junkyard dog suddenly found herself forcibly dressed as the newly formed jacket simply wrapped itself around her crawled onto her arms. The spiked armbands followed, and then Sabah herself brought the spiked collar over, held carefully in both hands.
Spoiler: The canon headshot
Junkyard dog looked away from her reflection in the triptych mirror, and leaned over to receive the collar.
As she did, Sabah leaned in, fastened the buckle around her neck, and then kissed her on the lips.
The werewolf suddenly flinched back, covering her mouth with one of her paws while her eyes displayed naked shock.
Wow, thought Sabah. I can see her blushing through her fur.
They both stood there, gazing at each other. No sound, but for the wind against the windows.
Slowly, the expression on the wolf woman's muzzle grew dark, and dour. Sabah panicked internally; did she do something wrong? Did she read too much into that? Was she just some sort of fling to satisfy a physical desire and nothing more, and now she made it awkward? She was going to break her own brain from all the different emotions she'd gone through in just the past few hours. Why couldn't anything be simple!
She just wanted to eat lamb dumpling stew with her family, and now she had a maybe-girlfriend who was a maybe-supervillain? And now she moved it too fast despite just having sex less than an hour ago. She had just ridden the roller coaster too fast without knowing where the tracks went, and now it was too late to get off.
"Parian," she finally said. "There's something I should tell you."
"Sabah," she replied.
"Huh?"
"My name is Sabah Al-Ash'ari," she said. "It's nice to meet you."
Junkyard Dog laughed that beautiful laugh again. "Oh, so now we're getting to know each other? Alright." She stuck out her paw, dwarfing Sabah's own hand. "My name's Brad Meadows."
She shook it, savoring the roughness of the paw pads and the softness of the fur. "Strange name for a woman." Even as the words left her mouth, Sabah knew she'd said something stupid.
Junkyard Do-, no, Brad, grimaced for a second. "Yeah, well, Sabah's a strange name for a blonde lady in an English ball gown."
"Touche." Well, at least she didn't get that haunted look in her eyes again.
The ears on the werewolf woman's head twitched, and then, a second later, Sabah heard music blasting down the street from a car stereo. Electric guitars and brass horns. It sounded familiar.
It clicked. "Is that Oingo Boingo?" she asked incredulously. "Who the hell would be driving down the street blasting that at 2 AM?!"
Brad scowled. "Vice would."
Sure enough, a beat-up old Honda parked outside the shop, filling the interior with its headlights through the glass window and temporarily blinding both occupants. They saw Vice in the driver's seat, honking the car horn in time with the music.
They both just glared out the window at him.
"You know," remarked Sabah, "He seemed a lot more intimidating when I first met him."
Brad nodded sagely. "The second he has what he wants from you, he just turns into this unhinged moron."
"JUNKY!" Vice yelled from inside the car. "Get in the car! They took your truck to a different impound lot! We're going on an adventure!"
"Well," Brad sighed. "Better get over there before he drags me out."
"Will I…" asked Sabah, "…will I see you again?"
As Brad stepped out the door, she stopped at the very edge, and looked back inside. There was a flash of what looked like regret on her face, before she spoke again.
"Yeah, probably. Although Vice will probably show again as well, with more 'clients'."
"Well, uh, tell him to call me. Like, call me first, before he just shows up again. And, you know, threatens my family."
Brad nodded and then walked outside, the bells on the door ringing again. What a night.
Sabah walked back inside to clean up when the bells rang again. "Brad?" She asked, wheeling around.
But it wasn't Brad there. Vice stood in the doorway, carrying a large blue plastic bin with both hands, the kind one would put old clothes in. It was opaque and sealed, and from the way he was carrying it it seemed hefty enough.
Sabah scowled. "I did what you asked. What are you doing in here? It's 2 AM and I need to sleep."
"Ah, yep. Yep yep yep. I know. You don't want to be associated with me. Which is why I brought a gift!"
He placed the Blue bin on the floor and slid it over. "That right there is a uniform for you, designed by yours truly. Completely concealing! Secret identity in a box. An alter-alter-ego. Complete discretion!"
Before Sabah could ask any questions at all, he dipped out of the shop, and slid Dukes of Hazzard style over the hood of his car before getting in and pulling out.
Sabah just watched in stunned silence as he went. She walked over to the bin and saw there was a note attached to the top that said INSTRUCTIONS FOR CARE. What, was it not machine washable?
She picked up the note and read it. And then she read it again to be sure. Yep, it said the same thing the second time.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR CARE: SOAK IN 10 GALLONS WATER, 4 CUPS SUGAR, 1/2 CUP WHEY PROTEIN POWDER (2/3 CUP IF USING SOY PROTEIN). REPLACE MIXTURE ONCE A WEEK, OR AFTER EVERY DONNING. DO NOT LEAVE ON FOR MORE THAN ONE (1) WEEK.
Sabah eyed, the note, eyed the bin, and then eyed the note again. Cautiously, she leaned down to unseal the bin and lift off the lid.
She screamed, seeing two large, piercing eyes staring out at her. She scrambled away, reaching for her power.
She almost wished she didn't, because at that moment, she felt her power flicker, as if it couldn't tell if the thing in the box was alive or not.
"Someone had fun, I see."
"Shove it up your ass, Vice. And slow down."
"I take it the fitting went well? You look very good."
"Went great. Clothes fit. I don't look entirely embarrassed."
"I know that's not all that happened."
"You don't know shit."
"I know what your pussy stank smells like, and you both reeked of it."
"Fuck off Vice, you jealous?"
"Nah, that just means we could have a threesome later."
"I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian, Vice."
"I can fuck your ass while she eats your Pussy. We'll be multitasking! You've got to take opportunities as they come. Heh, come."
"Ugh. Do you have a plan to get my truck back?"
"I just said, you've got to take opportunities as they come. Like there, the gate to the lot is open."
"Vice, the gate to the lot is closing- Vice! VICE! SLOW DOWN! YOU STUPID MOTHER FU-"