A Scripta

Silent Blue couldn't believe it. Out of the whole of Paragon City, a security level 50 picked her to be a sidekick. He said he had watched her for about an hour over in Kings Row and liked what he saw, and after joining her for a mission, asked her to come with her to help him. His name was Masonry - he was made of stone, had a deep, but nice voice. The only thing that bothered her was his eyes: they were totally black.

They went into a nondescript warehouse, where she came face to face with a woman wearing a skimpy, but colorful outfit. Then the woman threw what looked like a metal ring at her - it slashed into and through her.

Masonry took out the scantily clad woman and then ran over to Blue. He smiled, but it wasn't the same gentle smile he had given her all day; it was angrily joyful. "I think she's ready for you now, Twist," he said, and plunged his hands into her gaping wound. He let out a gasp synchronized with her own, in pain or pleasure, she wasn't sure.

Blue felt something invade her consciousness. She saw a skeletal face looming before her and screamed. It resolved itself into her own face. Don't be afraid, dear, it said. I am Death. Surrender or it will be painful for you.

Skeletal hands plucked at her very being, shredding it away. She forgot her parents. She forgot her friends. She forgot her super hero name. She forgot her own name.

Masonry opened his eyes and removed bloody hands from the girl's body. "Twist?"

The body knitted itself quickly. The girl opened her eyes, now a sapphire blue. "Mase," she said, smiling.

Masonry gathered the girl in his arms and kissed her. Releasing her, Twist shook her head. "Two hours, no more."

Masonry sighed. "Oh, Twist..." He put his head on her shoulder. "There has to be one out there."

"There is, lover, there is." She reached up and caressed his cheek. "Enjoy this one for now."

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The phone on the desk rang shrilly. The man in black held his head against it; any sudden noise, no matter how low, usually bothered him. This was strange, considering he could create loud and sudden noises that could scramble up the insides of most people's internal organs.

He plucked the phone off its cradle before it had a chance to disturb him furhter. "Alderman, FBSA."

"Another heroine buried in a metal storage crate, sir. Kings Row again."

"Oh, Jesus. Who does this one belong to?"

"Northstar Angels, sir."

Third one of those this month, he thought sourly. Someone's out to get them. He needed to talk to Myra and fast, before she and her girls thought of vengeance. "Be right down," he sighed.