This is my fourth fanfic. It is also part 2 of my epic miniseries "BLOOD OATH OF PATRIOTS’ which I hope only turns out to be a trilogy. Chronologically, it would be Episode 104 ¾. When I finished part 1 and started on this, I thought I could finish the whole thing in one fic about half the length of this one. It just goes to show ya.
All references in this fic to Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, the Taliban, and the Mujaheddin were in there quite a while before September 11th. All but the last five chapters were finished by then.
I’d like to thank Renfield, Robert Nowall, and Brian Friend for "pre-beta-reading" the ugly not-quite-finished version of this fic.
BLOOD OATH OF PATRIOTS
EPISODE II
BY ANY OTHER NAME
By Galen Hardesty
_____________________________
Scene 1 Ext. Morgendorffer Home, early morning. Jake: (v.o.) Good Morning, Kiddo! Daria: (v.o.) Morning, Dad. Cut to: Int: Morgendorffer kitchen, breakfast nook. Jake is in his usual chair with a mug of coffee, a toaster pastry, and the Lawndale Sun-Herald. Daria is seating herself in her chair with a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice.
Helen: (o.s.) Good morning, you two! (Helen enters the shot with coffee and a breakfast bar, followed by Quinn with a bowl of cereal. They both take their usual seats. Helen looks at Daria, who seems to be smiling a bit in between spoonsful of cereal.) You’re looking cheerful this morning, Daria.
Daria: Am not.
Quinn: Are too. What are you up to?
Daria: Uh, I had a dream. Something about a field of flowers and a bunny. Don’t remember the details. (Helen and Quinn give Daria strange looks.)
Jake: That’s great, Kiddo.
Quinn: Did you bite the bunny’s head off? (Daria’s smile reappears for a second, then is displaced by another spoonful of cereal.)
Helen: Quinn!
Jake: Hey, listen to this! "A capacity crowd was on hand last night at Cafe Lawndale to enjoy performances and readings by several of Lawndale High’s many talented students. (faint snort from Daria) The recently reopened coffeehouse is fast becoming a favored gathering spot for young Lawndalians. "It’s a place where they can come and share their talents with their peers, or just sit and talk over a cappuccino or a soda.", said Timothy O’Neill, coffeehouse director and teacher of literature and writing at Lawndale High. "Cafe Lawndale seeks to be a positive force in the community by encouraging creativity and self-expression in our young people." At least one standing ovation indicated to this reporter that talent is indeed being nurtured here. Cafe Lawndale is open from 6 to 11 every evening except Sunday." (looks up at Daria) You were there last night, weren’t you, Daria? Were you one of the performers?
Daria: I read something.
Helen: That’s wonderful, sweetie! (bt) Were you the one who got the standing ovation? (Daria mumbles unintelligibly, concentrates intently on her cereal.)
Quinn: Was she ever!
Daria: (looks up, surprised) You were there?
Quinn: (eyes shift briefly to right and down) Uhh, yeah, well, my date wanted to stop by after dinner. (looks at watch) Gee, look at the time! Gotta go. (heads for door)
Daria: (blinks twice) Thanks for coming.
Quinn: Um, sure.
Jake: Bye, Kitten! Have a good day!
Quinn: Bye! (She exits by sliding door onto side patio. Daria stares after her.)
Helen: Oh, darling, I’m so proud of you! (sadly) I really wish I’d been there.
Jake: Yeah, me too!
Daria: Yeah, me too. I told you about it. (Sees guilt join the sadness in her mother’s eyes) But I guess I didn’t exactly urge you. Uh, are you really interested in what I’ve been doing at the coffeehouse?
Helen: Of course I am, Daria. I hate to miss all these special times in your life!
Jake: Yeah, me too!
Daria: (thought v.o.) But you do... every time. (aloud) Well, I put this together for you. (She reaches into her backpack on the floor, pulls out two folders, hands one to Helen, one to Jake.) These are copies of what I’ve read, and a copy of the Sun Herald article after opening night, and some explanatory notes. And I’m pretty sure I’ll be reading there at least one more time.
Helen: Oh, sweetie! This is so thoughtful of you!
Jake: Yeah, thanks, Kiddo!
Daria: It’s nothing. I’d really like it... if you read them.
Helen: Well, of course I will, sw... (She looks up and is caught by the earnestness in Daria’s gaze. Her mother instinct detects a need there not unlike her own.) ...sweetie. I’ll read them... today.
Daria: (smiling) Great! See you this afternoon. Don’t work too hard. (She grabs her backpack and leaves by the side door.)
Jake: I’ll read them too, kiddo!
Helen: Omigosh! I’ll be late! (gulps coffee, clamps breakfast bar in mouth , stuffs folder into her briefcase, follows Daria out door) Mmf, Nyarfk!
Jake: Yeah, bye, honey!
Scene 2 Ext. Lawndale High, cut to: Int. Mr. O’Neill’s class. Students are still filing in.
Jane: Mr. O’Neill is positively glowing this morning!
Daria: Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Jane: C’mon, Morgendorffer, your face won’t break. His glow is a dim reflection of your glory. You killed last night! Blew the roof off the place! You should be radiant!
Daria: (small smile) Yeah, I am, a little. I came dangerously close to enjoying myself. Maybe I have my Impending Doom detector turned up too high.
Jane: Impending doom? What impending doom? (Kevin enters, looking dejected)
Daria: Twelve o’clock high.
Jane: Kevin bummed out? Wasn’t that the object of the exercise?
Daria: Yeah, but not permanently. I kind of thought Brittany would have him straightened out by now.
Jane: Well, maybe she hasn’t gotten around to him yet. Anyway, so what? (Brittany enters, looks daggers at Daria, goes to sit behind Kevin, starts rubbing his back)
Daria: Oboy. See, there’s a time crunch here. Remember what you told me would happen if we lost the big game with Oakwood? People will get mad at me.
Jane: That’s what makes it fun! That’s what adds the spice to life! Danger is your middle name, right?
Daria: Yeah. And my last name is Mudd. Oh, well, the game isn’t till Friday. As long as he’s swallowed the hook, I might as well jerk him around a little more.
Jane: That’s my evil genius!
Daria: But next week, danger is your middle name.
O’Neill: Good Morning, class. Let’s resume where we left off in Act 3 scene 1 of Romeo and Juliet. Benvolio has just given Romeo the tragic news about Mercutio. How does Romeo feel? Kevin?
Kevin: He’s deeaad! Ohhh, Ghhaauud, he’s dea-hea-hea-hea-head!! (runs out of room crying)
Brittany: Kevvie! Come back! It’s just a story!
O’Neill: Very good, Kevin! Uhhh, Kevin? (Brittany runs out after Kevin) Brittany? (bt) Oh, dear!
Jane: (sotto voce, grinning) Wow! Good jerkin’!
Daria: (sotto voce) It’s no fun if he’s gonna be that easy! (bt., smiles) Well, less fun.
O’Neill: Uhhh, Someone else, perhaps. Jane, what do you think Romeo felt at that moment?
Jane: Ohh, No! Not brave, true Mercutio! Aaauughh! (runs out, overacting badly.)
Daria: (thought v.o.) Dammit, Lane! You’re not ditching me! (aloud, with theatrical gestures:) Jane! Come back! It’s just a story! (runs out after Jane.)
Jodie: Ffmmf! (snort!) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! (At this, the entire class cracks up.)
Jane: HeeheeheOw! You wouldn’t fit in my backpack. Besides, I knew you knew your exit line. Ow! (Jodie enters)
Jodie: Heeheehee! Fmf! Hmhmhm! (Sees Jane and Daria) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! (staggers to sinks, begins splashing water on her face)
(Andrea comes in, red faced, walking funny. She spots Jodie, clamps one hand over her mouth, the other onto her crotch, hobbles toward last stall.)
Daria: There! You see what you’ve done? I hope you’re happy, Missy! (punches Jane again)
Jodie: Darn you, Daria! Now I’ll probably get written up as a disruptive influence! There goes valedictorian! There goes my Yale scholarship! You’ve ruined my whole life! (snort!) HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Jane: There! See what you’ve done? I hope you’re happy, Missy! ((punches Daria In shoulder)
Daria: Ow! Heehee! (Goes to sink by Jodie, pockets her glasses, splashes some water on her face.) Don’t worry, Jodie. With your math skills and your iron control, you can put yourself through college playing poker.
Jodie: Heeheehee! Stop! I’m about to drown myself! (splashes yet more water on her face) Hmhm!
Ms. Li: (standing in doorway) If you ladies can’t handle the emotional trauma of Romeo and Juliet, perhaps you’d like to perform Waiting For Godot to a special assembly, instead. (leaves)
Jane and Jodie exchange blank looks. Daria’s eyes widen.
Jane: (to Daria) Come on. Let’s have it.
Daria: Well, I haven’t read the play, just a review of a performance. But I seem to remember it was written by some atheist. Beckett, Samuel Beckett. Existentialist atheist. (bt) And the actors were scrunched down in trashcans onstage. (bt) I’d die.
Jodie: My parents would kill me. Then send me to Catholic school. Then move away and not tell me where.
Jane: Hmmm, artsy! And you guys are making it sound so interesting. Let’s do it!
Daria: Hurt you badly.
Jodie: Kill you slowly.
Daria: Bury you in your trashcan.
Jane: (grins) Philistines.
Jodie: Well. Suddenly I’m fully recovered.
Daria: (faux enthusiasm) Me for some more Romeo and Juliet! (exeunt)
Andrea: (from last stall) Ffmmf! (snort!) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!
Scene 4 Ext. Morgendorffer House, afternoon. Daria walks up to front door, opens it. Cut to: Int. Morgendorffer home, family room. Helen and Jake are seated on the section of sofa that faces the front door, reading from the folders that Daria gave them this morning. They look up as they hear the front door being opened. Cut to: shot of Daria entering through front door. Daria takes two steps inside, stops when she sees Helen and Jake waiting for her, resumes her course into family room. Cut to: shot of Helen and Jake looking at Daria, who walks toward them from foreground.
Daria: Hi, Mom, Dad. I see you’ve been reading my stories. Questions? Comments?
Helen: Hi, sweetie. I, uh, didn’t know you were writing Melody Powers stories again.
Daria: Again? I never stopped. I mean, I don’t have one going all the time, but I write one every once in a while. Sometimes just a one-pager, to fill an idle hour or blow off a bit of steam. I know you used to not like my Melody stories, but I never figured out why. It wasn’t the violence, was it? I mean, it’s pretty obvious they’re spoofs.
Helen: (looks down at the pages in her lap) If this is a spoof, I’d hate to see what it’s spoofing. A stadium filled with four thousand corpses and a river of blood?
Daria: But you have, Mom! I was trying to outdo the big fight scene in the volcano crater in You Only Live Twice. Uh, did you read that note about the purpose of these last two Melody stories?
Helen: You mean to attract more students to the coffeehouse? I’m a little vague on that. It seems that might apply to one or the other, but not both. According to that newspaper article-
Daria: That was a misunderstanding on Mr. O’Neill’s part. It turns out he’s... pretty liberal, and he took the first story sort of personally. But we straightened that out, and he actually asked for the second one, once he understood that I was writing for the Lawndale High audience.
Jake: And that second story is the one that got a standing O?
Daria: Actually they both did, except that the first standing O turned into a marching O. That Kevin Thompson is such a moron. But since he’s the QB, other football players tend to follow him.
Jake: You mean, he’s the one who really started the trouble? Did he get punished for it?
Daria: (slightly disgusted) Of course not! He’s the QB! Actually, he didn’t do anything worse than hollering in the street, since there’s no Russian Embassy here for him to stone.
Helen: I hope he didn’t do anything stupid like that this time.
Daria: Well, when I got to the part when Ratboy apparently dies, he burst into tears and ran out. As a matter of fact, that’s one of the reasons I wanted you to read that. If Lawndale loses to Oakwood this Friday, there are those who may hold me responsible, because my story upset Kevin. I hope I can count on you guys to support me if that happens.
Helen: Of course we will, sweetie, but does it really matter to you what a few dumb jocks think?
Daria: No. But I’m talking about Ms. Li and the athletic staff, and maybe some others. I don’t have the total picture yet, but there seems to be a power bloc at Lawndale High that takes a great interest in the success of the Lions, to the point of bending and breaking rules and maybe misappropriating funds. If Kevin is acting as squirrelly tomorrow as he was today, I expect Ms. Li to call me into her office and try to coerce me into doing something about it.
Helen: Oh, come now, Daria, surely you don’t think Ms. Li: would expect you to do the work of a psychologist, especially when she already has one on staff!
Daria: Who got her diploma out of a Cracker Jack box. Actually, I do. Ms. Li: has a good deal of respect for my brain, although it irritates her immensely that I use it to think for myself. But it isn’t my job, and Kevin’s stupidity isn’t my responsibility. How can I keep her from hanging it on me?
Helen: That shouldn’t be too hard. Let me think about it and get back to you later.
Jake: Uh, Daria, about the name of the head bad guy in your second story, it’s kind of in poor taste, don’t you think?
Daria: (seats herself on center section of sofa, carefully maintains her poker face) Loong Wang? I don’t get you. Wang is a very common Chinese family name, like Smith or Jones here. And loong is the Chinese word for dragon, like in oolong tea. For some reason it’s usually spelled with two o’s even though it’s pronounced "long". It’s a common nickname for Chinese men who are kung fu experts, or otherwise considered good fighters. Bruce Lee’s Chinese nickname was Li Shao Loong, or Little Dragon Lee. What don’t you like about Loong Wang? (expression of innocent inquiry.)
Jake: Well, uh, it sounds like, uhh, I mean, you know...
Daria: I could reverse the order, I guess, although Chinese usually give their family names last in western countries, in deference to our name customs. How does Wang Loong sound?
Jake: Um, not that much better, actually.
Daria: (earnest, trying-to-be-helpful expression) I’m not seeing the problem here. How about if I used the English word? Dragon Wang. Or Wang Dragon. No, that sounds silly.
Jake: Uh, no, umm, it’s just that... Oh, never mind! Forget I mentioned it.
Daria: (straining to keep a straight face) Okay. It would be pretty tough to change it now anyway, since it’s already been published.
Jake: Published!? But you just wrote it! How...
Daria: On the internet. I put it up on my website, and some other people have put it up on theirs. Anyone in the world with internet access can download it.
Helen: That’s great, sweetie. That name aside, it’s a very well written story. Spy thrillers aren’t my favorite reading material, but I did enjoy it, especially the bits of humor. And the fact that it received a standing ovation proves that you scored a hit with your target audience.
Jake: It was great, kiddo! I can’t wait to read the rest!
Daria: (blushing slightly) Um... Thanks.
Helen: But, honey, this poem! This has to be the most dreadful, depressing thing I’ve ever read!
Daria: Everything in that poem happened to someone we know in the last few years. And you sent sympathy cards or get-well cards or condolence cards and we did our best to put it out of our minds or tell ourselves it couldn’t happen to us. But that’s the true horror of the poem. The commonness. The inevitability. The odds of me getting through life without at least two or three of these things happening to me are very small indeed. (sigh) You’re right. This is the most dreadful, depressing thing I’ve ever written. Oh. Wait. No, it isn’t. But it’s in the top ten.
Helen: But why on earth did you write it?
Daria: I write pieces like this to work through something, process it, get it out of my system.
Helen: So did it work this time?
Daria: (long pause) Sometimes it takes longer.
Helen: Does it feel like it’s working?
Daria: (longer pause) No.
Scene 5 Int. Daria’s room. Daria is seated at her computer, writing. Slow pan/zoom onto her monitor screen. We read:
"Unnh..."
Melody looked up at the circular patch of blue sky overhead. A bit of golden cloud told her sundown was near. She didn’t like her odds of being found down here after dark. She was bleeding, and Ratboy was too. Both needed medical attention. Ratboy’s pouch probably contained more bandages, how many she didn’t know. She could patch the wounds on his left shoulder and right thigh, and the one on her right thigh and the graze on her left midriff, but there was a slash below her right shoulder blade that she could do nothing about. It looked like she couldn’t count on further help from Ratboy. She heard no sounds from above indicating help might be on the scene.
Climb the ladder and seek help or do what she could for Ratboy and herself first? A wrong decision could mean death for her and/or Ratboy, and she lacked two crucial facts. How far away in distance and time was the nearest help? And how badly was her unreachable knife wound bleeding? She could make it up the ladder now, but for how much longer? She was starting to feel light-headed. .
Melody turned away from the ladder and limped back to Ratboy. She’d patch quickly, then climb out. If she hurried, maybe she could have it both ways, she hoped. She started to kneel by Ratboy’s side, but her right thigh gave way and she ended up with her face in a Chicom commando’s stomach. She forced herself back up, found a position she could maintain, and stuck her finger into the bullet hole in Ratboy’s chest. It sank in almost to the second joint before it hit something hard and flat. Sliding her fingertip around a bit, Melody could detect a dent, but no hole. She withdrew the finger, covered in crimson gore, stuck it in her mouth. Mmmm, yep, Ratboy’s grandmother sure could make catsup. Even with a faint flavor of .44 slug, it was first rate.
Opening the Ratbag, she brought out moist napkins and bandages and set to work. She’d run into Ratboy under the stands as the assault was being organized. He’d made cheese fries, his favorite food, at a concession stand while they waited, and they’d shared a plate, topped with granny’s homemade catsup. He’d insisted that if it was homemade, it had to be called catsup rather than ketchup, and she’d agreed with him that no other catsup or ketchup could compare with it as a topping for cheese fries. The stylized rat’s head escutcheon on his chestplate was made of bronzed food grade plastic, and would hold over a pint of granny’s finest, and the rat’s nose was a clever dispensing spout. Melody smiled as she applied a cobweb bandage to Ratboy’s shoulder wound. It was the closest thing to a date she’d been on in years (omigod, years?!) that didn’t end with her kidnapping or assassinating her beau for God, country, home, and apple pie.
A few minutes later, having done all she could, Melody was again at the base of the ladder. She looked up and realized it had been more than a few minutes. The sky was a much deeper blue, and all the low clouds had gone dark. Only a few wisps of high cirrus still caught the last red rays of a sun now well below the horizon. She felt a chill as she started to climb. Two rungs up, dizziness assailed her. She hung on, squeezed her eyes shut, and pressed her forehead against the cool steel of a ladder rung until it abated. One more step up, and the dizziness returned. She forced herself up another rung, and almost lost consciousness. This wasn’t good.
Melody tried to think while she waited for the waves of dizziness to subside. Why wasn’t she hearing the shouts of rescue parties by now? Police, the army, FBI, somebody. The media, at least. One more step up, slowly. The vertigo was awful. Only her grip on the steel rungs and her forehead pressed against one kept her from surrendering to the feeling that she was falling, endlessly falling... Concentrate, dammit! What could keep a National Perspirer stringer or a SSW camera crew out of a stadium filled with four thousand bloody corpses? Only a solid cordon of armed men, backed up with heavy air cover. And why that? Oh, yeah, the nukes. One more rung . Oh, no. She was gonna pass out this time. No! No pass out! Hang on! Slowly the blackness receded, but the world wouldn’t stop spinning. Then there must at least be someone up there trying to safe the nukes. And some guards. But it was all moot if she couldn’t make ground level.
Gripping the rungs with all her remaining strength, Melody looked up again. Dizziness clawed at her mind. It was getting dark fast, and cold faster. She had to summon help now. One more rung up and her head would be above ground level. She made the effort. Everything went black.
Sometime later, Melody’s vision faded back in again. Apparently she hadn’t fallen off the ladder. A goalpost reeled drunkenly against a darkening sky. There seemed to be some lights near midfield, but bodies blocked her direct view. Looking down, she saw that just in front of her on the concrete slab was a cell phone. No, it was an Agency phone, which was subtly different in several ways she couldn’t remember right now. She could call for help. Who could she call who’d be allowed in here? Don’t try to think, Mel. Just call the comm center. They’ll get you someone. Melody grasped the phone, activated it, pushed two buttons. It was ringing. She would have smiled if she’d had the strength. In seconds, she’d be talking to a fellow Agent. She’d tell them her problems and they’d figure out what to do. They’d get her the best help, the quickest way, and she could relax and lean back into the warm fuzzy dark and... no one was answering.
This was bad. This was very bad. The comm center was always manned by at least two Agents. What had happened? Had HQ West Coast been overrun? Blown up? Extremely unlikely. Even unmanned, HQ was almost impregnable. Most likely they’d been pulled out and sent here, with every other available Agent. Then they’d be... right here. On the field. With all the other corpses.
"Why me?" she thought miserably. Her revulsion at the pathetic self-pity of that thought snapped her back to reality. "They’re all dead and I’m feeling sorry for myself? I don’t deserve to survive!" She’d have to help herself. Melody looked at the phone again. There was something... a key combination... Pound sign-QAA. Yes. She punched it in. The Agency’s state-of-the-art comm gear would automatically connect her with the nearest available Agent. Immediately in front of her, a phone beeped. Two seconds later, off to her right, about 20 feet away, another phone beeped. Another two seconds, another phone began to beep. Then another. And another. Melody stared out at the barely visible mounds and heaps that lay all around her in the deepening gloom. Soon two hundred seventeen of them would be ignoring her call.
A cold feeling of doom began to close in on her. Soon she would lose her grip on consciousness, and with it her grip on the ladder. She would fall back down the manhole and finish bleeding out in the sewer junction room below. Her blood would mingle with that of her comrades, and with that of the other patriots who had died here today. Most of it had already. Not a bad way to go, really. The pain was almost gone now. It was just so cold. But no. She’d make one last effort to climb out of this manhole. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t make it, but...
"Virosa. Who’ve I got?" It came from the phone. A sob escaped Melody’s lips. Bringing the phone to her face, she said, "Powers here. Need help."
"Are you in the stadium?"
"Yeah. Behind S... South goal post. Manhole. Hurry."
"E. T. A. 20 seconds. Hang in there, Powers. Been wanting to meet you."
Twenty seconds? Virosa was here. On the field. Off to the left, a tiny light was bounding toward her. A blinking orange LED on her phone indicated it was being tracked. As the light homed in on her, Melody could hear footfalls. Booted feet stopped in front of her, bony fingers hooked her armpits. She tried to help lift herself out of the manhole, and the warm fuzzy dark closed in.
(Pan from monitor screen to Daria’s face as she reads what she has written.)
Quinn: (knocks lightly) Daria? Can I come in?
Daria: Unauthorized personnel only.
Quinn: Umm... okay! (enters) I, uh, heard Kevin did really bad at practice this morning, and he was acting weird all day. The kids at school have been talking, and, uh, some of them are blaming you.
Daria: (sighs deeply, slumps back in chair, places hand on brow) It seems I’ve spent my whole life adjusting to the fact that the world is full of morons, and still it astounds me. (shakes her head) What’s your read on opinion breakdown?
Quinn: About one third, Kevin’s an idiot, one third undecided or don’t care, one-third your fault. Of which, three-quarters think it was unintentional, one quarter deliberate. There’s some overlap between your fault, unintentional and Kevin’s an idiot.
Daria: (looks up at Quinn) You are really good at that! Ever consider it as a career?
Quinn: (suspicious) Is that sarcasm?
Daria: No, I’m serious. You appear to have a gift for gauging public opinion. Gallup would snap you up in a New York minute. You’d have to take statistics, but you already have an instinctive grasp of it.
Quinn: Well, thanks, but I think I can do better than statistician.
Daria: I’m talking about Pollster, which is several pay grades above statistician. You’d get to ask the whole country nosy questions, and maybe be an expert consultant on the news shows.
Quinn: Hmm, yeah. I’ll think about it. But I kinda have my sights set on Supermodel.
Daria: Not meaning to rain on your catwalk, but you want to ask yourself two questions: One- How many Supermodel slots come open in a given year? And two- How many beautiful girls around the world have their sights set on each of those slots?
Quinn: Jeez, Daria, for someone who doesn’t mean to rain on my catwalk...
Daria: Reality bites. You get bit worse if you’re not paying attention. More often, too.
Quinn: Yeah... Hey, is that your next Melody Powers story? Can I read it?
Daria: I’m just getting started, and I have to protect the cliffhanger, but... (scrolls back up, then down a little) You can read it from there down if you want. (gets up, stands by the computer.)
Quinn: (sits in front of computer, begins reading) God, she’s still in the sewer? What is it with you and sewers?
Daria: She’s trying to get out, but she’s lost a lot of blood. It’s just the storm drain for the stadium.
(Quinn reads Daria’s story. Daria reads the expressions flickering across Quinn’s face. Shock, followed quickly by disgust, turns into a brief grin. Twice Quinn hugs herself as if chilled. Her face registers shock again, then great sadness. Her breathing becomes irregular, and she brings a clenched fist up to her mouth. Seeming about to cry, she utters a tiny gasp and her eyes widen. A half-smile on her parted lips, eyes blinking frequently, she reads on. Finally her smile widens, she inhales deeply and turns to Daria.)
Quinn: I gotta hand it to ya, you’re really good at this. I guess you’ve already made your career choice.
Daria: I do want to be a writer, but my Melody stories are just for fun.
Quinn: So share the fun. You like to write ‘em, the public will like to read ‘em.
Daria: I want to be known as a serious writer. I want to be respected for my intellect, my insight.
Quinn: ‘Course you do, you’re a brain. But that’s what pen names are for, right? Like that Bacon guy who’s supposed to’ve written Shakespeare’s plays. Or Lewis Carroll. Look, you’ve read two Melody Powers stories at the coffeehouse. I heard you also read a couple of your more serious pieces. Translate the applause you got into royalty checks.
Daria: You really know how to rain on my literary aspirations.
Quinn: (grins) Hey, reality bites.
Jake: (o.s.) Oh, girls! Dinner’s ready! Come and get it!
Daria: (as they head out into the hall) Thanks for the heads up on the school scuttlebutt. Let me know if it gets worse. Maybe I can get a head start on the lynch mob.
Quinn: Sure. Are you gonna write any more tonight?
Daria: I thought I’d try to do some after dinner.
Scene 7 Int. Daria’s room. Daria: is writing at her computer. Pan/zoom onto monitor screen.
A very strange thing just happened. Quinn came in and gave me some useful information regarding student reaction to Kevin’s reaction to Ratboy’s supposed demise. Seemed to be a pretty accurate analysis, too. If she’s right, only one student in 12 suspects I deliberately mindf***ed him. I’d have guessed no more than 1 in 20, but I’m inclined to trust Quinn’s numbers. Guess my fearsome rep is spreading.
And then another very strange thing happened. Quinn asked to read what I’d written on my next Melody Powers story, and liked it! Oh, I forgot to mention that this morning she let slip that she’d attended my last reading at the coffeehouse. There may be something more to it, but I watched her face as she read, and she was really getting into the story.
On top of that, her suggestion about writing Melody stories under a pseudonym may be a very good one. Have to think about it. Maybe... Eufaula Offenhauser? Or maybe it should be a man’s name. Too bad Douglas Adams already thought of Dirk Gently. She has a point; they are more popular than anything else I’ve written and read publicly. I could be making some money while searching for someone to take my serious stuff seriously.
And where did Quinn learn about the Bacon-wrote-Shakespeare theory? Not from Waif magazine. Is her intellect finally emerging from hibernation? Is she reading stuff in secret? How to encourage it without scaring her off? Guess I’ll give it room and not remark on it, at least for now.
It’s weird, but while she was in here this evening, we were relating to each other almost like Jane and Trent do, rather than like two cats in a sack. Dare I hope? I know now that the sister I yearn for is in there somewhere. I’ll do what I can to strengthen what ties there are between us. But I’ll keep the shields of cynicism up. She who expects the worst shall never be disappointed.
(Pan/zoom out to ms of Daria as she encrypts and saves her diary entry, then backs it up to a floppy labeled Win 95 Startup Disk B. (1) Then she opens another file and begins to write again. Pan/zoom back onto monitor screen.)
Melody wasn’t cold anymore. She felt warm on the inside, cool on the outside. It wasn’t dark. She could tell through closed eyelids that she was in a bright place, though she felt no direct sunshine. It was quiet in her vicinity, but there was a fair amount of low-volume background noise. She inhaled. That blew the detective game. Hospital, definitely.
Melody opened her eyes. She was in a two-bed room, but the other bed was empty. Her bed was by the window, but the blinds were closed. An IV was plugged into her right arm, feeding her a pint of some clear liquid in a bag, and about 20 cc of something in a syringe being fed in through a little plastic fitting. Probably a painkiller. That could be dispensed with.
That reminded her she hadn’t tried to move yet. Melody was very good at ignoring pain, but she didn’t actually like it, except in the sense that it was a handy warning system. She flexed her fingers. The left pinkie hurt some, but there was no bandage and no swelling, so it was okay. The knuckles were scraped, and the blade of her hand was sore. She moved the left arm a bit. It felt bruised and battered, but okay. There was a bandage on the outside forearm that she couldn’t account for, but it didn’t feel like anything serious. Her right arm only had the graze from the Jade Dragon, some bruises, and the IV needle. She moved it a little. A rip of pain came from the right side of her back, reminding her of the knife wound that had almost done her in yesterday. She wondered how serious it was and how long it would take to heal.
Then she remembered who had found her and pulled her out of that manhole, just in time. Virosa. Melody had heard of her but never met her. Virosa was said to be tied with her and Dannekill for the unwanted distinction of being considered deadliest Special Op by the intelligence services of America’s enemies. Most dangerous to their infiltrators, most desirable to bump off. She’d read the brief bio available to other Agents on the Agency’s classified server. Amanita Virosa. Born Angelica Virginia Brewer, she’d chosen as her Agency handle the Latin name of the most delicately beautiful, yet most viciously deadly member of the Amanita family of mushrooms.
Its common name was Destroying Angel. Tall, slender, purest white it was. One or two would appear in Melody’s family’s back yard after a good early summer rain. They were said to be quite delicious, but even the tiniest nibble swallowed was enough to condemn any man to a day and a half to two days of agony as the toxin destroyed his liver. The cruel part was that after the victim’s liver had been destroyed, he actually felt pretty good for a while, good enough to think he was recovering, until he began to die from lack of it.
Angelica had grown up in a multiracial, multi-ethnic part of Manhattan, where she was by far the whitest human being her homies had ever seen. Always a skinny kid, she’d been forced to learn a wide range of combat and survival skills very early in life. A natural for the Agency, Melody thought. She hoped they’d get a chance to talk.
A white-coated figure entered, turned to close the door. She wore an odd-looking cap that made her head resemble a mushroom. As she turned back around, Melody’s mind re-identified the cap as hair. It wasn’t really white, but the palest shade of platinum blonde Melody had ever seen. The woman’s skin tone was also very pale, and her eyes- wow! Her eyes were purple! This could only be... she put a finger to her lips, pulled out an agency phone, pushed three buttons, and moved quickly about the room, using it to sweep for bugs. She smiled, gave Melody a thumbs-up sign, and pocketed the phone.
"Virosa? Amanita Virosa?"
"Hey, Powers. You clean up nice. How ya feelin’?"
"Like used shark bait. Since you saved my life, you can call me Melody. Thanks. I thought you were in Tokyo."
"I was on my way home for some R&R. The "All Agents" call caught me at the airport. Sorry I missed the party."
"Well, I’m not. If you’d gotten there two hours earlier, we’d both be dead now. Uhhh.. hell. I might as well ask. How many other survivors?"
Virosa carefully inspected the floor. "Three. One agent, one Academy student, and that Ratboy guy. If any of the military made it, they weren’t brought here. Agent’s name is Custer. Know him?"
Melody smiled a tiny bit. "Just met him. He patched a few boo-boos for me. Good kid. How bad?"
Lost a finger. May lose an arm, but he’ll live. The student has abdominal wounds, but her main problem is gonna be PTSD. Her best bud got disemboweled all over her."
"Damn. That sucks. But she shouldn’t have had any buds. Or chums, or pals. Don’t they teach ‘em that anymore?"
"That’s a hard thing to teach. And an even harder thing to learn."
"Yeah. Well, she’s learned it now. But she’ll probably quit after this. I should go see her. Don’t suppose I have any clothes here. Robe and slippers?"
Virosa looked into the wardrobe by Melody’s bed. "Boots and belt. Why don’t you take a day or two to just lie there? Give the glue time to set. That’s a deep gash in your back, y’know. I think I saw ribs when I was pulling you out of the manhole."
"I was moving around with it quite a bit yesterday, and it didn’t bother me that much."
"Except for the bleeding to death part, you mean. Melody, they gave you all the blood you had on hand, and had to top you off with that artificial stuff. If you start leaking again now, you’ll have to take pot luck."
Pan/zoom back out to medium shot of Daria: at her computer with her room door in background.
Quinn: (knocks softly) Daria: ? Can I come in?
Daria: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
Quinn: Whatever. Can I see what you’ve written?
Daria: Okay. Get me a cola?
Quinn: (bt) Okay. (exits. Daria: types some more. Quinn enters, hands Daria a can of cola. Daria scrolls the text back to the point where it’s new to Quinn, stands. Quinn sits and begins to read. Two minutes pass.)
Quinn: Oh, so Virosa is a woman. Does that mean Dannekill is a woman too? (She continues to read.)
Daria: No. However... hmmm. No reason he couldn’t be. Dannekill is very ferocious, like his people. I’d been thinking of him as a man, but when you said that, I flashed on Jodie.
Quinn: Jodie Landon?! Why on earth would you think of her?
Daria: Jodie as Dannekill would fit in with Melody and Virosa. I think of Melody as me with perfect vision, and I’m using Jane as the basis for the Virosa character.
Quinn: (finishes reading) You, Jane, and Jodie as the Agency’s three deadliest Special Ops? Haha! That’s so... I don’t know what that is! Somewhere between cool and bizarre. Hey, write me in, too! Then it’ll definitely be cool!
Daria: What?!
Quinn: Please? I want to be in it! (Daria looks puzzled, considers) I’ll owe you one!
Daria: Quinn, If I were to base a character on you, there wouldn’t necessarily be that much resemblance. Like, if I were to base Dannekill on Jodie, she might never know it if she weren’t told. The requirements of the plot have a lot to do with the characters’ personalities. They’re a bunch of assassins, after all.
Quinn: I understand. I’d still like you to.
Daria: (thought v. o.) Come to think of it, you’d probably make a great assassin. (aloud) Only if you promise not to try to tell me what to write about your character, and not to take it personally if she gets killed. The story comes first.
Quinn: Ooh! (winces, bt) All right, just so she dies a noble death. If she dies. Hey, you’re not gonna make her like one of those red shirt guys on the old Star Trek, are you?
Daria: No, I wouldn’t do that. Red shirt guys don’t need character development. They don’t last long enough. Okay, she’s younger than Melody, looks like you. A recent Academy graduate, say from the same class as Custer. She’s transferring in to help rebuild the wiped-out West Coast bureau, say from the Northwest bureau in Rapid City, South Dakota. And her name is... (suppresses crafty smirk) Harmony Powers.
Quinn: Eek! (delighted, trying not to show it too much) Melody’s sister?!
Daria: Yep. Now, if you’ll let me have my chair back, I’ll write you in. (Quinn gets up, Daria sits down, begins typing. Pan/zoom from Daria typing back to monitor screen.)
Melody said, "I’ll be careful, take it real easy. I just need a little help getting into a wheelchair, and back into bed after. And some underwear. And something that bears a little more resemblance to clothing than these godawful backless things. Dammit, I feel so helpless!"
"Believe me, I know the feeling. And I’d much rather spend the day helping you than what I’m going to be doing. But when the cat’s away, the rats will spread plague, so the cat can’t be perceived to be away." Virosa pulled an Agency phone from her jacket pocket, punched in a number. "One of the agents coming in from Northwest bureau has been assigned to you. She should be... Butterfly? You here yet? ...Turn off your voice disguise. Here’s Powers. I think she wants you to pick up some things on the way in. Melody, this is the phone you had last night. It isn’t the one issued to you. This is its number, the second number is Butterfly’s. These are the room numbers for Ratboy, Custer, and the Academy student. See ya later." Virosa handed Melody the phone and a sheet of notebook paper with numbers and names on it, and slipped quickly out the door.
Slightly surprised by the rapidity of Virosa’s exit, Melody turned to the phone. "Hello, Butterfly?"
"Yes, Agent Powers."
"Call me Melody. Your voice disguise is on."
"Yes, Age- okay, Melody. This better?"
"Still on."
"Oh, poo. (clicking sounds) Now?"
"Still on. Never mind. I want you to get me some pajamas, underwear and slippers on the way in, suitable for hospital wear. And a toothbrush and toothpaste. That should get me by until you can get into my apartment. Oh, and I’d like you to stay at my place for a while, if that’s okay with you.
"Sure, that would be great! I should be there in less than an hour. I’m coming up on a G-Mart now. Anything else?
"No- yes. A legal size pad and a pen or pencil. And the latest Mother Earth News." They had an article about building a cabin in the mountains. "Shall I order dinner for you?"
"Okay. A salad with vinaigrette or free French dressing if they have it. Otherwise, anything but peas and carrots. See you soon."
Melody hit the off button, then looked vaguely around the room, seeking something to do, or at least look at. The window blinds were still closed. Then she remembered something, and began punching buttons on the phone. She needed to tell someone where she’d left her pistol. No telling what was going on in the stadium today. After that, there was the TV or harassing the staff. And she could look for things to make a weapon out of. Melody smiled wanly. She could probably hold out until Butterfly arrived.
There was a knock on the door. "Agent Powers? It’s Butterfly."
"Come on in, Butterfly. And call me Melody."
The door opened and a slender young woman, with strawberry blond hair that reached below her shoulders, backed in as if laden with packages. "Hi, Melody." She spun around. "Agent Butterfly reports as ordered!"
Melody stared, speechless, for a good five seconds. She finally managed, "Harmony?"
The blond grinned and nodded, starting toward Melody’s bed. "Agent Butterfly requests a hug!"
Melody hurriedly threw up her left arm in a "HALT" gesture. "Denied! A decent hug right now would kill me." Seeing the crestfallen look on Harmony’s face, she relented a bit. "You may kiss me- gently.", she said, offering a cheek. Harmony did, stepped back, waited expectantly.
"Aren’t you going to say anything?"
"The phrase "Oh, hell!" comes to mind."
"Melodeee!"
"Let me guess. You joined the Agency because you wanted to be like me and make me proud of you."
"Yes!"
"Well, I guess I am proud of you. I know what it takes to get to where you are now. But did you ever ask yourself why I joined?"
"Huh?" Harmony hadn’t expected that question. "To protect our country? Our freedom? For the adventure?"
"Yes, yes, and maybe, but way down the list. My real reason, my motivating reason, was and is to protect the people I love from the monsters out there in the dark. And now... I can’t protect you any more. You’ve thrown yourself into harm’s way."
"Hey, you protected me, and I grew up. You preserved my freedom, and I used it to make this decision. And now we can protect each other!"
"I wish. But it doesn’t work like that. Agents usually work alone, especially we Special Ops. And when we do all stand together... Harmony, why did they say West Coast suddenly needed personnel?"
"They didn’t. They asked for volunteers, said it was an opportunity for advancement, and offered a big fat relocation bonus. There was gonna be a briefing tomorrow, but it was postponed."
"Well, here’s a mini-briefing. West Coast bureau was wiped out yesterday. Only Custer and I survived, and one Academy student. They lived because they looked dead."
Harmony paled. "Oh, my God. Who did it? And how did you survive?"
"The PRC, but I think someone else used them for a catspaw. I was the last Agent standing. I kept them... entertained until the 101st arrived."
"Entertained?"
An expression of savage ferocity flitted across Melody’s features, causing Harmony to flinch. "I gave them Kung Fu lessons."
Harmony gasped. "You fought them hand-to-hand? Alone? For how long?"
"It seemed like a long, long time. (bt) Help me get some clothes on. Can’t do much with my right arm because of a big gash on my back. I want to visit the others.
(pan/zoom out to show Daria at the computer and Quinn reading over her shoulder as she types.)
Helen: (o.s.) Hey in there, what’s going on? You’re not strangling each other, are you? (peeks in)
Quinn: Guess what? I’m Harmony Powers!
Daria: (wry smile) Way to keep a secret there, Harmony! Now Helen the Red is gonna drag us off to the interrogation room.
Helen: No, I’ll interrogate you right here. Have you finished all your homework?
Quinn: Yes, Mom.
Helen: All right, then. Don’t stay up too late, and don’t let the commies get you.
Daria: Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom. (thought v.o.) I saw that look, Mom. I know you’ll be grilling me as soon as you can catch me away from Quinn. Got to protect poor little Quinn from evil Daria.
(Daria resumes typing. Pan/zoom back to monitor screen.)
Amelia went on, "At first, we were mowing them down from the bleachers, and they were milling around in confusion on the field, and I thought, "We might live through this after all." , but then they got organized and returned the fire, and I realized how badly we were outnumbered. I remember wondering if our ammo would hold out until the reinforcements arrived, and then nothing."
Melody said, "An RPG probably hit near you. They had a few of those. That’s as good a place to stop remembering as any. It was pretty much downhill from there."
"So, did our ammo hold out ?"
"No. I was as well off as anyone. I had 175 rounds for my pistol, and I used it all. Then I picked up a Chinese AK and an extra mag for it, about 40 more rounds. Then one of those little Chinese pistols with five shots left in it. After that I had to go down onto the field to find anything, and I started taking hits. When the second AK ran dry, there was just nothing else to pick up in my vicinity. I looked around, and an awful lot of Chinese were looking back at me, and it was very quiet. That’s when I realized I was the last American left. It was just me and about a thousand Chinese. That was a very bad feeling. I threw down the AK and stood up."
"Oh, my gosh! What did they do?" asked Harmony.
It was a perfect straight line. Melody longed to say, "They killed me, of course." But Amelia didn’t need to be laughing with abdominal injuries. "One of the women yelled something about revenge and honor in Chinese, handed off her pistol, and came at me barehanded. She wasn’t all that good, considering the elite force she was part of. I was going to finish her off when it occurred to me that every second I spent fighting an inferior opponent was another second that I wasn’t dead. So I sandbagged a little, favored my injuries a little. I had a good bit of blood on me, though most of it wasn’t mine, at that point. I didn’t take her down until she left me an obvious opening. Even then I didn’t kill her, on the theory that it takes more time to help an injured comrade than to drag off a dead one."
"Another Chinese woman stepped up to defend the honor of the women of the Workers’ Paradise. She was a good bit better. I had to take her out quickly because she was getting too many hits in. A third woman stepped up, also better than the first, but more cautious. I was able to drag that match out for several minutes, and move around enough that the crowd of spectators interfered with the people working on the nukes. Don’t know if that helped any, but, hey, we do what we can."
"I was kind of forced to kill the third woman, and after that, they seemed pretty much locked into the idea that I was going to die in single unarmed combat at their hands. I guess shooting me would’ve meant too much loss of face. There was some discussion and a man stepped up. They must have felt a little sheepish about it because they let me take a couple of minutes to catch my breath."
"Well, to summarize, I fought several more opponents, trying not to show my skill level, acting a little more hurt than I was, dragging the fights out as long as I could, and generally trying to keep them distracted, until finally the 101st Airborne arrived."
Harmony looked awestruck. "Gosh, Melody, that is totally incredible! You really outdid yourself this time. No way can I hope to even come close to that. But I’m gonna do my dead level best."
Melody frowned. "I hope you don’t mean that the way it sounded. I certainly wasn’t thinking "Hunsacker, you’re my hero, and I’m gonna do my dead level best to run up an unbeatable kill total and go out in a blaze of glory, just like you!" At the Jade Dragon I was doing my best to analyze the situation and inform the Agency. After the signal was sent, my goal became to either get out alive or at least not wet my pants as I died. At the stadium, none of us had any realistic hope of survival. Our hope was to save the city. We were trying to buy enough time for our troops to get there before the Chinese detonated those nukes."
"I understand what you’re saying, Melody. You didn’t do it for the glory, you did it for your country and your loved ones. And I’m not in it for glory either. I’m just saying I hope I do half as well as you when the crunch comes. But listening to a hero claiming she isn’t a hero sounds kind of funny, you know? You earned the glory, so take it. I would.
"Okay, maybe so. But I’m leading up to something else, too. Harmony, you’re thinking seriously of becoming a Special Op, right? And Amelia, if you’re not dead set on quitting after what you’ve been through, you’re considering it too." Melody gripped the tall post at the foot of Amelia’s bed with her left hand and pulled herself out of her wheelchair. "You know it’s the Agency’s most dangerous specialty, but did they tell you the average life expectancy of a Special Op is about two years and one month?" She began untying the sash of her hospital robe.
"They didn’t mention a figure.", said Amelia.
"Our instructor told us it varied with world tensions and stuff, when Custer tried to pin him down." said Harmony. "What are you doing?"
Melody gingerly slid the robe off, laid it on the foot of the bed. "I’ve been a Special Op for, uh, three years and three months." She undid the knots holding her hospital smock together. Instead of changing to pajamas, she’d just put on panties under the smock, a robe over it, and slippers. "Lean on the door, would you, Harmony? They’re not lockable from inside. I’ve acquired all these scars since then. The bandages are hiding some, but you get the idea." Melody got the smock off with some difficulty, laid it on top of the robe. "Any of the bullets and knives and whatnot that made these scars could have killed me if they’d been an inch or three this way or that. Well, except for that fresh nick on my butt. Most of my important stuff was behind an I-beam." In panties, slippers, and bandages, Melody slowly turned, allowing the two younger women to see some of what three years as a Special Op had done to her slender, perfectly proportioned body.
Amelia had already gone two shades paler, and was staring fixedly at Melody’s midsection. Harmony now saw why. As Melody turned, a jagged, ugly scar came into view, slashing from upper right to lower left across her abdomen. Almost a foot long, it drew the eye like a bloody car wreck. "Ohhh, no", she moaned. "Oh, Melody, no-o-o..."
"That one’s a real eye-catcher, isn’t it? Makes a great conversation piece for a dull day at the beach." Melody picked up the smock, began slowly working it up her right arm, being very careful not to use or stretch any of the slashed muscles that rotated the shoulder. Harmony hurried over and helped her dress.
"My God , Melody, what could make a wound like that? A chainsaw? Even so, any competent surgeon should be able to sew it up better than that!"
"They don’t take Blue Cross in Kabul, Harmony, and they don’t treat women. It was a kandjar, in a godawful five-way knife fight in pitch darkness at the top of the Khyber pass. I came with a band of Mujaheddin, which turned out to be a mistake, and left with the remnants of a Russian Spetznaz team. We patched each other up and they cared for me as best they could, but it was four days before we could get to Samarkand, in Uzbekistan, and a halfway decent medical facility. The north part of Afghanistan was enemy territory for all of us. Taliban territory. Infection is what made it look so ugly. It can be fixed by cosmetic surgery, and a good surgeon could probably even reconstruct my navel, but I haven’t been able to get the time off.
"But that’s just one wound of many, and that’s more or less what you can expect if you become a Special Operative, unless you’re a lot sneakier and smarter than I am, or can dodge bullets. That’s what I want you to think about. Repeatedly having bits of yourself shot or hacked away until finally you lose something you can’t do without. It’s a hell of an occupational hazard. Almost makes me willing to consider a desk job.
"And then if you’re really good, one day you might come in to work and discover you’ve been voted deadliest Special Op. Then your life expectancy immediately drops to a few months. From then on, you dodge one hit after another, fight your way out of one ambush after another, discover one booby trap after another, till finally one gets you. And you don’t even get a raise."
Amelia realized something. "And, after yesterday, that would be... you, wouldn’t it?" She looked at Melody with pity.
"When the enemy Intelligence analysts piece together what happened in the stadium, and when they find out I survived, yes."
"Which is why we’re rubbing you out. My condolences." Virosa stood in the doorway. Noticing Melody putting on her robe, she ventured, "Been scaring the newbies with your battle scars? Dang! I wanted to see the one from the Khyber pass!"
"Ooh, hazukashi!" [Japanese- approximately "I would be too embarrassed"] Melody feigned shyness, then lifted the hem of her smock.
Virosa grinned, then gaped. "Whoa! Shimatta!" [Japanese- "I made a mistake"]
Melody smirked. "So what’s this about rubbing me out? It can’t be just to save me from the consequences of being deadliest Special Op. One, they didn’t do it for Hunsacker, and B, if they think I’m dead, you’re next in line."
"Damn! I knew there was something wrong with this plan! Actually, the idea is that we can control everyone who knows you’re alive but one man- Loong Wang. So we put out the word that you’re dead, and then put all our resources on alert for any news to the contrary. We’re hoping that when and where that news surfaces will tell us something about the people he’s working for. Butterfly, HQ will be calling you with instructions on how to alter Melody’s hospital records."
"Okay. This would be a great time for her to get that awful scar fixed, since she’s recuperating from all those other wounds anyway. How do I get that approved?"
Virosa grinned craftily. "Forgiveness is much easier to obtain than permission. Considering the current state of chaos at West Coast HQ, I’d just go ahead and do it. They’ll probably never notice, and if they do, they have much more important stuff to worry about." She looked at her watch. "And speaking of overworked, they’re expecting me to make enough gruesome, high-profile hits to make it look like West Coast bureau is operating at full strength. Gotta reach out and touch someone. Bye." Before anyone could reply, Virosa was gone.
"Wow." Amelia gazed after Virosa. "She’s unique. Uhh, you are, too, Melody. Gosh, two thirds of the Terrible Three in my little room. At the same time."
Harmony gave Amelia an indulgent smile as she held the wheelchair steady for Melody. "So, anyway, what happened after the 101st got there?"
"An awful lot of killing, as you’d expect. Our guys were vulnerable parachuting in, and quite a few of them landed badly because of the crowded conditions, but they weren’t as badly outnumbered as we’d been, and they had superior weapons and plenty of ammo. I have no idea how I survived the first ten seconds, but I finally got hold of a weapon and pitched in. It was a meat grinder. One minute of stark terror."
"When things got quiet this time, there were a few Airborne guys still standing, so I guess that means we won They were gathering up their wounded and I was looking for Loong Wang. If anyone knew who was really behind this scheme, it would be him, but I hadn’t seen him at all. Suddenly he came running out of the locker room entrance, with Ratboy right behind him."
"Loong Wang was firing at Ratboy over his shoulder as he ran. I moved to intercept, but I was pretty beaten up by then, not to mention shot and slashed. Loong Wang disappeared down a manhole behind the South end zone, Ratboy went after him, and I followed as best I could. Between us, we managed to plant three tracer bugs on him and let him get away. NSA is tracking him now."
"Where do you think he’ll go?", asked Amelia. "If he goes back to China, won’t we lose him?"
"We can track him in China, but not as reliably. But I’d be very surprised if he went there. Even if he was following orders from his superiors in Chinese clandestine ops, it’s likely those superiors have been imprisoned or killed, or have fled, on the heels of this debacle. Loong Wang will probably be marked for death for the same reason- his knowledge of China’s botched nuclear attack on the USA.
"If he was getting all his orders through the chain of command, he probably won’t know what to do or where to go now. He might just turn himself in and offer to cooperate. In that case he’d be of very little value to the Agency. We’d just get the name of his superior and turn him over to the FBI or someone. But if he was receiving orders and help from someone else, then sooner or later he will contact that someone else, or be contacted by them. We must use him to find them. We have to know who they are and what they want."
"So will you be back on his case when you get out of the hospital?" asked Amelia.
"Not until we find out who he was working for, or at least until we’re sure he’s on his way to them. Surveillance isn’t my specialty. What about you, Amelia? What will you do when you get out of here?"
"First thing I’ll do is get a hamburger. Intravenous feeding sucks even worse than regular hospital food. But I guess you mean will I stay with the Agency. I’ve been thinking about that. What happened at the stadium certainly wasn’t what I was expecting."
"Of course not. Nothing like that ever happened before in Agency history, and it’s not likely to ever happen again. That was practically a pitched battle, something the military should have handled. There’ll be a huge amount of fur flying, fingers pointing, and heads rolling, all in the utmost secrecy, of course. Oh, hell. I hope they won’t ask me to testify before some Congressional committee. I don’t know if I’d be able to overcome my training and instincts enough to refrain from killing most of them."
"Hey, let your conscience be your guide.", grinned Amelia. "I guess I’m going to stay. I knew I was laying my life on the line when I signed up. If anything, the stadium showed me my country really does need me."
Pan/zoom out from monitor screen to MS of Daria and Quinn.
Daria: (yawns, stretches) Well, that’s it for tonight. All out of words.
Quinn: Yeah, okay. G’night, Daria. (exits, giggles o.s.) Harmony Powers!
Scene 8 Int Morgendorffer house, kitchen Wednesday morning, 15 October. Helen enters, finds Jake pouring coffee into his traveling coffee mug. As Jake snaps the lid on it, a pastry pops up in the toaster. Jake grabs it.
Jake: Gaah! Hot! Hot, dammit! (Jake grabs three paper napkins from a holder on the counter, picks up the pastry in them.) Gotta go, honey. Big presentation this morning. Want to have plenty of time to prepare. (gives Helen a quick kiss) Love ya! (starts for door)
Quinn: (entering, has overheard) Wait Dad! Gimme a ride to where you make your second turn I can walk from there it’ll give me a chance to talk to Stacy cause she always gets to school real early thanks bye Mom! (grabs an orange and a banana from fruit bowl on counter, looks at Jake and his toaster pastry, grabs a second orange, runs out after Jake.)
Helen: (blinking bemusedly after vanished familial units) Morning Jake bye Jake. Morning Quinn bye Quinn. (sighs, pours a cup of coffee, reaches in cabinet for a breakfast bar, pauses in thought for a moment, then heads for the refrigerator, whence she removes eggs, turkey bacon, jam, and imitation margarine substitute)
Same scene, a few minutes later. Daria enters kitchen, detects anomalous conditions, freezes in her tracks. The table is set for two, with a cup of coffee at Helen’s place and a glass of orange juice at Daria’s. A plate of bacon on paper towels is on the table, along with a jar of strawberry jam and a tub of imitation margarine substitute, and Helen is carrying a plate of toast and a plate of scrambled eggs from the range. Helen sets them on the table, turns and sees Daria.
Helen: Good morning, sweetie! I felt like a hot breakfast this morning. Care to join me?
Daria: (steals a look at her watch, looks up, alarmed) All right, who are you and what have you done with my mother? (blinks, looks around) And my father? And my s- nevermind.
Helen: (smirks a little) Sarcasm so early? Come on, Daria. Sit down and eat your breakfast while it’s hot. (Daria approaches the table, drawn by the good smells and the long-ago memories they evoke) And we can talk
Daria: Oh, hell. (She shrugs, sits resignedly at the table and helps herself to scrambled eggs and turkey bacon) So, Helen the Red, you’ve got me in your clutches. Well, you can break this poor frail body, but you’ll never break my spirit! (attempts to eat scrambled eggs defiantly)
Helen: (thinks this is cute; dabs at mouth with napkin, hiding a smile) All right, Daria. You’ve seen through my feeble stratagem. I just wanted to ask you where you’re going with this Harmony Powers thing.
Daria: ("butters" toast) Quinn came to my room last night and asked if she could read what I’d written on my next Melody Powers story. I let her. We were talking and I told her how I’d based a character on Jane and might base one on Jodie. She asked me to base one on her. So I did- Melody’s kid sister. I think it’ll work out well. Quinn likes it. I have no plans to kill off the Harmony character, but I warned Quinn in advance that it could happen. (takes a bite of eggs and a bite of toast, looks inquiringly at Helen as she chews)
Helen: That sounds really sweet, Daria. It’s just that... well, I remember times when some sweet thing you did for your sister turned out to have a hook in it. (Maintains eye contact with Daria while taking a bite of bacon)
Daria: (maintains eye contact with Helen while taking a drink of orange juice, sighs deeply) All right, Mom, you’ve uncovered my evil scheme. (spears a bite of scrambled eggs) There are in fact two hooks in it. (eats eggs, gropes for, finds, and takes a bite of bacon while maintaining eye contact)
Helen: (flicker of sadness) And those are? (reaches for coffee cup, almost tips it over, looks down, breaking eye contact)
Daria: (tiny smile of triumph, suppressed before Helen can look up again) She’ll encounter the first one when she tells her friends about it. One of them is bound to ask her (does a pretty good Sandi impression) "So, like, why did your weird cousin or whatever make your character like, her character’s sister and not, like, her cousin or whatever?"
Helen: (snickers as she recognizes Sandi’s version of Valspeak, then frowns as she realizes the implications of what Daria has said) You mean she’s telling her friends you’re not her sister? Well, I’ll have a talk with her about that!
Daria: (thought v.o.) You should hear what she tells them about my mother. (aloud) She tells everyone. But don’t say anything. If you force her to call me sister but she’s thinking "I hate your guts, you four-eyed geek!", what good is that? It’s meaningless unless and until she’s willing to call me sister.
Helen: You mean Quinn calling you her cousin doesn’t bother you?
Daria: No, I don’t. (pushing on) The second hook is a boarding hook, with a line attached. I heaved it over her rail, and now I’m going to haul in the line, very gently, and try to draw us closer together.
Helen: (borderline misty-eyed) That’s so... poetic! It’s just...
Daria: Just so at variance with your image of cold, machiavellian, uncaring Daria? (butters bitterly)
Helen: Oh, no, sweetie, no! I didn’t mean that! But... can you blame me for having doubts?
Daria: No, I guess I can’t blame you, considering what I know about your relationship with your sisters. But that’s what I’m hoping to avert. I don’t want me and Quinn to be like you and Rita for the rest of our lives.
Helen: Oh, Daria, I really hope... omigosh, look at the time! I am so late!
Daria: If you’ll wait till I put some jam on this toast, I’ll show you...
Helen: Another time, sweetie. I’ve really...
Daria: ...my latest diary entry.
Helen: -huk (swallows, long pause) You’re pulling my leg.
Daria: No, I am not. For some reason, I really want you to believe me and understand me on this. (finishes spreading jam, takes a drink of orange juice, gets up) So if you’ll please follow me to my room... (thought v. o.) As if you could do anything else. (turns and walks toward family room so Helen cannot see her smile. Helen also cannot see when the smile gives way to a look of panic. Thought v. o.) Omigod, what am I doing? (then her expression returns to deadpan as logic resumes control)
Scene 9 Int. Daria’s room. Daria is seated at her computer. Helen waits by the door. Background music: "I’m just a soul whose intentions are good... Oh, Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood!"
Daria: Decrypting now. Just a few seconds more. You realize I don’t do this lightly, and it may never happen again. But I want to remove your doubts if at all possible. There. Hmmm. (frowns at something on screen) Ahh, what the heck. Have a seat. This is from just after dinner last night, before we thought up Harmony Powers. (rises, Helen sits, begins reading)
A very strange thing just happened. Quinn came in and gave me some useful information regarding student reaction to Kevin’s reaction to Ratboy’s supposed demise. Seemed to be a pretty accurate analysis, too. If she’s right, only one student in 12 suspects I deliberately mindf***ed him.
Helen: Daria!
Daria: I had a very good reason. Tell you all about it later. Anyway, all I did was write the story. (Helen resumes reading, Daria finishes her toast and jam)
I’d have guessed no more than 1 in 20, but I’m inclined to trust Quinn’s numbers. Guess my fearsome rep is spreading.
And then another very strange thing happened. Quinn asked to read what I’d written on my next Melody Powers story, and liked it! Oh, I forgot to tell you that this morning she let slip that she’d attended my last reading at the coffeehouse. There may be something more to it, but I watched her face as she read, and she was really getting into the story.
On top of that, her suggestion about writing Melody stories under a pseudonym may be a very good one. Have to think about it. Maybe... Eufaula Offenhauser? Or maybe it should be a man’s name. Too bad Douglas Adams already thought of Dirk Gently. Quinn has a point; they are more popular than anything else I’ve written and read publicly. I could be making some money while searching for someone to take my serious stuff seriously.
And where did Quinn learn about the Bacon-wrote-Shakespeare theory? Not from Waif magazine. Is her intellect finally emerging from hibernation? Is she reading stuff in secret? How to encourage it without scaring her off? Guess I’ll give it room and not remark on it, at least for now.
It’s weird, but while she was in here this evening, we were relating to each other almost like Jane and Trent do, rather than like two cats in a sack. Dare I hope? I know now that the sister I yearn for is in there somewhere. I’ll do what I can to strengthen what ties there are between us. But I’ll keep the shields of cynicism up. She who expects the worst shall never be disappointed.
Daria: (looks at Helen, who sits blinking at the screen; looks down at floor, speaks hesitantly) Well, there you have it. My innermost thoughts revealed. My very soul laid bare, quivering in the cold harsh light of morning.. If you don’t believe this, there’s nothing more I can say or do.
Helen: Oh, Daria, I... you... (turns back to screen)
Daria: (sighs, leans in, executes a few keystrokes. A printer chortles to life) I appreciate you taking this time. I know it’s hard for you. But we don’t want you actually getting fired.
Helen: (high-pitched, quavering voice) Ohh-h-h... (stands, grabs Daria in a fierce hug, pinning her arms to her sides)
Daria: (eyes wide, squirming feebly) Ooh, ick... (Helen begins kissing Daria) Aaghh! (Helen persists. Daria gives up, goes limp in the grip of her assailant.)
Scene 10 Ext. Lawndale High, main entrance, a few minutes later. Helen’s red SUV pulls into the circle, comes to a halt amid squealing tires. Daria emerges, closes door. Helen immediately roars away, amid more squealing tires. Daria gazes after her. The camera pans left to reacquire Helen’s SUV after it turns back onto the street. At about forty yards distance, we see Helen raise a clenched fist, and hear a faint but distinct "YES!" Several students turn and stare. Daria smiles and turns toward the entrance. She spots Jane, who has also apparently been watching, near the doors. A bell rings, and the two hurry inside.
Scene 11 Int. Mr. O’Neill’s English Lit class. Students are still filing in.
Jane: So, you’re all smileyfaced for the second day in a row, and you get chauffeured to school, and Mater was practically ecstatic about something. What’s up with that?
Daria: I scored major touchy-feely family bonding points, and even got a few deducted from Quinn.
Jane: Wow! You? How’d you do that?
Daria: Desperate measures. I let her read a selected page of my diary.
Jane: You’re kidding! A page out of your diary got a positive reaction from Helen?? Wait... "selected"! It was a plant, right? Crafty! (Daria looks down at her hands, mumbles) It was genuine?? I gotta read that!
Daria: I could let you, I guess, but then I’d have to kill you. That entry would totally destroy my rep. Knock a huge hole in my armor. Can’t allow that.
Jane: You mean there’s stuff you’d share with your mother but not with me?
Daria: This was part of the stuff I share with no one. I made an exception because of necessity and extenuating circumstances. Mom had a need to know. You do not.
Jane: Ooookayy... So, uhh... are you going to let Kevin off the hook today or...
Daria: I think so. Today we shall bind up his wounds and soothe his fevered brow. (evil smirk) But not this period.
O’Neill: All right, class, who can tell us where we left off yesterday? (scans class, no response) Daria?
Daria: Tybalt kills Mercutio, then Romeo kills Tybalt, then he runs off. The Prince walks on, trailing the head cheeses Montague and Capulet, and there lies Tybalt, like a dead rat in the gutter.
Kevin: Deeaad! Ohhh, Ghhauud, he’s dea-hea-hea-hea-head! (slumps onto his desk, weeping bitterly. Daria surreptitiously accepts a low five from Jane. Jodie suppresses a giggle, Mack groans and drops his head onto his folded arms. Andrea grins wickedly.)
O’Neill: Ahh, Kevin, I believe we covered that yesterday.
Kevin: (groans) Ohhh, Ratboy, Ratboyyy-ee-ee-eee!
O’Neill: Now, Kevin, there is no Ratboy in...
Kevin: Aaahhhhh, haa haa haaaahhh!
O’Neill: (sighs) Come with me, Kevin. (pulls Kevin out of his desk, leads him to door) Daria, would you continue, please? I should be back in a few minutes. (exeunt)
Daria: (unenthusiastic) Oh, goody. (rises, with book) Well, let’s see here... the Prince grills Benvolio... "Where are the wild beginners of this fray?" Ben says, hmm, hmm, ..."the unruly spleen of Tybalt,.. deaf to peace, but that he tilts... With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast." ...which pisses off Romeo...
"And to’t they go like lightning, for ere I ...Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain... and as he fell did Romeo turn and fly."
Then Lady Capulet calls him a liar... (in Ms. Barch’s voice) "He is a kinsman to the Montague. Affection makes him false, he speaks not true... Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not live!" (scattered snickers from class)
Then Montague says, (DeMartino’s voice) "Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend... His fault concludes but what the law should end... the life of Tybalt." (more snickers)
Then the Prince exiles Romeo on the spot. "...let Romeo hence in haste... Else when he’s found, that hour is his last!" Hmm, Shakespeare must not have liked to do courtroom scenes.
Scene II is in Juliet’s room, and she can’t wait for nightfall. She says "night" about fifty times here. (Scarlett O’Hara voice) "Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!... (giggles from students) That rude day’s eyes may wink, and Romeo... Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen... Lovers can see to do their amorous rites... Give me my Romeo, and when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars..." Wow. She’s gonna f... love him to death and then decorate her ceiling with his remains. (giggles, few laughs)
Then Juliet’s nurse comes in with some cords, blithering "Alack the day! He’s gone! He’s killed! He’s dead!" and freaks Juliet out. Classic misunderstanding plot device here. "This torture should be roared in dismal hell! Death-darting eye of cockatrice... Is Romeo slaughtered, and is Tybalt dead?" Then the nurse tells her Romeo isn’t dead, but banished. Which isn’t that much better, since Tybalt was her cousin. "O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical!" And a lot more in that vein.
But I’m hogging all the fun. These cords the nurse comes in with- what are they? (She looks around, sees no hand raised.) Is Juliet planning some bondage action here? (Giggles and snickers, but no hands.) Jodie?
Jodie: It’s hard to tell just from the script, but it’s probably a rope ladder or something similar that they lower so that Romeo can climb up to meet Juliet.
Daria: Probably, but down here, Juliet seems to be taking the cords to bed with her. Mack, would you read Juliet’s speech here? (She indicates a passage in Mack’s book)
Mack: (He gives Daria an accusatory look, then shrugs, smiles wryly, and reads in a Scarlett O’Hara voice)
Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,
Both you and I; for Romeo is exil’d;
He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords; come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding-bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
(This is greeted with snickers, laughs, and a few guffaws, one from Andrea.)
Daria: So, is it a rope ladder, or something else?
Mack: It still sounds like a rope ladder; Juliet’s just getting weird with it.
O’Neill: (enters, Daria resumes her seat) Thank you, Daria. Well, class, how are we doing? Any questions?
Brittany: Umm, what’s a maidenhead? (Pan/zoom to CU of O’Neill’s face as it turns successively deeper shades of pink)
Scene 12 Ms. Manson’s office. Ms. Manson sits at the table, holding some rectangles of heavy cardboard. Kevin sits opposite her.
Ms. Manson: Now, Kevin, what do you see here?
Kevin: Um, a piece of cardboard?
Ms. Manson: It’s a picture of two people, Kevin.
Kevin: Oh, you mean those two black peopley shapes? That’s not a picture. You can’t, like, see their faces.
Ms. Manson: They’re called silhouettes. Now I....
Kevin: Or what color clothes they’re wearing.
Ms. Manson: That’s all right, Kevin. Now, can...
Kevin: Are they wearing blue and yellow?
Ms. Manson: Kevin! It’s a picture of a boy and a girl, and they’re talking! Can you make up a story about what they’re saying?
Kevin: Uhh, but what color...
Ms. Manson: All right, Kevin! They’re wearing blue and yellow! Now can you make up a story about what they’re saying?
Kevin: O-O-O-o-o-oh! Okay! Um, He’s saying, like, Hi, babe! I’m the QB! And she’s saying, like, Ohhh, cool! I’m a cheerleader! And he’s saying, like, Cool! Wanna suck face? And she’s saying, like, Okay, cool! And then they...
Ms. Manson: Yes, thank you, Kevin. Now, you see, you just made up a story. That’s what Dara did with the story she read Monday night. She just made it...
Kevin: Umm, you mean Daria?
Ms. Manson: What?
Kevin: Uh, the chick who read the story? Her name’s, like, Daria.
Ms. Manson: Fine. Daria made up her story, wrote it down, and read it at the coffeehouse. The people who got killed in her story didn’t really get killed, because they weren’t real. Dara made them up.
Kevin: Umm, you mean Daria?
Ms. Manson: What?
Kevin: The chick who read the story? Her name’s, like, Daria.
Ms. Manson: FINE, Kevin! DARIA made up the people in her story. Therefore they’re not real. Therefore they can’t die. See?
Kevin: (boy are YOU dumb look:) Ahaaw, no, no, no! Daria didn’t make up Ratboy! Ratboy was around long before Daria moved here!
Ms. Manson: (can’t believe this moron has found a flaw in her logic) Very well! Daria didn’t make up Ratboy. But someone else did, and she borrowed him for her story. Ratboy is still a fictional character.
Kevin: A fissional what?
Ms. Manson: A fic-tion-al char-ac-ter. The people in stories that writers make up. Like Romeo and Juliet. They weren’t real. Like the Cat in the Hat. He wasn’t real. Like Curious George. Like Alice in Wonderland. The people in stories aren’t real. NOW do you understand?
Kevin: Ohhh, now I KNOW you’re wrong! The people in my story are real! That’s me and Brittany! Or maybe me and Lisa! Or was it Angie... Anyway, we’re all real! You don’t know what you’re talking about! (gets up, goes to door, opens it. Ms. Li stands outside. Kevin raises hand to side of mouth, whispers in Ms Li’s ear) She’s, like, not too smart, you know? (walks out.)
Ms. Li: Kevin, wait for me in my office. (bt) Ms. Manson, what the hell was that? If you’re not capable of handling students like Kevin, how can I expect you to cope with the really smart ones, like Charles Ruttheimer, Jodie Landon, or Daria Mor... (stares appraisingly at Ms Manson for a moment) Forget it. (turns, hesitates, turns back) And, for your information, Alice was also a real person. (exits. Ms. Manson stares, stricken, at the vacant doorway for a few seconds, then lets her face fall into her cupped hands.)
Scene 13 Computer lab. Daria is seated at a computer, typing. Pan/zoom in to a CU of monitor screen, where we see that Daria is working on BY ANY OTHER NAME.
Melody slowly made her way from the bathroom, leaning heavily on the walker. She was disregarding a good deal of pain from the bullet wound in her right thigh, while being careful not to reopen the wound. Having been through this more times than she cared to recall, Melody knew how much load to place on healing muscles to minimize recovery time.
She cursed the awkwardness of the walker, but she couldn’t use a cane or crutch with her right arm because of the gash that had damaged her right shoulder muscles. She considered using a crutch on the left side and holding her right foot off the floor entirely most of the time.
Melody was peering out between two slats of the blinds when Harmony came in. Harmony reached for the rod to open up the slats, but Melody batted her arm away.
"Ow! I was just trying to help!"
"Help who? The sniper?"
"Sniper?! There’s a sniper out there?"
"I assume there is."
"You... umm, isn’t that a little paranoid?" Then Harmony remembered the scars Melody had showed her, and that she pretty much had a lock on deadliest Special Op. "Sorry. Stupid question." Melody favored her with a sardonic smile, said nothing "I was just talking with HQ and they told me to ask you if there was some other agent in West Coast bureau who looked enough like you that it would be helpful for you to assume her identity."
There was a time not so long ago when this would have struck Melody as a bit ghoulish. She wondered idly what it would take to strike her as ghoulish now. "There was a girl in Psycho about my height and hair color. She was a bit more... statuesque than me. Her first name was Donna."
"Sounds good." Harmony pulled out her phone, hit redial. Melody lowered herself into a chair, picked up her magazine, resumed reading about how to build a cabin with minimal tools and assistance in semi-wilderness conditions How she’d love to have that set of problems instead of her current set. "Was she in Psychoanalysis or Psychological warfare?"
"Psych war." Melody idly perused an ad proclaiming "Turn your chainsaw into a lumber mill!" Maybe she’d ask HQ if they had anyone on their "to kill" list who owned a mountain cabin. This might be more "sweat equity" than she really wanted to invest.
Harmony folded her phone. "They’ll go over her records and get back to us. And Dr. Rosencrantz the cosmetic surgeon will be by tomorrow morning to talk with you about the scars. Do you take MSM?"
"No. What’s MSM?"
"Methylsulfonylmethane. It’s a nutrient, a bioavailable sulfur compound. They’re just finding out what all it’s good for. One of the things it does is help you heal without scarring, and help old scars fade away faster." Harmony reached into her bag, pulled out a paperback book. "Here. I just got through reading this. If you get the worst of those scars fixed surgically, the rest should disappear within a few months, if you start taking MSM."
Melody took the book. "Thanks, I’ll read it. Now I want to go see Custer. He was in your class at the academy, right?"
"Yeah. I want to see him too. He was kind of the class cutup."
"He’s still kind of a cutup." Melody smiled a small smirk.
A few minutes later, Melody wheeled herself through the door of another hospital room as Harmony held it open. Custer was smiling, or at least the visible portion of his face was, but he remained silent while Harmony quickly swept the room for bugs. Signaling all clear, she folded her Agency phone and clipped it to her belt.
"Harmony! Great to see you! And you too, Melody! Hey, with those names, you two should be sisters!" Melody and Harmony exchanged smirks. Harmony tapped her temple, shook her head. "Wait- you are sisters?"
Harmony grinned. "Well, duh! But as of now, that’s top secret. Whatsername here is getting a new identity, at least temporarily. So, what’s your damage, besides brain?"
"Lost my left pinky, but they’re pretty sure I’ll get to keep the rest of the arm. Other than that, it’s fairly minor. How about you, Miss, uh...?
"Melody for now. Haven’t finalized my new ID. A couple more bullet holes, a nasty cut on my back, and a lot of bruising from the hand-to-hand. Nothing permanently disabling."
"I’m sure glad to hear that. But how in the world did you get to hand-to-hand? Krupp and I were cut down almost as soon as we got out onto the field. He fell on top of me and I guess that saved my life. Only my left arm was sticking out, and it was hit five times. I passed out from the pain pretty quickly."
"You share that bit of luck with Amelia. You were both taken out early on, and didn’t collect too much in the way of ugly memories. I’m the only one who has to remember the whole thing."
"But I want to know what happened. I was hoping..."
"There’s a difference between knowing the story and reliving, over and over, in excruciating detail, two hundred thirty-one people dying at the end of your gun barrel. That’s counting the twenty-three at the warehouse, but not the sixteen probables, or the eleven non-fatal hits, or the two I killed hand to hand. No offense, Custer, but I’d rather let Harmony tell you the story. I want to go across the hall and see... Harmony, what name is he using?"
"John Doe. He says he can’t remember who he is."
"Well, he certainly got kicked in the head hard enough to support that claim. Good thinking."
A few minutes later, after Harmony had swept for bugs and left, Melody smiled at the room’s occupant and said, "So, how are you feeling, John Doe?" Short black hair framed a handsome, cheerful face. A high brow gave him a look of intelligence, frequently contradicted by the goofy grin that seemed to be his favorite facial expression.
"Like I’ve been shot at and hit. Probably better than you, though. I saw that cut on your back. Sorry I couldn’t..."
"Hey, you saved my life twice down there. You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you. And I’m feeling okay within a limited range of motion."
I’m glad. So, are you tracking that Wang guy?"
"Still getting three strong signals, last I heard. He’s lying low on the outskirts of Chinatown. Guess that bit about catching a plane was an attempt at misdirection. All his exits are covered by teams ready to retag him when he makes a move."
"Yeah, that feels right. Well, I guess this is the end of Ratboy. Brought me in here unconscious, pulled my mask off... "
Melody peeked into the wardrobe beside his bed. "Nope. If you’d been wearing that outfit when you came in, at least some of it would be in here, and it isn’t. I’m betting one of our people removed it before the paramedics got to you. I’ll ask and let you know."
"Same difference. Your Agency knows who I am. My secret identity’s no secret anymore."
"Oh, come on. The Agency’s known about you for years. As many times as you’ve beaten one of our Agents or teams to the scene of something, you know we were gonna check you out. It’s a lot harder to maintain a secret identity today than it used to be. According to your file, we’ve even tried to recruit you, more than once. Why didn’t you sign up? You’d be doing the same thing you do now, only with a lot more support."
"I can’t work for somebody, or some agency. I hafta follow my nose."
"Huh?"
"My Rat Sense. It’s what makes me Ratboy. I smell a rat, I follow my nose, I track down the rat, and then I... do what needs doing. I mean, I don’t actually smell a smell, but it’s like that. So, uh, the Agency knows about me? And they haven’t told? And they’re not going to?"
"Naah. I’m one of their best Agents, and they didn’t tell me a thing until I ran into you and needed to know. Even now, I don’t know your real name. Which puts you one up on me, by the way. Melody is my real name, but that’s now a secret, because I’m officially dead."
"Uhhh, how come?"
"I kill enemy agents and spies. It’s part of my job. I’m very good at it. All the countries that send agents and spies here, or recruit them, want me dead. When they find out how many chicoms I’ve killed lately, and that I’m still alive, I’ll go to the top of their hit lists."
"So they’re gonna say you’re dead to keep you alive."
Right. I can count on you to keep the secret, can’t I?"
"Absolutely. Ratboy never rats."
"Great. Because there’s another reason we’re doing this. Everyone who knows I’m alive will keep the secret except for Loong Wang. We figure as soon as he contacts whoever he was secretly working for, he’ll tell them what happened at the stadium, probably including the fact that I was alive when he left. We’ll be listening with all our ears, and where, when, and how that news surfaces should tell us something about who these people are."
"O-O-o-o-oh! Sneaky! And if I get a whiff of anything, I’ll be sure and let you know. If you give me a phone number."
Melody pushed a few buttons on her phone, but didn’t raise it to her ear. "Okay. I’m gonna have my henchman smuggle in some cheese fries. We’ll drop by with ‘em later, and I’ll give you the number and let you know what I found out about your gear. Oh, and the Agency’s picking up the tab for your stay, so just relax and enjoy." Harmony opened the door and pulled Melody’s wheelchair out into the hall.
Almost as soon as they were back in Custer’s room, Melody’s phone rang. She released the catch and it sprang open in her hand. "Yo."
"Agent Powers, this is Scrivener at HQ. Our check of Agent Pettibone’s records reveals nothing to contraindicate your assumption of her identity. You will receive a dossier on her today. When you are discharged, we’ll want you to take up residence at her house, use her car, et cetera, for the duration of the ruse. Oh, and, until you’re fully recovered, we’d like you to teach some classes at the Academy. As you know, all the able-bodied instructors and all but one upperclassman were lost at the stadium."
"Uh, okay, I guess. What was Agent Pettibone’s full name?"
"Donna Louise Pettibone. Her handle was Sunspider. We’d appreciate it if you and Agent Butterfly would handle as much of this as you can from your end. Every one of us here is a new transfer and we’re mostly still trying to find things. You can’t imagine the chaos."
"Not from your viewpoint. My calling is more the creation of chaos. To me it represents a job well done. But we’ll do all we can to lighten your workload, Scrivener. Later."
Melody folded her phone, looked up at Harmony and Custer. "Well, as of now I’m officially Donna Louise Pettibone, or Sunspider. They’re going to want me to teach at the Academy when I get out of here, and Scrivener as good as said we can do anything we want as long as it doesn’t make more paperwork for the newbies at HQ. Custer, I have a hunch they’ll want you down there as soon as you can survive outside the hospital for brief periods.
"Oh, crap! I hate office work!"
"What sane person doesn’t? They need someone who’s been there for more than two days to help them find stuff. Scrivener sounded desperate. Look at it this way, you could score some major brownie points."
"I guess I’ll do my duty. Maybe by the time I’ve recuperated enough, they’ll have recalled some old HQ people from elsewhere, and won’t need me."
"Custer, Custer, Custer." Harmony sighed, shaking her head. "You’re gonna miss out. Think of all those young female Agents running around HQ with their panties in a wad. Then in comes you, the wounded hero, risen from your bed of pain to selflessly help little ol’ them. On second thought, maybe you’d better not. How much fawning and solicitude can one man take?"
"Hmmmm..."
"Thank you for that unique Butterfly perspective.", chuckled Melody as she hit a speed-dial number on her phone. "How about procuring us a large quantity of cheese fries? I promised John... hey, Virosa, this is Sunspider. Right. That one. Quick question: would you know what became of Ratboy’s gear? Uh huh... mm hmm. The armory. Thanks. Drop by later for some cheese fries? Great. Don’t kill anyone I wouldn’t kill. See ya."
Custer asked, "So, M- uh, Donna, what classes do you think you’ll teach? Other than the obvious marksmanship and mass murder, that is?"
"I was thinking etiquette, shorthand, and maybe embroidery."
"Haha! Yeah, right! Hey, you should teach ‘em what you taught Amelia and me. That’s something they can really use!"
"What? Did I miss something?" queried Custer.
"OH, yeah! It, uh had to do with occupational hazards."
"You have a point there, Harmony. My presentation wasn’t really suitable for a classroom environment, though. Perhaps a suitable visual aid... tell you what. Bring my black bikini in from home in the morning. I’ll call a photographer I know. I’m going to document those scars for posterity before I get rid of them."
"You are so wicked! I mean it’s a great idea, but it takes a wicked mind to think of it."
"Naah. Wicked would be if I made it into a Christmas card and sent it to Mom and Dad."
"Aagh! They’d have terminal conniptions!"
"That reminds me, I haven’t heard back from HQ about my pistol. As screwed up as they are down there, I may never get it back. I’d sure hate to lose that old pistol."
"What happened to it?"
"After I ran out of ammo, I laid it down at the entrance to the stairwell in section D, west bleachers. I told HQ about it yesterday morning."
A school bell rings. Pan/zoom out from monitor screen to Daria saving her work to a floppy, then slipping the floppy into a pocket of her book bag, rising and heading for the door.
Scene 14 Int. LHS, hallway. Daria emerges from computer lab. Jane falls into step beside her.
Jane: So, been doing some writing? How’s Melody doing?
Daria: Not good, I’m afraid. Multiple bullet wounds, nasty knife wound on her back, about to pass out from blood loss and fall back into the sewer and bleed to death.
Jane: Oh, no! Poor, poor Melody! If only she had a trusty sidekick to save her.
Daria: Alas, all her compatriots from West Coast bureau are dead or nearly so, and darkness has fallen. Melody needs your help, Jane.
Jane: (surprised look) Well, you know I’d do anything in my power to save Melody. Uh, what would that be, exactly?
Daria: You need to find her, pull her out of that manhole, staunch the bleeding, and get her to a hospital. I took the liberty of writing you a character. Of course, if you object, I could always base her on someone else. Maybe Andrea...
Jane: Whoa, hold it! You mean I’m in your next Melody Powers story?
Daria: A character based on you, yes.
Jane: I’m a femme fatale, right? Beautiful but deadly?
Daria: Drop dead gorgeous, in every sense of the word. Your kill total rivals Melody’s, you have platinum blond hair and purple eyes...
Jane: Stop right there! Purple eyes?! I’ve always wanted purple eyes! How’d you know?
Daria: Psychic powers.
Scene 15 Int. Ms. Li’s office. Ms. Li is seated at her desk. Kevin sits in a chair in front of the desk, occasionally bonking himself in the head with his football. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s doing it.
Ms. Li: (best effort at motherly tone) Now, Kevin, you need to stop carrying on about Ratboy as if he were a real person. Ratboy is a comic book character. He doesn’t exist in the real world. (Kevin gazes at Ms. Li in uncomprehending melancholy, then randomly about the office, bonking himself with the football a few times.)
Ms. Li: Kevin. Listen to me. Ratboy is not real. People write Ratboy stories. Other people draw pictures to go with the stories. Other people color them. They send them to a press and they’re printed as comic books. You and the other happy children buy the comic books and read them. It’s fun. But Ratboy doesn’t exist in the real world. Do you understand? Kevin? (Kevin nods reluctantly) Excellent. Now you explain it to me.
Kevin: Uhhh, Ratboy doesn’t... exist? (Ms. Li smiles, nods encouragingly) In the... (waves football around vaguely) world? (Ms. Li continues to smile and nod) He’s, uh, like, gone? (Ms. Li smiles and nods, then stops, thinking)
Kevin: He’s gone. He’s deeaad! Ohhh, Ghhaauud, he’s dea-hea-hea-hea-head! (Runs out of Ms. Li’s office, crying inconsolably)
Ms. Li: Kevin! No! (slams forehead down on desktop) No! (pounds her fists on its unyielding surface) No, no, no, no, no! (continues futilely pounding desktop, head down)
Scene 16 Int. Lawndale High library. Daria and Jane show their study hall passes to the librarian, then make their way to a cluster of computers in the reference section. Daria hands Jane a floppy, sits down at a computer and brings up a word processor. Jane inserts the floppy in an adjacent computer, loads BY ANY OTHER NAME from it, hands it back to Daria, who loads BY ANY OTHER NAME into the word processor and begins to write.
Melody, wearing a white bikini, eased herself into the reclining armchair. It was a lot more comfortable than the chair in her other room. The white bikini had been Harmony’s idea, and they’d wound up using it for most of the shots. Frank was packing up his cameras and equipment. He’d been very helpful in coming up with poses she could hold with her injuries, and he’d almost made her believe she looked beautiful, instead of like something the cat dragged in.
Frank was a glamour photographer who’d been part of one of Melody’s covers a couple of years ago. These were probably the least glamorous photos he’d ever taken. But they would be perfect for Melody’s intended purpose- illustrating the less than glamorous aspects of being a special op.
"I’m serious, M- Donna," he said. "I want another session with you as soon as you heal up."
"B. S. artist. I’ll pencil you in, but I can’t promise anything. And I’m serious too- dead serious. You can’t keep any prints or negatives or anything from this session. If any are discovered, there could be grave consequences for me and maybe for you too."
"You may place your complete faith in me. Trust is part of my stock in trade. And, uh, whatever you’ve been doing lately, I certainly hope you’re through doing it."
Melody favored him with a wistful smile. "I thought I’d try teaching for a while."
"Well, I wish you the best of luck. I’m sure you’ll be a great teacher, although I have to admit I can’t picture it."
"That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said in at least the last two minutes." Melody waved as he disappeared out the door. Her smile faded as a corpulent nurse with a permanently pissed-off look entered.
"Ms. Pettibone! What in the world have you been doing? Was that a photographer who just left here? What sort of twisted...
"Before pictures for the cosmetic surgery, Nurse... Melody read the nurse’s nametag. "Ratlegs."
"That’s Rutledge! Who removed those dressings? And what are you doing running around without your walker?"
Melody rose from the chair, deliberately showing no sign of weakness or discomfort, and took a step toward the nurse. "We just saved you a few minutes’ work. You know, Rutledge, every so often you’re going to meet people with connections or influence, or just plain power. It’s a good idea to be nice to everyone, just in case. How’d you like to do a year of volunteer work in a leprosy clinic I support in Calcutta?" She leaned well into Nurse Rutledge’s personal space. "I can arrange it."
Nurse Rutledge paled and staggered back. There was that in Melody’s gaze which bespoke other, even worse things she could as easily arrange. "I- I- I’m sure I meant no offense, Ms., uh, Pettibone..."
"Yes, I’m sure. Well, why don’t you fix me up with some nice fresh bandages, and then you can continue spreading joy on down the corridor." There was a knock at the door. "Come in."
A tall forty-ish woman with dark brown hair and gold rimmed glasses entered. She smiled. "I’m Dr. Rosencrantz. Are you Ms. Pettibone?" Nurse Rutledge stepped out from between them. "Oh, my! That’s a beaut!"
"Your timing is excellent. Nurse Rutledge was just about to rewrap me."
"Come back in about fifteen minutes, nurse." Dr. Rosencrantz offhandedly dismissed her, already fascinated by Melody’s collection of scars.
As the nurse left, Melody said, "Would you hand me that walker over there, please?"
"Oh, certainly." Dr. Rosencrantz hurried to get it. "How were you getting around without it? And why? That wound in your thigh is two days old or less."
"Well, when the photographer was here, we didn’t want it in the shots, and after that I was terrorizing Nurse Ratchett. I terrorize better without a walker."
"Hmph. If she had any brains, she’d take one look at those scars and be pre-terrorized. How did you get them if I may ask?"
"Line of duty. Mostly bullets. This big ugly one was a knife wound that got infected. Took me four days to get to a hospital."
"Four days! Why aren’t you dead? And this doesn’t look like the result of infection, there’s no cratering evident." Dr. Rosencrantz was kneeling and examining the scar across Melody’s abdomen minutely.
"The infection was kept in check by... field expedient methods."
"Field expedient? You mean like moldy bread? Sugar? Honey? Propolis?"
Melody wrestled with an unpleasant memory. "Maggots."
The doctor stared at her, obviously not comprehending, probably horrified. "They eat the infection. You keep the wound as clean as you can, and remove them when they pupate." (2)
"But... how do you keep them from eating you alive?"
"They can’t eat healthy flesh. No teeth. They suck up the bacteria and its waste products and... almost... keep it from spreading. Their slime has antibacterial properties. I think that’s what he said." Suddenly tired, Melody lowered herself into the chair. Looking at Dr. Rosencrantz’s face, she added, "It beats the alternative." She ran her fingers along the scar. "But I’ll always remember the feel of them, crawling and squirming and sucking with their little tiny mouths, sucking at my raw flesh... " She turned her head suddenly, stared at a wall, blinking rapidly. "If it hadn’t been for Yuri, I don’t think I’d’ve had the guts."
"Yuri?"
"He showed me how. We took care of each other until we got to a hospital. I wonder what his scar looks like now."
"Where did he learn it? I’ve never heard of using maggots like that."
Melody considered carefully. No harm in telling her that. "It was part of his Spetznaz training."
"Spetznaz? Russian commandos?"
"Yeah. So, what do you think? How close to normal can you take me?"
"I can practically eliminate any of the scars I see here, even this one. Some will require preliminary stretching of the adjacent skin to eliminate the need for grafting when the scar tissue is excised, but that’s not bad. Small subcutaneous balloons. The procedure will leave hairline scars which will vanish in two or three months."
"What about a navel?"
"I’m pretty sure... " Dr. Rosencrantz dropped to one knee beside the chair and kneaded Melody’s belly where her navel had been. "Yes. Your navel is still there, Donna, just covered over by scar tissue. When I excise the scar tissue, it’ll be right there where it’s always been."
"I’m sure glad to hear that. I’ll be able to wear this bikini to the beach before it goes out of style. What do you know about MSM?"
"Great stuff. I’ve been prescribing it postoperatively for over a year now, and it’s done wonders for my reputation. Long term, though, it’s going to cut into the scar removal part of my practice. Oh, well."
"That’s great. My sister was just telling me about it. Which of these scars do you think you should remove surgically and which should I just let fade away?"
"Oh, you’re a cruel one, eh?", she smiled. "Stick me right on the hot seat, make me cut my own throat. All right, if you’ll stand up a minute... "
Melody made another adjustment to the angle of the top section of her bed, finally getting it just right. Nurse Rutledge had finished dressing her wounds, and had even helped her put on her lounging pajamas. She was all set to lounge and read the book Harmony had given her when Virosa slipped in. "Hey, Virosa. Have some brunch?" she waved at coffee and rolls on a counter by the window.
"Thanks. These rooms in the new tower are nicer than your other room."
"Yes, and the reflective coatings on the windows mean I can raise the blinds without having to worry about snipers. Do anyone interesting lately?"
"Well, I just met with "Birdlegs" Bolognese down at Vito’s Ristorante and Pizzeria."
"Huge fat guy? Always seems to be eating? Messily? How is ol’ Birdlegs these days?"
"He’ll never be met with again, I fear. Freak accident. His table exploded. Scant seconds after I left, too."
"Oh, how tragic! Are you all right? You must be terribly traumatized!"
"Yeah, I’m all twitterpated. I don’t know how many innocent patrons were hurt inside Vito’s."
Melody snorked. "That’s easy. Vito’s doesn’t have any innocent patrons." A knock on the door interrupted their chuckle. "Come on in."
Harmony entered, carrying something in a grocery sack. "Good morning Donna, Virosa. Here’s that stuff you wanted. Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe what I ran into!" She handed Melody her small 9mm pistol, then two books, titled The Complete Works of Dostoyevsky and Plant Pathology. "I can see reading some Dostoyevsky while you’re stuck in the hospital, but jeez, Plant Pathology?" Melody opened the thick, dark green covered tome to reveal pages covered with fairly fine print, divided into huge paragraphs. "I can’t believe anyone would touch that unless they absolutely... wait a minute. Let me see that!"
With a small smile, Melody handed it over. Harmony flipped some more pages to reveal a pistol shaped hollow. She placed the pistol inside, closed the book, placed it on top of the bedside nightstand, and grinned at Melody, who grinned back.
"Pretty devious for a rookie.", smirked Virosa. "So, what did you run into that we wouldn’t believe?"
"There were all these cop cars and ambulances and a bomb squad van blocking the street in front of this sleazy little restaurant, and a bunch of ugly guys in expensive suits standing around outside, and then they bring this body out on a stretcher, and some punk runs up and snatches the sheet off, and it’s like it was this really fat guy that ate too much, and he just exploded! Guts hanging out all over! And the guys in the suits were all like gagging and ralphing on each other, and it was just ghastly!"
"Why, thank you, Harmony! I do try." grinned Virosa. Melody was shaking with silent laughter.
Harmony goggled. "YOU did that?! Eewww, gross! How?"
"My usual style is somewhat more tasteful, but the Man wants high profile. I stuck a happy-happy under his table."
"What’s a happy-happy?"
"An APAPD- an all-purpose anti-personnel device. Didn’t they teach you about them at the Academy?"
"Oh, yeah, they talked about them, but not under the name happy-happy, and they didn’t have one to show us."
Virosa reached into an oversized purse and pulled out what looked like a sandwich in a plastic bag. She opened the bag and removed the contents, which now just looked like a box the size and shape of a thick sandwich. "The bad news comes out this side." She indicated one of the longer sides of the box, which was marked THIS SIDE TOWARD ENEMY. "All six sides have peel-and-stick adhesive pads. It’s very good adhesive- watch it. There’s a swivel mount accessory if you need to aim one precisely. It’s triggered by trip wire or radio." she pointed to a small black snap hook attached to the end of a thin black wire emerging from the package. "There are a whole bunch of different triggers that work through the radio interface. Basically, it’s a miniature Claymore mine. Easy to use, versatile, and very effective."
Harmony took the object, turning it over and examining it with interest, visualizing possibilities. "This is neat- in a very messy sort of way. I don’t suppose I could get a couple to practice with."
"Special Ops can.", said Melody. "You can sign up for a class. When they get twelve people, they take you out on the range and let you shoot off some of these and some other whiz-bangs. Then you have some beer and roast hot dogs. It’s a fun afternoon."
"Sounds like a good thing to do just before payday. Oh, I checked on your pistol. The guy in charge of cleanup showed everyone a picture of it, but no one turned it in. I’m gonna talk to him later today, and then the guy who was in charge of the navy volunteers. There were also some marine volunteers and some policemen. I’ll find it, don’t worry."
"It doesn’t sound promising. There must have been hundreds of them, any one of whom might have taken it. You can’t interrogate them all."
"I won’t have to. I’ll find out who was working around section D West and talk to some of them. One guy picked it up. Another couple of guys probably saw him. Some other guys maybe thought he was acting suspicious. I’ll ask, and even if they don’t tell me outright, I’ll pick up hints. But one of them will probably just tell me. It won’t be hard."
"Sounds like the kid is a natural born interrogator.", mused Virosa.
"More like a Mata Hari", replied Melody. "If he’s a guy, she can make him tell it, do it, or hand it over."
"Hey! I just happen to know a few things you can do with guys besides shoot ‘em."
"Well, on that intriguing note, I must take my leave. Harmony, I’d let you keep the happy-happy, but I have to give it to somebody this afternoon. I’ll try not to tie up traffic so bad this time." Taking the deadly little package, Virosa slipped out.
Harmony turned to Melody. "So, how are you feeling today?"
"A bit strained from standing and moving around so much, but surprisingly good, considering. Tomorrow Dr. Rosencrantz is gonna stick me full of little balloons, which should make me look and feel considerably worse. And then I’m scheduled for surgery in three weeks. But she told me my bellybutton is still there, under that scar, so that’s something, I guess.
"That’s wonderful! When you get it back, are you gonna get it pierced?"
"Certainly not! Don’t you think the poor thing has suffered enough?"
"But if you’re not going to hang something in it, what good is it?"
Danny Gillespie opened his apartment door and flipped on the light. He had really gotten lucky tonight. The most gorgeous girl he’d seen in a very long time had wandered into the bar and sat down practically right next to him. She hadn’t been receptive to his first line, but he’d regrouped and tried again, and she’d allowed him to buy her a drink. When he told her he was a police officer she seemed surprised and a bit excited. She didn’t act like a cop groupie, but she was definitely impressed when he showed her his sidearm. It was just like Dirty Harry’s, and it was a Babe Magnet. That’s when she’d slid over onto the stool next to him. So naturally he’d invited her up to see his gun collection, and here they were. This was going to be a very interesting night, he could just feel it.
"Ooh, Danny, you really do have a lot of guns! Did they belong to criminals you busted?" She’d seen the guns on the wall of the den area to the left, and seemed drawn to them.
Danny flipped another switch, and display lights came on to illuminate the displayed weapons to best advantage. Many rested directly on pegs in the wall, some were framed, and a few were in glass-fronted cases. "Yes, most of them. See that one?" He pointed at a nickel plated, ivory-handled Uzi pistol. "That belonged to Panama Jack, the big coke distributor we busted a couple months ago. And this one belonged to a Mafia hit man." He indicated a nondescript derringer in a minimal ankle holster. "He wore it inside his left sock." Danny fought to stay cool. This girl oozed a maddening innocent sexuality from every pore. Even the way her long light red hair swayed as she walked over to his desk drove him wild.
"Hey, this one looks... special. Like not just anyone could use it. And it’s seen a lot of use."
"You have a very good eye for pistols, Muffy. More men have been killed with that pistol than with all these others combined. That’s the Powers Special, personal sidearm of the legendary Melody Powers, Special Operative for The Agency. Tragically, she made the ultimate sacrifice for her country only a few days ago. I can’t give any details, but she probably took out nearly a hundred godless communists in that last terrible battle alone."
"Closer to a hundred seventy-five."
"Hmm?"
"Six spare magazines, twenty-five rounds each. I see she emptied them all. Melody Powers was one of the finest shots in the Agency, and all Agents are expert marksmen. That’s how she could get away with using a .22 rimfire pistol. A little hole in the right spot is just as lethal as a big hole. Oh, and there were also the twenty-three she killed at the warehouse that morning with this same pistol."
Danny looked more carefully at this girl. "How do you know that?" he asked.
"My sister knows a junior Agent."
"That’s great. Then I guess you can appreciate what a priceless historical treasure this pistol is. I was part of the clean-up crew that ghastly morning after. I recognized it for what it was and managed to rescue it from being melted down and lost forever. It’s a part of Melody Powers’ memory preserved for posterity. Unique in all the world. It will be the crown jewel of my collection, and someday I’ll pass it on to the Smithsonian."
"It’s not exactly unique in all the world, you know."
"Huh? Why isn’t it?"
"Melody Powers’ sister Harmony is also with the Agency, and she has a Powers Special too." The girl reached beneath her vest, came out with a pistol identical to the one on the desk, but gleaming blue-black and nearly new. She held it so Danny could get a good look at it, but so she could bring it into action in a split second if necessary. "Of course, it doesn’t have that rich patina that only comes from years of hard use, loving care, and hundreds of lives snuffed out. (bt) Yet."
Her beautiful blue eyes locked onto Danny’s. They suddenly reminded him of the twin bores of a double express rifle. "Oh and you recognized it because everyone on the cleanup crew was shown a picture of it and told to watch for it, and who to turn it over to if they found it."
Harmony watched shades of fear, terror, and despair chase each other across Danny’s face. She almost felt sorry for him. She pictured a little rat inside his head, running madly in its wheel, trying to make the gears turn a little faster so he could figure out exactly how much trouble he was in. "Take a breath, Danny. I’m not gonna drop the hammer on you. I ought to drop a dime, but I’m not gonna do that either. What you said about Melody saved you. Almost nobody even begins to appreciate what she did for her country. Now, pack up Melody’s pistol, holster, spare magazines, and the two magazine pouches, and put them in a couple of plastic shopping bags. It will all go into the Melody Powers exhibit in the Agency museum. And you owe me a big one."
A bell rings. Pan/zoom out from monitor screen to MS of Daria and Jane.
Daria: (saves work to floppy, shuts down word processor) Well, there’s half a day down the drain. Care for some hideously overcooked vegetable residue and mystery meat du jour?
Jane: Yum. Then if we somehow survive Morris’ physical abuse one more time, it’s all downhill from there.
Daria: Surcease from sorrow, for the remains of the day.
Jane: Provided you refrain from following that up with any further mangled quotational giblets.
Daria: You’re just jealous ‘cause you can’t do it.
Jane: Not hardly. Anyway, you can’t do underpainting, so there.
Daria: (puts floppy in pocket of backpack) Sure I can. Gimme a brush and a bucket of paint and strip to your skivvies.
Jane: (stands, starts for door) Gad, such a philistine. I deserve better.
Daria: (stands, follows) Jane, as your one true friend, I sincerely hope you never get what you deserve. Unless I’m the one giving it to you.
Jane: I have a devastating comeback, but I’m too gentle a soul to use it.
Daria: I believe you. Really. (exeunt)
Scene 17 Int. Girls’ locker room. Jane is removing a boot, Daria her shirt.
Ms. Li: (over p. a. system) Your attention please. Miss Daria Morgendorffer, report to the principal’s office immediately. Daria Morgendorffer.
Daria: Oh, no! I’m going to miss gym class! (pulls her shirt back down)
Jane: Gee, tough break, kiddo.
Daria: Yeah. (extends arm to Jane) Feel how broken up I am.
Jane: (feels proffered arm) Ooh, practically crushed. Flabby, too.
Daria: (snatches arm away, reaches for her jacket) Don’t get too sweaty out there. The Voice of Doom might call your name next. (dons jacket)
Jane: What? Why me? I’m not the evil genius.
Daria: You’re my evil henchman. Hey, I don’t even know why she called me. No idea what might be on her mind, as far as you know. Nyaah ha ha haah. (pulls backpack out of locker, heads for exit.) See ya.
Jane: (unlacing other boot) This henchman gig is scary sometimes. (grins) Damn fun, though.
Scene 18 Int. Ms. Li’s office. Ms. Li is seated at her desk, Mr. O’Neill and Coach Gibson are standing behind it. Daria enters.
Ms. Li: Sit down, Miss Morgendorfer. I am holding you directly responsible for our star quarterback’s unfortunate condition.
Daria: Whoa, time out! (pulls a small cassette recorder from her backpack, pushes record, speaks into it) Conference in Principal Angela Li’s office, Lawndale High School, 15 October, 1997, 1:18 p. m. Present are Ms. Li, Mr. O’Neill, and Coach Gibson. Daria Morgendorfer recording. Now, Ms. Li, would you repeat what you just said about holding me directly responsible for Kevin Thompson’s condition? (pulls chair close to Ms. Li’s desk, sits, points recorder’s mike at Ms. Li.)
Ms. Li: Miss Morgendorfer! Turn that thing off this instant! You do not have my permission to record anything in my office!
Daria: In this state, I don’t need anyone’s permission but my own to record any conversation in which I am a participant or subject. (reaches into her backpack, pulls out a sheet of paper) Here is a letter from my legal counsel. (hands it to Ms. Li.)
Ms. Li: Awp! The very... (reads letter) rrrg! hmph! Miss Morgendorfer, as a direct result of... something... you wrote and read last Monday night at Cafe Lawndale, your classmate Kevin Thompson is disturbed to such a degree that he cannot effectively carry out his normal activities, such as playing football as quarterback of the Laawwndaale Liiions. I have asked you here to discuss what you intend to do to rectify this unfortunate situation and atone for your uh, mistake.
Daria: Ms. Li, I am disappointed. Frivolous lawsuits on these grounds have been brought against authors, publishing houses and movie studios many times, and have always failed. If you think you can successfully blame a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore for mind control or brainwashing or whatever it is you’re thinking, because of a humorous short story I wrote, then I can only say, "See you in court."
Ms. Li: opff! Who said anything about lawsuits? I’m merely, um, offering you the opportunity to help a fellow student and do something good for your school at the same time!
Daria: And that talk about atonement and holding me directly responsible for Kevin’s unfortunate condition was... what?
Ms. Li: Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words. Miss Morgendorffer, tomorrow night the Lawndale Lions play our arch-rival, the Oakwood Taproots. If Kevin isn’t at his best, the Lions will go down to ignominious defeat. Surely you wouldn’t want to see that happen.
Daria: It’s fine with me. I have no interest in football, or any other sport.
Ms. Li: Come now, Miss Morgendorffer! Where’s your school spirit?
Daria: It haunts these halls on moonless nights, rattling its chains, bewailing its stolen youth, and screeching your name.
Coach: Heh heh. Uh, look. Kevin is messed up because this, uh, Ratboy was killed in your story.
Daria: No, Kevin is messed up because he’s been repeatedly passed from grade to grade by this corrupt school system without being taught how to think, or anything else he’ll need to know to survive in our society, except how to play football. One of these days when whatever career he may have is over, he’ll find himself alone and helpless in a world he doesn’t understand and was never prepared for, crying, "But... but I’m the QB!" (stares grimly at her boots)
Ms. Li: Miss Morgendorffer! What brought that on?!
Daria: Just my Don Quixote complex acting up, I guess. As for Kevin being bent out of shape because he thinks Ratboy is dead, there really isn’t a problem. He’ll snap out of it on Saturday morning when he sees the latest Ratboy cartoon show on TV.
Ms. Li: Saturday morning is too late. The Oakwood game is Friday afternoon.
Daria: Ahhh! Now we’re getting somewhere! Whether Kevin gains wisdom and understanding is irrelevant. What counts is winning that game.
Ms. Li: Why do I feel as if I’m being interrogated here?
Daria: I’m just trying to find out what it is you really want. Why must Lawndale win? I don’t believe you’re that rabid a Lions fan.
Ms. Li stares at Daria, not angry, but definitely irritated. Daria returns her stare, deadpan.
Daria: I think we’re each searching for the other’s motivation here. And I think it just might turn out that they’re not that different.
Ms. Li looks startled, then quizzical, continues to try to read Daria’s expression. Daria raises her eyebrows slightly in a questioning manner. Ms. Li glances at the cassette recorder in Daria’s hand, then back at Daria. Daria presses the stop button on the recorder, then the eject button. The hatch pops open, disengaging the cassette. Daria glances from Ms. Li up to Mr. O’Neill, back to Ms. Li.
Ms. Li: (not looking away from Daria) Mr. O’Neill, you may return to your class now. Thank you. (O’Neill, surprised, opens his mouth, then closes it again and exits.)
Daria: I take it there are some wagers on this game?
Ms. Li: Yes. I take it you may wish to make one?
Daria: Yes, if the odds are good. You’ll have to fill me in on the mechanics of betting.
Coach: First off, what will you do to get Kevin out of his blue funk, and when? The sooner the better.
Daria: No time to reason with him, if that’s possible at all. I assume you don’t care what he thinks about Ratboy, as long as he can play football.
Coach: Right.
Daria : Then I’ll have Ratboy send him a note saying he’s fine and will be back in action soon.
Ms. Li: You think he’ll believe that?
Daria: Maybe not if you handed it to him, or if it just showed up in his mailbox, but I think he’ll believe it if it’s delivered by Melody Powers.
Coach: Isn’t she a cartoon character like Ratboy? How are you going to do that?
Daria: Fictional, yes. Cartoon, no. By a strange coincidence, except for her wardrobe, hairstyle, and some scars, Melody Powers looks just like me. I’ll need the help of the fashion Club V. P. for makeup and wardrobe, and Jane Lane for special effects.
Ms. Li: Special effects?
Daria: Scars and bandages, mostly. Melody was in this terrible fight a few days ago, remember. We’ll be getting drama club credits for this, won’t we?
Ms. Li: (small smile of grudging respect) If it works, I believe that can be arranged.
Daria: And I’ll need to borrow one of the school’s credit cards.
Ms. Li: WHAT?! What in the world for?
Daria: A Melody Powers outfit. I have nothing suitable.
Ms. Li: Out of the question! I’m sure you can find something!
Daria: I have two other outfits identical to this one, two pair of baggy jeans, and a few t-shirts. You can inspect my closet if you like. Look, do you want me to do this or not?
Ms. Li: (unlocks and opens a drawer in her desk, pulls out a folder containing credit cards) I can’t believe I’m doing this. (selects one) Performing Arts- guess it qualifies as a costume. (hands card to Daria) Do NOT lose this. And I WILL need the receipts. Is there anything else?
Daria: I’ll need a car and driver for a short time. A late model sedan or SUV that looks like it could belong to the FBI or CIA. And a man Kevin doesn’t know, in a suit.
Ms. Li: Miss Morgendorffer, are you trying to provoke me?
Daria: Melody is seriously injured- several fresh bullet wounds and a bad knife wound. She shouldn’t be out of the hospital. I’ll arrange for Kevin to stand by a street somewhere- right out there would be as good as anywhere- (points out Ms. Li’s office window) and Melody will be driven up to meet him. She gives him the note, they talk briefly, she’s driven away. I’ll be able to control my entrance and exit. Can you think of a better way to stage it?
Ms. Li: All right, stated that way it does sound reasonable. I can probably locate a car and driver. When will you need them?
Daria: We’ll need at least four hours to get ready. Shortly after dark would be good, atmosphere-wise. How about eight p.m.?
Ms. Li: I’ll have the car pick you up at 7:40 at your house.
Daria: Better make that Jane’s house. All her art supplies are there.
Ms. Li: Very well. Bring any money you may want to bet. Is that all?
Daria: Well...
Ms. Li: What?
Daria: A sidearm would be a nice touch. (Ms. Li looks as if she’s about to blow a gasket) I thought the drama club might have some prop pistols. I can work without one. But it would be a nice touch.
Ms. Li: (removes glasses, rubs bridge of her nose) Miss Morgendorffer, do you have a copy of your last story? Does it describe Ms. Powers’ sidearm and clothing?
Ms. Li: I’ll read it and see if I can come up with anything. But now... (Keys p. a. microphone) Attention, please. Miss Quinn Morgendorffer and Miss Jane Lane, report to the Principal’s office immediately. Quinn Morgendorffer. Jane Lane. Now. (Begins to read Blood Oath of Patriots at point indicated by Daria.)
Daria: So, Coach, explain football betting to me.
Scene 19 Int. Lawndale High, hallway. Quinn is walking toward Ms. Li’s office. Jane emerges from a cross-corridor ahead of her and turns in the same direction.
Quinn: Hey, uh, Jane! Wait up! (hurries to catch up with Jane) Why would Ms. Li call you and me in at the same time?
Jane: Well, what do we have in common?
Quinn: Daria?
Jane: Who has already been summoned, and is presumably in her office now.
Quinn: Daria did something so bad that Ms Li is gonna punish us too?
Jane: (smile) Nonono. It was Li’s voice, but we have been summoned by Daria.
Quinn: What?! What are you talking about? What’s going on?
Jane: (mischievous grin) Mind games. (They see Coach Gibson exit Ms. Li’s office) Having to do with Kevin. And since I happen to know Daria was expecting this, I’m betting she has the situation under control.
Scene 20 Int Ms Li’s office. Ms. Li is seated at her desk. Daria stands beside the desk at Ms. Li’s left, arms crossed. Jane and Quinn enter.
Ms. Li: Miss Lane, Miss Morgendorffer, I’ve asked you here to assist Miss Daria Morgendorffer with a special project, a project to help a suffering fellow student and to uphold the ~honor~ of Laawwnndaale Hiiigh. You have each been chosen for your abilities. But you must both agree to keep all aspects of this project secret. Do you so agree? (Jane and Quinn look at Daria, who nods.)
Jane: (raises right hand in Vulcan "Live Long and Prosper" gesture) I do so agree.
Quinn: Yes.
Ms. Li: (looks slightly irritated at Jane) Very well, I’ll turn you over to Miss Morgendorffer. (She returns to reading.)
Daria: Please give me your full attention. I, Agent Melody Powers, have volunteered to deliver a secret message from Ratboy to Kevin Thompson. Agent Virosa, (puts hand on Jane’s shoulder) Agent Butterfly, (other hand on Quinn’s shoulder) I need you to help me prepare for this crucial and sensitive mission.
(Quinn looks at Daria as if she’s lost her mind, then at Ms. Li, who seems very pointedly engrossed in Daria’s manuscript. Quinn turns back to gaze at Daria in mystified wonder. Jane maintains a nearly straight face, but her eyes are dancing)
Daria: (trace of a triumphant smirk) Agent Butterfly, you’re in charge of wardrobe and makeup. I want to look like Melody looked in the warehouse. Before she got shot in the butt. Take over.
Quinn: (grins) Let’s get to Cashman’s, then.
Daria: All right, move out. Who’s got transport?
Scene 21 Int Trent’s car, fifteen minutes later, headed to the mall. Daria rides shotgun, Jane is behind her, and Quinn is behind Trent. Daria’s ears seem a darker shade of pink than usual. Jane seems amused by this.
Jane: Damn, I wish I could have gone in there with you! What was it like?
Daria: Clash of the Titans. Especially that scene where the hero gets the Gorgon with the mirror shield. Only they wouldn’t let me take Li’s head.
Jane: Oh, man! I should’ve gone with you. They might’ve let me stay.
Daria: I doubt it. We were violating the RICO statute, among others. We threw O’Neill out. Oh, I have the audio portion on tape, if that’ll help. (pulls cassette recorder from backpack.)
Jane: What?! Gimme!
Daria: Rewind first. I had to shut it off before the actual bookmaking and game fixing, but you can get an idea.
Quinn: Daria, what did you do to Ms. Li?
Daria: Do you know how to make a zombie?
Quinn: What!? No! Daria!
Daria: (grins) I thought maybe you’d been practicing on Tiffany. That’s not what I did to Ms. Li. We found an area of common ground, and are cooperating to achieve a mutual goal.
Quinn: What mutual goal?
Daria: Ill-gotten gains. Wanna get a bet down on the Taproots game? Odds are 9-1 against the Lions, last update from the mob.
Jane: (listening to tape, rapt smile) Daria Morgendorffer, you are hung like a pawnshop!
Daria: (smirks) Is that why I get so few dates? (Trent laughs/coughs)
Quinn: What?
Jane: Back in the days of yore, pawnshops had three big brass balls hanging over the entrance to identify them.
Quinn: Uhhh... Oh! (bt) Eewww!
Daria: Jane, get whatever you need to make fake scars, like you said you were going to do for Halloween, and plenty of bandage material. Quinn, I’ll want to show a good bit of midriff. Remember that big ugly scar where Melody’s navel used to be?
Jane: This is gonna be a hoot! I wish I could watch from up close!
Daria: I might be able to arrange that. I have some influence.
Quinn: I just hope no cool people see me shopping with you guys.
Jane: (irritated expression, turning sad) Quinn, your sister Daria is the coolest person in Lawndale, and it’s really tragic that you don’t realize that.
Quinn: Daria?! How can she possibly be cool?
Jane: She manipulated Ms. Li into pulling us out of class and sending us to Cashman’s. To shop for clothes. On school time. With a school credit card. If you had done that yourself, and had Li pull the Fashion Club out of class to go with you, how cool would you be?
(Quinn’s eyes widen as the truth of this statement dawns on her. She covers her mouth with her hands and stares at Daria)
Scene 22 Ext. Lane house, an hour later. Cut to: Int. Lane house, kitchen. Daria lies on the kitchen table, jacket folded under her head, shirt rolled up like a halter top, the waistband of her skirt unbuttoned, zipper unzipped about a quarter of the way, and the front of the waistband folded under, to expose her abdomen below the navel. A bit of black panty waistband is visible to the gimlet-eyed sex fiends among my gentle readers. Jane is seated at the table, swabbing Daria’s stomach with a cotton ball soaked with rubbing alcohol.
Daria: Aaah! That’s cold! What’s that for?
Jane: Must remove all traces of skin oil for proper adhesion. Now I’m going to sketch in guidelines for the scar.. (She begins to sketch on Daria’s stomach with a felt-tip pen.) It’s washable. (Quinn comes around the corner holding a glass of ice water.)
Daria: Wah! That tickles! Take it eeeeasy! Is this reallyaaack! necessarohjeez!! (Daria’s belly writhes lasciviously. Quinn’s eyes get very round.)
Jane: Damn, Daria! No wonder you avoid being touched! Wow! (Trent rises from the couch, keeping his distance, but moving to the left for a better view)
Daria: What do you meeean? I’m just a little ticklish there, that’s aaaahh!
Jane: Ticklish, my ass! Your torso is one huge erogenous zone! You’re gonna have so much fun on your wedding night! Or whenever.
Daria: It is not! Yooh just got your mooooh! mind in the gutter! If I find out you’re bi, I’ll be forced (Jane lightly strokes Daria’s inner thigh just above the knee, and the side of her neck) to kiiill yahaa! Stop that!!
Jane: See? Neck to knees. God, I envy you! And so will all the other guests in your wing of the hotel. Except the few who really want to sleep. Okay, I can get by with that. On to the superglue!
Daria: You better know what you’re doing, Lane! And you better have that solvent! (bt) I must be nuts!
Jane: I do and I do and you are. Ain’t it great? (applies some superglue) Now pinch together right here. No, not... Oh, I see. Your glasses don’t work at that angle. Quinn!
Daria: I can get it. Wait till I sit up a little.
Jane: No, you’re tightening up. Lay back down and relax your stomach muscles. Quinn, when I apply the glue, you pinch the skin together so that this line touches this line. Okay, go.
Daria: Gaah! Your hand is freezing!
Quinn: (smirks) Sorry. Glass of ice water.
Jane: Trent! C’mere! Need more hands.
Daria: Hey! No! He can’t...
Jane: Now, Daria, you wrote the story. You thought up the scar. You volunteered for this mission. And the whole idea is to show it to Kevin, right? Your false modesty rings false.
Daria: Hate you.
Jane: Quinn, you pinch here and here, and Trent, you get to pinch Daria’s darling little bellybutton closed. Be gentle.
Quinn: (giggles) Try not to undulate so much, Daria.
Daria: (blushing) Hurt you all.
Jane: Oh, and Daria, I’ll have to ask you not to marry Trent after all, at least not as your first husband. I figure, given our recent discovery, if he’s not at least a Green Beret or a pro athlete, he probably won’t survive the honeymoon. Hey, you could marry Upchuck! That’s how he wants to die!
Daria: (blushing harder, eyes squeezed tight shut). Kill you all.
Jane: (working lower) Okay, for this next section, Trent, you pinch along the main scar, and Quinn, you do this branch here. Okay, go.
Daria: Mutilate your corpses.
Jane: Good. Next, Quinn, you pinch here and here, and then Trent, you do here and here. Be sure you don’t stray too far south. Go. And... Go.
Daria: (face and neck bright red, fists clenched). Horribly. With a rototiller.
Jane: Okay, that should do it. Now for.. Trent. You can let go of Daria’s tummy now.
Daria: (In tones of dread, with blush showing below her shirt). Oh, no. Oh, say not so.
Trent: Uhh, this finger seems to be stuck.
Quinn: Omigod! You glued them together! HAHAHAHAHA! My kingdom for a camera!
Daria: (blush advancing toward Trent’s finger) I changed my mind, Jane. Death is too merciful for you.
Jane: Now just relax, Daria! (Looking in sacks) I’ll have Trent’s finger off your soft underbelly in a second! (strangled laughter)
Daria: (low, guttural tone) Chain you in my basement. Nude.
Jane: Trent, you’ve got to hold your finger very still. Daria is a latent nymphomaniac. You mustn’t stimulate her. Once you get her started, she won’t stop till you’re dead. She’ll drain all your precious bodily fluids and discard your shriveled husk like a squozen orange skin. (snort) And whatever you do, don’t get nervous! If your hand shakes, it’ll set her off for sure! Heeheeheeheehee!
Daria: (snarling) Pimp you to Kevin and Upchuck!
Quinn: (roflhao) AAAAHahahahahaa! OOOHOhohahaahaaahaaaa!!
Jane: (still pawing through sacks) Daria, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose! (snigger)
Daria: (face purpling) I SWEAR I’LL GNAW HIS ARM OFF!! STARTING IN FIVE! FOUR! THREE!!
Trent: Eep! Help me!
Quinn: Hahaheeheecough!cough! gasp! Cough!heeheecough!cough! gaaassp! OoooOoohhh!
Jane: ( holds up bottle of solvent) Here it is! Now just hold still, Daria! That ugly blemish will be gone in a second! (sknxx!)
Same scene, five minutes later.
Daria: (splashing water on her face at Lane kitchen sink) Aarghh! Where’s a walk-in freezer when you need one?! Raaahh! And where’s that pervert Jane?
Trent: I think I heard the bomb shelter door slam.
Daria: She’s smarter than she looks.
Quinn: (hands Daria ice cubes in a damp towel) Here, Daria, you gotta cool off! If I tried to make you up now, it’d scorch!
Daria: (puts ice pack on forehead, then on neck) Thanks. We have to knock off the foolery, the clock is running. Let’s get the tags and stuff off these clothes.
Quinn: Later. First, let me start on your hair. You keep that ice on. You turned a couple of scary colors just now.
Scene 23 Int. Lane house, Summer Lane’s bedroom. Daria is examining her reflections in Summer’s full length triple mirror. She wears a dark gray watered silk blouse, tight-fitting black jeans-cut stretch pants, elegant but capable-looking black flat-soled boots, and a forest green velvet headband. The hem of the blouse is rolled up and knotted to expose the large fake scar on Daria’s belly, as well as two smaller scars and a bandage on her left side. Other bandages on her arms are visible through the thin fabric of the blouse, as is a black bra.
Daria: Cleavage. I thought it’d be at least another year. (bt) Damn good-looking cleavage, too.
Quinn: You can thank Blackie the Wonder Bra for that.
Daria: (looks down her blouse front) Down, Blackie! Put that down! (There is a multiple thump and coughing sounds from the hall. Daria and Quinn turn to the door and see Trent’s feet. Trent has apparently fallen victim to a laughing/coughing fit.) Trent, are you all right?
Trent: (after recovering) You’re funny, Daria. Janey wanted me to tell you she’s fixing some lemonade. (He gets a good look at Daria) Woah!
Daria: (doesn’t blush, strangely enough) Congratulations, Trent. You’re the first male human on earth to see the Daria Morgendorffer décolletage.
Trent: You look great, Daria. Uhh, I wasn’t trying to, uhh...
Daria: I know, Trent. You’re a gentleman. But I guess it’s all right. That’s what they’re there for. (thought v.o.) And if I keep telling myself that long enough, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
Quinn: Huh?
Daria: Come on, Quinn. You of all people should know that. It’s the cornerstone of feminine attractiveness. Humans are the only species of mammal whose females have permanently enlarged mammaries. Most of it’s not even glandular tissue, just specialized fat deposits. Strictly for looks. And human males can’t help looking at them, their brains are hardwired that way.
Quinn: Jeez, Daria! It’s just like you to analyze everything to death and take all the fun out of it!
Daria: Knowing the rules doesn’t take the fun out of the game, Quinn. It just gives you a better chance to win. (thought v.o.) And I need every advantage I can get.
Scene 24 Lane kitchen. Daria, Jane, Trent, and Quinn sit at the table drinking lemonade. Jane seems somewhat nervous. Daria seems unusually cheerful.
Daria: Good lemonade, Jane. Really hits the spot.
Jane: (looks as though she’s analyzing Daria’s words for hidden meanings) Thanks. You’re looking really good. A bit of modeling and paint on those scars and some makeup, and you’ll be ready to make some commie die for his country.
Daria: Yeah. Say, I was thinking (looks intently at Jane, smiles a little) maybe we should put a little blood on some of these bandages.
Jane: Uh, don’t think so. It would detract from the sexy but deadly look we’re going for. It would suggest weakness. Uh, I need to check on something. (exits)
Daria: (smiles as she watches Jane go) Before we get to the final stages, I need to go home and get my money. I shouldn’t contribute to the delinquency of a minor, but did you want in on the betting part of this? It’s not a sure thing, you know.
Quinn: Yeah, count me in. I’m pretty delinquent already.
Daria: Don’t bet anything you can’t afford to lose. Trent?
Trent: Yeah, I’m in. I’ve got a little mad money. Uhh, Daria, Janey was kidding earlier, wasn’t she? About the...
Daria: (deadpan) No, Trent. I’m way too much woman for you. You’d be a moth to my flame. You’d be consumed in the raging wildfires of my passion.
Trent: Oh. Hmmm. I’m a moth to your flame... You drive me insane...
Daria: Come on. Run us over to Schloss Morgendorffer real quick.
Ms. Li: I’m impressed! You look... dangerous, Ms Morgendorffer. You ladies have done an excellent job.
Daria: Here’s the money- eleven hundred dollars.
Ms. Li: Eleven hundred! That’s quite a sum! You should never bet all you have.
Daria: I didn’t. I bet half my ready cash and a quarter of my Isolated Mountain Cabin fund. The rest is theirs.
Ms. Li: All right. The odds are now ten to one against Lawndale. (3) Here is your sidearm. Turn around. (Daria turns away from Ms. Li, who helps her get her arms through the loops of a shoulder holster. Daria turns back around. Feeling the weight of the pistol, she draws it from the holster. Her eyes widen in surprise.
Daria: Hey, this is a real pistol. A Mark 2... wait a minute... (Daria pushes an unfamiliar button behind the trigger housing, and a double column magazine slides out of the smaller-than-standard grip. Checking to see that the magazine is empty, she reinserts it, pulls back the breechblock to see that the chamber is also empty.) This... (looks up at Ms. Li) This is... (4)
Ms. Li: A Powers Special? (smiles) Not quite. It doesn’t have selective fire, and the magazines hold 26 rounds, not 25. Close, though. You need to get in position. Kevin could show up early. Go! Go! (Daria reenters the brown sedan) You ladies come with me. We’ll watch from my office. (They walk toward the entrance. The sedan pulls out, rolls down the street, turns around, and parks under a burnt-out streetlight.)
Scene 26 Int. brown sedan, night, looking toward Lawndale High main entrance.
Daria: When you pull into the circle, watch how the light falls on me. We want Kevin to see the scars and bandages, and the butt of the pistol in the shoulder holster. My face will stay in shadow, which is good. Stop where the light is best, and let him walk over to us.
Jim: Okay. Is that him?
Daria: Mmm... Yep. That’s Kevin. He was told not to come early, but I figured he’d be a little early anyway. Let him stew a bit. We’ll go at two till eight. So, Jim, if you don’t mind my asking, are you just in this for fun, or...
Jim: I’m a colleague of Angela’s. I’m *ahmm-hmm-hmm* at George Rogers Clark High. And I have a bet against Oakwood. Tell me, who is this Melody Powers?
Daria: She’s the main character in some superspy spoofs I wrote. She works for "The Agency", which is an American version of Smersh. Likes to kill commies.
Jim: Sounds like a fun read. Have they been published?
Daria: On the web. You can download them from morningcynic.com.
Jim: I’ll do that. That last literary effort of yours had quite an impact on the local football odds, not to mention got quite a few knickers in a knot. It’s no fun to place a bet at even money, then find your team’s a nine-to-one underdog the next day.
Daria: I had no idea there was so much sporting blood in the Lawndale environs.
Jim: Don’t tell anyone I told you so, but there’s a small community of retired spooks and such in the Lawndale area. They thought they wanted the dullest, most boring place they could find, until they’d spent a few months here. Now they’re desperate for diversion.
Daria: You don’t say. I never would have thought it. I’d sure love to listen to some of their war stories. I bet I could pick up enough material for a whole career’s worth of spy thrillers. And they could come to Cafe Lawndale and listen to my Melody stories. They’d probably split a gut. (looks at her watch) Well, it’s time. (takes off her glasses, puts them on the transmission hump)
Scene 27 Ext. Lawndale High, standard establishing shot, but night. Street lamps (high pressure sodium, throwing ugly orangey-salmon colored light) and some smaller bluish-white spots and floods mounted on the wall of the building light the circular drive in front of the main entrance. Kevin Thompson stands on the walk leading to the entrance. In the window behind and to his left, the venetian blinds are seen to stir slightly, and fingers show between the slats in two places, making small gaps. (5) From the shrubbery below and to the right of the window, the orangey reflection of a streetlight glints briefly off some polished surface. A large brown four-door sedan pulls into the drive, stops near the window, where a couple of spots shine onto the right front seat passenger. Cut to: MS from right front corner of sedan, showing Daria, dressed as Melody, in shotgun position, and Kevin moving toward her window.
Kevin: Uh, hey, are you...
Daria: Powers, Melody Powers. And you match the profile for Kevin Thompson.
Kevin: Yeah, that’s me! I’m the QB!
Daria: I have a message for you from Ratboy. (hands Kevin an envelope. On the front, in broad tipped black pen, the name Kevin Thompson is written in a bold hand. In the place where a return address would go is a Ratboy emblem.)
Kevin: Wow! (turns envelope over. The flap is lightly stuck. Kevin opens it with a finger. He removes a sheet of heavy paper and unfolds it.)
Cut to: CU of note in Kevin’s hand. It reads:
Kevin:
Heard you were worried about me. I’m OK, just a couple of flesh wounds and some bruises. Melody and her friend took care of me. I’ll be back in action soon.
I hear you’ll be in action Friday night.
Big game, huh? Well, we men of action know that when it’s all on the line, you gotta suck it up, concentrate on the goal, and give it all you got. One hundred and ten percent. I’m not saying "Do it for Ratboy!" No. You do it for your classmates. Do it for your team. And do it for yourself, because you know you can.Best of luck. I’ll be listening.
Ratboy
Cut back to: MS of Daria and Kevin. Daria smiles a little as she watches Kevin’s face slowly light up as he reads the note.
Kevin: Wow! Oh, wow! He’s okay? He’s gonna be all right? And he, like, knows about me?
Daria: Yes, Kevin. He told me he listens to your games when he’s in this part of the country. He knows you’re a big fan.
Kevin: Oh, cool! But, like, he got shot right in the chest, and there was all this blood and stuff.
Daria: His new Hard Cheese Mark 5 armor stopped the bullet. That wasn’t blood, that was his grandmother’s homemade catsup. He just has a big bruise on his chest. Overall, he’s in better shape than I am.
Kevin: Like, for real? (He begins to notice, in detail, Daria, her costume, scars, bandages, the pistol, and particularly the large scar on her stomach and her cleavage, which Daria notes with discomfort.) But, uhhh... (a few neurons resume firing) then, like, why did you come, and not him?
Daria: (thought v.o.: I am Melody Powers. My boobs are deadly weapons. I use my womanly charms to cloud men’s’ minds and lure them to their doom. He’s seeing exactly what I wanted him to see. He is in my power.) (aloud) This is confidential, Thompson. It’s because of his costume. You know, when they take you to the ER, the first thing they do is cut your clothes off. We couldn’t let them do that to Ratboy, that would blow his secret identity. So he went in without it, as John Doe, and we’re having it repaired. His secret is safe, but he can’t do anything as Ratboy till he gets it back.
Look, I’m kind of tired, and I have to get back to the hospital. You’ll find out everything that you want to know in the next installment of Blood Oath of Patriots, By Any Other Name, coming soon to a coffeehouse near you. You should get a good night’s sleep. You have practice in the morning. (signals to Jim. The sedan starts up, pulls out of the roundabout onto the street, and slips off into the night.)
Kevin: (watches the sedan leave) Oh, man! Melody Powers! And Ratboy’s okay! (looks at note) And he’s gonna be listening to the Oakwood game! Hey! I need to get a good night’s sleep! I got practice in the morning! WooHoo! (jogs off toward home, football in one hand, note in the other)
Cut to: Ext. Brown sedan parked under a burnt-out streetlight. Cut to: Int. Brown sedan. Daria and Jim watch Kevin heading for home, thrusting his football into the air.
Daria: Well, that looks somewhat promising.
Jim Very promising. What was in that note?
Daria: Just Ratboy says he’s okay, plus some corny pep talk boilerplate. Ms. Li has a copy.
Jim: He’s out of sight. (sedan starts forward, headlights come on) Maybe George Rogers Clark High should buy a stack of your pep talk boilerplate. (they exchange smiles)
Cut to: MS of walk leading to LHS front entrance, looking toward Ms. Li’s office windows. Ms. Li, Jane, Quinn, and Coach Gibson stand on the walk. The brown sedan pulls up and stops. Daria and Jim get out, walk up to others.
Coach Gibson: I wish he’d listen to me that closely. You really held his attention!
Daria: (turns toward the corner of the building, into the beam of a small spotlight, looks down at her neckline) Yeah. part of me did, anyway. I feel like jumping into a shower to wash off the eyeball tracks. (Faint clicks are heard from the shrubbery. Looking up quickly, Daria sees what appears to be a camera held by a bush.)
Jim: Excuse me. (He rushes past Daria. A slim form bursts out of the shrubbery wearing camo fatigues and ski mask, and sprints away, with Jim in hot pursuit.)
Daria: (watching the chase) Damn! Ten to one that was Upchuck!
Jane: I’d need more like a hundred to one to take the other end of that bet. Think that guy can catch him?
Ms. Li: Maybe. Jim is in very good shape.
Daria: Doubtful. Upchuck’s the fastest runner I know of, besides Jane. If that shot of me checking myself out shows up on the internet, he’s gonna taste boot. (Walks over to Ms. Li as Jane and Quinn continue to stare out into the night) Oh, Ms. Li, now that most of the spies are gone, here’s the credit card and the receipts. (Hands them to Ms. Li) And your pistol. (Shrugs out of the shoulder holster.)
Ms. Li: You seemed somewhat familiar with that pistol earlier, Miss Morgendorffer, as if you’d handled one like it before.
Daria: When we lived in Texas, my mom’s cousin’s son had a Ruger Mark 2. When we visited, we’d go down to a sand pit and shoot tin cans. Plinking, he called it. His dad was always drilling us both on safety and marksmanship. I was a fair shot, once.
Ms. Li: (Looking at the pistol but making no effort to take it) That pistol once belonged to... an old friend. Mementos are funny things. Some you keep forever. Some should never be kept at all. Many you eventually pass on to an appropriate person. I want you to keep that pistol, Daria. My friend would want you to, also. As I was reading your story this afternoon, I realized I’d never find a more appropriate person for that particular memento.
Daria: I... uhh... I don’t know what to say. Uh, thank you. (Looks down at pistol and holster in her hands, back up at Ms. Li, a small smile on her lips) I’ll take good care of it. Maybe sometime you could tell me about your friend.
Jim: (returning, breathing heavily) Whoever that was, he was fast, and he knows this neighborhood pretty well. He lost me in the backyards.
Ms. Li: You don’t think he was..
Jim: No. No training.
Ms. Li: So. Well, it’s getting late. I believe it’s time to say, "mission accomplished" and go home. Thank you again for your assistance, ladies. Jim.
Scene 28 Int. Brown sedan, Lawndale residential street, a few minutes later. Same seating as before.
Jane: So, are you gonna stop at Casa Lane and change?
Daria: No, Dad wants to get some pictures, and I can’t think of a good reason to say no. Come to Chateau Morgendorffer with us for a late dinner, and you can watch them humiliate me.
Jane: Double-nuked lasagna? How can I refuse? Seriously, Daria, if you knew how long it’s been since either of my parents took a picture of me, doing anything or no, you’d revel in the attention.
Quinn: Aren’t you worried about what they’ll say when they see that pistol? Or are you gonna sneak it in?
Daria: Looking for blackmail opportunities, are we? I don’t see a problem. Both their fathers taught them to shoot, and they’ve pretty well recovered from their hippie period. Jim, it’s the third house on the right.
Scene 29 Int. Morgendorffer house, kitchen, fifteen minutes later. Daria, Quinn, and Jane are seated at the kitchen table, eating double-nuked lasagna and greens. Jake and Helen stand nearby.
Daria: So, basically, it was like I figured. The coach, the teachers, the shrink, and Ms. Li couldn’t get through to Kevin, so Li called me in. Thanks to your legal advice, she couldn’t twist my arm, but, instead of refusing outright, I decided to cooperate on favorable terms. All three of us will be getting extracurricular credits, and I get this new outfit.
Jake: Outstanding! Way to go, kiddo!
Quinn: How come you didn’t get me a new outfit too?
Daria: For one thing, neither Kevin nor Ms. Li has heard of Harmony Powers yet. For another, I was afraid your closet might explode. But now that I’ve shown you the way, you can write a Harmony Powers story, freak Kevin out, and negotiate your own deal. I’ll sell you one-time-use rights to Harmony for a very reasonable fee.
Quinn: You’ll sell me... but I AM Harmony Powers!
Helen: Daria, we’re very proud of you, and you too, Quinn. Now, about that pistol...
Daria: It’s a .22 target pistol, basically the same as the one your cousin’s husband Luther taught Luther Junior and me to shoot back in Texarkana. The grip has been modified to fit a small hand. It feels like it was made just for me.
Helen: But what would you want with a pistol?
First off, it’s a gift. It obviously meant a lot to Ms. Li, and she wants me to have it. She said she’d never find a more appropriate person to pass it on to. Second, it’s so nearly identical to Melody’s pistol, a pistol I imagined, it’s downright spooky. It’s like there really is a Melody Powers. Or was. It’s a connection I want to follow up on.
Helen: (anxious) Are you going to actually shoot it?
Daria: Yes. Brittany has a pistol range in her basement. I hear that she’s very good. She can teach me the finer points of marksmanship. And maybe I’ll make a new friend.
Helen: Daria, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but...
Daria: Mom, are you trying to say you don’t trust me? (She throws Jake a "Help me out here" look.)
Jake: Come on, honey, this is Daria! I had a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol when I was a lot younger than she is, and I never got in trouble with any of them! I don’t see anything wrong with her having a pistol.
Daria: Maybe we could do some target practice together, Dad.
Jake: Yeah, that’d be great!
Helen: (knows when she’s beaten) All right, Daria, I have no reason not to trust you in this. Don’t give me one. I expect you to be very careful with that thing, and to keep it securely locked away whenever it’s in this house. (Jake puts his arm around her shoulder and they head for the family room.)
Quinn: Wow, you did it!
Daria: Mom was more negative than I expected. She must have some unpleasant experience with guns, maybe connected with her father. I should find out about it.
Jane: My mom is very "make love not war". She hates guns. (She looks down at her plate) Umm, Daria, about that little oopsie with the superglue this afternoon, that really was an accident. (Daria gives Jane a sideways look but says nothing.) You do believe me, don’t you?
Daria: Not in a million years.
Jane: (unhappy look) Oh, hell. All right, it was an impulse. It just popped into my head, and before my better judgment could overrule it, my hand did it. Do you believe that?
Daria: Now, that I believe. Once more your pixieish sense of mischief has joined forces with your inner yenta to horribly embarrass and humiliate your one true friend.
Jane: (very unhappy look) Yeah. (bt) I’m sorry. Really. Can you forgive me?
Daria: (Mona Lisa smile) Jane, I’m your one true friend. Of course I can forgive you. (bt) Pretty soon.
Jane: (very worried unhappy look) Pretty soon? Like for instance after you thoroughly kick my butt? Beat me severely about the head and shoulders?
Daria: (Mona Lisa smile) Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t do anything like that. You’re my friend. Besides, it wouldn’t be... appropriate.
Jane: (very worried, frightened, unhappy look) Appropriate? (bt) What do you mean, appropriate?
Daria: (thoughtful expression) Mmm, well, just off the top of my head, appropriate might be... something to do with superglue, maybe. Another little oopsie, perhaps, involving, say, for instance, your face and Upchuck’s butt. In the cafeteria. At lunchtime. Hypothetically.
Jane: (pales noticeably) Eep!
Daria: (warm smile) Oh, relax! I wouldn’t actually do that! Have some more lasagna. (rises) I’ll be back in a minute. (Jane and Quinn watch her go.)
Jane: (after Daria is out of sight) I am so dead.
Quinn: (turns back around to face Jane) Naah. Not dead. But screwed. (bt) Definitely screwed.
Jane: I’ve never seen her so warm and friendly and... sweet before.
Quinn: Chills your blood, doesn’t it? I’ve only seen it a couple of times. It’s a very bad sign.
Jane: Do you think she’ll...
Quinn: You and Upchuck in the cafeteria? No. If she was gonna do it, she wouldn’t’ve talked about it first. It probably won’t even involve superglue, although I wouldn’t rule it out.
Jane: I’ll start carrying that little bottle of glue solvent with me everywhere. Now, if I knew how soon and how bad...
Quinn: I should be charging you for this, you know. I have more experience than anyone else in the world with Daria’s revenge schemes, and you really need my help, which of course you’ve realized already. I know when I’m being pumped.
Jane: All true. But...
Quinn: But I’m drawn to the chance to be in on this from beginning to end, to watch from the sidelines as her fiendish plot unfolds, without feeling her crosshairs on my forehead for once. How soon? It’s already begun. You’re in the pot and she’s turning up the heat.
Jane: Of course. (thinks) That would mean she knows we’re having this conversation.
Quinn: Yep. And she’s made me her involuntary accomplice. As for how bad, it’ll be worse than what you did to her, but not all that much worse. She’s not really vindictive. (ponders) Only...
Jane: What?
Quinn: Worse than what you did to her... that’s from her viewpoint. (bt) You know, I’ve been her sister all my life, and I’ve never seen her turn purple before. (Quinn looks at Jane with something between worry and fear in her eyes.)
(SFX: Camera rises straight through the ceiling [we get a glimpse of joists, stringers, and plywood flooring] and stops six inches off the floor in Daria’s bedroom. We see Daria on her knees with her ear to the floor directly above the kitchen table. A satisfied smile appears on her face.)
Daria: (v.o.) Quinn, you couldn’t have done any better if I’d coached you for a week and paid you two hundred dollars.
(SFX: Camera sinks through the floor of Daria’s room, through the kitchen ceiling, and stops at its former location. Sound of toilet flushing is heard OS. Jane and Quinn glance upward as footsteps are heard, first in the upstairs hallway, then descending the stairs.)
Daria: (resumes her place at the table) Well, tomorrow we’ll know something. Mack can tell us how practice went in O’Neill’s class.
Jane: But even if he’s out of mourning for Ratboy, he’s still not the sharpest crayon in the box. We could still lose.
Quinn: Oh man, oh shoot, oh crap! I bet a LOT of money on that stupid game and I could lose it all!
Daria: (rises and walks out with Jane) Yeah, I have some too, come to think of it. But it can wait. I’m kinda fried tonight. (Cut to: MS of Jane and Daria walking through family room toward front door.)
Jane: Are you sure you don’t want to just kick my butt and get it over with? Then we could both relax and get on with our lives.
Daria: (caring, sympathetic, puts hand on Jane’s shoulder) Oh, come on, Amiga! Don’t worry about it! Sure, my vengeance will be swift and terrible. Sure, men will blanch and women weep, and children scream and run, but it will only hurt for a little while! Just think how good it will feel when I stop! Now go on home and get a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.
Jane: You truly are evil, Daria.
Daria: I’m an evil genius, Jane. You’ve told me so yourself. You knew it long before you glued Trent’s finger to my... tummy. (Daria’s warm smile is momentarily replaced by a troubled look.) You called the tune. You danced to the music. Now you must pay the fiddler. (She sighs, shakes her head sadly, then the warm friendly smile returns.) Well, good night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite! (She waves cheerfully as Jane slinks away into the darkness.)
Scene 30 Int. Daria’s room. Daria sits on her bed, looking at the pistol in her hands, contemplating the signs of wear on it, and the more obvious ones on the holster. She looks at one of the three spare magazines, replaces it in the magazine pouch that rides under the wearer’s right arm.
Daria: (thought v.o.) What stories you could tell! (She goes over to her desk, opens the top drawer, rearranges the contents, puts the pistol and holster inside, and closes the drawer. Then she removes the second drawer and places it on the floor. Reaching inside the desk, she latches the hidden latch that she installed to hold the top drawer closed, and then replaces the second drawer.) (thought v.o.) I’ll have to do better than this. (She turns on her computer, gets up off her knees, sits in the chair, waits for the computer to boot, and, when it does, loads the word processor. She opens a file, stares at the screen for a couple of minutes, and begins to type.)
TO BE CONTINUED
NOTES
1) Daria’s diary- I figure a smart and very private girl like Daria, especially with a mother like Helen and a sister like Quinn, would transfer her diary to computer and encrypt it as soon as she found out about PGP. (Pretty Good Privacy- the excellent freeware encryption program.)
Disclaimer
"Daria" and all related characters are trademarks of MTV Networks, a division of Viacom International, inc. The author does not claim copyright to these characters or to anything else in the "Daria" milieu; he does, however, claim copyright to all those parts of this work of fiction which are original to him and not to MTV or to other fanfic authors. This fanfic may be freely copied and distributed provided its contents remain unchanged, provided the author's name and email address are included, and provided that the distributor does not use it for monetary profit. (as if.)
Galen Hardesty [gehardesty@yahoo.com]