Episode Seven - 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'

It had all been Bloodhawk's idea. "While you're in America on business, Elenor, I'll take you in to Heroes bar and introduce you to some of the American superheroes. I'm sure they'll be pleased to meet you."

Elenor had arrived at nine o'clock wearing her costume. Bloodhawk had promised to pick her up, but at the last moment he'd rung to apologize, saying a problem had arisen that needed dealing with. "A superhero's time is never his own," he'd joked. He gave Elenor directions to the bar and promised to catch up with her as soon as he could. "I won't be too long."

And so Elenor had ordered herself a white wine soda. Intimidated by the number of costumed heroes who seemed to know each other, Elenor had wandered around, wondering whom she should speak to first. "Just say hello to someone. Most of the super people are quite friendly," Bloodhawk had advised.

And then Elenor had noticed one super hero in particular - a man they called the Ray. He had been staring at her now for over five minutes. It was a very intense stare, and Elenor was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Did he know her? Elenor took her drink and walked towards him.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" she asked.

"Well," he replied with a grin. "One of my super powers is x-ray vision."

Elenor walked quickly away with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She swore to herself and glanced over her shoulder. The Ray was now staring at her bottom. He waved.

Elenor headed to the bar where two other super heroes, Meta Man and The Vindicator were waiting to be served.

"... so anyway the Plastic Doll is lying on the floor, right, and he's got his hands up like this and he's screaming "All right, I surrender - no more!" and I'm laughing and saying, "that's not good enough!" So I lay into him with my Vindication stick and he's howling like the dumb fuck he is, and I can hear his ribs cracking as I'm hitting him."

"That's a new stick, isn't it? You didn't have it last month," said Meta Man.

"That's right. I had it made special. Here, feel the weight." He handed the two-foot long steel tipped truncheon over to Meta Man. "Feel that wood - that's fine grade oak, none of your cheap stuff - solid craftsmanship. It'll break a bone with each blow."

Meta Man swung the weapon a few times. "Nice. Where can I get one of these?"

"The man who makes them gives 15% discount to the Tabula Rasa." The Vindicator suddenly noticed Elenor. "Hi. Do you want to feel my stick?"

'Jesus Christ,' she thought as she moved further down the bar. 'I'm surrounded by madmen.' Towards the other end of the bar The Masked Miracle was flirting with Lilac. But standing on his own, drinking a pint of Guinness was a tall, broadly built superhero called WarDog.

"Hi." Elenor smiled, feeling very out of place. "I'm, uh, Argent. I'm from London." She held out her hand. WarDog stared at her. "That's, uh, London in England?"

"I'm WarDog - I've never heard of you." He took her hand and concentrated. His eyes glazed over momentarily.

"Um, are you all right?" asked Elenor.

"You were born on the 10th May 1977. Your mother is called Amanda, your father is called Peter, and you have an uncle called Gideon."

"What?"

"You love coffee flavored ice cream, your period is due in five days time, or so you think, and you wish Bloodhawk was single."

"What are you doing?" Elenor tried to tear her hand away.

"The last time you masturbated was three days ago in your hotel room and you used a soft porn novel to get aroused. It was called 'Fantasy Island'. You've sometimes fantasized about being tied up, but the one time you asked your boyfriend to try it he made a mess of things and you both felt very stupid."

"LET GO OF ME!" Elenor tore her hand away. She glared at WarDog.

"I'm a psychic." He snapped back to normal.

"How dare you! I can't believe you did that! You bastard! How dare you go into my mind like that!"

"It's as natural to me as sight and sound." WarDog shrugged his shoulders. "You shouldn't think things like that if you don't want me to know them."

Elenor was speechless. "That does it. I'm leaving." She turned round. 'I don't have to put up with this,' she thought.

"You're Argent, aren't you?"

Elenor turned round to see who had said that. A smug man with a terrible pudding bowl hair cut had emerged from the crowd.

"I'm Martin Hughes." He was drinking a pint of Guinness. "Nice costume."

"Oh just fuck off!" swore Elenor as she stomped away.

"What? What did I say..?" He followed after her. "Hey, what's your fucking problem? This happens to be my bar - you don't come in here and tell me to fuck off!"

Elenor turned round and faced him, with her fists against her hips. "I've had enough of this place!"

"Oh, have you now?" He put his pint glass down on a nearby table. "And just who do you think you are?"

Elenor exploded. "These people are animals!"

"They happen to be my customers, lady!" Martin stuck his face close to hers. "And they're spending a lot more money than you are!"

Elenor's mind raced. She was furious. She stared at Martin Hughes and said the first thing she could think of. "You've got stupid hair! Look at you - you look ridiculous! Where on earth do you get your hair cut. It's a mess!"

"Right, that does it!" Martin resisted the urge to punch her. If she'd been a man, he would have. "You're banned!"

"Good!" Elenor stamped her foot. "I don't want to be here anyway! And I hate your music!"

"That's REM! Don't insult REM!"

"You wouldn't know good music if... if... if someone came in here and played it!"

"I don't even think you're a real super hero, lady!"

"I am!"

"Who have you fought then? Huh?"

"Some terrorists."

"And? Anyone in costume?"

"...I'm just starting out."

"Hah! Thought so!" Martin laughed. "Spare me from prissy English girls who want to play at being a super hero. Do you know your country has always produced the worst super heroes in the entire world?"

"I'm leaving!"

"Damn right you are - you're banned!"

"I was leaving before I was banned!"

"Just get out!" Martin Hughes pointed to the door.

"Is there a problem?" Johann Carver aka Bloodhawk suddenly appeared. He looked at Elenor and then glanced at Martin. "Have I missed something? Hello, Argent." Bloodhawk was careful not to use her real name, even though she had revealed it to him in Brighton.

"Miss Pain in the Ass here was just in the process of being thrown out of my bar," explained Martin.

"I was leaving anyway!" shouted Elenor.

"Woah - hold on - Martin, what's the problem?"

"The problem is, I don't like her."

"I told him he's got stupid hair!" said Elenor. "And he has - look at him." She pointed at his head.

"That's it - get out! Now!"

Bloodhawk grabbed hold of Martin as he made to hustle Elenor out of the door. Elenor backed off, seeing the look of fury in Martin's eyes.

"Martin! Calm down! Calm down, for God's sake! Argent, what the hell are you playing at? This is Martin Hughes - he owns the place."

"He was laughing at me."

"What!" Martin struggled, but Bloodhawk was holding on tightly. "You've got a real problem, lady."

"Argent... for God's sake apologize," said Bloodhawk.

A small crowd of drunken super heroes had gathered around Elenor and Martin. WarDog was shouting: "Fight! Fight! Fight!" The Tumbler was shouting "Go, Martin, go!" while Rhiannon seemed to be rooting for Argent.

"No..." she said.

"Just do it!" shouted Bloodhawk, as he began to rapidly lose patience.

"..." Elenor looked round. The Ray was staring at her chest again and was grinning. She turned round to face Martin and Bloodhawk.

"Elenor," he whispered very quietly. "Don't piss me off, too."

"... I'm. sorry." she stared at Martin. "About your hair... I shouldn't have said that... I'm sorry."

"There, she's apologized, Martin, OK?" He was still trying to reach Elenor. "Just calm down!"

"I..." Elenor looked around at all the assembled super heroes. She bit her lower lip. "...think perhaps I should go back to my hotel now."

THE MINISTRY FOR SECULAR AFFAIRS, ORBITAL DIVISION - LONDON

"Miss Newton?" Mr. Price pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Send in our top field agents, Bretnor and Gabriel."

"Right away, sir," came the reply.

Two men walked into the room in Whitehall. Bretnor wore a dark black suit, a neatly starched white shirt, a pair of tasteful cuff links and his old school tie. Gabriel wore a pair of black trousers, the obligatory hand-stitched white shirt, and a smart rugby club blazer and matching tie. Both men were dark haired, tanned, and in their early thirties.

Care for a drink, boys?" asked Mr. Price as they sat down in front of him.

"Very kind of you, sir. Don't mind if I do sir. Large gin n' tonic would do me sir," replied Simon Bretnor. His partner, Peter Gabriel, subtly elbowed him in the ribs and nodded discreetly in the direction of old man Price's whisky decanter, as if to say 'don't be such a fool.' Bretnor's eyes lit up. "Actually sir, make that a large Laphroaig, if it's all the same to you sir!"

"Same for me," piped in Gabriel, already licking his lips in anticipation.

"A fine choice, boys, a fine choice." Price reached for the decanter of thirty-year-old malt and took two cut glasses. "Say when." He began to pour. Neither agent spoke. Price paused when both glasses were half full.

"Actually sir," remarked Bretnor, "better make it a stiff one - it's been a bugger of a day sir, if you'll excuse my French." Gabriel nodded vigorously in agreement; his eyes fixed on the level of whisky in his glass. Mr. Price raised an eyebrow, but continued to pour. He sat back in his chair and watched the two men chug back their drinks.

"As good as ever sir, as good as ever." Bretnor licked his lips. Gabriel eyed the still three-quarters full decanter with apprehension.

"Now then, it's about this super villain case you've been working on."

"The Brood case sir? Everything's going well, sir. Lots of leads to follow, sir."

"Yes, well, it's been over thirty months now."

"Tricky case sir," replied Bretnor quickly. Gabriel nodded in agreement. "Slippery customer, this Woland. Slipped through the net a couple of times I can tell you. Only a matter of time though sir. Very good whisky by the way sir."

"Care for another, boys?"

"Don't mind if I do, sir!" Gabriel seized the decanter quicker than he knew how to draw a gun. He slopped extremely large measures into both glasses.

"Well boys, I understand all that. I was a field agent myself once you know."

"And a very good one too, sir. We've all heard the stories." Gabriel knocked back his whisky in a single hit.

Mr. Price smiled. "Kind of you to say so, boys."

"You've always been our inspiration, sir," remarked Gabriel.

"Our guiding light sir," added Bretnor.

"You're a departmental legend, sir."

"Yes, well," Price felt a swell of pride. "It's about your expenses to date."

"All above board sir; all according to departmental procedures sir," said Bretnor.

"We've dotted the T's and crossed the I's, sir," said Gabriel.

"That's not the problem. I've received a memo from Internal Audit."

Bretnor looked at Gabriel. Gabriel looked at Bretnor. Bretnor looked worried. "Internal Audit, sir?" His voice squeaked slightly. He coughed quickly to clear his throat.

"Yes, apparently they're now auditing, in considerable detail, the expenses of any case that's been carrying on for more than three years. As your case falls into their jurisdiction in four months time, I thought I should let you know."

Silence. It was deafening.

BRETNOR & GABRIEL'S OFFICE IN WHITEHALL

"What do you mean you can't find the sodding case files? Old man Price is going to have our guts if he finds out we've lost them." Bretnor was in a panic.

"They must be here somewhere. Did we ask Kim to photocopy them?" Gabriel was in the process of turning the office upside down in search of the Brood files. All he had unearthed so far were the carbon copies of the expense sheets. Bretnor picked up the accounts and leafed through them.

"When was the last time we actually worked on this case?"

"Six months ago." Why hadn't they put their notes on optical storage like everyone else? Gabriel felt sick. He wanted another drink - he knew the club bar would be open about now, but the threat of Internal Audit was too great to ignore.

"That recently? I don't remember."

"We staked out that expensive restaurant for three weeks, remember? It's recorded in the expense sheets."

"Oh yes. They did us a lovely bit of salmon."

"Mmm. Salmon." Gabriel paused in his search, remembering the softly buttered salmon in its peppery lemon sauce. And the wines.

"Oh shit." Bretnor ran his finger along one of the entries on the expense sheets.

"Problem?"

"Yes. We claimed £8,000 this year for the purpose of 'consulting a super hero.'"

"Ah, that'll be an F73 expense - all above board and by the books."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Like what?"

"Like, we didn't actually consult a super hero. We spent it all on fine wines and that holiday in Sri Lanka with Lisa and Cathy."

"Your point being?"

"My point being Internal Audit Martin want to know who we consulted. What do we do then?"

Gabriel rose to his feet from behind the filing cabinet and considered the problem carefully. "Can't we make one up?" Bretnor stared at him. "Um. we could ask Lisa and Cathy to dress up as super heroes, couldn't we?"

"Oh yes, that's really going to fool internal audit," said Bretnor. "Lisa Loe running around the office in a swim suit and cape."

"What about Cathy? She looked quite good in that Batgirl outfit at the Christmas party last year?"

"It's not going to work, Peter. We've got to find ourselves a super hero and try and convince him or her to help us, preferably for free as we've spent all the money."

"No good getting an American hero in. They'll ask too many questions and expect to be paid."

"Yes." Bretnor sat down in his swivel chair and played with the executive toy on his desk. "What we really need is a new English super hero who's still wet behind the ears. Don't suppose you know of any, do you?"

THE HOTEL LOBBY

"Good evening, Miss Argent. A fruitful night's crime fighting I trust?" said the Hotel receptionist as he handed her the keys to room 141. Elenor leant on the counter with her elbows and picked up the keys. She sighed.

"I went to a bar."

"It's good to have a night off. I hope you don't mind, but I have a message from our chef."

"Yes?" Elenor looked up wearily.

"He was wondering whether you might pose for a photograph with him at breakfast tomorrow. He has a display of photos taken with famous super heroes when they visit this hotel. If it's not too much trouble."

"Sure, whatever."

"Our chef Martin of course offer you a gratis meal in return."

Elenor nodded. No one in the lobby was paying her the slightest attention. Obviously costumed heroes were such a usual occurrence in New York that no one batted an eyelid at one more.

"Oh and there was a message for you that came in ten minutes ago." He handed her a sheet of Hotel stationary paper. The message read "Get some sleep and call me in the morning. BH"

Elenor sighed and walked up the stairs.

A HOTEL ROOM IN NEW YORK

Elenor sat on the edge of her bed and unzipped her ankle boots. She threw them one at a time against the east wall. 'Nice one, Elenor,' she thought to herself. 'You really know how to make an impression, don't you?' She picked up the remote control and flicked through several channels on the holovision set, pausing when she found a music channel. "Oh God, what am I going to do. Even Bloodhawk thinks I'm stupid now." She collapsed onto the soft bed and tried to wish the evening away.

Elenor lay on the bed for half an hour, running the scene at Warriors through her head countless times, tormenting herself with the humiliation of it all. Eventually she got up and walked toward the mini-bar, unclipping her utility belt and letting it slip to the floor. "Might as well just get drunk I suppose." She opened the mini-bar and selected a half bottle of Californian white wine. Probably twenty credits, knowing mini bar prices, she thought, but I don't care. She walked with the bottle in her hand to the window to draw the curtains, but suddenly froze as she looked up. A costumed man was hovering outside her window, outside the third floor of the hotel. Elenor's eyes went wide with surprise. Whoever he was, he must have been hovering there for some time. The super person waved politely and tapped gently on the window. He seemed to be asking whether he could come in. Slightly flustered, Elenor pressed the switch that slid the bay windows open. The stranger glided silently into the room and hovered a few inches above the floor.

"Who. are you?" asked Elenor.

"They call me the Jackal. Pleased to meet you."

Elenor scratched her head. "Um, have you come from Heroes?"

"No." The Jackal smiled. "I don't drink there. But I heard you were in town, so I thought I'd drop by and welcome you to New York."

"Oh," Elenor was relieved that he hadn't seen the disaster she'd caused at Heroes. "Well, thanks. Can I fix you a drink?"

"Very kind of you, but I'm actually on a tight schedule tonight."

"Oh right." Elenor picked up a corkscrew and pushed it into the bottle.

"I've barely got enough time to kill you, so I'll have to forego the wine."

Elenor glanced up. "Huh?"

The Jackal punched her hard in the face. Elenor flew back and hit the wall with a thump. Closing in, the Jackal jabbed with two stiff fingers into her solar plexus, and stabbed a second time to her throat.

"Ukk! Ukk!" Elenor fell, choking to the floor.

"Sonic powers I believe? That should stop you speaking for a while."

"Akk.. ukk." Elenor tried to scream, but her throat wasn't responding.

"Now then." He produced a long sharp knife from a scabbard in the small of his back. "I've got a hobby. I scalp super heroes - I like to collect their pelts. They look good hanging in my lair of evil. And you've got such a beautiful pelt, Argent."

He smacked her in the face twice more with the back of his right fist. Her head slapped back twice against the wall.

"I think I'll hang your pelt between Topaz and Cinnamon." He lifted Elenor up by her hair. "Yes, a lovely pelt. And I think that's naturally blonde hair as well. You're very lucky."

Elenor punched the Jackal in the stomach. He fell backwards, but he still had hold of her hair. Elenor stumbled and was pulled off balance. She fell on top of the Jackal and felt him pull her head painfully to one side. With the palm of her right hand she smashed up at his nose and felt the bone break. The Jackal shouted something horrible and released her hair. Elenor rolled to one side, still doubled up with pain.

"... fucking scalp you alive then." hissed the Jackal as he hovered up from the floor. "No nice quick death for Argent!" As Elenor forced herself to her feet, the Jackal snap kicked her from his hovering position toward the open window. Elenor caught herself at the window edge with both hands but a second later the Jackal flew directly at her and punched her out of the room.

In free fall, Elenor smacked her wristbands together and felt the pull of gravity subside. She landed roughly but safely on top of a car. She groaned and twisted into a fetal position on top of the bonnet.

"... GOING TO DIE AND DIE AND DIE!" screamed the Jackal as he hurtled towards her. Elenor pulled the baton from her leg sheath and pressed the button to extend it. She rolled on the bonnet and swung up with the metal stick just as the Jackal flung himself into view. She felt the stick strike bone. Something snapped and it wasn't the stick.

"Ffff... ukk..." Elenor fell off the car and clawed her way back onto her feet. A few metres away, the Jackal lay twitching on the road. A set of breaks screeched painfully as a speeding car narrowly managed to stop before running him over. Unfortunately the next car wasn't quite so lucky. It struck the back of the first car at fifty miles an hour. The drivers of both cars were flung forward into their windscreens. Now the rest of the traffic in the road was piling up as the drivers tried to avoid hitting Elenor, who by now had staggered unintentionally into the middle of the road. There were two more bangs as cars ran into each other.

Elenor pulled herself back onto the pavement and collapsed.

AN ISOLATED FARM HOUSE SOMEWHERE IN THE LAKE DISTRICT, ENGLAND

It took a while for Lewis to fight down the overwhelming sense of nausea before he recognized that he was tied to a steel chair. The chair in turn was bolted to a cement floor. The cement floor was part of a dimly lit cellar. By now Lewis was feeling very scared. He tried flexing his fingers, but this proved impossible; perhaps because the wire tied tightly around his wrists had cut off the blood flow to his hands. Lewis was naked, and that frightened him even more. Mike sat beside him, to his right, similarly secured. Mike's chest had been crudely bandaged. The bandages were stained with blood.

Perhaps it was concussion, but Lewis was having serious problems focusing with either his eyes or ears. There were other people in the room beside himself, but from here they were just shapes and sounds. His mouth felt dry, swollen; his jaw felt broken, as did his nose, but when everything in his body felt so painful it was difficult to focus on any one single injury. Lewis had always known that his choice of profession could ultimately lead to a premature death, but he had always assumed that it would be through a battlefield injury. Certainly Lewis wasn't afraid to die, but he was afraid of torture. He feared a slow, lingering death, and from what he had seen of the Brood, this might well be the worst death of all. Lewis felt the sense of panic growing. Torture - maybe days of it. How long could you keep a man alive, in pain, abject pain, but still alive? In his line of work Lewis had heard the stories, tales of men who had been kept alive indefinitely.

Lewis felt sure he would start pleading soon. He was forcing the words and sounds back down his throat. A waste of time of course; nothing he could say would stop them doing whatever they wanted to do. That was the rational, sane way of looking at it, but try looking at the situation that way when you are naked, tied to a chair in a cellar, fifty miles away from the nearest source of help.

How long would Simon wait before he sent in a 'clean-up' squad? A day? Two days? Three days? A week? Lewis had no idea. Please God, let it be a day. But a day? A day is twenty-four hours; an hour is sixty minutes, and a minute is sixty seconds. How long does it take to slice open an eyeball? How many ways are there to cause pain, to mutilate a man? Lewis tried to swallow, but couldn't. He realized that his breathing was out of control. Control the breathing... slow it down. Do it!

More voices echoed around the room, but Lewis could not make out the words. There was a buzzing in his head. It felt like Lewis was listening to sounds underwater. And then suddenly his ears popped.

"... Like that now. It's up to you."

There was a light. A man angled it into Lewis' face. From somewhere in the cellar there came the sound of small metal objects being laid out on a metal tray. To Lewis it was the most frightening sound he had heard in a long time. It was a sound that signified impending pain.

The voices grew quieter. Possibly the men knew he was now awake. A figure moved past him, somewhere to his left. There was a scraping sound of a heavy object being dragged across the cement floor behind his chair. The man in charge of the object fumbled with it for a minute before switching it on. There was a hiss, like the sound of escaping gas, and then it was switched off again. Satisfied that everything was in order, the man stood patiently behind the chair. Time went by in the dim cellar. Lewis could hear his own amplified breathing; he could hear the sound of dripping water and the occasional sound of a man scraping his boot against the concrete as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Somewhere in the gloom a door creaked - probably the door leading into the cellar. Footsteps clattered down wooden stairs, each step creaking in turn. There was a 'snikt' sound of a light and a sharp inhalation of breath. Lewis blinked against the blinding light. The man standing behind Lewis tapped a metal cylinder. He unwound a length of rubber hose attached to the apparatus and held the pistol grip in his right hand.

Tip-tap-tip-tap. Footsteps clicked against the concrete. Somewhere in the darkness a man said the word "Professor." There was a general acknowledgment throughout the room. A steel-backed chair was dragged harshly across the cement floor and placed directly behind the spot lamp shining in Lewis' face. The Professor sat down and made himself comfortable. No one spoke.

"Huh... huh..." Lewis could feel himself trembling. It was going to begin any minute now.

"Well..." the voice broke the silence. It was a thick, gravelly voice with a definite Balkan accent. "I imagine you must be rather scared by now. All alone, naked, hurt, tied to a chair in a cement cellar." There was that sound again of metal objects being rearranged on a metal tray. "Have you come to terms with your situation yet, or are you still in a state of shock? I wonder. I have just seen my beautiful Donna-Marie - seen what you did to her. I believe you require a lesson in manners. Manners maketh the man, don't you feel?"

"Please..." Lewis hadn't intended to say anything. He knew it was pointless, he knew that no words, no explanation could possibly save him, but still he had to try. "It was just a job."

"A job? You are an intruder. More, you are a murderer. You have violated my home and caused me harm. Am I supposed to simply forget this incident?"

"I'll give you money. I have money."

"So do I... So do I... It buys me many fine things. And how much money would you offer me? What sum of money could make me forget this night?"

"I've got one hundred thousand pounds in my bank account. It's all I have. Please."

"One hundred thousand pounds? You killed two men and a woman tonight. Let's keep the mathematics simple and assume that their lives are all worth the same. That makes, oh, thirty three thousand pounds a head, leaving aside the matter of property damage, intrusion, and the manhandling of my precious Donna-Marie. Let me suggest something to you. if I promise to pay thirty three thousand pounds to your next of kin, do I have your permission to kill you in the manner of my choosing? It is after all your nominated sum."

"What, nothing to say? Does my offer distress you?" The man clicked his fingers - a signal to the person standing behind Lewis. There was the sound of gas and the sound of gas igniting. Lewis realized with horror that there was an oxy-acetylene torch in place behind his chair. "But I sense that this conversation begins to bore you. Never mind, I can think of many ways to re-engage your full attention."

"It was just a job!" screamed Lewis, as the wheels of the oxy-acetylene torch grew closer.

"And so it comes down to money again. Truly it is the root of all evil." Professor Woland smiled. "I know what you must be thinking. 'This can't be happening to me.' Well it is. This is real, this is now, and this could well be the rest of your life, or then again maybe not." Woland tapped his fingers against the steel arm of his chair. "It is often the case that the point of torture is to extract information, or to satisfy a measure of sadism on the part of the torturer. But there is a far more aesthetic quality to torture - the capacity to induce fear. Fear is a greatly misunderstood concept. Real fear is something wonderful. Take now for example. your bodies are currently hyper-reacting, producing adrenal compounds that will make you say or do anything to save yourselves. You are at the very peak of fear, and the beautiful thing is I have yet to touch you. Right now I can smell your fright - you stink of it. Hormones, you understand. But fear itself. I doubt that I can push you any further."

Woland rose silently from the chair. He walked three steps towards a metal trolley and selected a scalpel. "Tonight has been a strange night, in more ways than you can possibly ever know. I feel I owe the night something better, something more imaginative than simple crude torture. Let us tonight produce a tragedy of cosmic proportions. Let us test that sense of bravado, that sense of comradeship, which you must both share. I can see that you are both very close, so tonight let us laugh together in the very face of friendship."

Mike screamed as Woland towered above his helpless body. His screams grew worse still as the scalpel dipped down to cut at his flesh. Woland had his prize in the palm of his hand. With exaggerated poise and dignity he approached Lewis.

"I am the red razor in the night. I am the keeper of dark secrets, the shadow behind the moonlight. I am the thing that you fear the most. I am the devil and I know where you live. I know where your sister lives, and your mother and your father. You have a choice tonight. You can eat this, or I will do the same to you." Woland presented Lewis with the bloodied end of Mike's penis. And then he grinned, and his grin was like that of a fox eating shit through a wire brush.

SOHO - LONDON

"Excuse me, Miss Argent."

Elenor released the stunned criminal and let his body fall to the floor. She turned to see two smartly dressed men in suits standing before her.

"My name is Simon Bretnor."

"And I'm Peter Gabriel. We're from the government and we need your help."

"Huh?" Elenor ran her fingers through her long blond hair. "The government?"

Bretnor flashed some impressive looking ID. "We're from ORBITAL. You won't have heard of us, Miss, but we're the good guys." Elenor walked toward the two men and studied the ID. It looked genuine, though she wouldn't have known the difference if it had been fake.

"What's this about then?"

"Perhaps we should get off the street and allow the police to clear up the mess," suggested Gabriel.

"Where are you taking me? To a police station?"

"Uh, no." Gabriel pointed down the street. "I was going to suggest that wine bar over there."

"The food's supposed to be pretty good," remarked Bretnor casually.

A TASTEFUL BAR IN SOHO

"Two large whiskies and a pair of pints please," said Gabriel to the barman. He looked at Argent. "What would you like?"

"A white wine soda please."

"And a white wine soda for the beautiful superhero with the lovely blonde hair." He grabbed three menus from the bar and handed copies to Bretnor and Elenor. "Uh, no!" He quickly called out to the barman who was about to use the optics. "We want the 15 year old Glenmorangie, not the Bells. Thanks." The barman nodded and began to switch round the bottles.

"The chicken in a white wine sauce looks tasty," said Bretnor, as he perused the menu list. "Choose whatever you like," he added to Argent. "It's all on expenses."

"Shouldn't you be briefing me in Whitehall?" Elenor looked round the crowded bar. Nearly everyone in the room was staring at her.

"Should do and would do, but the club bar isn't open for another two hours." Bretnor checked his watch to make sure. "But we will take you over to our building later, just to prove we really do work for a top secret government department. I'd recommend the chili by the way, if you like hot food." And, he thought to himself, he'd make damn sure she walked past the Internal Audit offices in their company.

"I'm on a diet, thanks. Let me get this straight - the only reason we're not in your building right now is because the club bar doesn't open for another two hours?"

"S'right." Bretnor picked up his whisky and knocked it back in one. "Cheers, Peter."

"Chin chin!" Gabriel wolfed down his whisky and held his hand up to the barman. "Another two large ones please."

"So what is all this about?" asked Elenor. They had taken a table in one of the far corners of the bar in order to cut down on the number of nosy customers who were staring at the Argent. Bretnor could understand why. He was finding it difficult to stop staring at her tits himself.

"Well, firstly we need you to sign this." Gabriel plopped a document on the table and handed Elenor his pen.

"What is it?"

"You're signing the official secrets act. What we're about to tell you is strictly confidential."

Elenor took the pen and signed her name as 'Argent' on the form. She handed the pen back to Gabriel.

"Excellent. The pink copy is mine, the white copy goes to records, and this one's yours." He handed her a yellow carbon sheet.

"Do I need it?" asked Elenor.

"Not really, but that's bureaucracy for you."

Bretnor began his briefing. "Nine years ago we set up an experiment in a secret base in Larkhill to produce a super soldier serum. We were trying to create soldiers with enhanced strength, stamina, and speed. We succeeded, sort of." Bretnor drank some of his beer. "We had thirteen volunteers, drawn from various Special Forces units, who agreed to be the initial test subjects. The serum did enhance their physical attributes, but it also had the unfortunate side effect of inducing psychotic behavior in all thirteen of the men and women. The project was shut down and the subjects were kept in Larkhill for their own safety. The thing is, they broke out."

"We've been chasing them for some time now," continued Gabriel. "Three of them have been killed since the initial break out, but the others are still at large. Their leader calls himself Professor Woland. I've been told the name comes from an old Russian novel and is the name the devil used in that story. Due to the way the serum has affected their brains, they have no concept of morality - they do whatever they want, whenever they want."

"Three days ago one of our field agents was following up a lead," said Bretnor. "We lost contact with him and his partner. I can only conclude he was on to something. The Brood - that's what they call themselves - follows a typical pattern. They find somewhere nice and quiet and move in. Often it's an old house in the countryside. From here they live like pack animals. When they grow tired, they move on to somewhere else. There is a very good chance they might still be in the same area where Lewis was operating."

"And you want me to help you stop them?" asked Elenor. She sipped her white wine and soda.

"Well, yes. You are a super hero after all. These men and women pose a serious threat."

"I don't understand why you need me though. Surely the army and the police have enough resources for you to use?"

Bretnor had half expected this. Of course she was absolutely right. But he could hardly tell her they only wanted her help to make their expense claim seem legitimate.

"We've tried using army units in the past and we failed. We think a more subtle approach might work this time." Bretnor crossed his fingers and hoped she would buy it.

"Well, I suppose I'm flattered that your department thinks I'm up to this," said Elenor.

"Oh absolutely," added Gabriel. "We've been very impressed by your record so far." He had crossed his fingers under the table, too and hoped she wouldn't ask for any examples.

"Thanks." Elenor smiled. This was great - she was being accepted and respected by professional law enforcers in her own country. She reflected on her experiences a few days ago in America in comparison.

"Please say you'll help us." said Bretnor. He gave her his most winning smile. "England needs Argent!"

Elenor scratched her nose. "Look, I need to go to the toilet for a minute. I'll think about it and give you my answer when I get back."

"Sure." Bretnor got up to let her out of the corner. "But we really don't know how we'll cope if you say no. There could be innocent deaths."

Gabriel nodded grimly. "These men and women think nothing of mutilating and torturing innocent children. You're our last hope, Argent."

Elenor nodded and headed toward the toilets. She glanced back and smiled reassuringly at the two agents.

"Do you think she bought it?" asked Bretnor once she was out of earshot.

"I fucking hope so," said Gabriel. "Quick, let's get another couple of large ones in while she's not around. I don't want her to see us drinking too much - it might leave a bad impression."

Elenor checked her hair in the wall length mirror. She tried to ignore the other two women who were staring at her costume.

"Are you a super hero?" asked a worried looking forty five year old woman.

"Yes, I'm called Argent."

"There's not going to be a fight, is there?"

Back inside the bar, Bretnor and Gabriel were disposing of another pair of whiskies each and hiding the glasses on another table.

"So what did you think, Peter?"

"Nice tits." He grinned.

"And legs, and ass. Really sexy. I mean, who needs Wonder Woman, eh?"

"So..." Gabriel had that crafty look in his eyes again. "The usual bet?"

Bretnor nodded and fished out his wallet. "Two hundred quid says I get her first."

"You're on." Gabriel stumped up his two hundred and fished out an extra hundred.

"What's that for?"

"An extra hundred if either of us gets to keep her knickers as a souvenir after shagging her."

"You're on." They pooled the cash together on the table.

"This place must be expensive, or are you just big tippers?" Elenor strolled back to the table just in time to see the men pool the six hundred pounds together. Bretnor laughed nervously.

"Well." Elenor nibbled at her lower lip and stood there with her hands on her hips. "Looks like you've got a super hero on the team." She smiled.