Moscow

Piotr Vishnevetsky stared out the window of his hotel room. There were gray and white splotches all over the glass, creating a deep fog. But he looked out, past the fog and tries to make out what is happening in the city below him. Lights from the few neon signs that existed here shined on and off, almost scapegoating him for something he did. For running away.

No, think of something else, he mused.

He heard the rush of water hitting a body and the tiled floor. She's enjoying the shower. He could hear her singing.

She had a terrible voice but he didn't mind.

"Piotr?"

He turned around. She was in her frayed bathrobe, which was not tightly tied over her. Her blond hair flopped on her shoulders, her hands on hips.

"Is there any hot water left?"

"Probably not," she laughed, "but you can try."

"Thanks, you're so sweet."

She smiled, as he walked into the tub room.

An hour later...

Janice Zoya Gregarin buttoned her coat around her. She knew how cold it could get at this time of night. You could freeze your ass off.

"Where to?" she asked.

Piotr seemed to be already in deep thought. His eyes popped open when she called him. "Hmmm? Oh, the usual. I want to talk with Vladirmoff. It won't take long."

"I hope not."

"He has the test results to the guy that was brought in last week. This could be our only chance."

"Planning to oust Gorby?"

"No, that's tomorrow."

They laughed a little bit and carefully, crossed the street.

“This is it?" She seemed surprised.

"It may not look like much but it's got what we need."

"Sorry but I expected something more like James Bond. Where's the girl naked in the bubble bath?"

"I let Vlad handle that."

They were standing in front of an abandoned building. The front and side windows were crashed in, almost as if there was a recent break-in. The door was rotted and had a for lease sign hanging from one of the hinges.

Piotr heard a loud creak when he opened the door slowly. Some dust and cobwebs funnelled down in a great gust. A vase crashed by their feet.

"This place is haunted, I just know it."

"Janice, just watch yourself and you'll be fine.”

He led her down a hallway (water spouted from the broken ceiling and plipped and plopped into several baskets) and stopped at the last door on the left. The sign, saying Vladirmoff Rasputin President/ Owner, hung dizzyingly, about to break off. The window, like before, looked as if it was broken from the outside. He gripped the rusted knob. "I think you'll like him. He's really good at being--"

Dead.

They stood there in the entrance to his office, seeing what remained of it. Glass and blood was everywhere. Vladirmoff was lying against the wall opposite them. His head rolled to the side, ready to fall to the floor. There were several gaping holes in his chest. Bullet holes. Blood and bile littered the room.

"Oh, god." She covered her mouth violently and ran out of the room.

Piotr's face was blank. There was no expression whatsoever.

Click.

He spun around. There were a few men waiting for them, holding pistols. Janice was trying not to gag, as she slumped over a garbage can.

"Gospodin Vishnevetsky," Derek Shiningstar said. “You will come with me.”

The transition between spring and summer brought terrific weather. The temperature rose ever-so-slightly each day, heralding better and better sunshine for all. For some people, they felt more comfortable staying at home, watching television-- becoming more and more like the dreaded American coach potato-- having a fan or the air conditioner spray its wonderful cool air on them. For others, what they wanted to do was visit relatives-- become, without their knowing it, the houseguests from hell that they themselves hated-- or just go shopping in the malls every day. (But the latter didn't usually last that long; there were just so many credit cards that you could use up and so much money that you could spend.) But there was a small majority that just loved to go to the beach and just like to lie there, absorbing as many sun rays as they possibly could. Case in point: this was exactly how federal agents loved to spend their lazy weekends.

Janice Zoya Gregarin, born of dark, blackish hair, lied majestically on the beach, with a towel beneath her stomach, so that she didn't get too many sand on her. Eyes closed, her mind drifted, thinking of serenity and peacefulness that had so long been denied to her, since she took over this job. Her naked flesh which was not covered by her bikini shined and glistened as the cosmic rays of the sun-star Sol projected its beams of light onto her skin. This was probably the most fantastic moment that she had experienced in her short existence upon this planet.

A hand of a crimson hue gripped her shoulder and she looked up, through her dark sunglasses. "Yes, redskin?"

He leaned down beside her. "Here's yer drink, darlin'." He handed her a can of coca-cola soda, and she started to drink it.

She wet her lips, soda dribbling from her soft face. "Aaaahhh, this is the best, Derek. And this place you got here-- you own an entire beach. That's fantastic. But this, Derek--- ooohhh, God, this place overshadows it by a light year."

"I'm glad," the Cheyenne Native American said, "that you enjoy my home away from home. It is so good to see a smile on your face. The past few weeks have not been good to you. You seem too depressed and resentful lately. Of what, I can only guess."

"Yeah." Her voice seemed to trail off for a bit. "The agency has been so busy lately that I've had almost no time to myself... or to you. Uncle Sam has been very adamant, and I'm glad that it seems to be ending now."

"Y'never know, girl, what seems like an ending could very well be the beginning. That's just my philosophical comment for the day."

Janice laughed, the first time she had in weeks, and winked at Derek, who upon receiving her obvious signals, lied down beside her, with one arm around her upper torso.

"Y'know, Janice," Derek told her, "you don't always have to have the macho-serious look upon your face. Mebbe if you show the people that you are fun-loving and have a terrific sense of humor, work won't be as so tough. It's worked for me."

"Oh, gimmee a break, willya, Derek? The agency could care less if I have a sense of humor. The only thing that they want is for me to do my job and my job's tough already as it is. I can't afford any lapse in my work. And frankly, neither can you."

"Janice--- please, I'm sorry if I hit a trigger nerve. That wasn't what I was saying. It was just---"

Two fingers patted him on the lips. "Shush, Derek. I'm sorry if I snapped at you. I've been on edge lately. Forgive me."

"Always."

The tension between the two was suddenly lifted. There was an openness, one which allowed them to know what the other was thinking and feeling. A spark of love and understanding flooded through both of their bodies and what they wanted, in all the world, was to share their emotions for each other. Eyes closed and love drifting in the air, Derek kissed Janice in a moment of pure passion and excitement and she responded, gleefully.

It had started out as a perfectly normal day for Andrew Chaser. His editor had decided to give him the raise that Andrew had been demanding for the past two weeks. He was allowed to leave early, too. At 4:30 exactly. He had gotten to the Washington Bridge with no troubles, so far. That would not last.

It was barely rush hour and there was a major traffic jam across the breadth of the bridge. Cops and ambulances flashed their bright glowing crimson lights up ahead. Andrew knew then that he wouldn't get home at the time that he had hoped. Now, he was really pissed.

Cops honked their horns methodically in a pattern. Andrew knew that this wasn't his day. Everything went so perfectly in the beginning but now-- now, it was ruined. He was forced to stay in one place on the bridge, motor still running, waiting for an eternity for the supposed accident to clear and in about a year or two, he would-- maybe-- be able to start his car and drive home. Why did this have to happen to him on this particular day? Why was this day different from all other days?

He heard a tall, dark haired man shout through a megaphone that some major league fight was going on. Jeez, what kind of fight would halt traffic across the whole of the bridge and bring so many police officers and ambulances to its attention? This made absolutely no sense at all. It--

Glass shattered from his front window. As he leaned back, cursing to himself that his seat belt confined him, shards of crystal raked at his face, drawing tons of blood. He cried to himself, when he saw out of the corners of his eyes that a human figure had landed on the hood of his vehicle.

When the bombardment subsided, he wiped the blood and tears from his rough face and saw that the person was female in gender, wearing tight blue jeans and a yellow short sleeve shirt.

Their eyes met for about a split second and in that time frame, they both knew that it was love at first sight. Andrew whet his lips and started to fantasize about this goddess of a woman; he always had a soft place in his heart for redheads.

The woman—Jenny Swensen, by name-- felt a weird stabbing at the base of her skull, forcing her to turn away from this moment of relaxation. She knew not if it was ESP or telepathy. At that moment, though, she didn't care; she just faced the man that put her in this sorry state in the first place.

Her attacker was about thirty years old and he was wearing a spandex outfit colored an orange hue. He charged at Swensen, soaring in the air for a few seconds. It took him no time at all to reach the car and grab Jenny by a tuft of her t-shirt and began to hold her a bit in the air.

Jenny's head lolled to the side, almost as if she were dead. Her body likewise hung there.

Holding her like she would a piece of freshly cooked meat, her attacker gloated, "So, Swensen, ya thought that ya were a match fer me. Ya may think that ya are a fancy CIA agent and the such, but 'gainst Captain Manhattan, yer nothin'!"

Jenny looked up, eyes barely open, and breathing in the polluted New York air. "Not.... beaten.... yet, man...."

"Yah. Right." Captain Manhattan hurled her limp form to her side, having Jenny crash in a fashion all her own against another car. He smiled when he heard bones and metal crack, like a kid snapping a twig.

C'mon, you can do it, Andrew Chaser thought to himself hurriedly. He nervously, his hand quivering a mile a minute, tried his best to unbuckle his seat belt. In a moment of triumph, he did. He's free.

Enjoying every moment of the federal agent's utter defeat, Captain Manhattan crossed the bridge in a matter of a few seconds and wrapped both of her hands around Chaser's neck, tightening her grip quickly.

The door to his car ripped open, metal clicking on metal. Andrew fell onto the ground, dust spraying all over his face. Crawling on his hands and knees, he wiped the dirt from his hands and edged forward.

That bastard!!! I can't believe what he's doing in broad daylight. That... Captain Manhattan guy is going to kill her, right now. Andrew gestured with his hands, protesting loudly.

"No, Oh my God, no!! Don't do it! Oh, please, oh my lord, don't !!!"

Catching a glimpse of Chaser with a glance of his eyes, Captain Manhattan shrugged of this man's petty existence, snorted like a pig, and smiled hauntingly to herself. “I would pray t'yer gods, if I were you, Chaser. 'Cos in another minute, ya will be plain ol' fashioned dead!!"

In his mind and in voice, so within so without, Andrew Chaser screamed a loud, raw shout of pure terror, horror, and fear combined in a single mixture. His throat grew dry in minutes.

With a slight wrenching pull of his twin hands closing around her neck like an iron vise, Captain Manhattan cracked Jenny Chaser's throat as if it were a rotted egg shell. There was a sound that resonated because of this violent action and it sent chills and shivers up and down the spines of all present-- drivers, cops, doctors, and especially Chaser.

Shame mixed with stark terror, Andrew covered his face with his two hands, as Captain Manhattan lifted Jenny's injured body above her head, as if she were a broken toy. Then, in an act of vengeance, Captain Manhattan tossed Swensen over the bridge, her body, crashing methodically onto the waters below.

Laughing, Captain Manhattan ran away, resisting the attack of the cops and getting away home free.

For Andrew Chaser, this day started out so perfectly. He had gotten what he wanted in life-- a raise in his wonderful job. As an added incentive, he had gotten off early. The start of his rotten evening had begun with a traffic jam on this very bridge. He had seen a young woman ruthlessly murdered in cold blood by a psychopath and he now cries and prays for dear Jenny Swensen. For Andrew Chaser, this was the beginning of the end.