Last edited 02 Dec 2001 02:45 PM
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Last edited 02 Dec 2001 02:45 PM
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More rapid than eagles, Sh'heyla had her own faith, of course, a pantheon drilled into her by the women of the Herd, but there were times when some of the imagery of the religions of this world caught her fancy. She was no winter deity of plenty, of course -- H'harol would have been amused by how the humans pictured him here -- but "more rapid than eagles" she wove her way south through the city, into areas less attractive, more poor, and correspondingly easier prey for predators. Down a main avenue. Women sold themselves here, even at this hour of the morning, but she had little patience for that. What they sold themselves to buy, on the other hand, was always something that made her willing to bare her teeth and snap ... Back to the left, two blocks, left again, around, and right, and there were the young males under a light, money held out from the wreck before them, laughing as they handed over the plastic bag -- She slowed down enough that they had time to react to her pounding up the street at them. It would do them no good, and there were few attacks she could make at speed that wouldn't cripple or kill. It would have been the right thing to do, of course, but Ace was, while annoying, right, and it was very, very important to her to be counted among the heroes here. One -- the one with the bag -- was turning to run. One threw down the buyer to the pavement, trying to trip Sh'heyla up. The third was pulling a gun out of his waistband. Steps away, Zebra's powerful legs kicked her up, twisted around, left hoof crashing across the pistol, twisting the metal enough it would be useless, and as it tore away breaking the bravo's finger in the bargain. Land on the right hoof, twist around, slowing down enough not to break a spine or -- left leg continues to pivot, twirls her around, cracks into the one who manhandled the buyer as he's turned to run, mid-thigh, howl of pain as he crashes to the side and into the telephone pole, arrest her spin, still crouching, left hoof up, then crash down on the foot of the disarmed gunman, who is just beginning to flee himself. He screams as bones crunch, not going anyhere. Elapsed time, three seconds. Pixie would have scolded her for stealing all the fun. $300 sneakers padded down the sidewalk, the first of the trio to break and run. The buyer -- a hunched, aged (prematurely) husk of a man, in a dull, stained coat, still hugging the pavement where tossed down. He moaned. Nothing to do for him. Pathetic. One dealer was unconscious from the telephone pole, the other crying in pain on the ground from a broken foot and finger. She whickered, and set off down the sidewalk at a trot, keeping pace with her prey. * * * He knew she was back there. He kept glancing over his shoulder, and she wasn't hiding herself, a steady fifty yards behind. His breath was coming in deep, gasping gulps now, his running ragged and near-stagger, and his maroon t-shirt, untucked and about four sizes too large for him, was drenched in sweat, even in the morning coolness. She would put him out of his misery if he went for a gun, or for a cell phone. In the meantime, she let the sights and smells of the deteriorating neighborhood wash past her, unnoticed, focusing only on her target. At last, he staggered into a decrepit building, a three floor apartment, indistinguishable in its squalor from its neighbors. She sped up, closing the gap in moments, skidding to a halt at the slightly recessed front door. The rusty and twisted metal that had once held an awning marched from there to the curb. Random trash -- broken glass bottles, fast food bags, even antique bits of styrofoam -- filled any corner it could be kicked or blown into. She could hear heavy steps, irregular, making their way up the stairs. Unlikely anyone was waiting in ambush. She yanked open the door, came in fast, hugged up against the stairwell on the left. She heard a gasp of fright interrupt the gasps for air from the fleeing man. He'd heard her. Maybe. The tone of the steps changed. He was on a landing. They stopped. Was he looking to see if she was really there? Did he have a gun pulled out, waiting to shoot her? She'd been shot in her life, even before reaching Earth. She didn't like it in the least. But if was leading her to a place with more dealers, or distributors, that would make this morning worthwhile, even with all the threk she'd had to put up with. The building smelled of poverty and not making ends meet. Cheap food, urine, a heating system on its last legs, booze, multiple types of smoke, all wafted around her, filling her large nostrils. She would gag, but she had smelled far worse in her days. In a cell, after six months, her only company the -- She snapped out of it. Any place that reminded her of that warranted flight -- but her prey was waiting. She could hear his breathing, deep, gulping, trying to reoxygenate his blood. She took the bottom step, then the next, then the next, each one faster, each one full with her hoof so it cracked like a baseball bat on a ball, like a bullet from a gun, each one faster and faster, let him know he couldn't escape, shatter his nerve, make him run -- Which he did, a few steps, fumbling, a creak, then a slam. She poured it on. Two seconds later, she was at the door, too soon for an ambush, for him to have let those inside know who was on his tail, for him to have steeled himself with a gun for another shot. She took the door with her shoulder, and it splintered inward, and she was inside -- The woman's scream was loud, piercing, and annoying. Not to mention unexpected. The dealer was standing in the room ahead of her, leaning against a doorjamb to another room on the left, he eyes wide with fear at her appearance. The female was across the room from him, to her right, a large wooden spoon in her hand. Older, heavier -- his mother? The room reeked of cabbage, which didn't smell bad, but of smoke and garbage and other, even less savory things, which did. The woman stopped screaming, then started yelling, "Who are you?! What are you doin' here? What did you do to my door? Why the --" "Shut up!" Zebra snapped. The woman complied for a moment, startled. "I am Zebra, of the Magnificent Six. Your son --" "I don't care if you're Rudolph of Santa's Reindeer, you can't just come bustin' in here, chasin' my son, breakin' down my door --" "Shut up!" Zebra said, even louder. "Your son was selling drugs behind the 7-11 at --" "That's not true, Mama!" the boy yelled. "I was just there, me and my boys, when she --" "I don't care what you say," the woman started shouting, advancing on her with the large wooden spoon. It would almost have been laughable, if Sh'heyla had been in a mood to laugh. This was rapidly spinning out of control. "My Tommy's a good boy! He don't sell no drugs! Now get out of here! Get out of here, you freak! Come breakin' in here, standing around with your hands on your hips, stupid little swimmin' suit on your freaky zebra body, don't come in here tellin' me about my Tommy, my Tommy's a good boy, he --" Sh'heyla was very rapidly losing the tiny restraint that she'd call patience with boys named Tommy and their loud, shrieking mothers. "Listen, woman," she said, raising her voice to match hers, turning toward her, "I know what I saw, and if you and your sisters watched this youngster the way you were meant to, he wouldn't be --" "Get out!" the woman screamed. "Don' you be tellin' me about my Tommy, all your lies, my Tommy's a good boy, and you come in here, think you're gonna lay your freaky little hands on him --" She advanced with the spoon. Sh'heyla held out one hand. "Do not wave that thing in my face, woman. I have had a really crappy --" "Get away from my Mama!" Tommy shouted. Things slowed way down in Sh'heyla's mind as she simultaneously cursed herself for turning her back on the boy, considered how loud such a small apartment could get, wondered if she could get Tommy's mother to give her any cabbage (her breakfast having been quite sketchy), and whirled left, crouching into a combat position. That crouch might have saved her, since Tommy had obtained (she hoped he had been carrying it, not that she had ignored him long enough for him to duck out and retrieve it) a very large pistol, automatic, nine millimeter, kept well-cleaned -- The roar of the gun deafened her momentarily, as the bullet whizzed past her, just clipping the corner of her right ear, thudding into the drab, green wall behind her (and probably passing through, must be sure and let the EMTs know to check), and she sprang up from the crouch and round-housed her right hand into the gun before her. It made a loud, cracking sound against the hoof pads on the outside of her fingers, the back of her hand, and pinwheeled out of Tommy's hand. Before he could even react, she'd followed up with her left, smashing it into Tommy’s face, snapping his head back. She bore in on him, slapping down the arms he tried to raise to protect himself, pummeling him easily through his inexpert guard. “You – do – not – shoot – a – gun – at – me!” she was shouting, and she realized she could only barely hear herself, her ears still ringing from the gunshot, one of the a wave of hot pain from the bullet. She could hear a buzzing, and was able to make out words, and realized that it was Tommy’s mother, screaming for help, shouting something about her poor Tommy, who was now crumpled on the floor in front of her, bruised and lacerated wherever she’d struck him. She turned, as Tommy’s mother ran out the door, yelling for someone, anyone, to help her against the monster beating on her little boy. Sh’heyla snorted, then pulled a small, customized earpiece and contact mic from a pocket on her briefs (I agree with you, woman, these clothes are ridiculous.) She waited a few moments more until her hearing had returned, then patched through the comm. system at the Mag Six HQ to the police department. This day just kept getting better and better. * * * The Lincoln Park Zoo wasn’t the best in the country, by any means, but it was a decent enough place, and, according to all the plaques and literature and t-shirts and other paraphernalia, it was the oldest (and one of the last) free public zoos in the US. Sh’heyla was a member of the Zoo Association, for reasons that she usually couldn’t fathom, but which occasionally made sense to her. She was sitting now on a bench, in the shade of some huge, old trees, looking around her. During the week, most visitors were tourists or, more likely, local school classes on a field trip. Or sometimes people with nothing else to do. Like the old man sitting on the bench over there, watching the wildlife, watching the people walk by. He must be easily amused. Around her, she could hear noises of some of the greater
beasts there, and smell the traces of many more. Beyond him, fifty, sixty yards away, across an expanse of cement and asphalt walkways, was the zebra enclosure. When she came the zoo, she usually ended up here, most often to convince herself that she didn’t belong on the other side of that pit and barrier. The herd they had was only eight strong, and they milled about a couple of concrete “termite mounds” which masked their feeding troughs. They raised their heads now and again and looked around. The enclosure was plenty large for them to trot about, and they did so on occasion, but usually they just looked around, as though expecting that the false savannah they lived in (when not in the little huts at the back of the enclosure) to abruptly expand its horizons beyond the fencing and the berms and the large plants beginning to lose their leaves with the season. It made her sad. It made her angry. It made her happy (to not be there). It made her –- -- it made her lonely.
And less alone. Which was stupid, because she was not a zebra.
Her DNA had more in common with the – well, with nothing here.
The plastic tabletop, maybe. A
different set of chemical building blocks, different combinations of amino and
nucleic acids. She had the testing
done, via someone who owed her a favor and who knew how to keep quiet. Appearance was everything, perhaps, but nothing by that same
token. She was all alone, and that
herd over there had nothing but its name in common with her own, who she would
probably never see again. She frowned, snorted, and took a tall sip of the drink
she'd picked up near the entrance. It
was something they called "wheat grass," mixed with raw sugar, rock
salt, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. It
was her favorite beverage here on this wretched planet, and she’d made the
mistake of once mentioning it (without the “wretched planet” part of the
description) in an interview with some buffoon from the local news. The next time she had visited the zebras here at the zoo, it was on the menu. She couldn’t imagine that too many humans would actually drink it – the Gambler had once told her, in very colorful terms, what a “wretched concoction” it was. But they continued to serve it. “Zebra Zundae” they called it. She’d never complained about it – though the thought occasionally crossed her mind – since it might mean they’d stop serving it. Her broad ears twitched as she heard grunting behind her. The zebra enclosure here was directly opposite the gorilla habitat. They get a 'habitat,' three times the size of the paddock the zebras are in. Why am I not surprised? She was aware of a pair of eyes on her. She turned, abruptly, to see another child, this one perhaps five or six years old (Please, M’h’hreyar, if You will suspend your warped humor just this once, and make this one not be named Tommy, I will not be forced to scream), standing there in a dark blue jacket, watching her gravely, while his mother gabbed with another adult three or four benches away. She stared back at him for a long, long moment, before saying, “What the hell are you looking at, monkey-boy?” His eyes grew wide, and he turned and ran back to his parent. “Mommy! Mommy! Look at the horsey lady! Look!” The adults turned with a start and stared at Sh’heyla. She glowered back at them. No reason for them to stare. She’d finally washed off all the damned blood that had run down from her ear along her face and into the fur on her shoulder. It had left bloodstains in Tommy’s mother’s hand towel, but that was her son’s fault. Even the cops, when summoned, had been reluctantly forced to agree. After a moment, the adults looked away, and got up and started gathering their things. “Mommy, Mommy,” the child continued, “she called me a monkey. I want to be a monkey. Monkey Boy!” He started running around the bench, making hooting sounds. “Dakota, come on!” the child’s mother commanded, as the trio hustled away. Sh’heyla snorted again. She was used to it. But she didn’t like it. Not one little bit. The workers in the little restaurant kitchen chose that moment to turn on their radio. “Chicago’s own, Copper, off on an assignment in New York, was commended at a press conference today by the mayor --” Sh’heyla was off like a shot before she could hear any more. She was so tired of hearing about what a great, upstanding guy Copper was, she could just spit. As she pounded past the zebra enclosure, she saw one of them looking over at her, locking its large dark eyes with her. What are you looking at, horsey-girl? It didn’t answer, of course, as she whizzed past, her main and tail streaming behind her, headed for the nearby exit. Of course it didn’t. It couldn’t. Zebras are stupid, dumb animals. That’s all they are. * * * “I do not appreciate getting calls from the police like that.” Ace was lecturing her, mere moments after she’d returned to the HQ. Did he care that she was on time for her flight to New York? Of course not. “You know the routine,” he went on. “You’re a deputized, irregular member of the local police. We all are. That means you use reasonable force on normal perps. You restrain them. You Mirandize them. You do not cripple them, beat them senseless, or --” “Your name is not actually Tommy, is it?” she asked, interrupted him. She’d backed into a corner before him, and her crest lay back, but that didn’t stop her sharp tongue. Ace blinked. “No. You know that, Sheila. It’s Andrew.” She snorted. “Just checking." She flinched as he began to open his mouth again. "Look, Andrew, I really want to do the last few things I need to get ready before we fly off to New York? Is that okay? I promise to be good, and not embarrass you, or anything, all right?” Her temper was on a knife’s edge, but she decided to let it fall into fatigue, instead. “Look, I am really tired. May I be excused?” He looked at her a long moment, as if weighing whether haranguing further would do any good. At last he nodded. “Sure. Get cleaned up, patch up that ear, get your kit packed.” He flashed a thin grin. “Can’t have those Big Heroes thinking we’ve got a rag-tag outfit here.” Sh’heyla just shook her head. “Buy Copper some metal polish, then,” she muttered, stomping sullenly away. * * * She was on her way up to her room when the door at the top of the stairs, behind the loft, opened up. “Sheila, I was just gonna check where you were. C’mere a sec.” A flicker, and Pixie had flown back into her room. Sh’heyla sighed. Pixie was, without a doubt, the nicest person in the Mag 6. She was also, like her namesake, insufferably perky and cheerful. It was annoying most of the time. The rest of the time it was really annoying. “What?” she asked, flatly, as she went in. The room was painted a dark green, and always felt a little claustrophobic. It matched the outfit Pixie was wearing that morning, cropped green tee (with appropriate slots in the back) and shorts in a slightly darker green. The blonde had resized herself to normal, her wings vanishing, and she was plopping herself down on the thick mattress on the floor where she slept. There was a plastic crate full of boxes on the floor. “Mail’s in. Ace brought it up, but one of yours got mixed up in mine.” Pixie gave her head a shake, let her short blond bangs toss back and forth. “Kind of light. You know what that means.” Sh’heyla glowered at her, but her team mate just giggled and stuck her tongue out back. “Hey, goes with the territory. I get Tinkerbell mugs, Trolls, and butterfly-themed toys. You --” Sh’heyla glowered some more, and grabbed the box. She started to turn. “Hey, aren’t you gonna open it here? Now I gotta know if I was right.” Pixie giggled. Such behavior should have been repulsive with a grown woman, but it seemed to fit her just right. “C’mon. I promise not to laugh.” She sighed. “Fine,” Sh'heyla grumbled. She ripped open the top of the box addressed to her. All their mail was X-rayed, and it was extremely unlikely that a bomb would go off around Pixie, anyway. A note fluttered out and to the floor, but Sh’heyla was determined to know the worst as soon as possible. She fished around the tissue paper inside, and pulled out – “See? I was right. Ewwww --” Pixie’s triumphant squeal had turned into disgust. “What are they doing? Are they – oh, that’s just too kinky. Ewww.” Stuffed zebras, all right. Cutesy beyond words. But posed (actually sewn together) in a most – suggestive and naughty and thoroughly-inappropriate-for-the-US-mails way. Sh’heyla eyed it dubiously. “Some guys are so gross,” the diminutive blonde said, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, I’ve heard of doggy style and all that, but …” Sh’heyla scooped up the note, scanned it quickly, and noticed it had a phone number. Her ears twitched, and she turned again to leave. “You’re not gonna keep that are you? Give it to Ace. He’ll figure out who sent it and --” Zebra snorted. "I wouldn't want to offend his delicate sensibilities," she said. "Thanks." She hustled out of the room before Pixie could start sharing what she'd found in her own fan mail. Oh, yes, she was going to keep it all right. She should tear it into pieces -– The suggestion from both the dolls and on the note was -- not all that much different from how things were sometimes done back home. And, as the Gambler had somehow deduced, she’d be in heat in a few weeks -- and both suggestion and the phone number might look a lot different then .... * * * So she was back in her room. After being outside, running free, the walls seemed to close in on her like a cage. I wonder if that’s how they feel, back at the zoo. Now that she had nothing to do but wait – her kit was fairly simple, and her duffle back was already packed – all she could think of was how irritating it was to have to wait. It figured that damned armored idiot would show up late. Or later than she was ready to go. She flipped on the television. Maybe, just maybe, there would be something decent she could distract herself with for a few minutes. “High praise indeed from the Mayor today, as he expressed his thanks to Chicago’s own Copper for the armored hero’s valor during the fires which swept through --” Her hoof smashed through the picture tube with a loud implosive whoomp and a shattering of glass. Damn him to the fires, she cursed. And now look at this. This is all his fault, stupid tin-plated buffoon. And Ace wasn’t likely to replace her set a third time in as many months. "Therk a'ha'hash thek!" Sh'heyla cursed fate, this life, and, particularly the crappy morning she'd had. She had no idea that the afternoon and the evening were going to be far, far worse.
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