As Karen returned from Stacy’s funeral, Chan sought to provide comfort in his arms. He hoped his soothing words and soft tones would strike just the right note after Karen had said her last goodbye. For her part, she couldn’t remember a time when Stacy had not been in her life; in the last few years Stacy had guided Crimson Flare, and Karen only remembered how her friend had always been there when the superheroine was troubled; or when the task confronting her had threatened to overwhelm her; or when the questions that have troubled everyone who would be a hero had arisen. Stacy had reassured Karen of the rectitude of their cause: It had always been their cause. That had helped a lot.
But it became very different, within hours of the funeral, when Chan had attempted to get Karen into bed, on the pretext of comforting her. Karen had wanted to talk with someone—anyone—who would understand. He had coaxed her to the bed, and they lay together, like spoons, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her, she holding his forearms; and, as Chan had nodded, and continued nodding as the sobbing young woman had tried to explain the emptiness she felt, she felt his lips gently bussing along the nape of her neck, edging upward toward her earlobes. She felt him bite lightly down on them. She felt his hands softly pinching her nipples under her dress. And she felt his erection against her back as they lay.
‘Let’s get out your costume,’ he whispered.
To say that Karen was shocked by this would be an understatement. She felt her breath catch in her throat and she gasped at his nerve. She tore his arms from her and leaped to her feet. Through her tears, she shouted ‘Get out of here, you pig….’ The ease of her escape had frightened the former gang lord.
He moved to the floor and came to face her. ‘But, Karen,’ he began, looking into her face. ‘I knew that your maturity was necessary to make you an even greater heroine. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you. I…’ he paused. ‘I… wanted you. I would give up whatever I was and would be for you. Wouldn’t,’ he paused, ‘Stacy want you to continue the work you started. I wanted to make you a greater heroine.’ He reached his hand up toward her head and smoothly began to press his face toward hers.
Karen sat on the bed and saw that his shirt was open and his belt was undone. Muscles rippled on his thin frame as he stooped to appeal to her. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Just go away, you jerk.’ She held him at bay with one hand.
Karen watched as Chan exited the room. She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He had been like this since they had arrived at her apartment. Again and again he had tried to get her into bed; he raised the issue of her costume more and more frequently. Karen wasn’t sure whether Crimson Flare had a place in her life any more, so she had put him off at first by pleading her loss of her dearest friend; this was certainly true, but Karen was becoming more convinced, by his very insistence, that his interest was not in providing support and comfort. She was convinced that he would not replace Stacy.
This morning, before the funeral service, he had sat in front of her while she dressed. She fought the tears she felt inside, and she didn’t like the dirty feeling he gave her as he watched. Chan had asked her about how different she felt since her first orgasm (he had had the bad taste to remind her of the circumstances by calling it her ‘cumming-out party’). Karen lied to him about what she had learned in even the last few days.
She knew she was stronger than she had been previously. She knew she could crush brick in her bare hands; she was now strong enough to bend the heavy steel that had been used to make the door of the Savoyards’ conference room; her endurance was greater. Karen was torn. She thought of was how much more Crimson Flare could now do to fight the criminal elements that might threaten Mitropoulos. Stacy and she had feared the results of her first orgasm, that it might mean the end of her powers: Instead, it had demonstratively increased them.
But Crimson Flare had been responsible for the death of Stacy and the shredding of Karen’s most meaningful relationship. Crimson Flare had failed to protect her friend; she had become dependent on drugs, a slave to the Normans. She had only escaped because of Stacy: Stacy who had been killed by the Normans. Chan had been the brain trust for that gang.
Chan had been a criminal. Would he want her to use this strength to oppose the goals Stacy and she had sought?
Karen only had to demonstrate her resistance and defiance of Chan for two more days. He had quickly realised that her strength could keep him at bay. And Karen’s sense of loss would not allow him to break through the protective emotional screen she had set around herself since Stacy’s murder.
So, he had spent a lot of time back on the streets. On the Saturday after Stacy’s funeral, Chan was shot in a drive-by incident by Normans who had survived Crimson Flare’s massacre, survivors who correctly suspected him of the murder of Cos. The Mitropoulos Police would never learn the identity of the perpetrators.
A week later, a knock at the door awoke the green-eyed beauty from her sleep. She had just returned to work at the hospital the night before, for the first time since the death of her friend and her would-be patron. She worked overnight, and had got to sleep a scant three hours earlier. Grumbling, she stumbled toward the door wearing only the blue-and-white XXXL Penn State t-shirt that served as a sleeping shirt. It hung almost to her knees on her slight frame.
Peering through the eyehole, she recognised Jeremy Brantley, Stacy’s family attorney. She opened the door, her hand stifling a yawn. ‘What do you want?’ She sounded more upset than she was.
‘In examining Stacy’s will, I was directed to this videotape, which she kept separate from all of her other documents in a private safety deposit box. I was directed to get it to you immediately and not to view it myself.’ Brantley smiled, indicating a self-satisfaction that he had in fact actually followed Stacy’s wishes to the letter.
Karen didn’t know anything about the tape, and was surprised that Stacy had kept something like this from her. She had thought the two had had no secrets.
Holding the cassette in her hand, she stared hard at it, as if trying to glean its contents through the intensity of her gaze. Jeremy had continued speaking. ‘The reading of the will takes place the day after tomorrow. You know, there will be a number of newspapermen there.’ He smiled that self-satisfied smile again.
Squinting at him, Karen said that she would be there. ‘Now can I try to get some sleep?’ Without awaiting an answer, she closed the door.
Standing in her living room, her eyes came back to the videotape she was holding. ‘Oh, well,’ she thought. ‘Wait here,’ she said to the plastic cassette, placing it on top of the television. She walked to the kitchen and put on a pot of water for tea. Curiosity had won.
The tape had been made by Stacy, as Karen had expected. In it she had spoken to her friend from the familiar background of her computer room. Stacy gave Karen a preview of the reading of the will, telling her that most of her money would, as her parents had wished, be used to establish a foundation. No wonder Jeremy had been smiling so much. He probably had already read the will. There was a lot of money to be made administering one of those.
But Stacy had also noted that some money was earmarked for Karen; Stacy used the tape to tell her that Crimson Flare had to continue her work and that the money was to make that effort easier. Certainly Karen couldn’t quit her job, but compared to what she was currently living on, it was a small fortune. Stacy also let her know the source for the replacement uniforms and a couple of other small logistical matters that would help Karen continue her crimefighting.
Well, Karen sighed as she finished her tea. It’s good to hear from you. I’ve missed you. And even from the grave you remain my conscience.
Karen would return to her interrupted sleep as she broke down and wept uncontrollably. As the sobbing subsided, she whimpered whispered apologies again and again to her friend for failing to save her life.
Two weeks later, Crimson Flare ventured out again. Apparently, some of the criminal element had assumed that Crimson Flare, who had not been seen for almost a month, had disappeared entirely. The saviour of Mitropoulos had already thwarted three muggings and an armed robbery in the space of only three hours when, as she passed near a liquor store, she noticed the clerk. She was pressing her back against the wall far from the cash register. In front of her was a short, stocky figure dressed in dark clothes.
Moving quickly to the door, Crimson Flare saw a pistol in the dark figure’s left hand. She noticed that the front door was closed but not latched. Inside, she could tell that the cash drawer was open as, with his right hand, the robber was reaching across the counter and pulling a fistful of bills toward his pocket. The distance to the action was too far to guarantee the safety of the clerk, so, as Crimson pulled her baton from its holster at her hip, she looked around for something to distract the thief long enough to give her the opportunity to use it. A battered yellow Frisbee lying behind her seemed the best possibility.
She whipped her baton out to its full two-and-a-half foot length, keeping a watch on the man holding the gun. He continued to grab at the money from the cash drawer. Reaching down behind her, she picked up the toy.
Crimson Flare demonstrated why Mitropoulos had come to love her in the next few seconds. As she nudged the door open with her foot, jingling the small bell attached above, she flung the Frisbee, hard, against the counter below and to the right of the thief. His attention drawn to the movement and the noise, he turned, directing the gun away from the terrified clerk. In an instant, Crimson Flare took two quick steps toward the robber and flashed the baton’s power at his back. He stiffened, cried out, and dropped his gun. In a moment he had been rendered unconscious.
The clerk’s frightened expression did not disappear as the masked maiden approached. She watched, still fearful, as the glittering form of the heroine stood confidently over the felled robber. ‘You can call the—‘ she began.
But a tiny creak in the floorboards immediately behind her warned the Champion that all was not yet secure. Ducking to her left, Crimson Flare narrowly averted the attack from behind. Still holding her baton in her left hand, she swung a backhand right into the gut of her unseen attacker. She heard the pained ‘Wwhhooofff!’ as the thief’s partner doubled over and collapsed to the floor beside her. He writhed briefly, moaning.
The clerk stared in amazement at the heroine. Though still overwrought, she seemed to finally relax. Crimson Flare spoke first. ‘You can call the police now,’ she said quietly, finishing her earlier thought. The clerk’s eyes darted back and forth from her fallen assailants to the dazzling costumed figure who had saved her.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Oh.’ And she reached for the phone.
Crimson Flare and the clerk secured the robbers, waiting a few minutes for the police to arrive. The masked beauty had used the time calm and reassure the young clerk that she was not responsible the crime, that she hadn’t invited it, and that she was doing nothing wrong by letting the robbers take the money. ‘The police will tell you that you mustn’t resist an armed robber,’ Crimson Flare told her. ‘It’s not worth your getting yourself killed for money.’
With the thieves bound and the clerk, whose name was also Karen, Crimson had learned, breathing easier, the heroine walked back onto the streets of Mitropoulos. As she left, she saw the police walk into the store. When she looked back at them, America’s Darling caught a glimpse of a wave from one officer, and a ‘thumbs up’ from the other. She waved back as she smiled to herself. Stacy had been right.
On this first night, she had promised herself, she would stay clear of the river district. But before calling it a night, Crimson Flare decided that she should at least pass by the nearest part of the Hutson River. It would be best to let the parasites there know that the masked avenger was on the job. Even if she took no action, her return, she hoped, would have a positive effect on this normally high-crime area.
The river was calm on the moonless night. The row of the streetlights along the Parkway, reflected in the smooth water, made even this area seem like it offered a respite from the excesses and evils of the day-to-day world. Crimson Flare looked out across the expanse of the Hutson, toward the lights Delft on the far shore. She stood beside the molded steel road barrier that ran alongside the river. At this hour there was almost no traffic venturing along this road that during the day was among the busiest in Mitropoulos. Directly overhead, a street lamp illuminated her form, glistening off the crimson and gold sequins of her costume, the highly polished black leather of her boots, the vinyl of her cowl and mask. But she stood so still gazing across the river that it was almost possible to overlook the petite form of the heroine.
For Crimson Flare, it was almost possible to forget…
Suddenly the Champion of Mitropoulos heard footsteps walking slowly across the gravel behind her. Crimson Flare turned to watch the group approaching her.
There were four of them, three young men, wearing denim jackets and jeans, motorcycle boots, and sunglasses, which seemed much out of place given the time of day. The long-legged redhead with them was similarly dressed, but she was also wearing a brown John Lennon cap. As an affectation, all four of them wore chains wrapped as a sort of belt around their waists, with several of the links hanging down alongside their hips.
They stopped about a dozen feet from the costumed heroine. One of the men, the one who wore the girl on his arm, took a step toward Crimson Flare and stood with his feet wide apart. He spat toward her, the lugee spattering on the ground directly in front of her boots. He smiled disdainfully as he said, ‘So you’re back on the streets, eh? You shoulda stayed retired, Crimson Slut. We heard about what the Normans did to you. There are survivors of every massacre, and they spread the word about you.’
Crimson Flare pulled herself up to her full 5’4” and looked directly at her antagonist. He was easily a foot taller than she was; he could have intimidated his way to the top of many of Mitropoulos’ gangs. But she didn’t back down. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear.’
The front man didn’t respond, but she saw that her words did have an effect on his comrades, who looked momentarily at one another. The redhead, who stood between those two, saw their uneasiness and smirked, sniffing her disdain for the heroine. ‘She’s bluffing,’ the tall girl sneered.
The man in front seemed to take his lead from her. ‘You really want to try us after what you been through? There’s a large hole here in the river district, now that the Savoyards and the Normans are gone. I aim to fill as much of it as I can. And you, slut, need to back off.’ He took another step toward the crimson-clad avenger.
Crimson Flare watched him closely. The men behind him were holding their ground as he approached, so that the distance between him and his allies was increasing. The masked Champion knew that she could defeat this challenger; with a little luck the others would run, and any claim he had to becoming a rising criminal in Mitropoulos would be ended. Meantime, the redheaded girl moved away from the men; as she passed behind one of the henchmen she ran her hand up his arm and across the back of his neck. The man shuddered as he felt goosebumps race across his upper body. He took a step closer to Crimson Flare.
The redhead encouraged her man, ‘Go on, Ape! Get her!’
Ape! So this was Ape Greystook. Crimson had heard of him. He had started out as a member of the Savoyards; even advanced into JoJo Savanarol’s inner circle. But there had been a falling out between the two—the details were uncertain—and Ape had disappeared for a while.
He was supposed to be brutal in a fight. Everything became a weapon of opportunity. But he was also supposed to be bigger. ‘Lost some weight, Ape? When you worked for JoJo, you were supposed to go three-fifty.’
A growl emerged from the throat of the former Savoyard. ‘I never worked for nobody. But that bastard Savanarol hung me out to dry when one of his projects went bad. It’s easy to lose weight in a Colombian prison.’ He took two more steps toward the heroine.
‘I guess I owe you thanks for taking care of him,’ he added.
‘I didn’t do it as a favour for you,’ she responded. ‘He was a threat to all the decent people in the city. And I’ll take care of everyone else who poses a similar threat to Mitropoulos.’
‘So, I’m a threat?’
‘If you want to fill JoJo’s—or Cos’s, for that matter—place, yes, you are.’
The two henchmen who were behind Ape began to take heart from his confidence and took a couple of steps toward their nemesis. Crimson Flare countered with a small step toward Ape, knowing that taking him out first would give her a great advantage in handling the other two. Her right arm was forward now, ready to grab that loose denim jacket, to pull the big man toward her, and to end the fight before it started.
Ape sneered a smile at her. ‘And you’re going to stop me? From what I hear, you’re down here buying drugs. Cos got you hooked. Is that it?’ He took another step. He was barely five feet from her now. At this distance, he could see every crevice in her body, every fold in her costume: The black leather of her boots, polished to a high gloss, invited his gaze: he noted the folds in the leather at her ankles and the hard line of the leather above which showed both the smoothness and the strength of her calf; to the glistening sequins that seemed to cling to her like a second skin—her small breasts gave a rounded form to the costume above her waist and the disappearance of the sequins at her crotch offered the mystery of every woman; to the molded vinyl of her mask, which made the mystery of this woman all the more desirable. All glimmered in the overhead street lamp. He saw the smooth, round perfection of her thighs, covered by Crimson Flare’s translucent tights, and the exposed softness of her neck. Even the round flawlessness of her arms enticed him. Ape felt his penis begin to throb. He wanted to fuck this bitch!
Crimson Flare watched her opponent. She had seen that look in the eyes of others who had challenged her. Usually it meant that they were more interested in something more than merely defeating her. It also meant that Ape would be—was already—distracted. The heroine prepared herself for combat.
When Ape made the lunge at her, Crimson Flare brought up her left uppercut and caught him square in the jaw. His body curved almost in midair, his head arching back from the force of her blow. His feet left the ground and Ape landed at Crimson’s feet, flat on his stomach, his face striking the gravel shoulder hard.
Seeing their leader dispatched so easily, with a single blow, the other two hoodlums turned and ran, their boots clumping noisily in the night. The heroine watched them flee, then turned to the fallen thug. She stooped beside him, rolled him over, and pulled his head up onto her thigh, next to her glittering hips. He wasn’t unconscious, she saw; his eyes were open, but unfocussed. He wasn’t bleeding, but his jaw was working, as he was either trying to speak or merely work out the powerful blow that had leveled him.
She spoke softly to him. ‘Ape? Can you hear me?’ His eyes blinked, trying to find focus as her satin crimson glove patted, then brushed, his cheek. ‘Ape?’
America’s Darling saw nothing but red as a double length of heavy chains smashed violently against the base of her skull, just below her vinyl cowl. As she pitched forward, Ape’s head dropped to the road again. The blow seemed to revive him, rather than push him further into darkness. The heroine fell on her side on the roadway, her right leg drawn up under her left. Slowly, the masked vigilante pushed herself up, supporting her petite frame with her right arm.
‘Who--?’ she asked, dazed. She could see almost nothing through the haze, but Crimson Flare twisted her head and reached out with her left hand, searching for her assailant. A second vicious blow smashed against the side of her head as the redhead measured the Champion from behind, swinging her chain belt like a baseball bat.
Crimson Flare pitched forward face-first to the gravel shoulder. She was spread-eagle on her stomach, her great strength useless as she tried to get her bearings. As the crimson-clad beauty slowly pushed herself upward, another double-handed blow smashed the chain against the back of her neck. ‘Aaaagghhhh!!’ Crimson Flare screamed as her face was again smashed into the ground.
Again and again, the redhead beat the head of the fallen heroine with the chains that previously had served as mere decoration. With each swing, the attacker screamed with joy as she heard the metal links smash into the unresisting head of Mitropoulos’ beautiful Champion. Crimson Flare struggled to regain her feet, but the blows came too hard and too fast for her to get her bearings to do anything so complex. She tried to turn toward the attack, twisting herself, only to take the double length of chain against her mask. The shiny vinyl was cracked by the force of the blow. She was knocked onto her back, and she felt blood flow into her mouth as more blows followed. Crimson Flare put her arms up to protect her, perhaps even to grab the chain and turn the tide that was running so strongly against her. But most of the blows got through her defense. The tall girl straddled the Champion of Mitropoulos and swung her weapon back and forth, smashing it over and over against the sides of Crimson Flare’s face. ‘Not so pretty now,’ the city’s defender heard her attacker say. Formerly, Crimson Flare had tried to fight back, to rise and face her attacker, but now the glittering costume merely writhed under the assault, the sequined hips rising and falling, as Crimson Flare was worn down by its force. Except for an occasional groan, the only sound filling the night was the rattle of steel links and the echo of blow after blow smashing against the head of the near-unconscious heroine.
Crimson Flare’s great strength had helped her to defeat many opponents. Along with that strength came a great toughness, a resistance to the blows that might be brought against her. But she was not invulnerable. Blood flowed from cuts opened on her face by this attack. And the duration of the beating was lengthened because of her ability to withstand the whipping. Pain clouded Crimson’s head and she finally just lay on the ground absorbing punishment. Through it all she could hear the joyful shrieks that told of her defeat and the laughter that announced her disgrace.
Through clouded vision, she saw a large shape join her attacker. She saw the redheaded figure move toward her; then the redhead’s face came close to her own.
‘So this is America’s Darling,’ the heroine heard whispered in her ear. Then there was more laughter. The girl moved behind her powerless victim.
The other, larger figure, likewise dressed in the jeans and denim jacket, looked down at the heroine lying, helpless, on the shoulder of the highway. Crimson Flare stared at him trying to comprehend what was happening.
The last thing Crimson Flare saw was his large boot flashing directly toward her face.
When she came to, she couldn’t feel her arms.
Crimson Flare hung, suspended, from the metal guardrail that had edged the Hutson River Parkway. Behind her the roadway was still silent, waiting for the morning rush hour. Chains that had served as belts secured her shoulders to the formed metal; ropes suspended her wrists from the same metal safety rail. She had hung there for so long that all feeling had gone from her arms. How long had she been unconscious? She had to restore feeling to her hands and arms if she were to escape.
‘Good morning, Crimson Slut.’ She recognised Ape’s voice. He was standing on a shelf jutting out from the face of the riverbank about four feet below her dangling boots. Crimson Flare looked down at him and said nothing.
‘Oohhh, too bad!’ he laughed. ‘I guess Nancy was a bit too tough for you.’ He sidled over and kissed the long-legged redhead who smiled up at the heroine. Reveling in the moment, he walked to the suspended figure. When he was next to her, he reached up and pulled the taut spandex away from her small round ass. He held it there with his thumb while reaching underneath and stroking her tights with his other fingers. With his fingernails he scratched at her tights, the sound like an Emory board. He even pressed his fingers toward her crack. Crimson Flare felt more pain as she tried to kick at him. She realised that she had no leverage to get any force behind that effort. The bank, below the guardrail, fell away and undercut the roadway, so that her body below her shoulder blades was dangling in space. The shelf on which her two antagonists stood was the first vantage point below the highway.
‘I think you need to be taught a lesson in humility, Crimson Slut. Traffic will start getting heavier on the road in less than an hour. I think morning drive time needs something to talk about. So….’ He pulled out a cell phone. He rang up one of the local TV stations at their ‘NewScoop’ number. A brief description of someone hanging from the guardrail and a notation of the location followed. Then he hung up. ‘I suspect they’ll be here soon.’
Turning to his companion, Ape said, ‘And we have to leave now, Nancy.’ As they moved to her right, Crimson Flare saw them climb easily back up to the Parkway. In a moment they stood above her. From behind, Crimson heard Ape’s voice, ‘Looks like you lost your edge, heroine.’ And Ape reached down with his ham of a fist and landed a heavy, but awkward, punch between her ear and her temple. Dazed, her body sagged in its bonds.
End of Chapter One