Scene 1 Ext. Morgendorffer Home, early morning. Jake: (v.o.) Good Morning, Kiddo! Daria: (v.o.) Morning, Dad. Cut to: Int: Morgendorffer kitchen, breakfast nook. Jake is in his usual chair with a mug of coffee, a toaster pastry, and the Lawndale Sun-Herald. Daria is seating herself in her chair with a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice.

 Scene 2 Ext. Lawndale High, cut to: Int. Mr. OâNeillâs class. Students are still filing in.

Scene 3 Int Girlsâ restroom, Lawndale High. Daria is punching a giggling Jane in the shoulder.

 

Scene 4 Ext. Morgendorffer House, afternoon. Daria walks up to front door, opens it. Cut to: Int. Morgendorffer home, family room. Helen and Jake are seated on the section of sofa that faces the front door, reading from the folders that Daria gave them this morning. They look up as they hear the front door being opened. Cut to: shot of Daria entering through front door. Daria takes two steps inside, stops when she sees Helen and Jake waiting for her, resumes her course into family room. Cut to: shot of Helen and Jake looking at Daria, who walks toward them from foreground.

 Melody Powers stared fixedly at the shaft of sunlight slanting into the far end of the storm sewer. It flickered as a tiny dark figure passed through it, then steadied. "Heâs on his way. Ratboy, can you hear me?"

"Unnh..."

Melody looked up at the circular patch of blue sky overhead. A bit of golden cloud told her sundown was near. She didnât like her odds of being found down here after dark. She was bleeding, and Ratboy was too. Both needed medical attention. Ratboyâs pouch probably contained more bandages, how many she didnât know. She could patch the wounds on his left shoulder and right thigh, and the one on her right thigh and the graze on her left midriff, but there was a slash below her right shoulder blade that she could do nothing about. It looked like she couldnât count on further help from Ratboy. She heard no sounds from above indicating help might be on the scene.

Climb the ladder and seek help or do what she could for Ratboy and herself first? A wrong decision could mean death for her and/or Ratboy, and she lacked two crucial facts. How far away in distance and time was the nearest help? And how badly was her unreachable knife wound bleeding? She could make it up the ladder now, but for how much longer? She was starting to feel light-headed. .

Melody turned away from the ladder and limped back to Ratboy. Sheâd patch quickly, then climb out. If she hurried, maybe she could have it both ways, she hoped. She started to kneel by Ratboyâs side, but her right thigh gave way and she ended up with her face in a Chicom commandoâs stomach. She forced herself back up, found a position she could maintain, and stuck her finger into the bullet hole in Ratboyâs chest. It sank in almost to the second joint before it hit something hard and flat. Sliding her fingertip around a bit, Melody could detect a dent, but no hole. She withdrew the finger, covered in crimson gore, stuck it in her mouth. Mmmm, yep, Ratboyâs grandmother sure could make catsup. Even with a faint flavor of .44 slug, it was first rate.

Opening the Ratbag, she brought out moist napkins and bandages and set to work. Sheâd run into Ratboy under the stands as the assault was being organized. Heâd made cheese fries, his favorite food, at a concession stand while they waited, and theyâd shared a plate, topped with grannyâs homemade catsup. Heâd insisted that if it was homemade, it had to be called catsup rather than ketchup, and sheâd agreed with him that no other catsup or ketchup could compare with it as a topping for cheese fries. The stylized ratâs head escutcheon on his chestplate was made of bronzed food grade plastic, and would hold over a pint of grannyâs finest, and the ratâs nose was a clever dispensing spout. Melody smiled as she applied a cobweb bandage to Ratboyâs shoulder wound. It was the closest thing to a date sheâd been on in years (omigod, years?!) that didnât end with her kidnapping or assassinating her beau for God, country, home, and apple pie.

A few minutes later, having done all she could, Melody was again at the base of the ladder. She looked up and realized it had been more than a few minutes. The sky was a much deeper blue, and all the low clouds had gone dark. Only a few wisps of high cirrus still caught the last red rays of a sun now well below the horizon. She felt a chill as she started to climb. Two rungs up, dizziness assailed her. She hung on, squeezed her eyes shut, and pressed her forehead against the cool steel of a ladder rung until it abated. One more step up, and the dizziness returned. She forced herself up another rung, and almost lost consciousness. This wasnât good.

Melody tried to think while she waited for the waves of dizziness to subside. Why wasnât she hearing the shouts of rescue parties by now? Police, the army, FBI, somebody. The media, at least. One more step up, slowly. The vertigo was awful. Only her grip on the steel rungs and her forehead pressed against one kept her from surrendering to the feeling that she was falling, endlessly falling... Concentrate, dammit! What could keep a National Perspirer stringer or a SSW camera crew out of a stadium filled with four thousand bloody corpses? Only a solid cordon of armed men, backed up with heavy air cover. And why that? Oh, yeah, the nukes. One more rung . Oh, no. She was gonna pass out this time. No! No pass out! Hang on! Slowly the blackness receded, but the world wouldnât stop spinning. Then there must at least be someone up there trying to safe the nukes. And some guards. But it was all moot if she couldnât make ground level.

Gripping the rungs with all her remaining strength, Melody looked up again. Dizziness clawed at her mind. It was getting dark fast, and cold faster. She had to summon help now. One more rung up and her head would be above ground level. She made the effort. Everything went black.

Sometime later, Melodyâs vision faded back in again. Apparently she hadnât fallen off the ladder. A goalpost reeled drunkenly against a darkening sky. There seemed to be some lights near midfield, but bodies blocked her direct view. Looking down, she saw that just in front of her on the concrete slab was a cell phone. No, it was an Agency phone, which was subtly different in several ways she couldnât remember right now. She could call for help. Who could she call whoâd be allowed in here? Donât try to think, Mel. Just call the comm center. Theyâll get you someone. Melody grasped the phone, activated it, pushed two buttons. It was ringing. She would have smiled if sheâd had the strength. In seconds, sheâd be talking to a fellow Agent. Sheâd tell them her problems and theyâd figure out what to do. Theyâd get her the best help, the quickest way, and she could relax and lean back into the warm fuzzy dark and... no one was answering.

This was bad. This was very bad. The comm center was always manned by at least two Agents. What had happened? Had HQ West Coast been overrun? Blown up? Extremely unlikely. Even unmanned, HQ was almost impregnable. Most likely theyâd been pulled out and sent here, with every other available Agent. Then theyâd be... right here. On the field. With all the other corpses.

"Why me?" she thought miserably. Her revulsion at the pathetic self-pity of that thought snapped her back to reality. "Theyâre all dead and Iâm feeling sorry for myself? I donât deserve to survive!" Sheâd have to help herself. Melody looked at the phone again. There was something... a key combination... Pound sign-QAA. Yes. She punched it in. The Agencyâs state-of-the-art comm gear would automatically connect her with the nearest available Agent. Immediately in front of her, a phone beeped. Two seconds later, off to her right, about 20 feet away, another phone beeped. Another two seconds, another phone began to beep. Then another. And another. Melody stared out at the barely visible mounds and heaps that lay all around her in the deepening gloom. Soon two hundred seventeen of them would be ignoring her call.

A cold feeling of doom began to close in on her. Soon she would lose her grip on consciousness, and with it her grip on the ladder. She would fall back down the manhole and finish bleeding out in the sewer junction room below. Her blood would mingle with that of her comrades, and with that of the other patriots who had died here today. Most of it had already. Not a bad way to go, really. The pain was almost gone now. It was just so cold. But no. Sheâd make one last effort to climb out of this manhole. She was pretty sure she wouldnât make it, but...

"Virosa. Whoâve I got?" It came from the phone. A sob escaped Melodyâs lips. Bringing the phone to her face, she said, "Powers here. Need help."

"Are you in the stadium?"

"Yeah. Behind S... South goal post. Manhole. Hurry."

"E. T. A. 20 seconds. Hang in there, Powers. Been wanting to meet you."

Twenty seconds? Virosa was here. On the field. Off to the left, a tiny light was bounding toward her. A blinking orange LED on her phone indicated it was being tracked. As the light homed in on her, Melody could hear footfalls. Booted feet stopped in front of her, bony fingers hooked her armpits. She tried to help lift herself out of the manhole, and the warm fuzzy dark closed in.

(Quinn reads Dariaâs story. Daria reads the expressions flickering across Quinnâs face. Shock, followed quickly by disgust, turns into a brief grin. Twice Quinn hugs herself as if chilled. Her face registers shock again, then great sadness. Her breathing becomes irregular, and she brings a clenched fist up to her mouth. Seeming about to cry, she utters a tiny gasp and her eyes widen. A half-smile on her parted lips, eyes blinking frequently, she reads on. Finally her smile widens, she inhales deeply and turns to Daria.)

Scene 7 Int. Dariaâs room. Daria: is writing at her computer. Pan/zoom onto monitor screen. 

Melody wasnât cold anymore. She felt warm on the inside, cool on the outside. It wasnât dark. She could tell through closed eyelids that she was in a bright place, though she felt no direct sunshine. It was quiet in her vicinity, but there was a fair amount of low-volume background noise. She inhaled. That blew the detective game. Hospital, definitely.

Melody opened her eyes. She was in a two-bed room, but the other bed was empty. Her bed was by the window, but the blinds were closed. An IV was plugged into her right arm, feeding her a pint of some clear liquid in a bag, and about 20 cc of something in a syringe being fed in through a little plastic fitting. Probably a painkiller. That could be dispensed with.

That reminded her she hadnât tried to move yet. Melody was very good at ignoring pain, but she didnât actually like it, except in the sense that it was a handy warning system. She flexed her fingers. The left pinkie hurt some, but there was no bandage and no swelling, so it was okay. The knuckles were scraped, and the blade of her hand was sore. She moved the left arm a bit. It felt bruised and battered, but okay. There was a bandage on the outside forearm that she couldnât account for, but it didnât feel like anything serious. Her right arm only had the graze from the Jade Dragon, some bruises, and the IV needle. She moved it a little. A rip of pain came from the right side of her back, reminding her of the knife wound that had almost done her in yesterday. She wondered how serious it was and how long it would take to heal.

Then she remembered who had found her and pulled her out of that manhole, just in time. Virosa. Melody had heard of her but never met her. Virosa was said to be tied with her and Dannekill for the unwanted distinction of being considered deadliest Special Op by the intelligence services of Americaâs enemies. Most dangerous to their infiltrators, most desirable to bump off. Sheâd read the brief bio available to other Agents on the Agencyâs classified server. Amanita Virosa. Born Angelica Virginia Brewer, sheâd chosen as her Agency handle the Latin name of the most delicately beautiful, yet most viciously deadly member of the Amanita family of mushrooms.

Its common name was Destroying Angel. Tall, slender, purest white it was. One or two would appear in Melodyâs familyâs back yard after a good early summer rain. They were said to be quite delicious, but even the tiniest nibble swallowed was enough to condemn any man to a day and a half to two days of agony as the toxin destroyed his liver. The cruel part was that after the victimâs liver had been destroyed, he actually felt pretty good for a while, good enough to think he was recovering, until he began to die from lack of it.

Angelica had grown up in a multiracial, multi-ethnic part of Manhattan, where she was by far the whitest human being her homies had ever seen. Always a skinny kid, sheâd been forced to learn a wide range of combat and survival skills very early in life. A natural for the Agency, Melody thought. She hoped theyâd get a chance to talk.

A white-coated figure entered, turned to close the door. She wore an odd-looking cap that made her head resemble a mushroom. As she turned back around, Melodyâs mind re-identified the cap as hair. It wasnât really white, but the palest shade of platinum blonde Melody had ever seen. The womanâs skin tone was also very pale, and her eyes- wow! Her eyes were purple! This could only be... she put a finger to her lips, pulled out an agency phone, pushed three buttons, and moved quickly about the room, using it to sweep for bugs. She smiled, gave Melody a thumbs-up sign, and pocketed the phone.

"Virosa? Amanita Virosa?"

"Hey, Powers. You clean up nice. How ya feelinâ?"

"Like used shark bait. Since you saved my life, you can call me Melody. Thanks. I thought you were in Tokyo."

"I was on my way home for some R&R. The "All Agents" call caught me at the airport. Sorry I missed the party."

"Well, Iâm not. If youâd gotten there two hours earlier, weâd both be dead now. Uhhh.. hell. I might as well ask. How many other survivors?"

Virosa carefully inspected the floor. "Three. One agent, one Academy student, and that Ratboy guy. If any of the military made it, they werenât brought here. Agentâs name is Custer. Know him?"

Melody smiled a tiny bit. "Just met him. He patched a few boo-boos for me. Good kid. How bad?"

Lost a finger. May lose an arm, but heâll live. The student has abdominal wounds, but her main problem is gonna be PTSD. Her best bud got disemboweled all over her."

"Damn. That sucks. But she shouldnât have had any buds. Or chums, or pals. Donât they teach Îem that anymore?"

"Thatâs a hard thing to teach. And an even harder thing to learn."

"Yeah. Well, sheâs learned it now. But sheâll probably quit after this. I should go see her. Donât suppose I have any clothes here. Robe and slippers?"

Virosa looked into the wardrobe by Melodyâs bed. "Boots and belt. Why donât you take a day or two to just lie there? Give the glue time to set. Thatâs a deep gash in your back, yâknow. I think I saw ribs when I was pulling you out of the manhole."

"I was moving around with it quite a bit yesterday, and it didnât bother me that much."

"Except for the bleeding to death part, you mean. Melody, they gave you all the blood you had on hand, and had to top you off with that artificial stuff. If you start leaking again now, youâll have to take pot luck."

Melody said, "Iâll be careful, take it real easy. I just need a little help getting into a wheelchair, and back into bed after. And some underwear. And something that bears a little more resemblance to clothing than these godawful backless things. Dammit, I feel so helpless!"

"Believe me, I know the feeling. And Iâd much rather spend the day helping you than what Iâm going to be doing. But when the catâs away, the rats will spread plague, so the cat canât be perceived to be away." Virosa pulled an Agency phone from her jacket pocket, punched in a number. "One of the agents coming in from Northwest bureau has been assigned to you. She should be... Butterfly? You here yet? ...Turn off your voice disguise. Hereâs Powers. I think she wants you to pick up some things on the way in. Melody, this is the phone you had last night. It isnât the one issued to you. This is its number, the second number is Butterflyâs. These are the room numbers for Ratboy, Custer, and the Academy student. See ya later." Virosa handed Melody the phone and a sheet of notebook paper with numbers and names on it, and slipped quickly out the door.

Slightly surprised by the rapidity of Virosaâs exit, Melody turned to the phone. "Hello, Butterfly?"

"Yes, Agent Powers."

"Call me Melody. Your voice disguise is on."

"Yes, Age- okay, Melody. This better?"

"Still on."

"Oh, poo. (clicking sounds) Now?"

"Still on. Never mind. I want you to get me some pajamas, underwear and slippers on the way in, suitable for hospital wear. And a toothbrush and toothpaste. That should get me by until you can get into my apartment. Oh, and Iâd like you to stay at my place for a while, if thatâs okay with you.

"Sure, that would be great! I should be there in less than an hour. Iâm coming up on a G-Mart now. Anything else?

"No- yes. A legal size pad and a pen or pencil. And the latest Mother Earth News." They had an article about building a cabin in the mountains. "Shall I order dinner for you?"

"Okay. A salad with vinaigrette or free French dressing if they have it. Otherwise, anything but peas and carrots. See you soon."

Melody hit the off button, then looked vaguely around the room, seeking something to do, or at least look at. The window blinds were still closed. Then she remembered something, and began punching buttons on the phone. She needed to tell someone where sheâd left her pistol. No telling what was going on in the stadium today. After that, there was the TV or harassing the staff. And she could look for things to make a weapon out of. Melody smiled wanly. She could probably hold out until Butterfly arrived.

There was a knock on the door. "Agent Powers? Itâs Butterfly."

"Come on in, Butterfly. And call me Melody."

The door opened and a slender young woman, with strawberry blond hair that reached below her shoulders, backed in as if laden with packages. "Hi, Melody." She spun around. "Agent Butterfly reports as ordered!"

Melody stared, speechless, for a good five seconds. She finally managed, "Harmony?"

The blond grinned and nodded, starting toward Melodyâs bed. "Agent Butterfly requests a hug!"

Melody hurriedly threw up her left arm in a "HALT" gesture. "Denied! A decent hug right now would kill me." Seeing the crestfallen look on Harmonyâs face, she relented a bit. "You may kiss me- gently.", she said, offering a cheek. Harmony did, stepped back, waited expectantly.

"Arenât you going to say anything?"

"The phrase "Oh, hell!" comes to mind."

"Melodeee!"

"Let me guess. You joined the Agency because you wanted to be like me and make me proud of you."

"Yes!"

"Well, I guess I am proud of you. I know what it takes to get to where you are now. But did you ever ask yourself why I joined?"

"Huh?" Harmony hadnât expected that question. "To protect our country? Our freedom? For the adventure?"

"Yes, yes, and maybe, but way down the list. My real reason, my motivating reason, was and is to protect the people I love from the monsters out there in the dark. And now... I canât protect you any more. Youâve thrown yourself into harmâs way."

"Hey, you protected me, and I grew up. You preserved my freedom, and I used it to make this decision. And now we can protect each other!"

"I wish. But it doesnât work like that. Agents usually work alone, especially we Special Ops. And when we do all stand together... Harmony, why did they say West Coast suddenly needed personnel?"

"They didnât. They asked for volunteers, said it was an opportunity for advancement, and offered a big fat relocation bonus. There was gonna be a briefing tomorrow, but it was postponed."

"Well, hereâs a mini-briefing. West Coast bureau was wiped out yesterday. Only Custer and I survived, and one Academy student. They lived because they looked dead."

Harmony paled. "Oh, my God. Who did it? And how did you survive?"

"The PRC, but I think someone else used them for a catspaw. I was the last Agent standing. I kept them... entertained until the 101^st arrived."

"Entertained?"

An expression of savage ferocity flitted across Melodyâs features, causing Harmony to flinch. "I gave them Kung Fu lessons."

Harmony gasped. "You fought them hand-to-hand? Alone? For how long?"

"It seemed like a long, long time. (bt) Help me get some clothes on. Canât do much with my right arm because of a big gash on my back. I want to visit the others.

Amelia went on, "At first, we were mowing them down from the bleachers, and they were milling around in confusion on the field, and I thought, "We might live through this after all." , but then they got organized and returned the fire, and I realized how badly we were outnumbered. I remember wondering if our ammo would hold out until the reinforcements arrived, and then nothing."

Melody said, "An RPG probably hit near you. They had a few of those. Thatâs as good a place to stop remembering as any. It was pretty much downhill from there."

"So, did our ammo hold out ?"

"No. I was as well off as anyone. I had 175 rounds for my pistol, and I used it all. Then I picked up a Chinese AK and an extra mag for it, about 40 more rounds. Then one of those little Chinese pistols with five shots left in it. After that I had to go down onto the field to find anything, and I started taking hits. When the second AK ran dry, there was just nothing else to pick up in my vicinity. I looked around, and an awful lot of Chinese were looking back at me, and it was very quiet. Thatâs when I realized I was the last American left. It was just me and about a thousand Chinese. That was a very bad feeling. I threw down the AK and stood up."

"Oh, my gosh! What did they do?" asked Harmony.

It was a perfect straight line. Melody longed to say, "They killed me, of course." But Amelia didnât need to be laughing with abdominal injuries. "One of the women yelled something about revenge and honor in Chinese, handed off her pistol, and came at me barehanded. She wasnât all that good, considering the elite force she was part of. I was going to finish her off when it occurred to me that every second I spent fighting an inferior opponent was another second that I wasnât dead. So I sandbagged a little, favored my injuries a little. I had a good bit of blood on me, though most of it wasnât mine, at that point. I didnât take her down until she left me an obvious opening. Even then I didnât kill her, on the theory that it takes more time to help an injured comrade than to drag off a dead one."

"Another Chinese woman stepped up to defend the honor of the women of the Workersâ Paradise. She was a good bit better. I had to take her out quickly because she was getting too many hits in. A third woman stepped up, also better than the first, but more cautious. I was able to drag that match out for several minutes, and move around enough that the crowd of spectators interfered with the people working on the nukes. Donât know if that helped any, but, hey, we do what we can."

"I was kind of forced to kill the third woman, and after that, they seemed pretty much locked into the idea that I was going to die in single unarmed combat at their hands. I guess shooting me wouldâve meant too much loss of face. There was some discussion and a man stepped up. They must have felt a little sheepish about it because they let me take a couple of minutes to catch my breath."

"Well, to summarize, I fought several more opponents, trying not to show my skill level, acting a little more hurt than I was, dragging the fights out as long as I could, and generally trying to keep them distracted, until finally the 101^st Airborne arrived."

Harmony looked awestruck. "Gosh, Melody, that is totally incredible! You really outdid yourself this time. No way can I hope to even come close to that. But Iâm gonna do my dead level best."

Melody frowned. "I hope you donât mean that the way it sounded. I certainly wasnât thinking "Hunsacker, youâre my hero, and Iâm gonna do my dead level best to run up an unbeatable kill total and go out in a blaze of glory, just like you!" At the Jade Dragon I was doing my best to analyze the situation and inform the Agency. After the signal was sent, my goal became to either get out alive or at least not wet my pants as I died. At the stadium, none of us had any realistic hope of survival. Our hope was to save the city. We were trying to buy enough time for our troops to get there before the Chinese detonated those nukes."

"I understand what youâre saying, Melody. You didnât do it for the glory, you did it for your country and your loved ones. And Iâm not in it for glory either. Iâm just saying I hope I do half as well as you when the crunch comes. But listening to a hero claiming she isnât a hero sounds kind of funny, you know? You earned the glory, so take it. I would.

"Okay, maybe so. But Iâm leading up to something else, too. Harmony, youâre thinking seriously of becoming a Special Op, right? And Amelia, if youâre not dead set on quitting after what youâve been through, youâre considering it too." Melody gripped the tall post at the foot of Ameliaâs bed with her left hand and pulled herself out of her wheelchair. "You know itâs the Agencyâs most dangerous specialty, but did they tell you the average life expectancy of a Special Op is about two years and one month?" She began untying the sash of her hospital robe.

"They didnât mention a figure.", said Amelia.

"Our instructor told us it varied with world tensions and stuff, when Custer tried to pin him down." said Harmony. "What are you doing?"

Melody gingerly slid the robe off, laid it on the foot of the bed. "Iâve been a Special Op for, uh, three years and three months." She undid the knots holding her hospital smock together. Instead of changing to pajamas, sheâd just put on panties under the smock, a robe over it, and slippers. "Lean on the door, would you, Harmony? Theyâre not lockable from inside. Iâve acquired all these scars since then. The bandages are hiding some, but you get the idea." Melody got the smock off with some difficulty, laid it on top of the robe. "Any of the bullets and knives and whatnot that made these scars could have killed me if theyâd been an inch or three this way or that. Well, except for that fresh nick on my butt. Most of my important stuff was behind an I-beam." In panties, slippers, and bandages, Melody slowly turned, allowing the two younger women to see some of what three years as a Special Op had done to her slender, perfectly proportioned body.

Amelia had already gone two shades paler, and was staring fixedly at Melodyâs midsection. Harmony now saw why. As Melody turned, a jagged, ugly scar came into view, slashing from upper right to lower left across her abdomen. Almost a foot long, it drew the eye like a bloody car wreck. "Ohhh, no", she moaned. "Oh, Melody, no-o-o..."

"That oneâs a real eye-catcher, isnât it? Makes a great conversation piece for a dull day at the beach." Melody picked up the smock, began slowly working it up her right arm, being very careful not to use or stretch any of the slashed muscles that rotated the shoulder. Harmony hurried over and helped her dress.

"My God , Melody, what could make a wound like that? A chainsaw? Even so, any competent surgeon should be able to sew it up better than that!"

"They donât take Blue Cross in Kabul, Harmony, and they donât treat women. It was a kandjar, in a godawful five-way knife fight in pitch darkness at the top of the Khyber pass. I came with a band of Mujaheddin, which turned out to be a mistake, and left with the remnants of a Russian Spetznaz team. We patched each other up and they cared for me as best they could, but it was four days before we could get to Samarkand, in Uzbekistan, and a halfway decent medical facility. The north part of Afghanistan was enemy territory for all of us. Taliban territory. Infection is what made it look so ugly. It can be fixed by cosmetic surgery, and a good surgeon could probably even reconstruct my navel, but I havenât been able to get the time off.

"But thatâs just one wound of many, and thatâs more or less what you can expect if you become a Special Operative, unless youâre a lot sneakier and smarter than I am, or can dodge bullets. Thatâs what I want you to think about. Repeatedly having bits of yourself shot or hacked away until finally you lose something you canât do without. Itâs a hell of an occupational hazard. Almost makes me willing to consider a desk job.

"And then if youâre really good, one day you might come in to work and discover youâve been voted deadliest Special Op. Then your life expectancy immediately drops to a few months. From then on, you dodge one hit after another, fight your way out of one ambush after another, discover one booby trap after another, till finally one gets you. And you donât even get a raise."

Amelia realized something. "And, after yesterday, that would be... you, wouldnât it?" She looked at Melody with pity.

"When the enemy Intelligence analysts piece together what happened in the stadium, and when they find out I survived, yes."

"Which is why weâre rubbing you out. My condolences." Virosa stood in the doorway. Noticing Melody putting on her robe, she ventured, "Been scaring the newbies with your battle scars? Dang! I wanted to see the one from the Khyber pass!"

"Ooh, hazukashi!" [Japanese- approximately "I would be too embarrassed"] Melody feigned shyness, then lifted the hem of her smock.

Virosa grinned, then gaped. "Whoa! Shimatta!" [Japanese- "I made a mistake"]

Melody smirked. "So whatâs this about rubbing me out? It canât be just to save me from the consequences of being deadliest Special Op. One, they didnât do it for Hunsacker, and B, if they think Iâm dead, youâre next in line."

"Damn! I knew there was something wrong with this plan! Actually, the idea is that we can control everyone who knows youâre alive but one man- Loong Wang. So we put out the word that youâre dead, and then put all our resources on alert for any news to the contrary. Weâre hoping that when and where that news surfaces will tell us something about the people heâs working for. Butterfly, HQ will be calling you with instructions on how to alter Melodyâs hospital records."

"Okay. This would be a great time for her to get that awful scar fixed, since sheâs recuperating from all those other wounds anyway. How do I get that approved?"

Virosa grinned craftily. "Forgiveness is much easier to obtain than permission. Considering the current state of chaos at West Coast HQ, Iâd just go ahead and do it. Theyâll probably never notice, and if they do, they have much more important stuff to worry about." She looked at her watch. "And speaking of overworked, theyâre expecting me to make enough gruesome, high-profile hits to make it look like West Coast bureau is operating at full strength. Gotta reach out and touch someone. Bye." Before anyone could reply, Virosa was gone.

"Wow." Amelia gazed after Virosa. "Sheâs unique. Uhh, you are, too, Melody. Gosh, two thirds of the Terrible Three in my little room. At the same time."

Harmony gave Amelia an indulgent smile as she held the wheelchair steady for Melody. "So, anyway, what happened after the 101^st got there?"

"An awful lot of killing, as youâd expect. Our guys were vulnerable parachuting in, and quite a few of them landed badly because of the crowded conditions, but they werenât as badly outnumbered as weâd been, and they had superior weapons and plenty of ammo. I have no idea how I survived the first ten seconds, but I finally got hold of a weapon and pitched in. It was a meat grinder. One minute of stark terror."

"When things got quiet this time, there were a few Airborne guys still standing, so I guess that means we won They were gathering up their wounded and I was looking for Loong Wang. If anyone knew who was really behind this scheme, it would be him, but I hadnât seen him at all. Suddenly he came running out of the locker room entrance, with Ratboy right behind him."

"Loong Wang was firing at Ratboy over his shoulder as he ran. I moved to intercept, but I was pretty beaten up by then, not to mention shot and slashed. Loong Wang disappeared down a manhole behind the South end zone, Ratboy went after him, and I followed as best I could. Between us, we managed to plant three tracer bugs on him and let him get away. NSA is tracking him now."

"Where do you think heâll go?", asked Amelia. "If he goes back to China, wonât we lose him?"

"We can track him in China, but not as reliably. But Iâd be very surprised if he went there. Even if he was following orders from his superiors in Chinese clandestine ops, itâs likely those superiors have been imprisoned or killed, or have fled, on the heels of this debacle. Loong Wang will probably be marked for death for the same reason- his knowledge of Chinaâs botched nuclear attack on the USA.

"If he was getting all his orders through the chain of command, he probably wonât know what to do or where to go now. He might just turn himself in and offer to cooperate. In that case heâd be of very little value to the Agency. Weâd just get the name of his superior and turn him over to the FBI or someone. But if he was receiving orders and help from someone else, then sooner or later he will contact that someone else, or be contacted by them. We must use him to find them. We have to know who they are and what they want."

"So will you be back on his case when you get out of the hospital?" asked Amelia.

"Not until we find out who he was working for, or at least until weâre sure heâs on his way to them. Surveillance isnât my specialty. What about you, Amelia? What will you do when you get out of here?"

"First thing Iâll do is get a hamburger. Intravenous feeding sucks even worse than regular hospital food. But I guess you mean will I stay with the Agency. Iâve been thinking about that. What happened at the stadium certainly wasnât what I was expecting."

"Of course not. Nothing like that ever happened before in Agency history, and itâs not likely to ever happen again. That was practically a pitched battle, something the military should have handled. Thereâll be a huge amount of fur flying, fingers pointing, and heads rolling, all in the utmost secrecy, of course. Oh, hell. I hope they wonât ask me to testify before some Congressional committee. I donât know if Iâd be able to overcome my training and instincts enough to refrain from killing most of them."

"Hey, let your conscience be your guide.", grinned Amelia. "I guess Iâm going to stay. I knew I was laying my life on the line when I signed up. If anything, the stadium showed me my country really does need me."

A very strange thing just happened. Quinn came in and gave me some useful information regarding student reaction to Kevinâs reaction to Ratboyâs supposed demise. Seemed to be a pretty accurate analysis, too. If sheâs right, only one student in 12 suspects I deliberately mindf***ed him.

Iâd have guessed no more than 1 in 20, but Iâm inclined to trust Quinnâs numbers. Guess my fearsome rep is spreading.

And then another very strange thing happened. Quinn asked to read what Iâd written on my next Melody Powers story, and liked it! Oh, I forgot to tell you that this morning she let slip that sheâd attended my last reading at the coffeehouse. There may be something more to it, but I watched her face as she read, and she was really getting into the story.

On top of that, her suggestion about writing Melody stories under a pseudonym may be a very good one. Have to think about it. Maybe... Eufaula Offenhauser? Or maybe it should be a manâs name. Too bad Douglas Adams already thought of Dirk Gently. Quinn has a point; they are more popular than anything else Iâve written and read publicly. I could be making some money while searching for someone to take my serious stuff seriously.

And where did Quinn learn about the Bacon-wrote-Shakespeare theory? Not from Waif magazine. Is her intellect finally emerging from hibernation? Is she reading stuff in secret? How to encourage it without scaring her off? Guess Iâll give it room and not remark on it, at least for now.

Itâs weird, but while she was in here this evening, we were relating to each other almost like Jane and Trent do, rather than like two cats in a sack. Dare I hope? I know now that the sister I yearn for is in there somewhere. Iâll do what I can to strengthen what ties there are between us. But Iâll keep the shields of cynicism up. She who expects the worst shall never be disappointed.

Melody slowly made her way from the bathroom, leaning heavily on the walker. She was disregarding a good deal of pain from the bullet wound in her right thigh, while being careful not to reopen the wound. Having been through this more times than she cared to recall, Melody knew how much load to place on healing muscles to minimize recovery time.

She cursed the awkwardness of the walker, but she couldnât use a cane or crutch with her right arm because of the gash that had damaged her right shoulder muscles. She considered using a crutch on the left side and holding her right foot off the floor entirely most of the time.

Melody was peering out between two slats of the blinds when Harmony came in. Harmony reached for the rod to open up the slats, but Melody batted her arm away.

"Ow! I was just trying to help!"

"Help who? The sniper?"

"Sniper?! Thereâs a sniper out there?"

"I assume there is."

"You... umm, isnât that a little paranoid?" Then Harmony remembered the scars Melody had showed her, and that she pretty much had a lock on deadliest Special Op. "Sorry. Stupid question." Melody favored her with a sardonic smile, said nothing "I was just talking with HQ and they told me to ask you if there was some other agent in West Coast bureau who looked enough like you that it would be helpful for you to assume her identity."

There was a time not so long ago when this would have struck Melody as a bit ghoulish. She wondered idly what it would take to strike her as ghoulish now. "There was a girl in Psycho about my height and hair color. She was a bit more... statuesque than me. Her first name was Donna."

"Sounds good." Harmony pulled out her phone, hit redial. Melody lowered herself into a chair, picked up her magazine, resumed reading about how to build a cabin with minimal tools and assistance in semi-wilderness conditions How sheâd love to have that set of problems instead of her current set. "Was she in Psychoanalysis or Psychological warfare?"

"Psych war." Melody idly perused an ad proclaiming "Turn your chainsaw into a lumber mill!" Maybe sheâd ask HQ if they had anyone on their "to kill" list who owned a mountain cabin. This might be more "sweat equity" than she really wanted to invest.

Harmony folded her phone. "Theyâll go over her records and get back to us. And Dr. Rosencrantz the cosmetic surgeon will be by tomorrow morning to talk with you about the scars. Do you take MSM?"

"No. Whatâs MSM?"

"Methylsulfonylmethane. Itâs a nutrient, a bioavailable sulfur compound. Theyâre just finding out what all itâs good for. One of the things it does is help you heal without scarring, and help old scars fade away faster." Harmony reached into her bag, pulled out a paperback book. "Here. I just got through reading this. If you get the worst of those scars fixed surgically, the rest should disappear within a few months, if you start taking MSM."

Melody took the book. "Thanks, Iâll read it. Now I want to go see Custer. He was in your class at the academy, right?"

"Yeah. I want to see him too. He was kind of the class cutup."

"Heâs still kind of a cutup." Melody smiled a small smirk.

A few minutes later, Melody wheeled herself through the door of another hospital room as Harmony held it open. Custer was smiling, or at least the visible portion of his face was, but he remained silent while Harmony quickly swept the room for bugs. Signaling all clear, she folded her Agency phone and clipped it to her belt.

"Harmony! Great to see you! And you too, Melody! Hey, with those names, you two should be sisters!" Melody and Harmony exchanged smirks. Harmony tapped her temple, shook her head. "Wait- you are sisters?"

Harmony grinned. "Well, duh! But as of now, thatâs top secret. Whatsername here is getting a new identity, at least temporarily. So, whatâs your damage, besides brain?"

"Lost my left pinky, but theyâre pretty sure Iâll get to keep the rest of the arm. Other than that, itâs fairly minor. How about you, Miss, uh...?

"Melody for now. Havenât finalized my new ID. A couple more bullet holes, a nasty cut on my back, and a lot of bruising from the hand-to-hand. Nothing permanently disabling."

"Iâm sure glad to hear that. But how in the world did you get to hand-to-hand? Krupp and I were cut down almost as soon as we got out onto the field. He fell on top of me and I guess that saved my life. Only my left arm was sticking out, and it was hit five times. I passed out from the pain pretty quickly."

"You share that bit of luck with Amelia. You were both taken out early on, and didnât collect too much in the way of ugly memories. Iâm the only one who has to remember the whole thing."

"But I want to know what happened. I was hoping..."

"Thereâs a difference between knowing the story and reliving, over and over, in excruciating detail, two hundred thirty-one people dying at the end of your gun barrel. Thatâs counting the twenty-three at the warehouse, but not the sixteen probables, or the eleven non-fatal hits, or the two I killed hand to hand. No offense, Custer, but Iâd rather let Harmony tell you the story. I want to go across the hall and see... Harmony, what name is he using?"

"John Doe. He says he canât remember who he is."

"Well, he certainly got kicked in the head hard enough to support that claim. Good thinking."

A few minutes later, after Harmony had swept for bugs and left, Melody smiled at the roomâs occupant and said, "So, how are you feeling, John Doe?" Short black hair framed a handsome, cheerful face. A high brow gave him a look of intelligence, frequently contradicted by the goofy grin that seemed to be his favorite facial expression.

"Like Iâve been shot at and hit. Probably better than you, though. I saw that cut on your back. Sorry I couldnât..."

"Hey, you saved my life twice down there. You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you. And Iâm feeling okay within a limited range of motion."

Iâm glad. So, are you tracking that Wang guy?"

"Still getting three strong signals, last I heard. Heâs lying low on the outskirts of Chinatown. Guess that bit about catching a plane was an attempt at misdirection. All his exits are covered by teams ready to retag him when he makes a move."

"Yeah, that feels right. Well, I guess this is the end of Ratboy. Brought me in here unconscious, pulled my mask off... "

Melody peeked into the wardrobe beside his bed. "Nope. If youâd been wearing that outfit when you came in, at least some of it would be in here, and it isnât. Iâm betting one of our people removed it before the paramedics got to you. Iâll ask and let you know."

"Same difference. Your Agency knows who I am. My secret identityâs no secret anymore."

"Oh, come on. The Agencyâs known about you for years. As many times as youâve beaten one of our Agents or teams to the scene of something, you know we were gonna check you out. Itâs a lot harder to maintain a secret identity today than it used to be. According to your file, weâve even tried to recruit you, more than once. Why didnât you sign up? Youâd be doing the same thing you do now, only with a lot more support."

"I canât work for somebody, or some agency. I hafta follow my nose."

"Huh?"

"My Rat Sense. Itâs what makes me Ratboy. I smell a rat, I follow my nose, I track down the rat, and then I... do what needs doing. I mean, I donât actually smell a smell, but itâs like that. So, uh, the Agency knows about me? And they havenât told? And theyâre not going to?"

"Naah. Iâm one of their best Agents, and they didnât tell me a thing until I ran into you and needed to know. Even now, I donât know your real name. Which puts you one up on me, by the way. Melody is my real name, but thatâs now a secret, because Iâm officially dead."

"Uhhh, how come?"

"I kill enemy agents and spies. Itâs part of my job. Iâm very good at it. All the countries that send agents and spies here, or recruit them, want me dead. When they find out how many chicoms Iâve killed lately, and that Iâm still alive, Iâll go to the top of their hit lists."

"So theyâre gonna say youâre dead to keep you alive."

Right. I can count on you to keep the secret, canât I?"

"Absolutely. Ratboy never rats."

"Great. Because thereâs another reason weâre doing this. Everyone who knows Iâm alive will keep the secret except for Loong Wang. We figure as soon as he contacts whoever he was secretly working for, heâll tell them what happened at the stadium, probably including the fact that I was alive when he left. Weâll be listening with all our ears, and where, when, and how that news surfaces should tell us something about who these people are."

"O-O-o-o-oh! Sneaky! And if I get a whiff of anything, Iâll be sure and let you know. If you give me a phone number."

Melody pushed a few buttons on her phone, but didnât raise it to her ear. "Okay. Iâm gonna have my henchman smuggle in some cheese fries. Weâll drop by with Îem later, and Iâll give you the number and let you know what I found out about your gear. Oh, and the Agencyâs picking up the tab for your stay, so just relax and enjoy." Harmony opened the door and pulled Melodyâs wheelchair out into the hall.

Almost as soon as they were back in Custerâs room, Melodyâs phone rang. She released the catch and it sprang open in her hand. "Yo."

"Agent Powers, this is Scrivener at HQ. Our check of Agent Pettiboneâs records reveals nothing to contraindicate your assumption of her identity. You will receive a dossier on her today. When you are discharged, weâll want you to take up residence at her house, use her car, et cetera, for the duration of the ruse. Oh, and, until youâre fully recovered, weâd like you to teach some classes at the Academy. As you know, all the able-bodied instructors and all but one upperclassman were lost at the stadium."

"Uh, okay, I guess. What was Agent Pettiboneâs full name?"

"Donna Louise Pettibone. Her handle was Sunspider. Weâd appreciate it if you and Agent Butterfly would handle as much of this as you can from your end. Every one of us here is a new transfer and weâre mostly still trying to find things. You canât imagine the chaos."

"Not from your viewpoint. My calling is more the creation of chaos. To me it represents a job well done. But weâll do all we can to lighten your workload, Scrivener. Later."

Melody folded her phone, looked up at Harmony and Custer. "Well, as of now Iâm officially Donna Louise Pettibone, or Sunspider. Theyâre going to want me to teach at the Academy when I get out of here, and Scrivener as good as said we can do anything we want as long as it doesnât make more paperwork for the newbies at HQ. Custer, I have a hunch theyâll want you down there as soon as you can survive outside the hospital for brief periods.

"Oh, crap! I hate office work!"

"What sane person doesnât? They need someone whoâs been there for more than two days to help them find stuff. Scrivener sounded desperate. Look at it this way, you could score some major brownie points."

"I guess Iâll do my duty. Maybe by the time Iâve recuperated enough, theyâll have recalled some old HQ people from elsewhere, and wonât need me."

"Custer, Custer, Custer." Harmony sighed, shaking her head. "Youâre gonna miss out. Think of all those young female Agents running around HQ with their panties in a wad. Then in comes you, the wounded hero, risen from your bed of pain to selflessly help little olâ them. On second thought, maybe youâd better not. How much fawning and solicitude can one man take?"

"Hmmmm..."

"Thank you for that unique Butterfly perspective.", chuckled Melody as she hit a speed-dial number on her phone. "How about procuring us a large quantity of cheese fries? I promised John... hey, Virosa, this is Sunspider. Right. That one. Quick question: would you know what became of Ratboyâs gear? Uh huh... mm hmm. The armory. Thanks. Drop by later for some cheese fries? Great. Donât kill anyone I wouldnât kill. See ya."

Custer asked, "So, M- uh, Donna, what classes do you think youâll teach? Other than the obvious marksmanship and mass murder, that is?"

"I was thinking etiquette, shorthand, and maybe embroidery."

"Haha! Yeah, right! Hey, you should teach Îem what you taught Amelia and me. Thatâs something they can really use!"

"What? Did I miss something?" queried Custer.

"OH, yeah! It, uh had to do with occupational hazards."

"You have a point there, Harmony. My presentation wasnât really suitable for a classroom environment, though. Perhaps a suitable visual aid... tell you what. Bring my black bikini in from home in the morning. Iâll call a photographer I know. Iâm going to document those scars for posterity before I get rid of them."

"You are so wicked! I mean itâs a great idea, but it takes a wicked mind to think of it."

"Naah. Wicked would be if I made it into a Christmas card and sent it to Mom and Dad."

"Aagh! Theyâd have terminal conniptions!"

"That reminds me, I havenât heard back from HQ about my pistol. As screwed up as they are down there, I may never get it back. Iâd sure hate to lose that old pistol."

"What happened to it?"

"After I ran out of ammo, I laid it down at the entrance to the stairwell in section D, west bleachers. I told HQ about it yesterday morning."

Melody, wearing a white bikini, eased herself into the reclining armchair. It was a lot more comfortable than the chair in her other room. The white bikini had been Harmonyâs idea, and theyâd wound up using it for most of the shots. Frank was packing up his cameras and equipment. Heâd been very helpful in coming up with poses she could hold with her injuries, and heâd almost made her believe she looked beautiful, instead of like something the cat dragged in.

Frank was a glamour photographer whoâd been part of one of Melodyâs covers a couple of years ago. These were probably the least glamorous photos heâd ever taken. But they would be perfect for Melodyâs intended purpose- illustrating the less than glamorous aspects of being a special op.

"Iâm serious, M- Donna," he said. "I want another session with you as soon as you heal up."

"B. S. artist. Iâll pencil you in, but I canât promise anything. And Iâm serious too- dead serious. You canât keep any prints or negatives or anything from this session. If any are discovered, there could be grave consequences for me and maybe for you too."

"You may place your complete faith in me. Trust is part of my stock in trade. And, uh, whatever youâve been doing lately, I certainly hope youâre through doing it."

Melody favored him with a wistful smile. "I thought Iâd try teaching for a while."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck. Iâm sure youâll be a great teacher, although I have to admit I canât picture it."

"Thatâs the sweetest thing youâve said in at least the last two minutes." Melody waved as he disappeared out the door. Her smile faded as a corpulent nurse with a permanently pissed-off look entered.

"Ms. Pettibone! What in the world have you been doing? Was that a photographer who just left here? What sort of twisted...

"Before pictures for the cosmetic surgery, Nurse... Melody read the nurseâs nametag. "Ratlegs."

 "Thatâs Rutledge! Who removed those dressings? And what are you doing running around without your walker?"

Melody rose from the chair, deliberately showing no sign of weakness or discomfort, and took a step toward the nurse. "We just saved you a few minutesâ work. You know, Rutledge, every so often youâre going to meet people with connections or influence, or just plain power. Itâs a good idea to be nice to everyone, just in case. Howâd you like to do a year of volunteer work in a leprosy clinic I support in Calcutta?" She leaned well into Nurse Rutledgeâs personal space. "I can arrange it."

Nurse Rutledge paled and staggered back. There was that in Melodyâs gaze which bespoke other, even worse things she could as easily arrange. "I- I- Iâm sure I meant no offense, Ms., uh, Pettibone..."

"Yes, Iâm sure. Well, why donât you fix me up with some nice fresh bandages, and then you can continue spreading joy on down the corridor." There was a knock at the door. "Come in."

A tall forty-ish woman with dark brown hair and gold rimmed glasses entered. She smiled. "Iâm Dr. Rosencrantz. Are you Ms. Pettibone?" Nurse Rutledge stepped out from between them. "Oh, my! Thatâs a beaut!"

"Your timing is excellent. Nurse Rutledge was just about to rewrap me."

"Come back in about fifteen minutes, nurse." Dr. Rosencrantz offhandedly dismissed her, already fascinated by Melodyâs collection of scars.

As the nurse left, Melody said, "Would you hand me that walker over there, please?"

"Oh, certainly." Dr. Rosencrantz hurried to get it. "How were you getting around without it? And why? That wound in your thigh is two days old or less."

"Well, when the photographer was here, we didnât want it in the shots, and after that I was terrorizing Nurse Ratchett. I terrorize better without a walker."

"Hmph. If she had any brains, sheâd take one look at those scars and be pre-terrorized. How did you get them if I may ask?"

"Line of duty. Mostly bullets. This big ugly one was a knife wound that got infected. Took me four days to get to a hospital."

"Four days! Why arenât you dead? And this doesnât look like the result of infection, thereâs no cratering evident." Dr. Rosencrantz was kneeling and examining the scar across Melodyâs abdomen minutely.

"The infection was kept in check by... field expedient methods."

"Field expedient? You mean like moldy bread? Sugar? Honey? Propolis?"

Melody wrestled with an unpleasant memory. "Maggots."

The doctor stared at her, obviously not comprehending, probably horrified. "They eat the infection. You keep the wound as clean as you can, and remove them when they pupate." (2)

"But... how do you keep them from eating you alive?"

"They canât eat healthy flesh. No teeth. They suck up the bacteria and its waste products and... almost... keep it from spreading. Their slime has antibacterial properties. I think thatâs what he said." Suddenly tired, Melody lowered herself into the chair. Looking at Dr. Rosencrantzâs face, she added, "It beats the alternative." She ran her fingers along the scar. "But Iâll always remember the feel of them, crawling and squirming and sucking with their little tiny mouths, sucking at my raw flesh... " She turned her head suddenly, stared at a wall, blinking rapidly. "If it hadnât been for Yuri, I donât think Iâdâve had the guts."

"Yuri?"

"He showed me how. We took care of each other until we got to a hospital. I wonder what his scar looks like now."

"Where did he learn it? Iâve never heard of using maggots like that."

Melody considered carefully. No harm in telling her that. "It was part of his Spetznaz training."

"Spetznaz? Russian commandos?"

"Yeah. So, what do you think? How close to normal can you take me?"

"I can practically eliminate any of the scars I see here, even this one. Some will require preliminary stretching of the adjacent skin to eliminate the need for grafting when the scar tissue is excised, but thatâs not bad. Small subcutaneous balloons. The procedure will leave hairline scars which will vanish in two or three months."

"What about a navel?"

"Iâm pretty sure... " Dr. Rosencrantz dropped to one knee beside the chair and kneaded Melodyâs belly where her navel had been. "Yes. Your navel is still there, Donna, just covered over by scar tissue. When I excise the scar tissue, itâll be right there where itâs always been."

"Iâm sure glad to hear that. Iâll be able to wear this bikini to the beach before it goes out of style. What do you know about MSM?"

"Great stuff. Iâve been prescribing it postoperatively for over a year now, and itâs done wonders for my reputation. Long term, though, itâs going to cut into the scar removal part of my practice. Oh, well."

"Thatâs great. My sister was just telling me about it. Which of these scars do you think you should remove surgically and which should I just let fade away?"

"Oh, youâre a cruel one, eh?", she smiled. "Stick me right on the hot seat, make me cut my own throat. All right, if youâll stand up a minute... "

Melody made another adjustment to the angle of the top section of her bed, finally getting it just right. Nurse Rutledge had finished dressing her wounds, and had even helped her put on her lounging pajamas. She was all set to lounge and read the book Harmony had given her when Virosa slipped in. "Hey, Virosa. Have some brunch?" she waved at coffee and rolls on a counter by the window.

"Thanks. These rooms in the new tower are nicer than your other room."

"Yes, and the reflective coatings on the windows mean I can raise the blinds without having to worry about snipers. Do anyone interesting lately?"

"Well, I just met with "Birdlegs" Bolognese down at Vitoâs Ristorante and Pizzeria."

"Huge fat guy? Always seems to be eating? Messily? How is olâ Birdlegs these days?"

"Heâll never be met with again, I fear. Freak accident. His table exploded. Scant seconds after I left, too."

"Oh, how tragic! Are you all right? You must be terribly traumatized!"

"Yeah, Iâm all twitterpated. I donât know how many innocent patrons were hurt inside Vitoâs."

Melody snorked. "Thatâs easy. Vitoâs doesnât have any innocent patrons." A knock on the door interrupted their chuckle. "Come on in."

Harmony entered, carrying something in a grocery sack. "Good morning Donna, Virosa. Hereâs that stuff you wanted. Sorry Iâm late. You wouldnât believe what I ran into!" She handed Melody her small 9mm pistol, then two books, titled The Complete Works of Dostoyevsky and Plant Pathology. "I can see reading some Dostoyevsky while youâre stuck in the hospital, but jeez, Plant Pathology?" Melody opened the thick, dark green covered tome to reveal pages covered with fairly fine print, divided into huge paragraphs. "I canât believe anyone would touch that unless they absolutely... wait a minute. Let me see that!"

With a small smile, Melody handed it over. Harmony flipped some more pages to reveal a pistol shaped hollow. She placed the pistol inside, closed the book, placed it on top of the bedside nightstand, and grinned at Melody, who grinned back.

"Pretty devious for a rookie.", smirked Virosa. "So, what did you run into that we wouldnât believe?"

"There were all these cop cars and ambulances and a bomb squad van blocking the street in front of this sleazy little restaurant, and a bunch of ugly guys in expensive suits standing around outside, and then they bring this body out on a stretcher, and some punk runs up and snatches the sheet off, and itâs like it was this really fat guy that ate too much, and he just exploded! Guts hanging out all over! And the guys in the suits were all like gagging and ralphing on each other, and it was just ghastly!"

"Why, thank you, Harmony! I do try." grinned Virosa. Melody was shaking with silent laughter.

Harmony goggled. "YOU did that?! Eewww, gross! How?"

"My usual style is somewhat more tasteful, but the Man wants high profile. I stuck a happy-happy under his table."

"Whatâs a happy-happy?"

"An APAPD- an all-purpose anti-personnel device. Didnât they teach you about them at the Academy?"

"Oh, yeah, they talked about them, but not under the name happy-happy, and they didnât have one to show us."

Virosa reached into an oversized purse and pulled out what looked like a sandwich in a plastic bag. She opened the bag and removed the contents, which now just looked like a box the size and shape of a thick sandwich. "The bad news comes out this side." She indicated one of the longer sides of the box, which was marked THIS SIDE TOWARD ENEMY. "All six sides have peel-and-stick adhesive pads. Itâs very good adhesive- watch it. Thereâs a swivel mount accessory if you need to aim one precisely. Itâs triggered by trip wire or radio." she pointed to a small black snap hook attached to the end of a thin black wire emerging from the package. "There are a whole bunch of different triggers that work through the radio interface. Basically, itâs a miniature Claymore mine. Easy to use, versatile, and very effective."

 Harmony took the object, turning it over and examining it with interest, visualizing possibilities. "This is neat- in a very messy sort of way. I donât suppose I could get a couple to practice with."

"Special Ops can.", said Melody. "You can sign up for a class. When they get twelve people, they take you out on the range and let you shoot off some of these and some other whiz-bangs. Then you have some beer and roast hot dogs. Itâs a fun afternoon."

"Sounds like a good thing to do just before payday. Oh, I checked on your pistol. The guy in charge of cleanup showed everyone a picture of it, but no one turned it in. Iâm gonna talk to him later today, and then the guy who was in charge of the navy volunteers. There were also some marine volunteers and some policemen. Iâll find it, donât worry."

"It doesnât sound promising. There must have been hundreds of them, any one of whom might have taken it. You canât interrogate them all."

"I wonât have to. Iâll find out who was working around section D West and talk to some of them. One guy picked it up. Another couple of guys probably saw him. Some other guys maybe thought he was acting suspicious. Iâll ask, and even if they donât tell me outright, Iâll pick up hints. But one of them will probably just tell me. It wonât be hard."

"Sounds like the kid is a natural born interrogator.", mused Virosa.

"More like a Mata Hari", replied Melody. "If heâs a guy, she can make him tell it, do it, or hand it over."

"Hey! I just happen to know a few things you can do with guys besides shoot Îem."

"Well, on that intriguing note, I must take my leave. Harmony, Iâd let you keep the happy-happy, but I have to give it to somebody this afternoon. Iâll try not to tie up traffic so bad this time." Taking the deadly little package, Virosa slipped out. 

Harmony turned to Melody. "So, how are you feeling today?"

"A bit strained from standing and moving around so much, but surprisingly good, considering. Tomorrow Dr. Rosencrantz is gonna stick me full of little balloons, which should make me look and feel considerably worse. And then Iâm scheduled for surgery in three weeks. But she told me my bellybutton is still there, under that scar, so thatâs something, I guess.

"Thatâs wonderful! When you get it back, are you gonna get it pierced?"

"Certainly not! Donât you think the poor thing has suffered enough?"

"But if youâre not going to hang something in it, what good is it?"

Danny Gillespie opened his apartment door and flipped on the light. He had really gotten lucky tonight. The most gorgeous girl heâd seen in a very long time had wandered into the bar and sat down practically right next to him. She hadnât been receptive to his first line, but heâd regrouped and tried again, and sheâd allowed him to buy her a drink.  When he told her he was a police officer she seemed surprised and a bit excited. She didnât act like a cop groupie, but she was definitely impressed when he showed her his sidearm. It was just like Dirty Harryâs, and it was a Babe Magnet. Thatâs when sheâd slid over onto the stool next to him. So naturally heâd invited her up to see his gun collection, and here they were. This was going to be a very interesting night, he could just feel it.

"Ooh, Danny, you really do have a lot of guns! Did they belong to criminals you busted?" Sheâd seen the guns on the wall of the den area to the left, and seemed drawn to them.

Danny flipped another switch, and display lights came on to illuminate the displayed weapons to best advantage. Many rested directly on pegs in the wall, some were framed, and a few were in glass-fronted cases. "Yes, most of them. See that one?" He pointed at a nickel plated, ivory-handled Uzi pistol. "That belonged to Panama Jack, the big coke distributor we busted a couple months ago. And this one belonged to a Mafia hit man." He indicated a nondescript derringer in a minimal ankle holster. "He wore it inside his left sock." Danny fought to stay cool. This girl oozed a maddening innocent sexuality from every pore. Even the way her long light red hair swayed as she walked over to his desk drove him wild.

"Hey, this one looks... special. Like not just anyone could use it. And itâs seen a lot of use."

"You have a very good eye for pistols, Muffy. More men have been killed with that pistol than with all these others combined. Thatâs the Powers Special, personal sidearm of the legendary Melody Powers, Special Operative for The Agency. Tragically, she made the ultimate sacrifice for her country only a few days ago. I canât give any details, but she probably took out nearly a hundred godless communists in that last terrible battle alone."

"Closer to a hundred seventy-five."

"Hmm?"

"Six spare magazines, twenty-five rounds each. I see she emptied them all. Melody Powers was one of the finest shots in the Agency, and all Agents are expert marksmen. Thatâs how she could get away with using a .22 rimfire pistol. A little hole in the right spot is just as lethal as a big hole. Oh, and there were also the twenty-three she killed at the warehouse that morning with this same pistol."

Danny looked more carefully at this girl. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"My sister knows a junior Agent."

"Thatâs great. Then I guess you can appreciate what a priceless historical treasure this pistol is. I was part of the clean-up crew that ghastly morning after. I recognized it for what it was and managed to rescue it from being melted down and lost forever. Itâs a part of Melody Powersâ memory preserved for posterity. Unique in all the world. It will be the crown jewel of my collection, and someday Iâll pass it on to the Smithsonian."

"Itâs not exactly unique in all the world, you know."

"Huh? Why isnât it?"

"Melody Powersâ sister Harmony is also with the Agency, and she has a Powers Special too." The girl reached beneath her vest, came out with a pistol identical to the one on the desk, but gleaming blue-black and nearly new. She held it so Danny could get a good look at it, but so she could bring it into action in a split second if necessary. "Of course, it doesnât have that rich patina that only comes from years of hard use, loving care, and hundreds of lives snuffed out. (bt) Yet."

Her beautiful blue eyes locked onto Dannyâs. They suddenly reminded him of the twin bores of a double express rifle. "Oh and you recognized it because everyone on the cleanup crew was shown a picture of it and told to watch for it, and who to turn it over to if they found it."

Harmony watched shades of fear, terror, and despair chase each other across Dannyâs face. She almost felt sorry for him. She pictured a little rat inside his head, running madly in its wheel, trying to make the gears turn a little faster so he could figure out exactly how much trouble he was in. "Take a breath, Danny. Iâm not gonna drop the hammer on you. I ought to drop a dime, but Iâm not gonna do that either. What you said about Melody saved you. Almost nobody even begins to appreciate what she did for her country. Now, pack up Melodyâs pistol, holster, spare magazines, and the two magazine pouches, and put them in a couple of plastic shopping bags. It will all go into the Melody Powers exhibit in the Agency museum. And you owe me a big one."

Scene 17 Int. Girlsâ locker room. Jane is removing a boot, Daria her shirt.

Scene 18 Int. Ms. Liâs office. Ms. Li is seated at her desk, Mr. OâNeill and Coach Gibson are standing behind it. Daria enters.