Another Face In The Crowd

1.

They said Sinja had special sexual powers. She was thought to be a cyborg, or else genetically engineered—or even, maybe, both. A combination. Her enhanced body was supposed to be able to produce, at will, irresistible pheromones, one whiff of which would instantly trigger any man's arousal to an unbearable intensity, inflaming him to a state of mindless, bestial frenzy ... She was also said to have extra unique muscles inside her vagina, capable of extraordinary pressure and manipulation. It had also been claimed she had a retractable sting in her tongue that injected an addictive narcotic. All of these features, together, enabling her to utterly enslave men—and women too, of course—just with sex.

None of this was true. Sinja was, fundamentally, an ordinary woman, at least in terms of biology. She had better than average beauty, and she had cunning, as well as gymnastic talents and a good deal of martial arts training ... plus a love for action and daring of the "cloak and dagger" variety—though perhaps calling it an obsession would be more accurate. Yet she was in no way superhuman, nor a clone, nor robotic.

Among Icons, she was what they themselves classified as street level. Effective against street crime—punks and gangsters. "Knucklework" was another term. But not somebody you would call to save the city or the planet. That was "cosmic" or "mythic" work.

She was one of the good guys now, for the most part, but not originally. Like her friend Repentance (who was mythic level, or could be if she ever got her head straight and learned how to control her powers properly), Sinja started out working for Headstone ... founder of the notorious and indomitable MacGuffin corporation ... based in a massive M-shaped skyscraper that had become a national landmark. Headstone was the best, worst kind of villain—the big-money puppeteer. Elevated, screened, entirely unreachable. Everybody in the country knew what he was, and no one would ever prove it. Not even a former employee like herself could hurt the man. The fucker had always covered his tubby ass too well.

She'd killed several people for him ... seduced and corrupted more than a few others ... Most memorably for her, though, were the twenty seven complex burglaries and sabotage operations, directed at rival businessmen or other crime lords, and also some troublesome political figures. (Hell, those three types were exactly alike; just different names for the same kind of men.) Sophisticated high-tech jobs like that, those were the kinds of missions she took the most pride in. But for each and every task she completed, all her instructions and the payment that followed had always been delivered to her through convoluted webs of intermediaries. She'd never once got to meet her boss face to face. It still got under her skin, whenever she thought about it. Undoubtedly, in the end, his defensive, distrustful distance had been a significant factor in her eventual change of sides.

Fucker just never appreciated her enough. Never showed real trust.

As for her infamous sexual talent—the talent was real, to a point, but mostly what it was, more than anything else, was a knack for acting. Voice work, like radio advertising. Knowing the best things to say—the best, most attractive lies—and, more importantly, the best tone of voice with which to say them. As well as a good sense of timing, so you got the lines across believably. It was true she could take her partners to astonishing heights ... but physically, she performed no extraordinary techniques.

It was all in her line delivery. Magic words, like incantations.

>> "You're so big."

That was a key one. That alone could do it, nine times out of ten, provided you could say it like you meant it.

Another: "I don't think I can take much more!"

And: "You're gonna make me ... come—so hard!" You had to get the rhythm right, spacing out that admission, and you had to play it subtle. You spoiled it if you overdid it; you gave away the game. What worked best, she'd discovered, was to seem startled, baffled, bewildered. Like she didn't understand what was happening—like it had never been like this before, like it was new and shocking and scary. She'd literally practiced the expression in front of a mirror. And to keep quiet, through most of it ... up until right before the end. Like you were trying as hard as you could to hide what you were feeling, and hold it in ... but then it got too strong for you, and broke down your resistance ... and it all exploded out of you, like a volcanic eruption.

Guys went crazy for that routine, absolutely apeshit—and so did women. Women fell for it just as hard.

Set everybody off like rockets. They couldn't help themselves.

With multiple partners—on a couple of occasions, she'd got in trouble with gangs; got cornered and had to take on large, rough groups—you couldn't use those same lines, not over and over. One needed a whole separate strategy. What she used then, instead, whenever guys switched on her or wanted to change position, she'd say, "Wait, please, just let me catch my breath a second." Or "Go slower, please, you're hurting ..." Inevitably of course the bastards did the opposite of whatever she said—but they got finished faster, the wilder they got, because she got them too revved up and they burnt themselves out. Afterward, they'd all been left more exhausted and sore than she was.

Sinja herself never got much actual pleasure in the deed, even in her gentlest encounters, whether it was work or recreation. Sure, she got a certain thrill in it, out of proud satisfaction in what she could do and how easy it was for her, making a partner howl, making him or her pass out—but it was pretty much just the same sort of good feeling one got from a successful assassination or heist. It was just another job, just another score, even when she wasn't doing it as a job or a score.

Accomplishment is nice, quite nice—but it's not an orgasm. Good sex is supposed to take you to a higher level. It's supposed to be transcendent. It should be a deeper, headier experience than the straightforward charge at the finish of a good job. For her, though, no fuck ever went further than that. She only ever got to really get off good by herself ... usually in her bath. And even then, even the best ones, she could tell it wasn't like it was for other people. It was never as strong as she made other people feel. No climax she gave herself had ever made her feel like screaming out loud—she had faked that level of pleasure countless times, obviously, but it was always phony. For some reason she couldn't ever do it that good to herself, no matter what she techniques she used, or what she fantasized about—which was pretty damn unfair.

It was always on her mind, though. Especially on a job. A lot of the excitement was just in the red leather costume she wore—like it electrified her, just putting it on. She was always wet, when she wore it. But that was the role—she was the Sex Ninja, the Sin Ninja. You'd think she'd know better, by now—because she was always disappointed. It was all a tease, every time. All just role-play, and a cheat. For whatever happened to her, regardless of the lurid details, whatever crazy things she had to do, it was never gonna deliver the proper finish for her, not for real. She'd been doing this for years, after all. And no job ever turned out as thrilling as it seemed like it was gonna be, at the start. Sometimes they got close, or seemed to ... usually that happened more with fights or chases, than with actual sexual encounters ... but then even so, the energy always faded too soon, for one reason or another. The fight or the chase or whatever would end up finishing too quick, or else it dragged out too long, and got too messy. It could be something as small as the expression on her opponent's face turning too serious, or too silly, at the crucial moment, and spoiling the whole tone. It was infuriating. She always went home pissed ... and wouldn't feel better 'til after her bath. And even then, only halfway better.

Other Icons, good or bad, would never apply the word mythic to her, because of her low power level (level zero, in fact), but regardless, she had become mythic in the original sense of the word, to the whole rest of the goddamn world—an article in a magazine called her "an urban goddess figure of the darkly erotic" ... and yet it was all fake, pretty much. It was all absolute bullshit.

She kept playing the part, night after night, despite disappointment after disappointment. She couldn't quit, and she couldn't change. She just pretended harder. Like that would make it turn true, somehow, if she stuck with the lie long enough.

And putting on the suit again, each time, and the mask, for another adventure—each time, the same foolish girlish excitement reawakened. The same hunger. She would feel her crotch flooding with it.

2.

Let's go ahead and say it straight out ... Let's not mince words. This was a stupid scheme. This was not professional. This was some fucked-up nonsense, going down tonight.

But that would make it all the better, once she pulled this off. If she got away with it, this would be quite a coup. A story for the ages. Possibly her bestest, awesomest stunt ever.

Provided it didn't go bad ... and it very well might. The odds were against her, and not by a little.

This job wasn't just dumb. It was all-out crazy. You really had to be out of your mind, to attempt something like this.

Hey, what the fuck ... Too late to back out now.

It was a movie idea, was what it was. Characters like her could pull this kind of stuff off in the movies, no sweat. Too bad this wasn't a movie. Too bad movies were bullshit. Life would be so much awesomer if it worked like the movies did. Then again, that's why they made movies—that's why we need movies. Because it doesn't. Duh.

Headstone, Sinja's former boss, was dead. Assassinated three weeks before, while attending, of all things, a fashion show. Apparently he had been a big fan of them, and even designed fancy clothes himself, from time to time—Sinja never knew that before. It was hard to fathom, that a man like him could have had such a quirky, incongruous facet to his personality. His replacement was his nephew, and the spitting image of the man, except twenty years younger. And with long hair. Quite handsome, though in her opinion he seemed gay. Perhaps the old one was too, though she never would have guessed that—and no doubt she only considered it now because of the fashion thing ...

Because the facial resemblance was so striking, there were rumors this new Headstone was actually an illegitimate son. Others were going even farther, saying he was really the same man, rejuvenated by some breakthrough technology. But that had to be bullshit. If it were true, they wouldn't keep it a secret. They'd want to sell the new miracle drug or whatever they'd invented ...

Sinja had been hired to burgle this younger Headstone's private office. Not the one in the company headquarters in the city, but at his home—one of his homes, rather. A mansion on a private island, called Sacrament. Displayed there, beside his desk, in a glass trophy case, was the recently acquired costume of an Icon ... A supersuit. The entire complete outfit of a young superheroine called Teen Spirit. She was the apprentice of Rightwing (and despite her name, she was twenty two years old). And it was Rightwing who had approached Sinja to get the costume back.

Young Headstone had not only the tunic and cape, but the girl's mask, her boots and her long gloves ... Also illuminated in the display case was a pair of lime green panties with a pattern of pink smiling dolphins printed on them. Supposedly the underwear she had on under the costume the day she lost it.

As to how exactly that happened, Sinja wasn't told. Only that Headstone hadn't been responsible—or if he was, it couldn't be proven. He was supposed to have acquired the outfit afterward, paying a considerable sum for it. An internet auction, or something of the sort.

Teen Spirit had got herself a new costume, of course. Same as the original. Every Icon kept replacements. But Rightwing was still determined to get that old supersuit back. Or, if Sinja couldn't retrieve it, for whatever reason, she was supposed to destroy it, on the scene. She was given a small vial of acid for that purpose. The costume, like most Iconic clothing, was not made of ordinary fabric, and it was almost impossible to tear or to burn. Whatever strange material the suit was made of, the acid in the vial had been specially formulated to dissolve it. But Rightwing would rather see the costume returned, intact.

(Sinja didn't know what Teen Spirit herself thought of all this, if she thought anything. Rightwing had probably kept her in the dark about it all.)

Headstone had not done anything outright illegal, when he bought the suit off the internet, or wherever he got it. And Rightwing would only stir up greater scandal if she tried to get it away from the man herself, regardless of the method. It would have to be done quietly. On the sly. So she had turned to Sinja. The ideal operative for this type chore.

Rightwing wanted to make a point, obviously. But it had to be made privately. If Sinja succeeded, Headstone would know what had happened, even though he would never be able to prove it. And he would know who had ordered it done. Rightwing would not have compromised herself—but a clear message would be sent. Obscene displays like Headstone's would never be tolerated. One way or another, legal or not, such trophies would be confiscated. The Icon community would not permit itself to be exploited and dishonored in such fashion, no matter how rich and important you were supposed to be. They'd get at you.

But inevitably, if Sinja got caught, she would be obliged take the blame all on herself. The whole world would know that was bullshit. But she had always remained enough of an outsider and a rogue for it to remain plausible, even so. All the other Icons could safely disavow her with a straight face. And it would do no real harm to her reputation. It fit her character and her legend. Something like this wouldn't be embarrassing for her, in the way it would be for Rightwing. People would smile and shrug it off. They would sympathize too. Headstone probably wouldn't be able to press charges on her, not without looking like a dickhead. But if he caught someone like Rightwing breaking into his place, it would all spin the other direction. Raise an enormous civil liberties stink. Because she was too high-powered, and too military. Too close to the government. The public would still sympathize with her motivation—but that wouldn't prevent them from condemning her and demanding her to be de-powered.

Yes, this was a double standard, and undeniably unjust. The public is always contradictory, like that. Hypocritical, in fact. Perhaps it has to be, or society couldn't hold itself together.

Now getting into that office to get her paws on the costume wouldn't have been all that big a deal, compared to other stunts she'd pulled ... except she had decided to make it much harder for herself. Just for the challenge of it. Just for a bigger wow, at the conclusion ... The night she picked to do this thing, Young Headstone was throwing a giant crazy party. A real proper balls-out bacchanal.

Well, it was New Year's. Far worse ways to waste his money, a fellow like him.

Hundreds of people. Not just in the house, big as it was, but filling the surrounding grounds. The whole little island ... Vast gardens, brilliantly lit. Tall fountains and bonfires. Hedge mazes. Several interconnected swimming pools of different sizes. Huge speakers blasting thrash metal noise—you couldn't call it music.

Surveying this busy landscape from the mansion roof, it might not look quite as jammed as Times Square—but far noisier and far worse behaved.

The weather was warm here, for one thing. And there were absolutely no cops. (Plenty of security, even so—a whole private army in black fatigues and spooky helmets—but for the most part, they kept themselves out of sight.)

Lots and lots of girls. Many more girls than men. And most of them, if not all of them, were expensive professionals. He'd shipped them in that afternoon ... two big boat-loads. Sinja had watched this, through binoculars.

Headstone's guests were mainly from the college he'd just graduated from, or affiliated with the place. Not really his peers, but indoctrinated members of one of those ancient snooty semi-secret boys' clubs for rich shits. Most of these boys were much older than Headstone, in fact. Not his classmates but alumni. Not boys at all, anymore, at least not to look at. Inside they would be different.

And no doubt it wasn't all fellow clubmen. A good fair number of valued company clients would be here too, probably. Only good business, including some of them on his guest list.

Everybody was wearing animal masks, and not much else.

3.

The case can be made that a huge wild party like this was actually the best and safest time to burgle the house, rather than a regular night with nothing going on. Because all that security had its hands full, the whole army of them ... All their attention focused on the guests, on the gardens. The house itself, at least the upper levels, was empty and quiet and dark. No one to get in her way.

But that was movie thinking, of course. In the real world, a regular night would have been a much smarter professional choice. Just not near as cool. Or as fun.

Only a few guards to handle, for one thing, if she goofed and tripped an alarm ... Whereas a crazy night like this, swarms would come running. Much too many to fight on her own. No room for error.

Getting to the house had been easier than on an ordinary night. That was the only real tangible advantage to this strategy. Usually the garden was full of motion sensors and deadly traps. But all those had been switched off, obviously, because of the guests cavorting around all over ... And the security men weren't patrolling randomly, with attack dogs, like they normally would. Instead they all had to stay put, scattered around in carefully-screened observation points. The guests couldn't see them, lurking behind bushes and statues, but she had a little detector gadget in her wristwatch that allowed her to steer around most of their lookout posts very easily.

Not that this was strictly necessary. For she was dressed like the guests—those that were still dressed—until she got to the house. She had on a light tan business suit over her red leather ninja costume, and she wore a plastic fox mask. The cut of the suit was masculine, and so was her walk. She carried a glass of wine, and ambled along with a carefree, slightly slouching posture ... Blending in perfect. For the first couple hours of the party, before the men had got themselves thoroughly intoxicated, there had been many guests like that, just wandering and gawking around, not yet ready to shed their things and partner themselves with any of the available women. Shy boys. Only spectating. Getting off in their pants on the antics of the bolder, more aggressive and exhibitionist souls.

That number would steadily dwindle to nonexistence, as the evening progressed. But well before then she had reached the house and got out of view—she shed the outer costume behind some trees and climbed up the side of the house to the roof. No tools required for that—Headstone's mansion had a convenient covering of vines. Now the office ...

No skylight. That would be too convenient, on top of the vines. There was a balcony, but she wouldn't be able to swing down on it without setting off an alarm.

What she did instead was cut straight down through the roof with a laser—and the ceiling beneath it, yes—to get into the room. Then used the same tool to cut open the display case. She called it her Magic Wand. She'd stolen the thing off another bad guy—bad gal, actually. Evil genius named Stingray.