Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
>From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-- Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice"

May 15, 1992

     At 6:47:06, Lara Kulenkov's eyes slide open as consciousness returns to
her. For eight minutes, she simply lies in bed, surrounded by lace and ruffles
and a faint scent of perfume. At that point, she sits up and slides her feet
into her slippers, and walks out of her room to go down for breakfast.
     The Bitch is already at the table, nibbling at a waffle. "Good morning,
dear," she says insincerely as she sees Lara arrive. "Would you like some --"
     Lara walks past her without acknowledging her existence, much less her
words, and goes into the kitchen. She removes two slices of white bread from
the bread bag and places them in the toastmaker. As they cook, she gets a jar
of milk and a squeeze-bottle of cherry jam out of the refrigerator. Her motions
precise, she reaches the counter and takes a spreading blade from the utensil
drawer just as the freshly made toast pops up.
     She returns to the dining room, plate of toast and glass of milk in hand,
and sits down opposite The Bitch. Not bothering with a meaningless prayer, she
begins to eat.
     The Bitch watches her for several moments before speaking again. "I really
wish you'd talk to me," she says with transparently false concern and sorrow.
"It seems like only yesterday that --"
     Lara finishes her toast, swallows the last of the milk in a gulp, and
takes the plate and the glass back to the kitchen, rinsing them to let the roar
of running water drown out whatever else The Bitch might say. That done, she
turns and goes back upstairs to bathe.
     For half an hour, she soaks in the tub, trying to recapture the warmth of
last night's dream. Mommy and Daddy had both been there, and it had been
wonderful. But reality is cold to her, and it is all the fault of That Bitch.
     Eventually, as clean as she is likely to get, she exits the tub and walks
naked to her own room. There she quickly dresses in the uniform expected of a
student at Heinlein Academy, omitting only a few minor garments and adding the
two sapphire earrings that Daddy gave her when she was twelve. They are not
permitted by the school's dress code, but she has found ways around that.
     Appropriately dressed, for the most part, Lara picks up a satchel and
walks back down the stairs, this time turning to the main door that leads out
of the house to the outside world. She presses the call button on the
transceiver mounted beside the doorway, and waits.
     After a moment, a voice replies. "Yes Ma'am?"
     "Bring the car around, Chou," she says calmly.
     "Yes Ma'am."
     She becomes aware that The Bitch is standing several feet behind her, and
therefore opens the door and walks out beneath the pillar-supported roof of the
entrance to the mansion to wait. The Bitch follows, of course, but at a safe
distance. Chou drives the long, black car up to the door a few moments later.
He steps out to open the passenger door, and Lara enters the air-conditioned
cabin.
     As Chou is climbing back into the driver's seat, Lara turns to look
directly at The Bitch for the first time that day. Encouraged by this, The
Bitch speaks up, just loud enough to be heard through the bulletproof glass
windows and over the engine's low rumble. "Take care at school, and --"
     "Bitch," she says. It's impossible that she was heard, but the almost
credible look of hurt on The Bitch's face tells her that her lips were
accurately read.
     "Where to, Ma'am?"
     It's a formality. Regardless of what she might say, Chou will deliver her
to the school gates and observe that she enters them. She has no power to
compel him otherwise, as The Bitch pays his salary, nor is she likely to
persuade him. Therefore, she answers, "School."
     They pull away, leaving The Bitch in the dust where she belongs.
     Roughly twenty minutes later, they arrive at the Academy's gates. "Thank
you, Chou," she says as she steps out. It never hurts to butter up the menials.
"I may be late departing this afternoon, so please await my call."
     "Yes Ma'am," Chou replies, but Lara has already started to walk towards
the front doors, passing by that pair of a blonde and a rouge who are usually
joined at the hip whenever she sees them. (We know that they're Sam and Mary,
but she doesn't.) She pauses to bestow a pleasant smile on Miss Watanabe, who
responds with the cold expression of a shark examining a succulent human
appetizer from behind a transparent aluminum barrier. It puts a bit of lift in
her step as she heads for her locker.
     Lara briefly considers which of her classes merit taking books. A
throat-clearing noise beside her draws her attention away from such trivia, to
the tall form of Dieter Marcinko, one of the school football team's second
string. For some reason, he seems nervous.
     "Yes?" she asks calmly.
     "Uh," he replies. "Um. Well ... I heard from ... some of the guys on the
team that you were ... available, I mean, not seeing anyone right now. So ...
are you doing anything? Tonight, I mean?"
     Pathetic. Still, she has a weak spot for that sort. So she smiles, runs a
hand through her long, black hair and says, "Yes, sorry. But listen:  the gym
supply room is usually left unlocked. Meet me there in sixth period, and I'll
give you what you really want."
     "Uh." His eyes both resemble the plate she used for toast this morning. "I
... got a class then."
     Lifting the hand that she used on her hair, she brushes his cheek
delicately. "Cut it."
     He backs away, shivering visibly, and turns to rush away.
     "Everyone on the team will know within minutes if you chicken out."
     He stands stock still for a moment, then walks away stiffly.
     She'll see him again. It should make for a relaxing sixth period.

     It has been a long few weeks for Sam.
     Since that first night, she has tried to sense for invasions every
evening. On the best days, she hasn't sensed anything, and has been able change
back to normal in the privacy of her own room. Slightly more unpleasant days
have seen her forced to head out and deal with people possessed by things from
the Dark Kingdom. Thus far, there haven't been any very bad days -- ones where
the victim dies after she "frees" them, or has killed other innocents -- nor
any embarrassing episodes involving the police.
     She yawns discreetly while listening to Abrabanel's algebra lecture. The
entire situation is definitely taking a toll on her nerves. She has been this
tired before, but never with such an absence of any feeling of accomplishment.
She is caught in a holding action, and the moment the enemy starts sending
multiple possessors, it will turn into a rout.
     Sam needs more intelligence, and Rune may be her only source for it. But
she hasn't seen the cat-shapechanger since that first night. That makes her a
bit uneasy, especially given her confessed former association. She doesn't even
know why Rune defected, if that's the right word.
     The class winds down, and Mr. Abrabanel closes with, "As I'm sure you're
all eager to head down to the bulletin board and find out which of your exams
you'll need to write ... class dismissed.
     With those magic words in the air, everyone quickly files out of the
classroom, demonstrating the teacher's sagely grasp of their priorities.
     In the main foyer of the Academy, there are at least thirty sheets of
tables stapled to a large bulletin board. Indexed by student numbers, the
tables indicate those students who have accumulated a grade of ninety-five
percent or higher on their class work in a given subject, thus exempting them
from writing that course's final exam.
     Theoretically, the use of student numbers ensures confidentiality despite
the public nature of the posting. In practice, since each number has only four
digits, it's quite common for students to memorize the numbers of their friends
and colleagues -- and not unknown for them to learn those of their rivals. The
posting of exemptions, then, has become a social event.
     Mary is already at the front of the small mob gathered in the foyer, and
beckons for Sam to join her. (By a quirk of the system, there are only four
numbers between theirs.) "How did you do?" Sam asks as she reaches her friend's
position.
     Mary shrugs. "I'm writing everything, as usual. Probably got my highest
mark in Homecare, and nobody gets exempted in that."
     "I'm glad I didn't take Homecare --"
     "Not as glad as the rest of us."
     Sam mock-glares at Mary, then turns to look at the row of X's following
her own number. "Well, I'm writing English, Geometry, Geography and Physics ...
not bad, I guess, but --"
     "Excuse me."
     Icicles tremble down Sam's spine as she turns around to look at the pale,
blue-eyed brunette behind her. And for the life of her, she can't figure out
why.
     "Could you let me past, please?" the girl asks, in tones which suggest
that this clarification of her original request is entirely unnecessary.
     "Oh, sure." Sam steps out of the way to let the girl (whom we, of course,
know to be Lara) walk between Mary and herself. Mary frowns at Lara as she
passes, as though trying to place her face.
     Lara does something odd, now. She walks up close to the board, rests a
carefully manicured index fingernail on the list of numbers, and moves her nail
down until it reaches her own. Then she moves it across the row of X's; all ten
of them, for all ten of the classes that she's taking. The oddity is the fact
that she does so in such a way that anyone behind her, such as Sam and Mary,
can see and understand that fact as easily as she can.
     She turns around then, and favors Sam with a brief smile. "Thank you," she
says, and walks out the way she came in.
     Sam is too amazed to reply. "Ten exemptions?"
     "That's who she is," Mary comments in a tone of sudden comprehension.
     "You know her?"
     Mary starts to lead Sam out of the crowd, apparently suppressing an
immediate response that she finds very amusing. "Only by reputation. You miss
out on a lot, not listening to gossip."
     "And you miss out on a lot by believing it," Sam ripostes reflexively.
"Who *is* that girl?"
     "That was Lara Kulenkov."
     "Never heard of her."
     "Not surprising."
     "Yes it's surprising!" Sam protests as they finally exit the foyer for the
hallways of the school itself. "She's getting 95 or better in every subject!
She ought to be on the Quiz Team, at least ..."
     "Maybe she's busy." Mary's tongue is firmly in cheek.
     "Well, yeah! I can't imagine what kind of studying, or tutoring, you'd
need to get those kind of marks."
     "Well ... you know what you used to tell me when I asked you how you
pulled down your grades?"
     Sam frowns. "I said that I did it the old-fashioned way: hard work and
lots of study. So?"
     "So I've heard that she does it the older-fashioned way."
     "What older-fashioned way?"

     It's not exactly a comfortable position to be in, lying on a desk on her
stomach, with her skirt rucked up around her waist, while a man in his forties
huffs and puffs behind her. But Lara is used to uncomfortable positions. Life
could be considered an uncomfortable position. She is more than willing to do
what she has to in order to --
     Abruptly, her train of thought on the subject is broken as the teacher
stops, and slumps into his chair. She looks backward over her shoulder, vaguely
concerned that he might have suffered a heart attack or other distress. Instead
he is simply looking at her with a disgruntled expression.
     "What?" she asks, genuinely bewildered.
     "What's wrong with you?" he replies, genuinely aggravated. "You might as
well be a doll, for all the passion --"
     "Passion?" she asks, rolling onto her side to get a better look at him. "I
agreed to two sessions with you before, and one after exemptions were posted.
No one said anything about every one of them being passionate. You're getting
what you wanted."
     "Well, maybe I want this time a little more like the last two times," the
teacher snaps. "I can always change your grades back, you know. I can say that
I made a little mistake, and no one will blink an --"
     Lara stares at him as he delivers this threat, and stops him in
mid-sentence by abruptly pushing herself up into a seated position, keeping her
eyes locked on his the entire time. Slowly, she slides off the edge of the desk
and leans down so that her knees rest between his spread legs. Then quickly,
she brings her face to his, kissing him fiercely, letting her tongue penetrate
his mouth extensively as she pulls her upper body forward to crush it against
his. After a full minute of frantic, sudden passion, she lets her lips slide
off his, and asks, breathily, "Would you like me to call you Daddy, too?"
     "Wha --?" her teacher asks in the first second after the question
registers. Then his senses clear even further, very suddenly. "No! Don't be
disgusting!"
     "Disgusting?" she asks, as she caresses his face with her nose. "Who do
you think taught me everything I know?"
     Any arousal now totally banished, the teacher pushes her back -- or tries
at least. She seems much stronger than he at the moment, and determined to hold
on. "Your father -- my God, does your mother know about --"
     "Mommy?" she asks. "She joined in. It was *great*."
     If it were possible to express negative arousal, he would be doing so now.
"Get out," he says without any real feeling in his tone. "Just ... get out."
     She stares at him momentarily, then shrugs, pushes back and steps into her
shoes. "All right. I consider the transaction complete, however. Any attempt to
alter your half of its terms may result in ... unpleasant exposure on your
part."
     She walks out from behind the desk, brushing wrinkles out of her skirt as
she walks to the door. She pauses as she twists the lock open, and looks back.
"You weren't as good as he was. Or her." And then she's gone.
     For a moment, the teacher wonders what sort of sick girl would make that
comparison. Then he wonders what sort of sick man would be hurt by it, like he
is. And then he starts to gag.

     This particular day, both Sam and Mary have sixth period free, and put it
to good use by meeting in the gymnasium to discuss a difference of opinion.
     "Couldn't we just watch the wrestlers practicing?" Mary asks wearily as
our awareness settles on them.
     "No, we can't," Sam replies irritatedly. "Mary, don't you see how wrong it
is to spread rumors like that about anybody?"
     "I didn't spread anything," she growls. "You asked me what I'd heard. I
told you what I'd heard. Don't kill the messenger."
     Sam is a bit startled by that reply. "You mean ... are you saying that I'm
the only one you've told that slander? That doesn't --"
     Mary sighs. "Everyone else knows already. She's old news. Has been for a
couple years. And it's not slander -- there's witnesses."
     "That's not the point -- and actually, it makes the whole story
incredible."
     "Huh?"
     "If a lot of people had witnessed someone ... well, influencing teachers
like that, then surely they would have gone to the administration and
complained about it by now. There would have been an investigation, and she
would either have been exonerated or expelled -- what?"
     Mary is laughing quietly. "You're really innocent sometimes, Sam. Doesn't
the name Kulenkov mean anything to you?"
     Sam frowns, and starts to speak slowly. "Well, it's a Russian name, so
she's probably descended from the Whites ... from that I can probably safely
conclude that her family's pretty wealthy ... but other than that, I'm drawing
a blank. What am I missing?"
     "Ever look at the names of the Academy's Board of Governors?" Mary asks,
still sounding amused.
     "Kulenkov?" Sam guesses.
     "From what I heard, her great-grandfather came over here in '21, her
grandfather got rich reconstructing after the Burn, her father practically owns
this place, and daddy's little princess can do whatever she wants," Mary
relates, ticking the generations of the Kulenkov family off on her fingers, one
by one.
     Sam suppresses a comment about Mary's class prejudices. "Even if that's
true -- and I don't doubt that it is," she hastens to add, "there still isn't
conclusive proof. You say there are witnesses, but I'll bet you half my next
allowance that you don't know their names, never talked to them yourself, only
to friends of theirs."
     Mary glares for a moment. "I don't gamble with you. You always win any bet
you come up with. I still think you cheated that time -- look, what's it to
you, Sam? Why are we arguing about whether it's okay to gossip about this
dame?"
     Sam opens her mouth to explain that it's not "this dame" or whatever her
fvaored leisure activities might be. Then she realizes that she owes her friend
a more honest reply, even as one comes to her.
     "Mar," she says after a moment, the magic usage of a childish nickname
invoking utter sincerity. "Do you remember about two, maybe two and a half
years ago, when I ... when people were saying that I had ... I was ..."
     "A tribade?" Mary supplies.
     "Yes," Sam answers tersely. "It was all just a big misunderstanding. A
very big misunderstanding. After all, I didn't know that Darren was ... that he
was just using me as ..."
     "His beard?"
     "Right." Her teeth were clenched on that one, folks. "And so when everyone
else found out --"
     "-- before you did."
     "-- it must have seemed unlikely that I didn't know --"
     "-- because I knew from the first."
     "-- and so the conclusion that I was also using him that way --"
     "-- almost had me ready to knock some sense into the silly berk who was
spreading it."
     "-- while wrong, was totally reasonable. Really?"
     "Yeah. I knew you'd be upset, even if I don't understand why."
     Sam sighs. Another sore point. "Because that sort of behaviour is wrong,
and I don't like having it said that I engage in it, anymore than I'd like it
if people were saying I was a thief. But do you see, now, why it is really
wrong to spread or listen to rumors about someone's sexuality without proof?"
     "Okay, okay, you've caught me with that idea," Mary says wearily. "If
anyone starts up on that subject around me, I'll tell them to stop it."
     Sam smiles.
     "Unless they know something for sure. I mean, if they've seen something,
then surely --"
     It is at that moment that a very startled, almost poleaxed-looking Dieter
Marcinko stumbles out of the gym supply room. He realizes that a pair of
freshmen are watching him from a bench nearby, and straightens himself to walk
with poise out of the gym.
     "Shirt's buttoned up wrong," Mary calls after him.
     He stops. After a moment, he turns and heads into the men's change room.
     Chuckling, Mary turns around to deliver a further witticism to Sam ... and
then pauses. "Uh, Sam? What if *I* know something for sure?"
     Sam turns to follow Mary's gaze, and sees Lara standing beside the open
door of the supply room. Her shirt is also buttoned up wrong. She is staring at
them, and once again Sam feels the terrible cold.

     The day passes without further incident.
     Mary has to head for the hospital, so Sam is left on her own to walk to
the cluster of shops today. There's nothing in particular she wants to buy, but
as she trudges along, head bowed in the heat, she decides that she can do with
a drink -- and the vending machine back at the school is out of order. A nice
cold drink will ...
     Cold ...
     Not again. Sam lifts her head to look ahead of her, and sees Lara standing
astide her path with a stony expression.
     "Why," she asks, "are you following me?"
     "I'm not," Sam replies quickly. "I mean, obviously, we're going to the
same place, and I'm walking behind you, but there's no deliberate intention
involved."
     Lara continues to stare. "I do not know what you are about," she says at
last. "But I have done some checking up on you. Rumor has it that you are --"
     "I'm not," Sam growls, angry that the rumor is still being spread about.
     "-- an incurable meddler in the business of your betters," Lara continues
as though she hadn't been interrupted. "This may be true or not. I do not care.
But you will stay out of my business, or regret it."
     That sounded like a threat. Sam smiles. Threats she can handle. "Imprimis,
you don't frighten me," she says evenly. "Second, I don't have any wish to get
involved in your affairs. Third, whoever told you that I was a meddler sounds
like the sort of bully I've been helping my friends to stand up against for
years. Fourth and terminus:  So do you -- and you should really stop trying to
scare me."
     Still Lara stares at her, but now Sam meets her gaze squarely. With an air
of disdain, the dark-haired girl shrugs, turns and walks away in the direction
of the shopping district.
     As she goes, Sam's confident smile fades. As though her problems weren't
hard enough already, now she may have a school feud on her plate as well. "I
really can't afford to fight with you, Kulenkov," she says, but quietly, so no
ears but her own can hear it.
     "Especially since she's supposed to be one of your allies," says Rune.
     The word -- in the onomatopoeic sense -- that Sam says next can't really
be rendered into the Latin alphabet without using far too many vowels.
     "Hello to you, too," comments the currently human-shaped woman standing a
bit behind Sam and to her right.
     "How long have you been there?" Sam asks as soon as she has her breathing
back under control.
     Rune shrugs. "A few minutes, just long enough to listen in on your
conversation with that one. I couldn't make myself seen with her around,
obviously."
     Sam frowns. "Did you say that she's an ally?"
     "Have you noticed anything odd when you talk to her?"
     Sam describes the chilling sensation, and Rune nods in a fashion that
suggests she's been told exactly what she expects. "Do you recall exactly what
you say when you do your exorcism?"
     "Not really," Sam answers, starting to walk again. "It doesn't seem to
stick in my mind. Look, rather than engaging in Socratic inquiry, why don't you
just tell me what you think?"
     Rune follows a few steps behind. "All right. You mention four things you
would do if you could, but state that they aren't within your power. One of
those things is `immure you in ice'. I have reason to believe that this part of
the incantation is a reference to four other magic-workers who will be ...
drawn to support you. This Kulenkov seems an excellent candidate for the
wielder of the ice magic, don't you agree?"
     Sam turns on her heel to look right into Rune's eyes. "Where are you
getting this information?"
     "A number of sources that I'm not prepared to disclose."
     "Not ready to disclose," Sam repeats.
     Rune nods simply.
     "What are you, a journalist?"
     "No. I am a survivor." Seeing Sam frown, she elaborates. "Suppose that I
tell you all that I know. What need do you have for me then?"
     "Are you suggesting --"
     "No, I'm saying it more or less directly."
     Sam stares at her. It's the first time she's ever been accused of
contemplating deliberate murder. (Well, except for when Diane has done it, but
that doesn't count.) "If you don't trust me, if you think I might kill you, why
did you come back to face me? Why did you come to me in the first place?"
     Rune makes the hacking noise in her throat, the one that Sam suspects is
an indication of disgust or contempt. "That should be obvious."
     Sam starts to protest that it's not obvious ... then her brain supplies
the answer before she can. It's the only thing that fits, if she accepts Rune's
stated motivation as truthful. "Someone else told you to contact me," she
states. "Someone, who frightens you more than the possibility of my killing
you, told you to do it."
     Rune just stares. "Very good."
     "I suppose this person's identity is also on the list of questions you
won't answer."
     "You suppose right."
     Sam sighs. "Very well, let's table that for the moment. About Kulenkov: 
How do we find out if she's one of these other ... magic workers?"
     Rune reaches behind her back and produces a cyllindrical object that Sam
recognizes as a pen, after it's handed to her. "Give this to her, and get her
to say the words `Mercury Power ... Make-Up'."
     "Mercury? But Mercury is the planet closest to the sun. Why would it be
associated with -- never mind," she says to forestall one of Rune's disgusted
chokes. "You didn't craft the things."
     Rune watches as Sam examines the pen for a few moments, and turns to look
in the direction that Lara went earlier. She grows annoyed as the girl makes no
start on following. "What are you wating on?" she finally snaps.
     "Huh?" Sam asks, returning to look at Ruen. "Oh. I've still got a few
questions I'd like to ask you."
     "Ask. I promise no answers."
     "Somebody asked you to come here, to Japan, from this Dark Kingdom, in
order to give me -- and I guess other people, too -- these devices," Sam begins
slowly. "My question is, why you?"
     Rune blinks. "I don't under--"
     "Why did this person choose you, and not someone else?"
     The confusion finally appears in Rune's expression. "How in the world
should I know what she was thinking? I ... I suppose that she had some way of
finding out those who had doubts about the Cru--" She stops in mid-word,
staring in horror at Sam's calm, attentive face. "You tricked me."
     "Yes." There is no pride there, only patience.
     The cat is plainly visible in the woman's eyes, in her mouth, and in her
suddenly curled fingers. "You may have *killed* me, you little --"
     "Then wouldn't it be a good idea to make sure that I can protect you from
whoever you just betrayed?" Sam asks. "And want to?"
     Rune glares at her, open-mouthed. Then she abruptly turns and marches
away, hips swaying.
     Not a lot of reward, Sam thinks, but I didn't have to risk a lot, either.
She turns and heads after her other unwitting ally.

     "For the last time," Ken Easley, proprietor of Tribute Publications, says
between clenched teeth, "I don't stock that kind of garbage. And if you don't
wanna get bounced out of here for life, you won't *ever* describe it when I got
other customers!"
     The girl in the Heinlein uniform, who just asked for an obscene native
publication, shrugs and turns to examine those books he does stock.
     This is the second time this week that someone's aksed him about that
crap. At least the last time there hadn't been any other customers around ...
this time, this spacey dame chased off two others! Easley doesn't understand
it. Why would people think he had that stuff on sale?
     He passes, doesn't he?
     Ken (full name: Kenta) Easley forces himself to stop thinking about that,
and focuses on the odd package that came in the mail this morning. The return
address is somewhere in the south; not one of his usual distributors.
     Wait ... suppose the girl, or that guy earlier this week, is in touch with
the publishers of that sort of thing? And suppose he or she had them send a
catalogue, or something? And suppose the metropolitan guards are right outside?
     Okay, so that's a little paranoid. Still, better open it, check it out.
     He opens the package, and slides its contents out onto the counter. Then
he frowns. Whatever he was expecting, this wasn't it. Why would anyone send him
an airtight, clear-topped plastic caserole dish containing what looks like
purple oil?
     The caserole dish is fairly easy to open, and then he is able to look more
closely at its contents. He wonders why they're boiling.
     That is the last thought he will ever have.
     
     Irritated by the refusal of the half-breed clerk to produce the
publications that she wants, Lara turns to examine his publicly displayed
goods. She has no intention of buying anything -- graphic books are for
children, and she left childhood behind years ago. She'd only been interested
in the book she asked about because it might provide useful ideas for future
encounters -- though where would she find a live octopus?
     The clerk emits a confused sound, and she looks up to see that he's just
opened a package and taken some sort of vessel out of it. Why he should be
surprised to receive something in his own mail is beyond her, and she returns
to her pointless examination of the books.
     The popping noise of the vessel being opened does not attract her
interest. The hissing, bubbly noise that she belatedly realizes is like water
boiling, on the other hand, prompts her to whip her head up to look in the
clerk's direction.
     He is bent over the vessel, purple steam flowing up towards his face and
into his open mouth and nose. Initially, Lara wonders if this is some strange
narcotic amusement, but before she can depart so as to give the addict privacy,
the steam appears to dissipate completely.
     At once, the clerk's head jerks up to a point where his chin is roughly
parallel to the floor, and then slowly twists around so that his face is
pointed directly at her. He blinks several times, almost reminding her of a
camera's shutter. And then he grins in a rictus which looks as though it would
be extremely painful to maintain for an extended duration. "He *hates* you,"
the clerk announces in a cheerful, conversational tone.
     Lara steps back as he vaults over the counter with greater agility than
she would have imagined possible for such a rotund man. He steps toward her,
walking in strange, hunched-over pose. "Going to cut you up into little pieces
and eat them," he croons.
     He is approaching slowly, but she suspects that if she makes a move
towards the door that leads back to the storage area, which -- presumably --
has a tradesman's entrance, he will lunge. No escape that way; his
demonstration of his agility convinced her of that. Yet perhaps, if she can
surprise him ...
     He slouches still closer, and if she is ever to seize the moment, it must
be this moment. She darts forward and slides past in his instant of surprised
immobility. The door is only a few feet away -- she can make it --
     But she doesn't. With that same speed, he turns and lashes out at her
back, catching one of the folds of her skirt to trip her. Pain jolts up her
chin as it hits the floor, and suddenly this all seems very familiar, yet as
she tries to crawl out of his grip on her ankles to the door, she cannot
remember when this happened before.
     He seizes her shoulder, pulls her so that she is looking up at him, and
leans in close to her face. "Fight," he says, his hot breath warming her
cheeks, "don't run. I like fighting. So fight."
     She could fight. He's positioned himself foolishly, so that she could
easily slam his crotch with her knee. She could fight. She's done it before,
when a mark wanted things she chose not to give. She could fight.
     She's not going to fight.
     "Boring," snarls the clerk, and one taut hand reaches for her neck.
     The door jingles. In almost the same instant, an angry voice says, "Get
off of her. Now."
     The voice is strangely familiar, yet Lara can't quite place it. So she
bends her neck backwards so that she can see whoever is standing in the
doorway. The upside-down perspective confuses her, but she recognizes Samantha
Hazzard, the blonde she'd warned off earlier. Not a rescuer she ever expected.
     The clerk snarls. To her credit, the Hazzard girl seems unafraid. Clearly,
she's an idiot, but --
     And then ... something very strange happens. The blonde murmurs something
that Lara can't quite make out, and light streams out from her, so brightly
that Lara has to close her eyes. When she can bear to open them again, someone
else is standing where Sam stood. Actually, her first thought is to wonder how
exactly the girl managed to grow a pair of waist-length ponytails. Then she
notices the skirt. *She* wouldn't wear something as daring as that.
     The different girl speaks, and does so in a voice higher than Sam's. "How
dare you take on this man's seeming and use it to molest this girl, who has
already suffered enough?"
     What in the world, wonders Lara, is she talking about?
     "Were it within me, I would punish you with fiery torment, I would immure
you in frigid ice, I would rain down thunder upon you, I would make your name a
half-forgotten memory. Yet these are not mine. All that I may do is all that I
shall do:  I cast you out of this place, by light of the Sun, and the warmth of
the Earth, and by the Moon who is their daughter -- but more, by the one behind
them whose name we do not know. I cast you out. BEGONE!"
     With a howl, the clerk seems to flip back from his prone stance over
Lara's body to a standing position, and then almost instantly
half-falls/half-leaps backwards to lie several feet away.
     "Are you all right?" the girl asks Lara anxiously as she kneels down
beside her.
     "I -- you -- what is going on here?" she asks after sifting through dozens
of possible responses.
     "A monster took over that man's body." Strange how such an absurd response
sounds perfectly reasonable at the moment. "You're not hurt, are you? If you
are, I can call --"
     "I'm not hurt," Lara replies. "Who are you?"
     The girl's sigh is unpleasantly reminiscent of similar exasperated noises
made by The Bitch. "You know who I am. You saw me change."
     "Then what are you?" Abruptly, Lara realizes both that she is terrified,
and why she is. Furthermore, she knows why she has been ill-at-ease when Sam
Hazzard was present, though not so much as now. Sam had been *warm*. This girl
is even *more* warm, and the places inside Lara that she has made cold scream
in agony whenever she is near to either of them.
     "I don't know what I am," the girl replies, perhaps sensing something of
Lara's fear. "But -- this is important, Miss Kulenkov -- you --"
     There isn't even a snarl to give them warning. Before the girl can
complete her sentence, the clerk springs on her, grabbing hold of the shoulders
of her costume and dragging her away from Lara. "Dame," he says. "Dame."
     "Dame you!" the girl snaps, and slams her elbow into his stomach.
     She is strong, Lara gathers from the next few moments of intense fighting,
but the creature is much stronger -- and slightly faster. She can see
desperation start to grow on her face.
     Abruptly, she turns to look at Lara. "In my satchel!" she calls, seizing a
moment by twisting the creature's nose. "There's a pen! Get it! Hurry!"
     Lara can't quite bring herself to hurry on someone else's say-so, but she
does open the satchel that Sam dropped before beginning her transformation. She
finds three pens, two of which appear to be normal, ink-containing writing
implements. But the third -- it is cold to her touch, like metal on a winter's
day. Even wrapping her hand around it doesn't make it any warmer. Quite the
converse.
     "Mercury Power Make-Up!" shouts the girl, trying to keep the creature's
arms from wrapping her in a full nelson. "Say Mercury --"
     "Mercury Power Make-Up?" repeats Lara. What a non--
     The cold expands from the pen to her hand, and spreads up her arm,
ultimately enveloping her entire body. She would expect it to be agonizing, but
perhaps whatever is happening is increasing her already considerable tolerance
for cold. Things are definitely changing inside of her, but she lacks the
knowledge to understand them. She knows this much is true, however: it is
wonderful.
     And even when the changes stop, the wonder continues. She can see and hear
and even smell, but there is no feeling, except for a sense of gravity. Instead
of any sensation on her skin, she has only the cold.
     Both the girl and the creature are staring at her. She smiles. Perhaps she
can share this wonderful feeling with them. No ... not with this girl. The
warmth she sensed in her earlier is even more obvious now, and it would
interact poorly with her gift. But the clerk-become-creature is another tale.
     She lifts her hands, and begins to speak. (Her voice is fainter, but she
barely notices.) "My heart is colder than the northern night. Know this cold,
you who brought it forth!"
     Something streams out of her outstretched hands -- something almost
translucent, yet so dense in parts that it seems white, and something moving so
swiftly that her eye can't quite lock on it. It streams into the clerk's side,
momentarily turned from her as he grapples with the girl, and he howls with
surprised pain. The shock also gives the girl leverage to break free of his
grip, and she comes up facing him.
     Strangely, she then repeats the chant she performed earlier, but with a
modification. Instead of referring to "this girl who has already suffered
enough", she speaks of "my newfound ally" -- which a part of Lara, buried
beneath the ice that now covers her soul, rejects, even as the ice itself
accepts it.
     She watches as the man's body bends backwards as if struck unconscious yet
suspended from the neck, vomiting up a purple gas that fades to nothingness a
moment later. This accomplished, the man collapses completely.
     The girl's appearance shifts then, and Sam is once more standing in her
place. "Thank you," she says quickly. "Now, you ought to change back to normal
too."
     Why, screams Lara's soul in protest, even as her lips form the word,
"How?"
     "Think of a switch, then turn it off. The longer you stay in your ...
alter ego --"
     Lara realizes that she has changed. Unlike the change forward, the
reversal is practically instantaneous.
     "-- the more tired you'll be when you return to nor-- hey, are you all
right?"
     She wonders what prompted the question ... and then she realizes that she
is smiling. Broadly. It probably looks very strange on her normally taciturn
face. Yet she doesn't care. She focuses on Sam's worried-looking eyes, and
speaks her mind. "That was wonderful!"
     "Wonderful?" repeats Sam.
     "I ... I never imagined anything could feel so good!" Lara grabs the other
girl by the shoulders of her jacket. "And it's all thanks to you! I could kiss
you!"
     "Please don't," Sam replies with a bemused look on her face.
     Oh. Evidently the rumors on that subject are false. Or perhaps there's
another explanation. In any event, there are more important things to worry
about, now. "You said that the longer the change is maintained, the more
exhaustion I'll experience when it terminates. I do feel a bit tired, but do
you know how long it can be sustained without posing a serious health risk."
     Sam blinks, her bemusement growing. "Well ... no. The longest I've been in
it was about half-an-hour, and I used my attack twice and did a lot of jumping
during that interval. It left me feeling like I'd had a full day's work after a
sleepless night, but --"
     Lara nods throughout Sam's explanation. "Yes, that would follow," she
interrupts. "Activity, particularly unusual activity, would be a contributing
factor. But that means ... I could theoretically maintain the transformation
for *hours*, if I didn't do anything else, without putting my life in
jeopardy."
     "Excuse me? Why would you want to just change and then not do something?"
     She stares at Sam in shock. "Why wouldn't I want to feel like that? Don't
*you* feel wonderful when you've changed?"
     "I ... haven't really noticed," Sam hesitantly replies. "I've usually been
too busy just doing the job and ..."
     She trails off, and turns to look at the clerk's slumped form with
concern. "Was he already under that thing's control when you came in?"
     "I don't think so. It started when he breathed in the same sort of purple
gas that he spit out at the end, and that was only a few minutes before you
arrived. Why?"
     Sam is by the clerk's side in a twinkling. "If he'd only been possessed
for that long, he shouldn't be out *this* long." She begins to pat the man's
face. "Sir? Can you hear me? Are you --"
     She realizes how still the cheek feels.
     She checks for a pulse in his neck.
     "He's dead," she says.
     After a moment, Lara ventures a question. "Are you sure?"
     "Yes," Sam replies, but the word is a bit muffled by her hands, clenched
over her mouth.
     "What do you do when this happens?"
     "I don't know!" Sam snaps. "This *hasn't* happened, before now. I ..." She
takes a deep breath. "I think we have to call the guards."
     Lara stares at her. "Are you mad? If we tell the guards what happened
here, they will never believe it! We will be blamed! We should just head out
the back --"
     Sam shakes her head. "No. If anyone saw us come in here -- and it's a busy
area, so someone will have -- then they'll be able to tell the guards that we
did, and if they think we fled the scene --"
     "Then what do we do?" Lara is afraid, and her hatred for her fear is even
greater than Sam's own. If not for a vague sense of gratitude to her, she would
have fled long since.
     Sam closes her eyes, and asks what Father would do.
     He would choose the lesser evil.
     "You came in," she says. "He was lying on the floor, and you panicked. I
came in a few minutes later, found you both, checked him, and spent a few
minutes calming you down. Then I called the guards. Don't elaborate, don't
improvise, and try to act as though you're still spooked." She walks behind the
counter, picks up the telephone's speaker, and starts to dial.
     "We're going to lie to the guards?" Lara asks, plainly amazed at either
the idea or the fact that Sam proposed it.
     Sam stops dialing. "Yes," she bites out. "They can't be more precise about
his time of death than a few hours either way, so we should be okay if we don't
elaborate, and don't improvise. Can you handle that?"
     Lara stares at her, then draws a long, shuddering breath. "Yes ... yes, I
understand. It's just ... it's just so awful, and ... I've never *seen* anyone,
anything like this before." Her clenched, frightened features suddenly smooth
out. "Convincing?"
     Sam closes her mouth. "Almost fooled me." She starts dialing again.

     By the time the guards are finished questioning them, it is nearly five
after noon. Sam is anxious to return home before her parents begin to worry,
and so after a quick consultation, she and Lara agree to meet and discuss
Lara's role in future operations tomorrow.
     For her part, Lara isn't in any particular hurry. So she ambles back to
school. Even at this hour, the administrative offices remain open. With a
pleasant smile to the receptionist, she requests the use of the phone, and
summons Chou.
     Roughly an hour later, she's deposited at the door of the mansion. "Thank
you, Chou, I think that will be all for the evening."
     "Yes, Ma'am."
     She goes in, and is startled to see The Bitch sitting on the stairs just
inside, clearly waiting for her. "Are you all right?" The Bitch asks with a
disturbingly believable facsimile of concern. "Our friends in the guards phoned
to give me the news."
     Lara just stares.
     For heaven's sake, Larissa," The Bitch snaps, a bit of the loathing she
must feel finally coming out in her tone as she uses Lara's full Christian
name. "You can't just go through something like this and then go on giving me
the same silent treatment that you've been giving me for the last three --"
     "Bitch."
     The Bitch stares at her, mouth hanging open. Lara is a bit shocked at
herself; it's the first time she's ever said it so openly. Before The Bitch can
make any active response, Lara quickly walks past her, up the stairs. She can
hear The Bitch coming up behind her, and so she quickly ducks into her room,
locking the door behind her.
     Predictably, the pounding on the door begins almost immediately. "Larissa!
Opn this door! Right now!"
     "Mercury Power Make-Up," Lara murmurs, and feels the cold descend.
     The pounding continues for several minutes, but without any response, it
dies down eventually. She can hear deep, sobbing breaths issuing from someone
on the other side.
     "Lara, how can you do this to me?" someone asks. "Do you not realize how
much I love you? How hard I've had to fight to keep you? I'm your mother, for
God's sake -- how can you treat me like this?"
     At another time, she would have silently raged against that particular lie
of The Bitch, but now all that is very far away, buried beneath the ice. She
pays it no more mind than she does the voice itself, and instead goes to lie
down in bed. When she resumes that other form -- for this, as the way that she
wants to be, will henceforth be her normal form -- she will be tired, perhaps
even exhausted. So she'll prepare for that eventuality.
     On the other side of the door, someone continues to babble. "I know that I
haven't been a good mother. I know I should have known what he was doing! But
Lara, I stopped him! Doesn't that count? I made him go away, I swore to *his*
father that I'd drag their precious good name through the dirt if he came near
either of us again. Why are you so angry at me when I saved you? I don't
understand!"
     Meaningless noise, all of it. She lies on the bed, luxuriating in the
cold. How foolish she'd been to desire warmth before the return of her father
and her true mother, that morning. Reality without them is cold; to endure it,
one must be colder. It is an obvious conclusion. Now, she feels nothing. It is
wonderful.
     Let us leave these people now, in the hell that fate and their own actions
have made for them.



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