Skin Deep 3 - The Vulture And The Sunrise - Chapter 1 - Somewhere Between Life And Death free porn video

Chapter 1 Somewhere Between Life and Death The Gospel According To St. Rodney August 21st, 2083 - Six months after the marriage of Gary and Michelle Shipley. Caroline Bastiano sat cross-legged on the floor of the locked attic where she had lived for the last year. The floor was the only tolerable place in the room. Although it was hot everywhere in the attic, it was at lease somewhat more bearable on the floor amid the dust that covered almost everything here. This did not bother her now, not like it might have before. She was no longer the person she had once been. She had gone from an arrogant, rough and harsh person to someone much easier to mold and shape, almost submissive in her nature. It seemed to her that these things were out of her control. She reminded herself in her silent torment, she would never be the same person that had caused all the trouble between her friends. Caroline frowned as this thought crossed her mind. She checked herself. 'Friends' isn't exactly what they were, now is it? They weren't really friends. You used them to get what you wanted and they all know it. You know it! You don't have any friends do you? You never did. The idea made her sad. She wept a bit as the idea danced past her mental field of vision and then out of sight again. She understood something about herself she never felt would have ever been possible. She understood something that almost all women are at risk of falling victim to. It was the unspoken mental enemy of women everywhere, whose description in spoken words falls well short of human understanding. It was the thing, when abused; that drives many women hopelessly down into the blackness of depression and insanity while others around them are left confused for cause or reason. That black thing that preyed on her was loneliness. Loneliness by itself was only a byproduct of her current state. Contact with others was forbidden. She was not allowed to speak, even to herself unless Pappa ordained it. Here, her mind was enclosed in a prison unlike any she had ever thought possible. Her desires were simple, her regrets profound. More than anything she desired someone to talk to. Just someone to share these new and maddening feelings that were born in her it seemed with every waking minute. Even if that someone only pretended to care about what she said. Was her brain wired so differently now that these feelings had become all important to her? She couldn't tell anymore. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts and feelings with no outlet through which to vent them. Thoughts spawned questions, questions demanded answers and answers were not forth coming. The stacks and stacks of thoughts, ideas and feelings only grew in the small space provided for her brain until she felt her head could crack open and some green gooey mess would spill out of it, a toxic residue from all the whirling mess that was locked up inside her. That would have been a relief at this point and she thought about it a lot, death by a brain eruption. But it wouldn't happen; she was trapped in a body that would not die. It was going to hold her prisoner here in the attic for God knew how long. Oh yes, Pappa had known exactly how to punish her. He had understood just what her greatest fear had been, even before there had even been a Caroline. And the parade of thoughts just kept coming and coming, filling the space that had been filled beyond capacity for years now. As painful as it was, these thoughts were her only solace, without them, without the feelings that came with them what was she? Yes! Yes, that was the thing wasn't it? Without a doubt, she thought, because without feeling something ABOUT all those things, she might as well be a mind less robot... something other than a living breathing human, if that's what she still was. Thoughts and feelings sometimes stood together like a couple at a shotgun wedding, but anyway you sliced it, they belonged together even if no one wanted them to get hitched. Knees drawn up to her chest, arms around them, fingers locked she rocked back and forth on the floor. At times she grabbed the long unkempt and dirty blonde hair at her temples and moaned out loud. She wanted it all to end. That would never happen now. The line from an old commercial shot through her mind, something she'd seen someplace on some show about advertising. I wanna be like Mike! Well, if nothing else, they certainly shared a certain ironic element of the same fate now didn't they? They were sisters of sorts now. She was trapped just as Mike had become; forever and a day... How very prophetic was that statement. Forever and a day... Caroline considered the meaning of it. That's almost like two concurrent life sentences. Talk about overkill, eternity would have been sufficient. When the overwhelming self-pity had passed, she lightly touched her left breast and felt for the scrap of paper she kept there tucked in the cup of her bra. Caroline could feel the small, square piece of newsprint she had carefully torn out from a rescued sheet of Pappa's old newspaper. In her mind she marveled at the feel of it against her skin, it alone had the power to comfort her when nothing else could. It also possessed the power to drive her completely insane. Today however, there was comfort in knowing it was there and he was still out there. As hard as she tired she could not keep her mind from turning the spot light on the one impossible hope she clung to the way a man over a cliff would cling to the exposed roots on the rocky face. To let go meant certain death. For her death would only be of the spirit, something she would have to continue to live with... forever and a day, her mind finished for her. She reached in with two fingers and withdrew the article. She unfolded it carefully, almost reverently and paused. I hate this! she thought. I'm prisoner to this thing too. Give it up girl. He hates you. But she could not give it up. This little scrap of paper was like a beacon in a storm to her sanity. What amused her even more was the message this beacon sent. It simply read: Frank and Karen Shipley are proud to announce the marriage of their son Gary Allen Shipley to Miss Michelle Susan Donovan Friday, May 23rd, 2083 at 2:00 p.m. Reception to be held at, The Red Fish Restaurant Paul (Pappa) Bastiano was perhaps the only man in Pennsylvania that could still get a printed newspaper on demand. Well, that was an exaggeration, but the number of people actually not getting their news from the NewsServices on the VID had to be rare indeed. She was silently grateful that he insisted on some of the old ways. The newspapers couldn't be turned off like the VID. With no VID of her own to keep her company, newspapers were almost her only source of outside information now. To her surprise, her desire to read was now almost insatiable. She refolded the tattered, dog-eared piece of paper and slid it back inside her bra for safekeeping. Afterwards, the girl stared blankly at the wall and wondered what it must be like for Michelle. She had someone who cared about what happened to her. Michelle was a part of something bigger now, something that in Caroline's mind was indeed a great thing, an important thing. After all the bitterness of that weekend, Michelle had something better. Caroline was stuck here in this house as Pappa's daughter/slave girl. She worked at the anklet around her ankle but she knew it would not come off. It worked on the transmission of a signal from a small chip inside. If she wandered away more than two feet from the exterior walls of the house, she would be electrocuted in an ever-increasing voltage loop the further she moved from the house. All things being what they were, she dared not wander much further than the threshold of the exterior doors. The tamper resistant feature of the anklet caused it to become tighter the more she fussed with it. Eventually she gave up. She was not going to get it off without the key that Pappa had in his possession. How had things ended like this? How was it that Michelle, after her constant complaining and whining found herself plopped down comfortably in the bosom of the wealthiest family for eight counties (apart from Bastiano's family of course). The turn of events was almost funny. From abject poverty, Michelle now stood on the precipice of wealth beyond her imagination. All because she got stuck in a woman's body. Caroline considered the luxuries she had lost since becoming Papa's little slave girl. She could feel the hated sting of tears rising again. It wasn't even the stuff or the money that she missed so much any more. Her mind turned helplessly back to the announcement of Gary and Michelle's wedding. She knew that Gary hated her. Why should he not hate her? Caroline had been the source of all the trouble of the last year and a half. Still, her loneliness could not help but turn her mind's eye toward this game of 'What If '. She hated doing that to herself, but she couldn't seem to help it. If Gary knew about me, if he knew what they had done to me, would he try to help me? Would he come and rescue me too? She knew the answer to that. It was a big fat 'Hell no!' She had done nothing worth being saved from. She was paying a just price for her stupidity, her arrogance and her anger. There was nothing to save here. A bitter tear slipped from the corner of her right eye and threatened to restart the flood of self-pity. She wiped it away angrily with one hand and sniffled back the emotion that tear had released. She took the piece of paper out again and reread it. This was her routine. She would read this same outdated piece of article and then pray for someone like Gary to come and help her. The constant folding and unfolding, reading, touching and general exercise she gave the article was causing great wear. One day she would no longer have it to hold on to, so her prayers would have to be answered soon. She would make the same promise to God every night. She would promise to be good from now on. She would promise to behave. She would tell God each night she would stay this way if that made him happy, just please, please, please, don't let Pappa touch me any more. Her prayer was never answered; at least, not in any time frame that Caroline would have ever associated with an answer to her prayers. Each night, once she had fallen asleep, she would be plagued by thoughts that staggered between pleasure and pain, the euphoric dream and unrelenting nightmare. She would dream peacefully of falling asleep in Gary's loving arms, or spend the night tormented reliving the night of her birth only to wind up in Pappa's sweaty malevolent grip. In the year of our Lord, 2082, the country that had been the United States of America, now called the Federal States of America was unwittingly the staging area for the next step in human evolution. It would prove to be a traumatic evolutionary step for everyone, especially those not selected to participate. For those people, lack of inclusion would mean extinction. The country was, at that time, a shadow of its previous greatness and size after having been ravaged by two brief wars. Canada had been the gateway for invasion in both wars. In an attempt to break the back of the oil producing nations of the Middle-East and to provide much needed inexpensive energy for both the citizens of the United States and their Military Interests abroad, the US entered into negotiations to explore and drill for oil in the Canadian interior. The talks quickly broke down when it became clear the extent of the drilling would damage hundreds of thousands of miles of untouched wildlife habitat. The US government immediately took to the media using soft pressure to force their hand and allow drilling. The campaign backfired. Angered by attempts by the US to sway public opinion to force widespread drilling into the pristine northern wilderness of its interior by publicly denouncing Canadians as selfish, the Canadians began to cut economic ties with the US. They reestablished them almost immediately with Russia and seizing opportunities for free enterprise the Americans had not wanted to capitalize because they had been unable or control and dictate all the terms of trade with Russia. This was exactly the break the Russian government had been waiting for. Both wars had been offensive fronts out of Canada fueled by Russian desires to halt American military advances in neighboring countries such as Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan. Wars allegedly fought in the name of defeating acts of terrorism against the entire world. These operations by the US Military were seen by Russian officials as American imperialism and colonization efforts at the very door step of Russia. It was a threat that the Russians saw as, at best, an effort to quarantine the Russians and at worst one of possible US invasion on its own soil. The Russians believed the U.S. wanted punitive action for complicity with such nations that the Russian secretively and routinely transacted business on a military and strategic basis. The decision by Russian officials was made to redirect the focus of the American government and its military forces. The Russians were able to successfully convince Canadian officials to develop a military coalition between Canadian and Russian forces, invade the boarder states along the US ? Canadian line, in order to strengthen its boarders and to establish a 150 mile deep "Sterile Zone". Shortages in US military personnel, stationed overseas fighting its 'War On Terror', made it possible for overwhelming forces of Russian and Canadian troops to simply move the Canadian boarder south, forcing the US to defend its own shores. In the end, the US lay fractured. Six states in the West, including California, seceded from the union in order to avoid invasion. The ploy failed and four of the six were invaded and captured by Russian and Canadian forces. Four other Northern states were captured and remained in Canadian hands for some 75 years. By the time all was said and done the US Government, already stretched to its limits from active military action on six fronts had collapsed. From the ashes, like a great Phoenix, a new government rose from what had once been, and a new American hero. Marcus Sharp, born and raised in Virginia; rose to prominence from the seat of the birthplace of American freedom, Philadelphia, he was seen as the quintessential American leader. He led American volunteer and British forces to repel and eventually devastate invading forces. In the years that followed, as the new government attempted to rebuild, neighboring governments attempted to slow the rebuilding of the newly named Federal States of America. Most were afraid that if the United States were allowed to reestablish itself in any form, it would indiscriminately seek out revenge for its destruction against any and all nations that had not been there to help or protest. The cleanest method of attack was by strangling its economy with embargoes on trade. Thus a time of great poverty for most and great wealth for some began. It would be almost eighty years before the Federal States of America would see the end of this time of economic crisis and public paranoia. In order to prevent further aggression in a world where the people and the country had few friends, this new Federal Government constructed an elaborate network of spies for information gathering and sabotage where necessary. Espionage became a carpet industry for some in that day-and- age and the greatest technologies available to mankind were enlisted to aid in that fight. After all, knowledge is power, and to know what was coming from your enemies was to have the luxury to prepare for the onslaught, perhaps even diffuse it. Enter Ziven Rocov, a Russian immigrant and highly self-educated inventor who was responsible for developing the means by which a person could completely assume a new identity, either non-existent or of someone already living. This device genetically modified a persons DNA encoding to match that of a genetic donor be that donor real or engineered. As a means to facilitate their efforts in espionage, the Government attempted to confiscate, by force, this technology that had been in development for years and finally perfected some years after the turn of the 21st century. Originally developed with public use in mind to satisfy the great desire for physical perfection, cures for birth defects or as a darker prospect by some, a pathway to unlimited life, SKINs promised to be the ultimate espionage tool for government operatives to use to infiltrate hostile powers at almost any level of any administration. The benefits of this alternate application as seen by the government out-weighed all rights to ownership. Worse, the Government saw public access to such a technology as a threat to the very existence of National Security. It had to be confiscated and protected in the interest of all heavily taxed citizens of the Federal States. Although legal action stemmed the government's attempts to forcibly remove ownership rights of this technology from its creator, it did manage to keep this potentially dangerous product out of the hands of the consuming public. Round 1 went to the Federal Government. This stalemate in the courts with this new government forced Ziven Rocov into abject poverty and starvation. The creator of what was originally dubbed SCIN (Systemic Conversion and Integration Normalizer) technology was forced to accept a lucrative contract from the only entity he could legally sell his product to; The Federal States of America. In return, the government abandoned all further attempts to legally pirate his invention. They did, however, become the permanent and soul beneficiaries of the technology. It was in the government's best interest to keep a lid on this technology as much as possible and remove the risk of the citizenry getting their hands on such a thing. If a foreign power were to somehow get their hands on it, reproduce it and start to master it, it could spell the end of all peaceful loving nations (that is, in the flawless wisdom of the Federal States of America). However, rebuilding a government can take its toll on the resources available for such a purpose and with its hand busy with much to do and little to do it with; sometimes secrets slip out of Governmental control. It didn't help that those within the country who had either retained their wealth or gained wealth by exploiting resources during the war found the rumors of trading your identity for a short period of time for that of another person too tempting to resist. Eventually, inquiries about the rumored technology turned into a robust black market for what became known as SKINs and the rest is history. Despite attempts to deny that SKINs existed, most in the general population believed that not only did SKINs exist but were being mass produced by The Federal Government for purposes that were in fact, real, espionage! The constant denials only fueled curiosity, much as they had years before with an incident concerning a weather balloon in a previously unknown town called Roswell, New Mexico. For those with enough money, that curiosity could be satisfied on the black market. This demand drove an insatiable need among the insanely wealthy. No one wanted to be left out of something that had become a fashionable fetish, much like cocaine had been in the early 1970s. Lavish SKIN parties were thrown, most without incident. On a few occasions however, as with cocaine, something horrible would happen. As with any technology, SKINs never worked absolutely correctly each and every time. They were subject to human imperfection, as are all man made products. Every so often, something with the system would fail. This was most often attributed to the failure of Patch Code Transmitters, the system by which ones identity was restored. The reality was that SKINs failed for a host of reasons. Complex mathematical algorithms used in encrypting and decoding stored genetic sequences, had a slight tendency to become confused when physical traits from one form to another were not identical to the state they had been when first transformed. Occasionally, in the case of inter-gender transformations, parts of the genetic transfer would not reverse. Every so often, women would be left without breasts or left with a penis. Rumors of men who had not changed completely abounded, left without their penis' instead retaining the vaginas they had worn while in their alter identity. Most of the time, when there was a problem, the reversal process simply failed all together and people would become trapped in the SKIN they had donned for whatever event they had planned. For the most part however, SKINs worked just as they had been designed to. That is until sometime around 2078. Then something odd began to happen in the population where SKINs were commonly used, the military. The problem was eventually linked to the complex, organic device that stored and retranslated genetic information back to the body, restoring it to its natural state. This device was called a GEM and was programmed with the user's original genetic configuration during the transformation process. It worked by copying an original strand of DNA and imprisoning it within a GEM. GEMs (Gene Encoding Markers) were nothing more than a bio-genetic container that held the DNA material safe from the body until properly stimulated by an encoded frequency. Material, similar in function to a gene helix, GEMs Patch Code Transmitters simply contacted a central computer for the plasma wave sequence that would stimulate the GEM to release its information back to the DNA strand and retransform the user back to their birth configuration. The Patch Code Transmitter then released a plasma wave in the correct frequency that would dump the genetic code back to the gene. Then the GEM would disconnect from the tail of the double helix and become so much biological waste to be flushed out through the pores of the epidermal layer. This gave the appearance that the SKIN had actually burned off, leaving a dry residue like that of ash behind. When this marker failed to deliver its cargo and detach, there was nothing that could override its programming and get the marker to pass along its stored programming that was the road map to the user's original identity. If the marker became damaged in some way or lost its dominant programming, it could not be overridden. Such was the case with scores of SKINs produced after the death of the wife of the director of the SKINs project, Terrence Michales aka Ziven Rocov. Not all SKINs were affected, but a staggering 63% from one template base were. Worse yet, there was a second flaw. This one however would bring down the entire SKINs production plan, cause the death of its inventor and change the face of humanity for all eternity. Ziven Rocov's technology was not reproducible by government technicians. While legal efforts to steal his invention had ceased, everyone understood that one day very soon, Rocov would die and take with him the knowledge and know-how to make advancements and improvements to his system. This was unacceptable to the powers that controlled the program. Ziven was eventually held captive within his own invention to prevent this eventuality. While secretive inquires into the defect resulted in zero definitive findings and nothing was officially published on the matter. In the end it was believed that the unsupervised tampering of a base bio-genetic template to stabilize regulation of hormone levels and maintain stasis at a physical age of 18 to 21 had actually been transferred to the base template from which most SCINs were produced. This was achieved by shutting off the hypothalamus sensitivity to hormones that promote production of human growth hormone and placing it in a homeostasis or a kind of ageless loop. Fragments of memos and unofficial documentation had been found to support that belief, but the references are vague and unsubstantiated by any written official document. What is known is that whatever caused the flaws, the damaged template was used for base bio-genetic design and programming for thousands of other SKINs over the years. The flaws spread like a computer virus through the population of SKIN units being produced over the following 24 years. By the year 2081 eight hundred agents were trapped in their new identities. The decision had been made to scrap the current inventory of SKINs, some 10,523 in number. Among them were the facsimiles of famous entertainers for infiltrating those circles where only the elite are desired and invited. Facsimiles of dignitaries and world leaders on all levels of government, national, international, and even regional were included. Reproductions of common people, living and dead to provide non-descript persona's of regular citizens of every country on earth were represented in this designated batch of 'Field SKINs'. Two, slated for destruction were added to the contaminated batch. These contained the bio-genetic signatures of Ziven Rocov's now dead wife and daughter. They had been pirated by Rocov himself after discovery of his own imprisonment. They were randomly packaged and returned, under clandestine guard, to the manufacturing facility in a small port town on the western bank of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania called Rouston. The amount of money SKINs could fetch on the black market was unheard of and made dealing in this sort of contraband very attractive and lucrative. All one had to do was know where the SKINs were. For the right price, any information can be purchased, and so too was the information about the shipment of more than 10,000 SKINs. This was often sold to an information dealer that would in turn sell what he knew to anyone with the ability to pay his steep prices. The information on this valuable cargo was sold to a Mafia Don in Philadelphia whose plan was to sell each SKIN on the lucrative black market for prices of up to one million dollars for the most desirable of the lot. Hijackers were placed along the shipment route in hopes of diverting the shipment and taking control of a very expensive batch of contraband. Potentially, a shipment this large could be worth $10 billion to the person wily enough to sell them all and get asking price for them. Over 7,000 of them were defective. Large amounts of money were passed in the form of cash chip for information about security, routes of travel, points of departure and destination, planned stops and check points along the way. The plans unfolded slowly but enough information was purchased that an alternate plan was made to relieve the military of their ten-billion-dollar- cargo and place it in the hands of less savory individuals in Philadelphia for distribution. In May of 2082, the entire stockpile of SKINs was detailed for deployment from Miami NAS where they had been collected under guard from various points on the globe, to be shipped back to the production facility for destruction. Rather than flying the cargo back to Rouston, the shipment was slated for ground transportation in the interest of lessening the expense of shipping the cargo. For security reasons, the bill of lading passed to the military shipping and receiving clerk read: "5000 cases of toilet paper." Even with the order to expedite via air, the order was overruled and the shit hit the fan. In transit, the shipment was diverted by force in a nighttime raid on a Tennessee mountain highway just north of the city of Chattanooga. After the theft, the SKINs were then shuffled about from city to city in a kind of weird Three Card Monty to disguise their true location. Until that is, in March of that year, they found their way back to the very city where they had been destine to arrive in the first place, Rouston. These boxes and their contents rested in the bonded area of an import/export warehouse owned and run by the Tatalia family. If you could trace back the history of this wealthy Sicilian family, one might find business dealings that clearly connected them with a succession of La Costa Nostra, whose roots went back as far as 1950's and 60's, to the now defunct Sam Giancana family of New Jersey. One of the lower and least likely members of this house to succeed in hierarchy was a young man by the name of Rodney Tatalia. Brash and conceited, Rodney (who hated the name Rodney) often used his connection to his family to openly extort favors, influence, and women into giving him whatever it was his impulses commanded of him. As far as Rodney was concerned, his status as a member of that family made him untouchable, desirable and totally in control. There was nothing else to it. Even with Rodney's genealogy, his family had come from ancestors who had prided themselves on their blue-collar roots. They were working class people that lived in middle income town homes. While cash was often plentiful, they were not rich. Only those at the top were truly wealthy and distributed the wealth according to position in the family. Rodney's family got only a fallen soldiers pay. His father, now eleven years dead had only been a foot soldier in the family. He had married a cousin in the Bastiano line and was given a piece of the action. He was killed for the family during a gang war shooting and the cousin given a pension. Rodney was given a job with a freight company when he was old enough, but resented the fact that he was nothing more than a clerk and had no real action in the family business. It's no surprise that when he discovered the hijacked shipment of SKINs stored in the warehouse and re-packaged as dog food and stacked back and out of sight at the back of the warehouse, he felt it was well within his rights to help himself to a few. At this time, only the rich and famous could clandestinely enjoy such exotic masquerade parties. Why should he be denied? This was now his family's property. It never once occurred to him that someone might not want him burning any SKINs...let alone run the risk of drawing attention to the to any notion of where they might be. A week later, Rodney had enlisted the help of five friends. He didn't want to be in this alone. Rodney was basically a coward. He understood, in the most rudimentary of fashions, what the risks were. He did not want to be alone if something went wrong. If it did, he would at least have a network of people there he could extort assistance from. They would be, after all, in the same boat as he. Things had started going wrong from the very beginning. The man he had enlisted to drum up volunteers, Gary Shipley, had tricked a highly visible public figure and friend of his to join him, a singer and local icon who Rodney hated. Popular, clean cut and honest to the core, Rodney saw Mike Vello not only as a risk to the evenings festivities because of his visibility in the community, but because he was well liked among those others that had decided to join their little band of enthusiastic volunteers. This was Rodney's show and he didn't need some pushy, snot- nosed singer with a big head trying to steal center stage. The seeds of resentment had found fertile soil in which to grow and grow they did. Things went from bad to worse for the group when Mike drew a SKIN that would change him totally and completely into a woman, an eighteen-year- old girl to be exact. The shock experienced by the group at Mike's appearance after his transformation was profound and multi-fold. The other five that were with the group that night, by chance, each got fully functional, defect free SKINs that had been produced prior to the introduction of the defect that would entrap so many others before the end of the century. Rodney himself had drawn a SKIN that had transformed him into a small young, Chinese man. Also among them now was one black, one Native American and two Caucasians. As each stood marveling over the remarkable changes in their bodies, Gary had started to worry about his friend Mike, who had not yet reappeared from where he had gone to transform. Mike had a habit of chickening out at the last minute. It was one of Mike's many faults that had endeared so much resentment on Rodney's part for Mike. Rodney had made it very clear that the SKINs were linked and once activated for one; they could only be deactivated if all six had been engaged. In truth, Rodney lied. This was his ploy to coerce his fellows to join him for as long as he wanted them to. It was his intention for all of them to stay like this for the weekend. Rodney had been secretively getting cold feet about the theft and transformation. He had even been thinking about cutting his losses and abandoning the venture until Gary found out about it. At that point, turning back was no longer and option for Rodney. Instead he convinced Gary to enlist four more to help share the responsibility and guilt if something did go wrong. Even Rodney understood that if they got caught at this by anyone, it was going to probably spell certain death for them. Rodney had no intention of going alone. Now, it seemed Mike may have cut and run after all, but with the rest of them all SKINed up and no place to go, "Where's your fuckin' friend Shipley?" Rodney scolded nervously. "We can't stay here all fuckin' night." "Nice mouth on you Rod," Gary responded. "Fuck you," replied the small Chinese man with a grin. "Whatever..." Gary breathed dismissing Rodney. He turned in the direction Mike had wandered off in. "Hey Mike!" he called out and listened. "Hey, that's right! Where is Mikey?" asked Kit Garrison; another mutual friend of Gary and Mikes, noticing for the first time they were light one member as he meandered back to the group in his casual almost carefree way of walking. "The guy's a dick," Rodney said getting more and more nervous. "Mike!" Gary and Kit called out together. "Come on out man." Frank called out in a distinctly afro-American voice, "Miiikeeeey, come out, come out, where ever you are." "Hey Mike! Come on out man. Fuck, what an absolute pussy," cried Rodney! In the warehouse, the sound of a door opening and the angry voice of a young lady rang out and echoed off the high ceiling and deep walls of the warehouse. "Hey, fuck you Rod! I'll kick your ass!" It was the incredibly sexy voice of an angry young woman. The boys were shocked into statues and there was nothing but slack jawed faces and silence in the warehouse. Then Norman snickered, covering his mouth trying not to let Mike hear him. That sent the others off, bent over and holding their mouths trying to stifle laughter, all but Gary that is. Gary had a deeply worried look on his face and he stood staring in the direction the voice came from. A weak feminine mumbling came from just on the other side of the boxes that lined the wall of the warehouse offices. Clearly, Gary thought, something unexpected has happened to Mike. Frank stood up and cried. "Alright, we've got BABEAGE!" Norman hissed, "YESSS!" Gary turned angrily to the four and they snickered quietly among themselves. "Shut up you guys!" He then turned back to the direction of the voice, but no one did. So he said again, louder this time, "Shut up! That you Mike? What's happened? You sound, ah ... different." That same sweet, soft voice came floating back over the boxes, "Ha! You don't know the half of it." Whoever Mike had become, he could hear the edge in her voice and could tell that she was terribly shaken and scared. The edge in her voice sounded very similar to other girls he had known when they were on the verge of crying but trying hard to be strong in the moment. "Damn! She sounds hot as hell," Rodney marveled. Gone was Rodney's inhibition and worry about the SKINs or whether or not they would get caught. He wanted to see what magic thing Mike had become. He was now considering how he could extort sex in return for changing Mike back. If she looked as good as she sounded, he would have to think long and hard on a way to get her to do a favor for him before he did any favors for her. Rodney immediately and covertly set the patch code transmitter to a 48 eight hour lockout period and pressed accept. For Rodney, it seemed to be just enough time to figure out the details of how to control his escape while preventing Mike from returning to his life. "I said to shut the fuck up Rodney, right now! That 'she' is Mike and you'd better remember he's my best friend, asshole!" Gary ordered Rodney. "Fuck off man; I'm just having a little fun! And don't call me Rodney. You know I hate that." Gary turned to Rodney and Rodney backed up a step. "Gary, I was just kidding man." "Relax Rod, I just need to ask you a question," Gary whispered. Nervously, Rodney asked quietly, "Sure pal, what is it?" "Mike isn't going to want to follow through on this, you know that don't you?" "Why?" Rodney asked acting surprised. Gary raised his eyebrows in equal surprise at Rod's question. "Well, considering what's happened, would you?" "He promised Gary. That was the deal. If I end it for him it ends for all of us. I don't dare take another six SKINs." "I'm not talking about starting over, but you can't expect Mike to stay like that. I'm sorry Rodney, but it has to stop now." "It can't man," Rodney insisted. "You don't understand Rod..." Gary began but Rodney cut him off. "No, you don't understand." Rod said, putting his index finger in Gary's chest for emphasis, "These things come with a 48 hour lock out period." Rodney turned the transmitters display window so Gary could see the clock counting backwards in the corner with the abbreviation LOT 47:50:19. "Oh man..." Gary groaned running his fingers through his hair frustrated. "He is not going to be happy about this." Gary turned away resolved to face Mike with a truth that would undoubtedly look as if it were Gary's fault. Rodney had managed to buy the time he needed to figure out what he had to do to get into her panties. Rodney wanted to see her. He was reveling in the knowledge that he controlled Mike's fate now. He was even toying with the idea of keeping him prisoner permanently and stringing him along indefinitely. Why not, Mike was a non-person now. As a girl, he would be dependent on anyone that controlled the patch code transmitter. Suddenly the idea of leaving Mike stranded, as a woman, didn't seem threatening in the least. The idea of exercising that kind of control was causing a small tree to grow in Rodney's pants. First things first, draw her out and see what she looks like. In his friendliest voice Rodney called, "Come on out Mikey. We'll stop. Just come on out so we can get the fuck outta here!" Once more that feminine voice spoke, this time out of character with a sound so delicate. "A-fuckin'-men to that!" The girl that appeared from behind the boxes a moment later was stunningly beautiful. Each of the men there stood with open mouths and breathed out accolades in shallow breaths of surpassed pleasure. Each one was totally shocked at the totality of the transformation, in spite of the obvious fact of their own changes. Rodney decided then and there to force her to be his under the guise trying to free her from her prison. In his heart he had no intention of ever letting her go however. Rodney saw this as divine intervention. She was clearly meant for him. As the evening wore on however, she quickly aligned herself with Gary choosing to trust her long time friend. This frustrated Rodney to the point where Rodney felt he had to assert his masculine dominance over her after she rebuked him for doing nothing worse than looking up her shirt. He, as his father had done, and his father before him decided what this girl needed was a reminder of her place in this new world. His aim was to beat her into that understanding. Before he got the chance, Gary effectively stopped him by beating a little sense into Rodney first. This only served to fuel the fires of hatred for Mike even more. 'No way is he ever going to be Mike again, no matter what it costs,' thought Rodney. Gary had decided to split from the group and Mike decided to leave with him. Rodney wondered if there was no limit to the frustration Gary and Mike could heap on him. In the end, Rodney mused, it would make little difference. When everyone but Mike returned to their lives, she would be totally dependent on him. He would take the weekend to think about what to do to make his fantasy a reality. They parted company under the appearance of friendship and forgiveness that neither Mike nor Rodney truly felt toward one another. The weekend passed and Rodney, the Chinese boy, brooded angrily over his treatment at the hands of a woman, a woman that had publicly humiliated him in front of his friends. Who had rebuked and scolded him, a woman that was a prison for a man that he didn't like to begin with. On Saturday night a plan had begun to emerge. That night, Rodney became aware that there were people looking for Mike, who was for lack of a better phrase, incommunicado. At first Rodney fretted over this. Upon thinking about it however, he found that since Mike had known nothing about the purpose of the gathering until it was actually time to go to the warehouse. There would be no evidence to where they might have all gone. There was no news that anyone had seen him leave with five other boys the night before. Even if there were witnesses, by the time anyone came forward and Police Services began asking questions, everyone would be back in their respective places. Everyone but Mike that is. No one would speak up for fear of what would happen to each of them or to Mike. For the first time, the loyalty of Mike's friends was going to be a useful tool toward Rodney's purposes. By Sunday morning (to Rodney's surprise), Police were looking for a man wanted for questioning in Mike's disappearance. The description of the man matched closely to that of the identity Gary Shipley had assumed two nights ago. Police had no reason to suspect anyone else. They had a witness; some bitch Mike had been boinking, who claimed she had seen Mike Saturday. Rodney listened to the VID broadcast in the early morning hours in the bedroom of his home in West Rouston, near the affluent Old Town district as his three companions slept spilled about on the floor of the living room. He didn't want anyone else to hear about this, it would only serve to spread panic. They would want to go alert Gary and Mike and hide someplace with them until the time was triggered. Rodney reached in behind his VID, one of two in his small home, and opened the service panel and removed a small low voltage wire from a ballast that powered up the entire unit. He quietly performed the same maneuver on his living room unit. He then woke Kit and told him he was making a run for some cigarettes. No one would ever know that it had been Rodney that alerted Police Services to the area where they might find the man wanted for questioning in the Vello investigation while on his errand for black market cancer sticks that morning. He had no fear of hiding his face. Soon enough it would not be his or anyone else's face for that matter. Assuming that they would both be on foot, Rodney informed him that they might be seen traveling the road south of the Franklin overpass sometime between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m., right about the time they were due to show up at the warehouse to shed their SKINs. In Rodney's mind it would be safer for him to have them picked up on the way to the warehouse rather than where he suspected they were staying, at Gary's parent's home. They certainly weren't at Mike's place, at least, not with the cops on alert now. If for some reason they weren't there, it would simply alert the cops that Gary had a connection to it and that could lead them back to Rodney easily. Once picked up, they would hold their tongues about what had happened or risk involving every one of their friends as well. Loyalty could be a very useful tool at times. When he got back twenty minutes later, Norman, Kit and Frank were gathered around the back of the VID trying to make it work. "Hey, you must have had some kind of power surge in the night. None of these work!" Frank declared. "That's funny, I had mine on just before I left," Rodney said curiously. He went to his bedroom, they assumed to double check. "Hum. You're right. It doesn't." When Rodney came out of the bedroom, everyone was looking at Norman. "What? I didn't do nothin'! I swear!" "It's okay Norm. This place has electrical problems," Rodney admitted. "We'll just have to play poker or something until it's time to go." After the four scrounged around for something to eat in a general male style foraging, food free-for-all, they sat and played rummy and poker all afternoon. At around one, Kit excused himself and went to sit on the porch and free himself from the stale smoky room. Ten minutes into his sabbatical, he received a call from Gary around 1:00 on his pocket VID. He relayed to Kit that he had a funny feeling about something and that he wanted Kit to grab a HOV and pick Michelle up on the corner of Market and 10th streets near her old dorm building. I'll be along a few minutes later." "Michelle? Oh you mean Mike!" "Yeah, Mike that's right. Just make sure of something for me." "What's that buddy?" Kit said cheerfully. "Make sure that no matter what happens, if I don't show up in ten minutes, you get her to the warehouse." "What's up Gary? Talk to me." "I'm not sure it's anything, but my back is up in hackles and I feel like I should be scared that something is about to happen." "I don't like this kind of talk Gary. It's insubstantial. It doesn't tell me anything," Kit admitted then deeply troubled that Gary was trying to protect more than communicate. "Pal, there are some things in this world that will die silent deaths before you can hope to understand them," Gary said. "What the fuck does that mean?" Kit queried. "There are some things you're just not ready to hear," Gary claimed and then laughed with absolute glee. It seemed to Kit that it was the first time he had ever heard Gary laugh with such lightness in his heart. "Sounds like you had a pretty good experience so far." "You could say that, with a few exceptions," Gary confided. "Oh?" Kit asked. "Later, we'll talk later about that." "Sure," Kit agreed, "so, how's Mike doing anyway?" "She's sleeping. I just snuck out to arrange this. I need to get back there before she finds I'm gone." Kit's mind felt as if it had sprung a leek some place. 'Snuck out? Finds out he's gone? Just what the fuck are you two doing over there ole' buddy o' mine?' he thought and dismissed it. He considered that Mike was probably in a bad way and Gary was doing all he could to comfort him through his difficult time. It was best that Mike slept through it anyway, less trauma to deal with later after he changed back. "All right pal, I'll meet you and Mike at the corner on Market, at when, 5:30 or so?" "That's good, I'll be there as soon as I can, but Kit, you have to promise me. No matter what, get Michelle out of this. If I'm not there, then go! Don't wait. Don't risk Michelle's life on this." "Shit. There you go scaring me again!" Kit cried. "I'm sorry, but I promised her I would fix this. No matter what, don't let her hold you up. Do you understand?" "Yeah, yeah, but I wish you would do something for me in return?" "I'll try Kit." "Stop referring to Mike as 'Her' or 'Michelle' if you please." Gary could only laugh that light-hearted laugh again as he disconnected the up-link leaving Kit curious and worried. Kit left three hours later. He said he would meet everyone else there as he strode out the door. Rodney caught him by the arm and demanded to know where he was going. "Off to take care of a few things. I'll be there, don't worry." Rodney spouted off, "I'm NOT worried. Just how the hell are we supposed to get there if you take the HOV?" "Walk, ride a bike, fucking fly, I don't care. I have some things to do, so get your fucking hand off me." Kit guarded his answers closely now. He was disturbed by the things Rodney had spoken of all weekend, mostly about Mike and how if Mike was going to have to get used to things being a little different from here on out. He talked about how he hated the way the world bowed down to guys like Mike just because they could jump around like a monkey on a chain dancing to the music from a Herdi Gerdi. Rodney told the three of them that, "Guys like him didn't understand what the world was about and how you had to fight for everything you got and then you had to fight some more just to keep it from being taken away again. Fuckers like Vello have the whole world handed to them. Why, because that fag can sing a little song and dance a little dance? Well that whore can dance for her supper now, can't she? The little fag got exactly what she deserved." Rodney sailed off into gales of laughter at his own joke, while Frank and Kit stared back and forth between each other and Rodney. Norman didn't know whether to laugh or stare so he did both intermittently just to be sure he was on the right side of the political fence at least half the time. "Don't go near them..." Rodney warned. "Why Rod?" Kit demanded. He stammered for just a second, then said: "For the same reason we all stayed inside for the most part, to avoid public contact. They took off on their own. They have their plans. Don't complicate this when we're all so close to ending this thing." "Well Rod, I'm part of their plans. They're my friends. Shit, I should have gone with them this weekend. If I trusted you at all, I probably would have but I felt it was safer to keep an eye on you. Gary was right; I have a creepy feeling that something's going on here. I think it's you. I can't prove that, but I can prove this. You're one slimy asshole Rodney. Don't fuck us!" Kit shoved one finger into Rodney's chest on each syllable for emphasis. "Do you understand that?" Rodney said nothing, only scowled in his now famous Chinese scowl and grudgingly let Kit go. The only thing Kit could do now was get wrapped up in the dragnet the police were setting up. Shame too, he had kind of liked Kit. Rodney went about the rest of the hour pretending that nothing was bothering him, but inside he knew things were unraveling. He had set in motion the wheels of a machine he could not turn off now. If things were getting so far out of control now, what would happen in an hour, or two let alone four when the timer ran out was anybody's guess. He silently wished he had never set that timer. He would have activated that transmitter then and cut and run. He was no longer sure that he would even get away with taking the SKINs. He knew that this was a big deal for Pappa, the head of their family. Acquiring this product had been a dangerous risk so he had heard. Now he was beginning to see why. Rodney was running an even larger risk by drawing attention two people that didn't even really exist. He felt confident enough that neither Mike nor Gary would open their mouths about the SKINs, not as long as their other friends were mixed up in this as well. Caught SKINned would just have to remain their problem. Stuck for the rest of their lives inside their current bodies would be a small price to pay compared to what might wait them if they didn't. To say that Rodney was a bit slow on the up chuck was a profound understatement. Rodney and his two remaining followers entered the warehouse at 5:30 p.m. He would have to wait to make it look good. He suspected that Kit, Gary and Mike were already in custody however. At seven the sound of police sirens could be heard outside racing toward the harbor. The sound of the crash of Kit's HOV (later reported stolen) could not be heard from within the walls of the deserted warehouse. Gary had crept in the back door of the warehouse. Rodney was silently surprised and furious when Gary walked in soaking wet but alone and described what had happened. Gary was frantic and nervous, demanding that everyone get ready to change back the second Kit and Michelle came in. Michelle? It's Michelle now? He was jealous! Gary had slept with her too. He knew it. Deep down inside, though he had no proof, he knew Gary had made her his own. Rodney boiled with hate and rage inside. While Rodney stewed inside his mind, Gary left to watch the back doors to the warehouse thinking that with Police Services less than a half a mile away, Kit and Michelle might try to stay out of sight and use the back entrance. Instead, they came in the front alluding Gary's watchful eye. Michelle was distraught. Her belief was that Gary was gone, claimed by the waters of the harbor and a HOV that was currently burrowing a hole to China through the river bottom of the Susquehanna. Rodney saw one more opportunity to drive her off and put her out of reach of the signal. He had to subtly convince her that she was responsible for Gary's death, make her run away from what he would present as the truth. His delivery was harsh and brazened with innuendo. He watched as this girl wilted more and more under the weight of her own guilt like a rose dipped in bleach. Kit approached, angrily defending her and Rodney attacked him as well. He could see hate for him in her eyes and he understood that she would never submit to his will. She belonged to Gary and he wanted to kill her for that. Frank and Norman were shocked into silence by Rodney's callousness and their confusion as to the purpose of lying to Kit and Mike this way. He knew perfectly well that Gary was at the back of the warehouse. Then she was up and off. She ran through the warehouse. He could hear her sneakers pounding the concrete floor coming from the direction of the back door. She was already out of range. He was ready to simply activate the transmitter and seal both Gary and this girl, Michelle to their fates when something caught his attention. There was sound, conversation coming from that same direction. Several of them moved toward that direction to look and see what was going on, thwarting Rodney's plan. He could not leave them all in their SKINs. He might be able to get away with trapping Gary, then turning him into police for Mike's murder and salvage something with the girl. A life in jail for murder would still be better than being turned over to the Feds as a SKIN user or worse, facing Pappa's wrath. He would protect Michelle. But now everyone was watching as they came out from the back of the warehouse. None of Rodney's plans had worked. They would all be within range of the transmitter when it activated. Gary, sodden and Michelle, her arms around his waist came from behind stacks of boxes, all their friends smiling at them, for them. It seemed they were smiling for them and at the same time sneering at him. They would all go back and his vengeance on Vello would remain incomplete. They stood in a circle. It came to Rodney to heap one last humiliation on Mike before it was over. He instructed them that the signal might be blocked if they remained clothed. It was a small victory, but a sweet one, when she disrobed he saw the incredible beauty of the woman he wanted so badly. It made his heart ache for her. The countdown began and when it was over, it was all just beginning again. Something had gone wrong. Rodney was secretly overjoyed at the results, though he had nothing to do with it. Mike did not go back to being Mike. As if in a dream for Rodney, The SKIN Mike was in never released him, he was still sealed in the beautiful body of the young girl he had become two days ago. Everyone else returned to normal, but when they all looked, there was the girl as beautiful as before trapped and now a permanent member of their world. Once again, Rodney sported an enormous boner thinking of what Mike must feel like trapped in there. 'For all time,' Rodney thought. 'For all time.' It brought a smile to his face for just a second. He was careful not to let anyone see that smile, least someone think he had something to do with this unfortunate accident. With those thoughts he almost broke out in hysterical laughter. It took all his control not to let his joy slip away from him. Then all was madness and he found he was under attack by a much stronger and faster Gary. Rodney understood that Gary was being driven by anger and love now. Rodney knew that his life was in danger and recoiled against that idea desperately begging to avoid being seriously hurt or killed. His family could not help him right now. He had to play along and live another day. When it ended, Michelle had run off. Three of them had agreed to search for her. Norman was told to go home and say nothing to anyone ever about this incident. He never did. It wasn't long after that Norman was torn apart by the jetwash of a HOV he passed too close to while crossing the street. Police said he apparently was paying too much attention to the ice cream he was eating and not enough attention to his surroundings. Michelle was found three days later. By then, the Mike Vello mystery was front-page news as was the way the cops had bungled the pursuit of the man wanted for questioning in Mike's disappearance. Gary Shipley's name was advanced as a suspect when no other leads could be established. He had been seen entering the dorm building the night before with several other men. It was not clear if Vello had left with them almost an hour later. The five men questioned all claimed that Mike had remained at home all night. Interviews with his neighbors reveled that there were sounds of conversation coming from Mike's room later that evening. That two voices were heard one that could have been Mikes voice, though if it was he didn't sound well. One young student next door even said he had heard a woman crying from Mike's room. There was another voice. This one was deep and rich and unfamiliar. Had that been the man Sandy Cochran had encountered the following morning? Police concluded it had been. Still, police needed this case closed one way or the other. The citizens of Rouston were antsy over this. It was unsettling when a kid, a seemingly good kid with a promising future, was taken and no one could find clue one about who had done it. No, that didn't sit well with the public. Shipley's name came up over and over again, mostly in the company of one Detective Callahan. The contrived leads ran nowhere however. Gary had an alibi. He had been with his girlfriend the entire weekend. He even had his mother and fathers testimony to back up the use of the house. Political pressure came from on high to leave the Shipleys alone if there was not some credible evidence that Gary was somehow evolved. The accusations were eventually dropped, much to the chagrin of Detective Callahan. A grand jury eventually concluded that too many witnesses had seen and heard an unidentified man in the residence of Mike Vello long after Shipley's last known contact with the Vello youth. There was no evidence to directly link Shipley to the disappearance of Mike Vello. The investigation into Gary Shipley was halted. By August, Norman, the unpredictable member of their cast of players, was dead. In September, Rodney who was still working at his Uncle Joey's warehouse as a shipping and receiving clerk was asked one Friday night to stay late and book in a shipment coming in from one of their houses in Vegas. It was the kind of work Rodney liked. These were usually shipments of narcotics such as Heat or maybe something else equally as exotic. By nine o'clock, excitement had waned to boredom. Vinnie Kellamen, Joey's warehouse foreman came by and told Rodney his Uncle wanted to see him in his office Rodney was grateful for the distraction and happily laid down his VID pen and trotted into his Uncle's office. "Yo!" Rodney declared. "Hiya Rod. Have a seat buddy," Joey said. Joey was an impressive man, Six feet two inches tall, jet-black hair he didn't have to color at the age of forty-eight and every inch the appearance of a New Jersey hit man. Joseph Fenelly, brother to Rodney's mother, was dressed in a tight black T-shirt; black pressed slacks, black shoes with black socks. He wore a Cartier belt with a modest silver buckle. On his left hand was a huge gold and diamond pinky ring. On his right wrist was a heavy gold Cartier chain bracelet. His huge barrel chest and muscular arms displayed the signs of a man well trained in all manners of physical activity. Even at his age and size he was agile and fast. He was the enforcer for the unions at the docks. Joey was also the heir to Tatalia family when Paul Bastiano gave up leadership. Should he survive, Rodney, he would be the man running the show when his own Uncle died. At least, that's what Rodney thought. "What's up Joey?" "You've been workin' real hard around here lately," he said and smiled. "You noticed?" Rodney asked smiling, obviously pleased. "I see things... I always see what's going on around me Rod." "Good. I'm glad I'm making you proud Uncle Joey." "Proud? Proud is such a weak word for what I'm feeling." He got up, still smiling. His movements were slow and casual. He was open with his body language and friendly and warm. Rodney was totally at ease with the company of the room. Behind him, Vinnie opened the door and walked in with a huge grin on his face and a polywrap bag in his hand. Rodney turned, smiled and said: "Hey Vin...." FLASH! Rodney's words were obliterated by a bolt of lighting that seared through his head with alarming speed and heat. It had seemingly come from someplace deep within Rodney's head. Rodney was vaguely aware that he had been forced back into the seat of the chair by whatever had hit him. Pain began to bubble up from deep within him. It spread itself over his face from the center and outward toward his cheeks, jaw and eyes. He brought one hand up to the place where his nose should have been but all that was there was a bloody, pulpy stump that had split wide open exposing what felt like soft bone. He withdrew his hand and was about to scream when another flash exploded in his head. FLASH! This time the pain was immediate and gigantic. It seemed to fill every corner of the world for him. The universe was pain and it was bearing down directly in the center of Rodney's face. He felt himself blown from his seat and onto the floor where he whipped his arms and legs around wildly, writhing in pain. Rodney lay there for a moment hoping the pain would, at least, stop intensifying. He was dimly aware that he was blowing a fountain of sticky, frothy bubbles of what must have been blood through the open hole where his nose had once been. Rodney could feel his eyes swelling shut. He tried to open his eyes to see what was happening as the cloud of shock was diminishing and a fresh wave of pain blasted through the haze into the fiber of his being. Blood poured into them before he could get them closed again and the salt from his fluids only served to burn his eyes on top of the pain he already suffered. Rodney screamed like some high pitched animal from the jungle, caught in the grips of a great predator, "IIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" A river of blood flowed down from his destroyed nose into his open mouth and he choked, coughing as it filled his airway. The blood traveled back into the hole where his nose had once been. He was drowning in his own fluids. His breathing made thick wet clicks and gurgles as the blood choked his lungs. Left this way, he would have died in a matter of minutes. Somewhere far, far away there were voices. One voice sounded as if it were perhaps down some deep, narrow tunnel. "Jesus Christ Joey, you split his face wide open!" The other was