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"I'm bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored."

"I get it," Neeka replied to my mostly rhetorical and utterly unnecessary outburst. "You're bored."

"Maybe 'bored' is the wrong word. I have needs that aren't being met."

"You can't need to get laid. You spent most of last night letting Jeff fuck you stupid. He succeeded, by the way."

"Did we keep you awake?"

"No, I was up anyway. Birdlistening."

"Don't you mean 'birdwatching'?"

"No I was awake and listening to the love song of the large-breasted boyfucker."

"You're just jealous."

"I'm just sleep-deprived. Ignore my ramblings. What 'needs' are you talking about?"

"Read my mind and see."

"Pass. You might infect my brain with whatever weird malaise you think you've got. I'm probably susceptible at the moment, so just tell me."

"I feel that I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing."

"Oh right. You haven't saved anyone in a couple of weeks. You're going into superheroine withdrawal. Poor Sam."

"Save the pity. I need to do something. Something useful."

"I understand. I even approve. But after that fiasco in Nevada, Solomon probably thinks it's best if everyone kept their heads down for a while. He's not going to send anyone out unless it's a dire emergency. That means no proactive black-ops and especially no personal crusades. So forget about trying to track Bernie down just to satisfy your curiosity about what he's up to."

"He's got himself a freaking flying-saucer and who-knows-what alien technology! Someone should be worried about that!"

"You told Mr. Solomon we'd find out soon enough what Bernie is planning. You also seem pretty sure he's given up on his Apocalypse fixation."

"Yes, I am. I convinced him that it was redundant. He said he'd find something else to occupy his time. Only no one seems interested in finding out what that is."

"Except you. Waiting is."

"What's that? Yoda?"

"Heinlein. How about 'patience, grasshopper'?"

"I need to be doing something!"

"I'm guessing that's different from 'I need something to do'. As in, helping with the housework."

"You want to go out looking for trouble again? Like we used to do when we started?"

"Not me. I need to stay here and study for my Military History exam."

"You still planning on getting a PhD in that? I thought you were just taking tech courses."

"Maybe someday. Bachelors first. I got interested in it, and the credits transfer. Besides, we're living with the world's leading authority on the subject. I'd be a fool not to take advantage of that."

"Even if what she tells us contradicts what the books say half the time? And puts a different spin on things the rest of the time?"

"Haven't caught her being wrong yet. The books are based on hearsay and other books. Leonora is the horse's mouth when it comes to this stuff. She lived through most of it. Heck, she's probably responsible for a lot of it."

"Yeah, but when she says Dracula was a righteous dude who got a lot of bad press, it makes me wonder."

"That the world isn't the place you thought it was? You mean that actual place without metahumans in it?"

"Touchè. Look, I'm going for a walk. I'll be back ... whenever."

"Going to look for trouble or stir some up?"

"I haven't decided."

"Don't forget your phone."

I was already reaching for my fanny-pack. It was sitting on the end of the table behind the sofa where I could grab it on my way out. In it was my phone – in an unknown condition of charge, my collection of IDs – the usefulness of which was questionable for the moment since there was a possibility Solomon's moratorium might extend to getting me disavowed if I pulled one out; one tightly-folded, custom-made and little-used fighting suit; several energy bars, and an assortment of wickedly-sharp throwing-stars that I really needed to practice with more. I would have picked it up and strapped it on without thinking, except Neeka's reminder to do just that suddenly made me question the habit. Was there anything in there that I really expected to need? Probably not. Anything I couldn't do without? I sniffed at the idea and in a rebellious snit I swept on out the door with nothing but the clothes on my back − and the absolute minimum of those.

In this case, said outfit included one pair of denim shorts that I'd butchered with a pair of shears while trying to make them look cooler. I'd inadvertently reduced the crotch to just enough seam to keep them from being a micro-skirt, which meant I had to wear them low on my hips or that seam would ride up and make me walk funny.

My top was an also-mutilated t-shirt that I'd cropped right through the logo for a local bar that I probably wouldn't be welcome in, if I ever went back there again.

Overall it was basically the same stuff I wore most of the time. Easy on, easy off, easily trashed with no regrets if it became necessary to strip-down so I could Change into another form. Usually mythical, since I didn't want to be mistaken for some escaped zoo creature. Always fearsome, since that was the whole point. And frequently scaly, because ... well, scales rock. Hey, I'm not called The Dragon for nothing.

The bane of being barefoot at the beach is hot sand and sharp seashells. Neither of which bothered me, since I could scale-up the soles of my feet. Walking around on armored tootsies is proof against everything up to - and possibly including - land mines. Which means that my favorite black cross-trainers are also unnecessary.

Clothes in general are an optional item for me, required only when societal norms need to be followed and to prevent people from being distracted at inopportune moments. On the beach, it's normal to wear as little as possible. Going topless is common on the private sections and total nudity only attracts the attention of the telescope and binocular crowd, who somehow never feel the need to complain about the view.

On the public side of the street, there are rules and expectations that are mostly followed, although I have seen other girls push the limits pretty far. So far, I have managed not to appear in public stark- naked, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time before some local law enforcement officer asks me where my clothes are, and I can't answer the question because I honestly just forgot to put any on before venturing out.

Also, so far, we've managed to avoid contact with the local constabulary. Not because of any particular policy on our part or of Mr. Solomon's, but simply because we never thought there would be a reason for them to be aware of our presence.

The same was true for the base personnel. Need-to-know kept everything compartmented and unless we ran into people we'd worked with, or somehow managed to 'out' ourselves [me] to, no one knew there was a team of superheroes close by. Well, at least no one pointed and shouted. I'm sure more people knew than anyone really wanted, but the ones who did, were able to keep their pie-holes shut about it. Score one for professionalism.

So when the cruiser appeared ahead of me and slowed down as it approached, I was reasonably sure it hadn't been sent to find me. The way the driver stared as he rolled slowly past, then did a U-turn in the middle of the road to come up behind me probably didn't have anything to do with who I was underneath my skin, but more-likely just the skin and the contours thereof.

"Hello, Officer!" I said, brightly, as soon as he'd rolled his window down. I bent over to look inside. The first thing I noticed was that his sunglasses didn't quite hide the fact that he wasn't looking directly at my face, but somewhat lower, at the considerable amount of cleavage I was displaying.

"Morning Miss. You're not lost, or anything, are you?"

"No, just out for a walk."

"Most folks walk on the beach. This isn't a real busy stretch of road here, but the tourists can come flying through without realizing they're coming up on a town."

"I live down the road. I've done the beach. I thought I'd walk up here for a change."

"Uh, well, I just ... thought I'd make sure you were OK."

"I'm fine. Really. I appreciate you checking, but I'm all good. I've even got half a bottle of sunscreen on so I won't burn."

"Yeah, I was ... nevermind. You have a good day, OK?"

"Same to you, Officer..." I tilted my head over and peered at the tag on his chest. "Halpern."

I always tried to get a name when I ran into a LEO, even someone I never expected to see again. One, it made things more personal for the both of us. And two, just because I didn't expect something didn't mean it was automatically impossible. Halpern flashed a quick smile at my attempt at being friendly and pulled away.

Expecting the unexpected was something Leonora had tried to teach me. She did it by quoting the line from Hamlet - "more things than are dreamt-of in your philosophy". Only while she agreed that it was from the play, she insisted that the author was really some guy named Marlowe and not Shakespeare. She said the confusion came about because Marlowe didn't want his name associated with plays that he didn't think were his best work, and so attributed them to another playwright, effectively giving away the credit while still letting them be performed. She said while it was ironic that the plays Marlowe thought were inferior were the ones that would be the most popular and the best remembered, this sort of thing happens a lot. She cited the continued popularity of old TV shows like Gilligan's Island as evidence for the phenomenon. After watching a few of those, I saw her point. They are hilarious, but whoever wrote them probably didn't list that credit high up on their resume when going after serious work.

I walked away down the road. After sitting and watching me amble away for the better part of a minute, Officer Halpern pulled another U-turn and headed toward town.

My remark about the sunscreen was just to stop him worrying about the large amount of skin I was exposing to the sun. My golden tan isn't the result of sunbathing. When your skin can turn bullets, a little UV isn't that much of a problem. I'm pretty sure the color of my skin is an unconscious projection of an idealized self-image. At least, Monty thinks so, and he's probably the world's leading authority on metahumans. When in doubt – defer to authority. Not exactly my motto, but an easy-out.

Further on down the road, I realized that I was enjoying myself. Not the scenery or the weather, both of which were nice, but simple physical movement. Left foot, right foot, left foot, repeat. It had a surprizingly effective soothing effect, one that was more hypnotic than I realized. I completely fogged and found myself a good distance away before I noticed.

What brought me out of my happy fugue was hearing a string of profanity shouted loudly enough to rise above the sound of the surf. I stopped and looked around, belatedly focusing on my surroundings. The road had jogged away from the shore where I was and the water was barely visible beyond a series of low dunes so grown over with sea-oats so they looked like green humps in front of a blue-green sea. Between the closest two humps I could see that someone had managed to get their car stuck in the sand.

It's a fairly common problem that newbs get into at the beach – driving out onto the sand and getting stuck. You're not supposed to drive on the beach at all. This is pretty strictly enforced in most places. People who are allowed to do it – beach patrol, the folks who rent umbrellas and chairs, scientists checking on sea-turtle nests, and so forth, have big tires on their vehicles and go real slow so they don't get bogged down. Newbs always hit the gas too hard and sink their wheels before they realize what they've done.

With my reverie wrecked and nothing else to do, I made my way between the dunes to check things out.

It turned out to be two guys and a really old car that had so many bits replaced with mis-matched paint and so many spots of bondo and primer that I couldn't guess at the original color, the manufacturer, or even the make.

"You guys having trouble?" I asked, startling the one who was in back trying to push the car.

"Shit! Yeah, you could say we're ... hell-o." Halfway through his reply he'd bothered to turn his head and look at me. This caused his original irritated tone to change to a much kinder one.

"Hello yourself," I replied, and for a similar reason. A torso of the kind that sculptors love to chisel out of marble. Pecs! Abs! And damn little fat on them. Even the ratty pair of knit shorts he wore looked good on him. I could make out a big dimple in his butt where the wind made the cotton cloth cling to him. I had an urge to walk around behind him to get him to turn so I could see what the breeze and thin cloth could tell me about his groin.

Being the sort of weak-willed person I am, I gave in to the urge. I couldn't tell his religion, but the rest of the information I was able to glean was delightful. My next urge was to jump on him and push him back onto the back of the car and rub myself all over that taut, milk-chocolate-colored skin. I was close to giving in to that one too when the second guy rolled out from behind the steering wheel. Also shirtless, he was just as muscular as his friend, but not as lean and chiseled. He wore a pair of khaki cargo shorts and flip-flops. Oh, he was also Caucasian, where his companion ... wasn't.

Here I feel compelled to discuss the subject of Race. Or more specifically, Racism. I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not judge people based on the color of their skin. I confess that I do make a lot of judgments based on that they have tucked away in their shorts. I suppose this makes me an equal-opportunity nymphomaniac. I'd also like to point out that one of the people I have a relationship with – albeit a strange and distant one – is probably blacker than any naturally Black person you will ever see. Bernie is beyond Black. He's so dark, he could be a hole in the night. I just wanted to get that out of the way.

The next prejudice that reared its head was that whenever I see two hunky guys together, the first thing I assume is that they have to be gay. This isn't an unreasoned assumption. Good-looking guys who hang out together often turn out to be into each other. Sometimes they just don't realize it. Sometimes they even deny it, but two guys who would rather hang with each other than with someone of the opposite sex means that there is Something Going On.

This possibility was immediately proven false by a classic 'tell'. Something that guys do that lets you know they are interested in you. Girls are more subtle – or think we are. A smile, prolonged eye-contact, batting our eyelashes, a change in posture to put our best feature in the best light – these are signs that a girl is interested in someone. Subtle stuff. The Black guy reached down and tugged his dingus over into a more comfortable position, one that happened to align it with his inner thigh and gave me a better idea of its overall size. Not very subtle, but quite effective nonetheless.

"Can we help you?" The driver asked. He reached behind him and tugged at the waistband of his shorts in the back. I'd seen that motion before as well. People who carry pistols tucked into their pants do it to make sure they can draw cleanly if they need to. He left the hand resting on his hip, knuckles in.

The possibility of them being armed didn't trigger any alarms for me. I'm around a lot – and I do mean a lot – of people who carry and use guns. My friend and partner Neeka being first and foremost in that group. The rest being various Law Enforcement agents, military people, and black-ops groups like Sigma Seven, who carry so much hardware when they go into the field that it's almost funny to see them walk around armed to the molars.

I'd been around so many heavily-armed guys that I'd mostly quit trying to make a case for the theory that the preferred caliber of a guy's gun is in an inverse relationship to the size of his cock. Mostly. I don't need an excuse to look, but it's handy to have one sometimes.

No, the thing that got me wondering was that he'd asked me a question that, under the circumstances was actually mine to ask.

"I was about to ask you that," I said. "I can see you're stuck. Have you called a tow-truck?"

"No. We figured we could rock it out. You live around here?"

"No. If you need a phone, I..." My hand went to the spot where my fanny-pack usually rode before I remember that I wasn't wearing it. "Ah. Sorry," I said, lamely. "I left it home."

"So you're out here by yourself?"

"Yeah. Looks like."

This seemed to set his mind at ease. He dropped his right hand to his side and smiled. I smiled back. He'd decided I wasn't a threat. Why he'd thought I might be a threat was an open question and one I couldn't guess at the answer to without more info. If this turned into some kind of adversarial situation, then he was in for a major surprize.

"Need a hand getting your car unstuck?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

Neither of them actually laughed out loud, for which consideration I was grateful. But they did both smile a lot wider at the notion that a five-foot and not-much, hundred-pound and-a-few-more-than-I'd-like girl could be much use at freeing their car from the sand.

My usual reaction to that kind of condescension is immediate and harsh. This was one of those rare occasions when I felt mellow enough to ignore it. For the moment, anyway. If they kept it up, there might be a little demonstration in order. After which, an ambulance might be necessary.

Instead, I squared my shoulders and put my fists on my hips to show my opinion of their disdain. My clearly telegraphed message failed to get through. Squaring my shoulders had pushed my chest tighter against the thin cloth of my cheap t-shirt. Instead of accentuating my resolve to assist, I only managed to divert their attention to my HH-cup boobs.

Having guys stare at your boobs gets awkward. The speed with which it gets awkward is in proportion to your bra size. Bigger boobs justify longer stares. Girls learn to cope with the implied flattery. In my case, the awkwardness can run on so long it gets funny.

I wanted to snap my fingers and do the old "Guys? My face is up here!" thing. The only reason I didn't is how much of a cliché that is. Instead, I used the time to speculate on WTF was going on. Yeah, and I love being admired, too. Especially by two guys I wouldn't kick out of bed on a cold night.

The primary question was, why were they on the beach in the first place? The most likely reason was that they were traveling on the cheap and had decided to park somewhere out of sight from the road and camp for the night. I looked around. A few feet away was a spot where a couple of pieces of driftwood lay across each other in a futile attempt at making a fire. More newb behavior. Wood that has been floating in water for gosh-knows-how-long isn't going to be ignited by your average paper match. I've seen guys use-up a quart of lighter-fluid and not get a pile of driftwood going. It can be done, but it's harder than it looks.

So, two guys not from around here. Traveling to where? The 'why' could be as simple as wanderlust. 'Road trip' is sufficient unto itself. They weren't military on leave. The Black guy's haircut could pass for military, but the other one was way too shaggy. His tan and sun-bleached hair said 'beach-bum' fairly loudly.

Annoyed by the failure of my deductive abilities to give me a good answer, I became self-conscious sooner than usual. To put an end to the apparently endless Samantha Appreciation Moment, I twitched my shoulders enough to make my boobs jump and asked, "Don't you have a phone? A picture will last longer."

"Battery died," the Black guy said, throwing an accusatory look over his shoulder at his friend. "It's recharging now."

"Ah. Too bad. Look, time and tide. You want to get going. I'm willing to help. You want to try it again with two people pushing? I'm stronger than I look – honest."

The driver shrugged and backed into the car, plainly avoiding letting me see the butt of the gun I assumed was sticking out of his waistband. The Black guy waved an invitation and I stepped up beside him. When we heard the engine turn over, both of us bent over and put our shoulders against the back of the car.

Vroom! Push! Nothing. The damn car was heavier than I thought. I could have picked it up and carried it to the road, but I elected simply to put my hand over the hatchback keyhole and push harder.

Vroom! Push! Pop! The hatch popped open, helped by the pressure I had applied to the latch in just the wrong spot. The Black guy reached up to slam it shut, but before he could I looked inside.

Mostly covered by a grey tarp was a row of packages, tightly-wrapped in thick transparent plastic and bound with strapping-tape. Inside each was white powder.

Wham! That last was the Black guy smashing the hatch down, catching me on the back of the head and knocking me unconscious.

At least, that was what I assumed had happened when I came to sometime later.

"I'm invulnerable to gunfire and explosions," I muttered to myself. "But some guy knocks me out with a trunk lid. That's embarrassing!" I admit that my broadest resistance to bullets and bangs is when I'm in some scaly form. What had really done me in was my lack of appropriate caution. I really need to work on that.

Being concussed unconscious is no fun. Coming around later is even less so. You wake up with a pounding headache and the urge to vomit. Suppressing both took me a good while. Regaining any semblance of awareness for my situation and surroundings had to wait until my grey-matter recovered enough to let me exert my healing ability enough to shut down the nausea and the pain.

Finally, I managed to pry one eye open. I saw wood and shadows. The visual info was more puzzling than informative. Then my kinesthetic sense returned. With a lurch, I realize that I was on my back with my head hanging back, making everything suddenly upside-down. When the universe rotated back into its correct orientation from my point of view, the nausea tried to reassert itself by forcing bile up into the back of my throat. Desperately, I swallowed it back down. Once the contents of my stomach agreed to remain where it belonged, I took a deep, slow breath.

I smelled musty old wood and rust. At least that jibed with my visual observation. Consistency is good. Perhaps my brain hadn't been too scrambled when ... oh, yeah – I got caught looking. I was so involved in deducing what those two guys were up to that I forgot to maintain situational awareness.

"Is that Brock talking in my head? He'll probably have a few choice words for me if he finds out I did something this stupid. He's got a low tolerance for dumb. Why am I hearing Brock? I should be hearing Neeka. She's the only one who can talk in my head – other than me. And I seem to be the only one in here at the moment. Which means..." It meant that I was out of range of our mutual telepathic link. Under ideal conditions, that could be as far as five miles. I had no idea how far I'd walked, but it could easily have been more than five miles. And after I'd been knocked cold – who knew where they'd taken me or how far they'd gone.

Slowly. And I do mean slowly, in case I triggered another wave of nausea. I raised my head until I was facing straight up. The scenery didn't change much. The shadows got deeper, but the rest was still old wood. Barn? Or a close relative?

I shortly understood the reason why I'd thought I was right-side up at first. There was nothing under me. My arms were up over my head. My knees were bent and my feet were raised. I seemed to be hanging from my forearms and lower legs. I confirmed this impression by briefly swinging around in the air, something I quit immediately when my head throbbed.

I could wiggle my fingers and move my hands, but that was all. The same appeared to be true for my feet. Carefully turning my head to one side let me see what looked like a section of rail – actual railroad stuff – very rusty, but solid and heavy. Looking higher, I saw that my arm was wrapped around and around with some kind of yellow web-strapping, pinning it to the rail. It took no great deductive leap to figure that the same was probably true for my other arm and both legs.

"OK, they either think they know who I am – and they've tied me up with something they think is strong enough to hold me, or they just happened to tie me up with whatever they had at hand. But who has railroad rails and cargo straps? Other than an old, probably abandoned railroad shed? Trouble is, this place looks just like something like that would look. Neeka could probably tell me what they shipped out of here and when they shut it down."

Pulling and pushing and straining revealed that, intentionally or not, I was nearly immobilized. I say 'nearly' because I still had the option of Changing – like into Quetzalcoatl, a winged snake with no limbs to tie down. That would get me free very quickly.

The problem was, I was pretty heavily invested in finding out what the frick was going on and if I stayed put, helpless and dangling as I was, the perps would feel more at ease and free to discuss matters of interest in front of me. More so than if I got loose and they were either chasing me, or I was chasing them, or if I clobbered them at the conclusion of either chase.

"Bad guys always have to brag," I reasoned. "It's in the manual somewhere. They always have to gloat when they think they have you helpless. Well heck, I would! Who else are you going to tell about your really great plan? And when, if not when you think they won't be able to rat you out? I at least need to know if anyone else is involved in this or it these are just a couple of wildcatters making a one-time run."

My other, less coldly logical, justification for staying put had to do with something else I had discovered while wiggling around – I was naked. They had stripped me before strapping me to the rails. I was keenly interested in what they planned to do to me that required the removal of my already-skimpy clothes.

I mean, who wouldn't be? Right? I could think of any number of things that they might do. There were a few things I might even suggest – in a roundabout, devious, innocent way.

"Oh, please, Br'er Fox! Don't fling me in dat brier-patch!", pleaded Br'er Rabbit. (Joel Chandler Harris)

OK, I confess. I am something of a fan when it comes to being tortured. Pain hurts, if that isn't redundant. But when it hurts enough, it starts to hurt good. When it gets past the hurting-good stage it's sort of hard to tell if the intense sensation is pain or pleasure. Yeah, I guess you could say I'm a pain-slut. I've enjoyed the heck out of stuff that would have killed anyone else. The time I had a thick, pointy pole run through me from lips to lips is one of my top-ten extreme experiences.

So, the possibility that whoever had me trussed-up might come up with something interesting to do to me made me ... well ... wet. Something I hoped my captors wouldn't notice right off, or they might realize that whatever they had planned would have the opposite effect of what they intended.

"Help! Anybody! Help!" I could hang there and wait, or I could let them know I was awake so we could get on with the show. The fact that they hadn't gagged me meant we were nowhere close to anyone who might hear me, so I could scream as loud as I liked – so I did.

"Heeeeeeelllllllppp!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

I bit my tongue before "Make me!" came out of my mouth. There would be plenty of time later to challenge them. No need to mouth-off prematurely.

Both guys appeared in my line of sight, which was narrowed by having to look between my boobs. I had to crane my neck and cock my head to one side to see them outlined in the doorway of the shed.

"Please! Let me go! I promise I won't say anything to anyone!"

"I said shut up! No, not you! I was talking to the girl."

The beach-bum was on the phone, which was why he wanted me to be quite. I SFTU. Not out of politeness but to see if I could listen-in on the conversation.

"I don't know. She just turned up. We've got her tied-up in this railroad shack off US-90."

He was too far away for me to make out the other end of the conversation no matter how hard I listened.

"I don't know. We'd just loaded the shipment and were about to take off. The damn car got stuck in the damn sand. We were getting it out when she turned-up out of nowhere."

"The trunk lid came open. It just popped up. She got a look inside, but Joe clocked her before she could get more than a peek. Then we tossed her in with the stuff and got the hell out. I'm calling to see what you want us to do with her."

"Yes sir. I understand. Yes. I'll call you back."

He thumbed the phone, then looked at me and waved his partner outside. They thought they were out of earshot, but my hearing is much better than they expected.