Randolph and Kim

Chapter 9

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!

The street is still eerily quiet. The only sounds that can be heard are the crackling of dying flames from the wreckage of a couple of destroyed squad cars and the steady drip, drip, drip of the statue-like frozen policeman outside Kim's family home. No-one is daring to venture out of any of the houses into the warm Californian night. The neighbours have witnessed the chaos and carnage and are hiding inside their homes, terrified for their lives. Kim's parents are still crouched on the kitchen floor. The noises from inside their house have ceased but they are too scared and too shocked to move. Even if they could summon the courage to stand up, neither of them can fathom out what to do. What is the correct course of action for someone who has just witnessed their now-super-powered sixteen-year-old daughter massacring a dozen cops with her bare hands?

Neither of them can understand it. They cannot reconcile the footage they have seen on TV or what they have just witnessed in their own home with the sweet, lovely little girl that they have raised. They know the miserable old man from next door has something to do with it; that he has zapped their darling daughter with some crazy invention that has given her superhuman strength and made her invulnerable to bullets. That much they can - almost - get their heads around. But when... and how... did she become... a killer? What has turned such a good natured, well-brought-up, loved, no, adored, child into a murderer? How can their Kimmie be the same person as the one who had perpetrated cold-blooded massacres at the pasta place and in their own front yard? The only explanation that they can think of is that the mysterious ray must have also transformed their delightful, caring offspring into a psychopath with less than zero concern for the well-being of anyone else. But what can they do now? Sure, they are experts in how to bring up sweet, lovely young women. But they are clueless what to do about one who had been 'zapped' into a superhuman killer.

Unsurprisingly, there is far less uncertainty of thought within the neighbouring house. Randolph's mind is clear. He knows that time is against him. Despite the agony of his bruised head and the nausea that makes any movement a challenge, he realises that it will not be long before the next wave of authorities arrive. There'll be FBI and police and probably military, combing over everything, detaining everyone, asking questions. They'll speak to that disgusting thief's parents, the ones responsible for raising such a degenerate, sluttish whore. And, Randolph is sure, they won't accept their huge - no, overwhelming - share of the blame for what has happened tonight. No, he thinks, the immoral imbeciles will only talk about him. How he told them that the superpowers which their slut daughter has been misusing in such horrific ways were stolen from him. How he tried to get those powers back with his de-Shermaniser ray.

The injustice of it all is what drives him on regardless of the pain and exhaustion he feels. He knows that the authorities will not return what is rightfully his. They will want the power for themselves. But it is his! His creation, his power. It does not belong to the government that betrayed him. The authorities will not understand that he is the biggest victim here, that his life's work has been stolen by an ignorant juvenile delinquent. A stupid, spoilt, delinquent without a shred of moral fibre. Worse, than that, a stupid, spoilt, delinquent, moral-fibre-lacking GIRL. A girl who parades her obscene, ripe body, using her disgusting curves to distract intellectually and morally superior men - even pure, noble geniuses like himself - from their true callings. It makes him sick just to think of the way that young witch flaunts herself, wearing slutty outfits that show off her big, round breasts, her silky flat belly, her smooth thighs, her tight, spherical buttocks...

No! He must not start touching himself now. There is no time. He must take his Sherman crystal, the only one of its kind in the world, his only hope of justice, and he must go before anyone arrives on the scene. He has to take the crystal somewhere safe. Somewhere where he can be left alone to work on a new de-Shermaniser. Somewhere he can use his brilliant, upstanding mind without it being side-tracked by the evil siren-call of whores and the cesspit society which has been so corrupted by female witchcraft. How deeply must the world be under their black magic spell if it consistently fails to recognise his uniquely pure morality! The outrage he feels fuels his movements as he upturns a cardboard box of washing-machine parts, dumping the contents indiscriminately on the garage floor. Then he starts to fill the emptied container with components, hand tools and notebooks - anything that he thinks he might need that will fit in the box.

The Sherman crystal is the greatest achievement in the history of Science, capable of absorbing pure power from the sun itself and, when harnessed to his ray-generator, transferring that power into a living creature. It is not right that he, Randolph Sherman, its sole creator, is a fugitive. He should not have to live in a world that sneers at him, hounds him and seeks to exploit his mighty brain for the gain of others. He should not have to live in a world where females dress in a way that causes their male superiors to surrender their intelligence and their morality. He should be revered, honoured, obeyed. It should be a world where the behaviour and dress of women is determined by him, not people whose minds have been sedated, poisoned and crippled by lust.

Yes. He should have power. Power to command. Power to control. Power to do as he wished at all times. Power that right now, is surging and pulsing within the indecent body of that teenage whore. His power. That he will reclaim. His vastly greater intelligence in alliance with his unbreakable righteousness will find a way to get justice. He will build a new, better, de-Shermaniser ray and he will hatch a plan to use it, a plan that the ignorant bitch will be helpless to stop. And then she will become truly helpless in every sense as he drains the power - his power - from her. She will be weak, becoming nothing but a pathetic, whimpering, girl. She will plead. She will use her siren's arsenal of feminine wiles, desperately trying to divert him from the path of truth, but he will stand firm. He will prevail. He will extract every bit of Sherman energy from her and then...

Then he will finally fill himself with power. It will transform him. His bruises, his aches will vanish. His ageing, decaying body will be restored. He will have strength, fabulous strength. He will be impervious to bullets. He will be unstoppable! No-one will be able to stand in his way. He will make the world in his image: pure and moral. He will punish the degenerates. The women will obey him. They will dress as he decrees, behave as he instructs. They will all follow his orders or face punishment. He will be able to make them do anything! Anything at all...

No! Not now! He stops stroking the bulge in the crotch of his trousers, carefully places the Sherman crystal in his jacket pocket, and then picks up the full cardboard box. He opens the door of the garage, lifting the curtain on a stage littered with carnage, destruction and mortality. He staggers slightly as he walks out into the warm night, the effects of the blow on his head earlier still apparent. He opens the driver's door of his car and gets in awkwardly, placing the box on the passenger seat. Randolph fumbles with the key in the ignition, his recent exertions taking their toll as evidenced by his shaking hands. Eventually, he manages to start the engine. The headlights come on, shining a spotlight on a blood-soaked uniform containing most of the remains of its original owner. The corpse is lying on the side-walk in front of his house. He closes his eyes as he drives over it, the car's suspension only partly effective at smoothing out the bump. Nothing is going to stop him achieving his destiny. He steers onto the road, following a zigzag path between chunks of exploded car until he is clear of the battle-zone, then he takes a right, towards the Interstate.

Seconds later, an unmarked black Escalade arrives at speed at the other end of the street he has just left. The Escalade's brakes screech as the driver has to come to a sudden stop to avoid hitting a piece of burnt, twisted fender. The doors open and four men, dressed in identical black suits, each fitted with identical single white earpieces, climb out. They assemble on the side-walk in front of Kim's house. Two of them peer through the hole in the wall at the front of the building. One examines the frozen officer 'standing' on the lawn, tentatively reaching towards the icy statue before snatching his extended finger away sharply. It's still phenomenally cold. The fourth man is holding some kind of device in his hand which he points at the house while carefully studying a tiny LCD display.

Six miles away, there is another careful study in progress. Kim is staring at her reflection in a shop window. From her freshly-acquired batch of swimwear, she has selected a sky-blue two piece bikini. She is beginning to master the difficult task of manoeuvring tight-fitting garments onto the stunning curves of her glorious body. At her feet lies a discarded pink top-half. The fabric of both of the abandoned top's generous cups has been torn. The cups were not generous enough, and the fabric would not stretch sufficiently to accommodate her magnificently large, firm, round breasts. For a nanosecond, the material tried to compress the fabulous mounds of flesh it was supposed to partially cover. Then it surrendered completely to the indomitable, unyielding perfection of her bosoms, her nipples bursting through the doomed fabric. Symmetrical tears quickly stretched out from the two holes as the material was ripped apart by her superhuman breasts.

That's why the torn pink top is on the ground. Kim ripped its remains from her upper body and dropped it at her feet with a muttered curse before moving on to the sky blue one. She knows her mistake was rushing to secure the clasp behind her back. Even though she can move at speeds so astonishing she cannot even be seen by other people, she has to function as though in slow motion and take the utmost, utmost care to put on a tight bikini. It is a price she has accepted she must pay. She won't allow her glorious body to be seen in anything but the most jaw-dropping, perfect-skin-hugging of outfits. As long as she remembers to be careful and take her time, as long as the manufacturer has been true to the measurements on the label, and as long as the fabric used is of sufficiently high-quality and can stretch wildly without ripping, she can put on the bikini of her choice.

The cool light blue colour of her latest selection provides an interesting contrast with the warm slightly tanned pinkness of her flawless skin. The various sky-toned sections of straining material cling to the sexy roundness of her rear, leaving acres of smooth firm thigh on display. The front of the bottom piece barely covers her pubic region, just about protecting her modesty as it holds on, the waistband underlining the allure of her navel and the unblemished flat plain of her belly.

Above that is her chest. The bikini top bears the honour of holding her big breasts with difficulty. The material is so stretched by her dramatic curves, it follows them precisely. Her prominent nipples crown the centre of each overworked cup whilst the briefness of the outfit means that a vast, deep cleavage is on display, bordered by immaculate, stunning, plunging curves. She looks good. Her reflection, which she is proudly admiring, is proof of that. She's ready now.

But ready for what? She can't go and hang on the highway that runs by school with her friends because, a couple of hours ago, she killed two of them, having already totally destroyed the huge school building. She can't go home either because, after the stuff that happened around school, she then killed a bunch of cops on the street outside her house. And besides, her parents seemed pretty pissed with her even before that because of the people she killed earlier in the day at that stupid Pizza place. She doesn't want another boring lecture from them, and, she thinks, now that she's 'super', she doesn't have to take that crap anymore.

"It, like, totally isn't fair," Kim thinks to herself. "I've got cool super-powers, I look totally amazing, I've got this great new bikini that looks fucking awesome on my bod, and there's no-one I can show off to." She knows the usual gang won't be hanging around the usual place because it's a major crime scene now. She thinks about going to visit one of them at home. "Alex lives near downtown," she starts to think, and then remembers "Oh yeah. I killed her 'cos she called me a freaking freak." A similar problem, she realises, rules out Carly. "Anyway, I don't even know her address," she muses, as though this lacking information was of equal value to the fact that Carly is dead.

"So who's left?" she wonders. "Stephanie?" Kim knows which street Steph and her family live on. "But Stephanie is, like, soooo boring when the other guys aren't there," she reasons. "Skye? She's alright," thinks Kim. Then she recalls Skye telling her that her Dad works for the police. "He might be at home," she considers. "That could be a massive drag, given all the cops I like totally wasted fifteen minutes ago."

"Who else? Veronica! Yes! That jealous skinny bitch will be nearly puking with envy when she sees me in this!" Kim thinks delightedly. "Besides, there was something I wanted to tell Ver," she dimly recalls. "What was it? Something to do with the stupid conversation I was having with my stupid parents when the old perv from next door ran in with his lame-ass ray gun... Something to do with the TV... Oh yeah! Veronica was on TV earlier! That was so cool! No, wait... it wasn't cool... it wasn't cool because Veronica totally narked on me!" She remembers now. Veronica told the Channel 8 news jerk that she (Kim) had gotten superpowers and that she (Kim) had thrown that truck at the school...

"That's why all those cops were outside my house!" Kim finally pieces it all together. "That fucking snitch!" Now, she knows for sure what she's going to do next. She's SO going to Veronica's house...

Meanwhile, back on Kim's street, the four suited men from the black Escalade have concluded their external examinations. They regroup on the lawn in front of the badly damaged family home before entering, in single file, through the Kim-sized hole in the brickwork. They have to lower their heads slightly as they pass through the breech. One of them takes out a small digital camera and takes a few pictures of the shattered electronic circuitry strewn on the carpet and the splattered human remains on the far wall. Then they walk through to the kitchen where Kim's parents are still crouched on the floor.

"Mr. and Mrs. Peterson?" asks the one with the device, his voice deadpan.

"Y- Yes.." stammers Kim's dad.

"Agent Johnson, FBI. These gentlemen are with me. You both need to come with us now."

The Petersons stand and obey without hesitation. They are glad to be given a simple command rather than having to figure out what to do for themselves. Wordlessly, they accompany the quartet back out through the ruins of what was once their beautiful family home. Two of the Agents get into the Escalade along with Kim's parents. The engine fires up and the car pulls away whilst the other two government men head back into the house.

All that is visible of Kim as she runs at supersonic speed is a pink smear with traces of sky-blue that streaks along the road. In the dark, she is even harder to see at these velocities than she is when she runs in daylight. There are very few pedestrians at this hour, almost no-one for her to knock over with displaced air as she rockets by. A ragged-looking grey-haired drunk is sent rolling down the street as she jogs past without bothering to divert from her straightest-possible-line route. She calculates that she is going "pretty fucking fast". The actual speed of her jog is over eight hundred miles an hour. But she's still comfortably able to react in good time when she spots a leaking fire hydrant ahead. It's spraying water all over the street like a fountain, jets pointing every way possible, shooting out right across the whole street on both sides.

She might be dressed in an outfit that was designed expressly for swimming, but there's no way Kim is going to let herself get wet. Apart from the possibility of getting a mark - no matter how temporary - on her bikini, there is also the thought of her hair getting messed up. Looking this good takes time and effort. She stops dead in her tracks, slowing from faster than the speed of sound to stationary in zero seconds flat. If the sudden deceleration and cancelling of momentum places any strains on her beautiful body, she certainly doesn't feel them.

The squirting hydrant is about ten yards in front of her. Jets of water reach out from it on all sides. There's a puddle just a few feet from her pretty bare toes showing the extent of the spray's reach in that direction. She can't just run around it as there is water gushing out right across the street and the side-walks as far as the buildings on either side. The unintentional fountain reaches high into the air as well although Kim is pretty sure she can clear it with a standing jump. She's just about to try when she has a better idea.

She's remembered that cop with the megaphone outside her house. She can deal with the busted hydrant the same way. She doesn't even need to move, something which makes her revised plan even more attractive to her. She merely leans forward a little and pushes out her luscious full lips, forming her mouth into a sexy 'O' shape. Then she blows, carefully. Her breath is so cold, it leaves her lovely mouth as an half-inch-diametered line of opaque white cloud. The line stretches quickly from her. As it touches the spraying water, the liquid becomes ice instantly. In less than a second, all the jets are solid and the hydrant itself is covered in crystals of frozen water and air. It's a hot June night in California, but the street immediately in front of Kim looks like northern Canada in January.

Now she can run under the arches of solid ice without any risk of getting wet. In fact, even allowing for the warm night and the baking dawn-to-dusk sun of tomorrow, it will be days before liquid water is flowing through the hydrant once again. Kim doesn't know or care, but the pipes feeding it beneath the street are frozen solid, inside and out, to a depth of fifteen feet. It's staggering evidence of the power now at her command, but she spares it no more thought as she starts to jog again. It takes her two strides, or less than a twentieth of a second, to accelerate from motionless to her previous, comfortable, cruising-airliner-speed. She's in a hurry to get to that nark Veronica's house.

Kim isn't sprinting flat out, but she isn't exactly taking her time. She streaks through the deserted streets, lit in places by the sporadic overhead sodium glow. To the rest of existence she is only observable as an elongated blur that turns corners with far greater precision than should be possible at such speed. She is a mile away from the suburban home of Mr. and Mrs. Houser and their daughter Veronica, but she is going so fast she will be coming to a perfect stop within touching distance of the front door, not breathing hard, without a single drop of perspiration anywhere on her stunning skin, in five seconds' time.

She has run from downtown to the burbs like a sexy street-level guided missile, only faster and more precisely. But she is about to discover that she has made a wasted journey. Veronica's family were picked up by the government minutes after her brief appearance on the Channel 8 Special News Report and bundled into another black Escalade. Veronica herself has been in government custody since the second the TV cameras turned away from her.

Now, she is miles away, locked in a tiny room with two men in black suits. The only furniture in the room is a chair on which Veronica is sat and a small desk with nothing on it save a plastic cup half-full of water. A bare-bulb dangles on a wire overhead, casting a harsh light. The two Agents are standing. They are tall men and they are not making any attempt to reduce the sense of intimidation they create as they loom over Kim's classmate.

They have been bombarding her with questions for quite some time already. Veronica is tired now. She thinks she has told them everything she knows about what happened but they keep asking her for more information. On one level, she hates the fact that all the questions are about Kim. She can't help the pang of jealousy she feels about that whore being the centre of such big-time attention. On another level, she's quite pleased that Kim is so obviously going to go to jail for, like, ever. Most of all, though, Veronica is scared of the two Agents. She can't get them to stop hassling her like she would do if it was her parents trying to give her the third degree. She's been told she will be charged with accessory to murder and a bunch of other crimes worth fifty years in a federal prison if she does not fully co-operate. She just wants to go home.

But Veronica's home is not the sanctuary she believes it to be right now. Two government men are rummaging around in the Houser's garage when they hear the sound of the front door being destroyed by what sounds like a giant sledgehammer. It is actually Kim's pretty little foot swinging out, her perfect toes hitting the front door, smashing the thick, heavy wood as though it were polystyrene, reducing much of it to matchsticks, mangling and tearing the strong steel hinges, and damaging the well-built door-frame.

The Agents immediately drop what they are doing and run towards the door that leads from garage to kitchen. Kim also runs. She heads upstairs so quickly she leaves smouldering burn-marks in the carpet from the friction created by her lovely bare feet. Needless to report, the heat and friction do not leave marks of any kind on Kim's feet. She throws open the door to Veronica's bedroom so violently the wooden panel is implanted, two inches deep, into the interior wall, surrounded by a network of plaster cracks.

A flick of her dainty-looking toes lifts Veronica's large bed and flips it like a pancake. The heavy bed crashes back to ground, shaking the floor. Kim rips the doors off her classmate's closet and tosses them aside. She already knows that none of flat-chested Veronica's clothes are of any interest to her. A wave of her superhuman slender forearm rips most of her one-time friend's impressive collection of tops and dresses from their hangers, tearing many of the garments and leaving the whole lot in a bundle in the corner of the room.

Downstairs, the government men continue to sprint. They are halfway to the kitchen door now. They hear another thud from the upstairs of the house as they run. That's Kim, kicking in another bedroom door. She can see, not to mention smell, that is is Veronica's brother's bedroom, but she dashes in anyway and smashes up his closet just in case Ver is hiding in there.

The nearest Agent is only two steps away from the kitchen. Kim meanwhile is in the master bedroom. There are two large wardrobes for her to assault, and she makes typically light work of the demolition, her hands flashing at phenomenal speed as she reduces the four closet doors to splinters and then turns thousands of dollars' worth of clothing within to rags. But there is no sign of Veronica.

"Shit!" exclaims Kim, stamping her foot with intentional destructive force.

The two men in suits run out of the garage into the main part of the house just in time to see the sole of Kim's foot burst through the kitchen ceiling in a torrent of dust, plaster, and concrete debris. They draw their weapons as the foot disappears back up through the new hole and race through the kitchen towards the foot of the stairs.

Kim finally realises that Veronica is not in the house. Disappointed, she walks out of Mr. and Mrs. Houser's bedroom and heads to the top of the stairs at a normal, human pace. That's when Kim sees the two Agents for the first time. It's also the first time the Agents see Kim in the flesh. And what flesh it is! They gasp in shock as they notice what she is wearing. Or perhaps more precisely, the way the sky-blue tiny bikini is being worn by her. She is a goddess of sex with her stunning eyes and pouty mouth, her stupendous breasts, tiny waist, curved hips and her long, shapely limbs.

"Who the fuck are you?" demands Kim, placing her hands dominantly on her alluring hips.

"FBI," answers the one whose job description includes doing the talking. Authoritatively, he adds "Miss Peterson, you need to come with us."

Kim isn't surprised he knows her name. Veronica's obviously told them everything. As for this jerk in a suit telling her what she needs to do right now, she sneers "Yeah, like fuck I'm coming with you," and rolls her eyes. She's beginning to grasp the implications of the power she can feel in every cell of her perfect body. And one of those implications is that no-one can tell her what to do anymore.

"We are authorised to use deadly force if necessary," states the vocal member of the duo. The threat is wasted, partly because Kim doesn't bother to try to understand it and partly because 'deadly' force, she already knows, has zero effect on her now. The only danger posed by the two government men and the guns they are pointing at her is that their bullets could damage her beautiful new sky-blue bikini.

"No way is that happening." Kim thinks. She doesn't think about the pair's potential use to her as a source of information about Veronica's whereabouts. She doesn't think about being able to use her amazing super-speed to dodge any bullets that might be fired at her (or at least to ensure any bullets that might be fired at her don't hit the very small percentage of her that is covered by the garment's two pieces). She doesn't think about any of the other countless ways she can use her fantastic new powers to find out about Veronica AND ensure that her outfit remains undamaged. If anything, she forgets about Veronica entirely for a few moments. That's how deep her concern for her clothing runs.

There is no time for either of the government men to pull their trigger. In less than a fraction of an instant, Kim reaches out with her right hand, rips a length of handrail from the stairway and tosses it at the two men. The carved wood smashes through the two torsos, but the muscle and bone it obliterates barely slows it. Kim's throw is so powerful, the length of bannister crashes into a wall fifteen feet behind the now dead men and dissolves into fragments, but not before reducing a layer of plaster and brick to powder. The four gory pieces of bisected body fall, crimson blood erupting like pressurised lava.

Inevitably, a splash of red reaches the top of the stairs. Kim spots it in time and reacts by leaping out of its way. The top of her head smashes through the ceiling into the attic for a few moments. She gets a brief glimpse at the boring piles of boxes stored up there before descending. She lands again on the upper floor of the house, successfully evading the flying blood splatter that discolours the wall beside her, but a shower of dust and plaster pours down on her hair from the freshly-broken ceiling. "Fuck!" she curses, her hands frantically brushing the debris away at super-speed. Little pieces of masonry, flecks of paint and clumps of plasterboard become tiny missiles as she flicks them away, her fingers a blur of movement. The miniature fragments embed themselves in the walls all around her.

Kim sprints down to the ground floor, leaping carefully over the chunks of remains at the foot of the stairs to stand in front of the hall mirror. She bends her neck so she can examine the crown of her head and be absolutely sure that there's no more imperfections in her long, silky brown her. She spends nearly a minute analysing her reflection, which is much, much longer than it took her to wreck the house and kill two men. Finally, she concludes that her hair looks fine. It's only then that she realises she should have asked the jerks in suits if they knew where Veronica is. "Fuck," she thinks. "How am I going to find Veronica now?" And then, she has an idea: maybe Veronica has gone to Stephanie's house. She runs out through the empty doorway, becoming a pink-with-sky-blue-traces blur.

Randolph, too, is on the move. He's in his car, driving as fast as he dares, heading south on the highway. His speed is less than a tenth of Kim's latest run but he's travelling well above the speed limit. He glances down, realises that his velocity is putting him at risk of attracting unwanted police attention, and carefully slows until the needle is just to the left of sixty. He shoots a nervous look into the rear-view mirror to reassure himself that there are no patrol vehicles behind him. The coast is clear. He breathes a sign of relief.

Wincing, he takes his left hand off the wheel to fish a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. The car swerves slightly as he extracts the square of cloth and several other vehicles sound their horns. He curses the other drivers as he wipes the sweat from his forehead. He veers out-of-lane for a second time as he lifts one buttock to replace the handkerchief. Behind him, a station wagon is forced to brake sharply but he doesn't acknowledge his error. He's much more concerned about the fuel gauge showing less than a quarter of a tank. He's not going to make it to the border without filling up.

Randolph realises that using his credit card will reveal his location to the authorities. He wonders if he has enough cash to pay for gasoline. His wallet is in his right trouser pocket, so he leans to the left in his seat to pull it out, almost colliding with a motorcyclist as he does so. The biker comes within a whisker of losing control of his mount, recovers and gives Randolph the finger. The old man misses the gesture as he is peering into the banknote compartment of his money-pouch where, he is pleased to see at least two twenty dollar bills. Satisfied, he begins the process of putting the wallet back into his trousers, his foot easing off the accelerator as he leans. There's another chorus of angry horns behind him before he notices that he's rapidly decelerating and reapplies his shoe to the pedal.

One of the cars involved in the mass honking accelerates momentarily and pulls up on his outside. The front passenger window opens and a middle-aged man with thick stubble leans across to yell "Get off the road grandpa!"

Randolph is disgusted by the younger man's disgraceful lack of respect. "When I get my power," he resolves, "I will make not shaving a capital offence." But for now, he knows he is unable to deal with the angry motorist. He stares straight ahead as if he hasn't heard. The other car pulls away from him, the driver gesticulating furiously as he speeds ahead. Randolph will not let anything distract him from his mission. He isn't surprised that his genius has enabled him to be one step ahead of the authorities, but he knows he cannot let down his guard if he wishes to maintain that distance. There will be time to punish the millions of wrong-doers later. Right now, he must concentrate fully on the goal of getting his power back from that disgusting thieving whore. And the first step of his plan is to find a gas station so he can buy enough petrol to get to Mexico.

He does not know, but at that very moment, a state-wide alert is being issued by the authorities. Randolph's name and description are being circulated, along with the manufacturer, model, colour and registration number of his car. He is now Priority Number Two for the Bureau. Priority Number One is a certain Kimberley Peterson. The instructions regarding Randolph are that he must be intercepted and apprehended alive.

It is becoming clearer by the minute from the interviews conducted with the Peterson girl's parents and surviving associates, that Sherman is key to the case. They know that he has spent the last three decades repairing TVs and microwave ovens. Of greater note is his earlier record: a brilliant student who was briefly involved in a secret military project in the sixties before apparently abandoning his scientific career. All the witness accounts point to him being responsible, via some device of his invention, for the astonishing abilities being displayed by Priority Number One. If it is true that he has somehow "done" this to her, then there is strong reason to believe he can also "undo" it.

It is also becoming clearer by the minute that confrontation is not a good tactic for dealing with the girl at the centre of it all. It is costing too many lives. Her apparent immunity to weapons means that she cannot be neutralised or threatened. Her incalculable physical power means she cannot be contained or subdued against her will. And she combines both of these terrifying qualities with a lack of empathy so profound that it appears to border on the psychopathic. Until whatever it is wears off, or they can somehow discover a weakness, they must come up with a new plan for Kimberly Peterson. Force has failed so far. It is time to try Psychology.

Kim is completely unaware of the scheming that is now taking place in her honour. She knows the authorities want to arrest her for an ever-growing bunch of stuff, and she also knows that they can't. That's the end of it as far as she is concerned. She's got awesome powers now. Anyone who tries to tell her what to do or tries to threaten her is going to get brushed aside like a matchstick. And anyone who causes her outfit to get even a tiny blemish is going to get totally killed.

She's not thinking about the two Agents she has just murdered or the potential consequences of any of her other recent violent actions. She's going to Stephanie's house in search of Veronica because getting that skinny bitch for snitching is what she's decided she wants to do. She couldn't care less about anybody else. She runs at super-speed, passing a police squad car headed in the opposite direction without even giving it a second glance. She knows the cops inside probably won't see her as she streaks by and that, even if they do, she will be far out of reach before they can react. The squad car is insignificant. What really matters right now is how awesome she's going to look in her sky-blue bikini when she catches up with Steph and Veronica.


Conceptfan, Feb. 2015.