Superheroines

The chief sat idly in her black leather chair, her legs propped up on her desk and her lips wrapped snugly around thin, brown paper. Hands behind her head, she released a small gray cloud from her mouth, which drifted lazily up towards the ceiling. She was a woman somewhere in her late thirties to early forties, only she looked quite a bit younger. She had short, shaggy, brick-red hair that stopped just below her ears. For an authority figure in a position of power, her attire was decidedly casual: she wore a sleeveless black T-shirt adorned with the familiar image of a large triangle made up of three smaller, golden ones; a pair of dark blue jeans that hugged her legs; and a pair of socks that had apparently seen combat--judging from the number of holes they contained.



Her attention was not focused on the suited man before her--who looked quite professional in contrast to herself--but rather on a small black speck that rested contentedly upon a ceiling tile. She found then--not without some amusement--that the speck was actually an insect, one that she was too tired to remember the name of.



"Ma'am, are you quite sure you're confident in these agents?"



She followed the 'whatever-it-was' as it spun clumsily around the overhead light, and took a particularly long drag of the finely rolled tobacco.



"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have paid them any mind in the first place--nevermind assigning them to the type of missions they're now handling on a daily basis." She shifted her gaze towards him and extinguished the flames of her cigarette in dry, dark ash.



"Alex Lynch," She paused for emphasis. "She's been with us for quite a while, almost since the beginning. One of our most respected and most reliable members."

 

The scene: a large, average-looking public school building and a not-so-average looking blockade of SWAT vans no more than twenty yards away; men crouched behind their cars with weapons loaded and at the ready.



With neck-length hair that looked as if it had been home to disease-carrying rodents from one generation to the next, and the aura of a man who hasn't bathed in centuries; he pressed his vintage colt .45 against the young boy's scalp. It shook uncontrollably against his skull, the man holding it conflicted between nervousness and giddy anticipation. His eyes were impossibly wide, with crimson lightning bolts streaking across the pools of white; he laid claim to a beard that rivaled those of long-dead German philosophers, dirty black hairs curling off in sporadic directions; and he was clothed simply in a pair of plain, white briefs.



The reason for all of the above was because he was fucking crazy.



His name was Bill.



"Any one of you fuckers move and I slaughter all these brats! Starting with this giant, talking piece of fecal matter!"



One man was hiding behind his vehicle, quaking in terror. He wasn't ready for this and he didn't want to die, but he desperately hoped no one saw him cowering all the same. He was suddenly distracted from his fear. Another, braver soul rested on one knee, taking position at the rear of his vehicle, resting his regulation steel steady against his transport. That is, until he heard a voice behind him.



"Yo. How you guys holding out?"



 

"Yes, Mrs. Lynch has proven herself time and time again that she is a competent, intelligent, tactful woman who knows how to resolve volatile situations."



 

They stared at her, minds still occupied primarily with the half-naked gunner holding a school full of children hostage. Before anyone could speak up, she extended her hand. The air above her palm shimmered, like a picture coming into focus; a holographic image slowly made itself visible, displaying three bold letters: VMA.



"I'm certain that's all the identification I'll need," Alex said confidently, striding forward and loosening the clasp of her breastplate. The shooter was momentarily distracted, observing this newcomer with invested interest.



"But Ma'am, what are we supposed to do?" One officer asked.



"You just sit tight," She smiled. "I'll handle this."



 

"And of course, our organization isn't merely known for one superstar, we have a number of exceptional agents. Lynne Greene is our newest and one of the youngest agents we employ. By the time we had gotten to her, she had already received a Bachelor's degree in Marine biology--which she had managed in a little over two years--and had gone through military training throughout the duration of her adolescent years. Needless to say, her credentials were impressive."

 

"Stay back! I'll jump!"



The young man--who looked to be in his early thirties--dangled his legs over the sides of the large concrete bridge. His only company were the abandoned cars that had been left in the aftermath of the terrorist attack of the previous week. The bridge had been cut off for civilian use, but someone had decided to break that law. He intended to kill himself.



 

"Some were skeptical about her qualifications, but she passed the entrance exam just like everyone else. She excels in everything she does."



 

Lynne appeared on the scene then, wading through the collection of police cars and stepping past the stocky cop with the megaphone after showing him her identification. He had been shouting "persuasive" arguments against the man offing himself to little avail. She was a woman of soft brown skin and long, thick black hair. She was garbed in a traditional Japanese kimono of midnight blue and black, with a dyed representation of the crescent moon overlooking rolling plains and tiny, faceless farmers. Underneath, she wore a pair of jet black, steel-toed boots.



She extended her arm to the young man, who looked at her with confusion.



"My name's Lynne," She said. "And I'm here to help."



 

The chief turned in her chair, until her back was towards her patient guest. Now she looked out her window, staring out into nothing in particular. Slowly, almost unnoticeably, rain began to descend on the Earth. Or at least, the small section of it she occupied. There was one agent she hadn't been able to stop thinking about recently. She didn't know where she was.



 

An easterly wind blew harshly over the field, the tall grass bending and swaying in response. Rachel pulled her hood over her head, and drew her dark cloak tighter around her body, shivering. It hadn't taken her long to feel that something was wrong. In the desolate, rural desert, she saw the barren road yawn on into the horizon. Whatever was going to happen, would. She could not leave now, she knew. She would not be able to.



Footsteps. Soft and barely audible, but undeniably real. The stalks parted and an odd man emerged from the shadows. He was only about as tall as she was, but his shoulders were broad, as was his chest. With his baggy, long-sleeved white polo shirt, it was difficult to tell if this was fat or muscle. Perhaps a bit of both. His lower torso was equally plain, distinguished by coffee-colored khaki pants and black and white sneakers. His messy dirty-blond hair came down to his neck; dull, golden curls draping over his shoulder. His beady little eyes recessed almost humorously, seeming to sink into his forehead. They were eclipsed by the two perfectly round lenses of his glasses, which were perched on his prominent nose. His grin was disturbing--but nothing compared to the look in his eyes.



"Do I know you?" Rachel asked.



"No," The man replied. "But you will." The wind howled.



 

Realizing she had been lost in thought, the chief collected herself.



"Well," She said. "I assume you're satisfied with what I've said?" The suited man paused hesitantly, then nodded.



"Good," She watched the rain start to pour, obscuring her vision of the outside world. "Now get the fuck out of my office."



He did so. She continued to stare at the precipitation soaked windowpane and wondered where Rachel was.