Marked Target ~ Chapter Eight ~ by: Danielle Krieger (c) 2011 Lawrence "Lex" McKinley lives about as average a life as one can with metahumans popping up everywhere. Well, as normal as someone who spends their free time as an MMA fighter really can. He's about to get the shock of his life--the punch he never saw coming. In this installment: Lex gets led around by the hand. Questions get answered. Will Dr. Hank McCoy have good news? Is getting the DMA involved going to be a good idea?

---

DISCLAIMER :: This is a retroactive continuity. A “ret-con”, if you will. It follows other stories in Lilith Langtree’s “Comics RetCon Universe”. The story is mine, but some of the characters are not. This is a RetCon of X-23, from Marvel Comics’ X-men (with a special guest appearance from Dr. Hank McCoy). Laura Kinney, X-23, and Dr. Henry Philip “Hank” McCoy, Beast, are trademarks of Marvel Comics. Green Arrow and Agent Helen Helligan are trademarks of Detective Comics. All rights reserved. The pic, once again, has been brought to you by the amazingly talented Mike Choi.

Author's Note :: Honestly, I wrestled with this chapter over the last couple of days. There were a couple of issues that needed to be worked out. Thanks to Lilith, Donjo, and EnemyofFun for being my betas and putting up with me through this. Special thanks to EnemyofFun for Olivia and Hank. The reward goes to the readers: the longest Marked Target chapter to date. Hope you enjoy my little labor of love.

---

Chapter Eight:

You’d think that a big, green, high-performance motorcycle with two riders would turn a few heads. Coincidentally, I think the denizens of San Francisco might be a little too accustomed to seeing the Green Arrow around town. Either that or they’re so self-absorbed that they don’t notice much else.

My captor was as stoic as ever. She kept her swift pace as we exited the alleyway. We wound through the streets for a few blocks. I didn’t stray more than five steps behind her. It would have been a nice view, if the cape of her cloak weren’t in the way. There was some commotion from the people on the sidewalks once they caught sight of their local superhero. Several of them snapped pictures, but most seemed to dart out of her way. Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted as she walked along. I couldn’t see the expression on her face. However, the denizens seemed to regard me with some kind of malice. There was chatter on either side from people wanting to know what I’d done wrong. Then, they smelt the vodka that had spilt on me and covered their noses. Perhaps, they put two and two together.

Why didn’t I try to run and save myself this massive embarrassment?

When we finally reached her mode of transportation, I had to take a step back. Never in my life would I ever believe that I would see a Suzuki Hayabusa up close and personal. Yet, it was sitting in front of me and Green Arrow just swung her leg over the motorcycle. Most of the body and fiberglass was covered in black or kelly green, the same colors of her outfit. Amazingly, this was the two-seat model. I wonder if she thought ahead? What wasn’t painted was shimmering with chrome. If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn that someone laced one of my libations with Absynthe. This just had to be a dream given form.

Once she stuffed her quiver in a fiberglass compartment and grabbed her helmet, she glanced over my way. Raising an eyebrow, she finally spoke. “Are you going to get on or stand there staring all day?”

My wide eyes met hers. “Me? With you? On the GSX1300R?”

She shrugged. “Unless your power is incredible running speed, that’s the plan. Hop on.”

Still awestruck, I moved toward the bike rather slowly. She handed me a helmet with an annoyed look on her face. Mine was silver and hers followed the green/black color scheme. After slipping on the helmet, I slid onto and straddled the motorcycle, as well. If it wasn’t apparent by now, this experience only confirmed just how flat my crotch had become. Sitting on the bike, the slope of the body forced me forward into her so that I was, in a way, straddling her as well as the machine. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I could feel her moving and starting the bike. It roared to life as I confirmed that, yes, Green Arrow was an actual human being. She put off body heat and everything!

“You may want to hang on tight,” she yelled to me through her helmet over the purr of the engine, “I tend to get a little crazy on this thing.”

With that, the engine roared and we jolted into traffic.

During the whole ride, I could feel her breathing and talking due to the vibrations running through her torso that weren’t associated with the motorcycle. She was doing quite a lot of talking, too. My ears never picked up anything with the noise of the motorcycle’s engine, traffic noise, the sounds of the city, and the wind rushing all around us. Of course, her helmet could have been soundproofed and I’d never know it. Our course seemed to weave through side streets and main thoroughfares in random succession. I got lost, after a while.

Finally, we turned down a side street and she slowed to a stop. She shut the bike down and removed her helmet, turning to me.

“Okay, we’re here.” She yelled so I could hear through the helmet. Once I took off my helmet, she continued. “I called in a favor.” She pointed to the house before us. “This place belongs to a friend of mine, but she’s agreed to house you while I figure out what to do with you.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I expect you to be on your best behavior or SFPD will learn of your location. Agreed?”

Not wanting to upset her, I meekly nodded. I wasn’t exactly in a position for negotiation of any kind. She slid off the bike and I handed the helmet back to her. Finally, I glanced over at the house.

From the sidewalk, there wasn’t much to it. Heck, there wasn’t much to most houses in San Francisco if you just look at the front visage. Still, this place looked almost like two houses. There was a small garage on either side of the front door that seemed to be able to fit a vehicle the size of a Toyota Prius, each. The siding was all stained wooden shingles in a dark chocolate brown color. There were several windows facing the street that promised at least three floors in the house. Contrary to most other houses, the front visage wasn’t two-dimensional, either. The lower floor was all uniplanar. The second floor had one window that jutted outward, one on a thirty-degree slant, and two that jutted outward again. The third floor became uniplanar again. It was an odd look, but it had me somewhat captivated. The front door appeared to be carved maple or something similar. It was sunken into an entrance cavity with a nice Victorian lantern hanging above it.

She turned me to face her again. “I have to go, now. There are more criminals out there than just you. There’s a woman inside who will help you.” Then, she caught the alcohol sent and scrunched her nose. “And, for the love… take a shower and clean those clothes.”

“Um… thanks?” I stated, breathlessly.

She nodded. “I’ll be by tomorrow and we’ll head over to Berkeley. In the meantime, I’ll be checking into your story. Be ready, bright and early.”

Giving her a nod, I watched as she slipped her helmet back on, started the bike, revved it for a moment, and then took off down the road. I watched her leave with the cape of her cloak flapping in the wind. Why did nobody ever notice that? It was a pretty cool effect.

Turning toward the house, I reluctantly stepped into the entryway. Taking a breath, my eyes caught sight of a doorbell and my right thumb pressed it. From my perspective, the thing sounded like the chiming of Big Ben in Parliament Square of London. It sounded like some really big bells suddenly sounded three times and seemed to echo through the whole house. It was pretty intimidating, actually. Yea, as if I weren’t intimidated enough already?

After a few moments, the door silently swung open. Behind it was a pretty blonde, probably in her mid-twenties–like I was, once. She wore sensible black pumps, tanned nylons, a charcoal A-line skirt, blouse tucked into the skirt with the top two buttons undone, a charcoal vest, black plastic-framed glasses, and her hair in a bun. Oh, yeah. This girl was all business. Her smile even looked like some fake corporate tool. Lovely.

“You must be my new ward.” She greeted with that fake smile. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

My eyes rolled. Here we go, again. “Talon.”

She shrugged it off. “Okay, well, I’m Rebecca. You can call me ‘Becky’, if you like. Do come in, won’t you?”

Slowly, I crossed the threshold. The whole house smelled like “renovation”. Everything inside was new. The carpets, furniture, electronics, appliances, and everything else. It all had that “new house” smell that assaulted my olfactory nerves. That, and the woman’s expensive Chanel perfume. She could have eased up on the spritz, though. I almost felt like gagging.

Leading me by the hand, she proceeded to give the grand tour. As she spoke, I wondered if she once moonlighted as some kind of overly cheerful museum tour guide. She had the squeaky voice, fake corporate smile, and even a fake giddy giggle. It was very annoying.

The house was huge, though. The front visage gave it no justice, at all. To the right and up a few half steps was a gaming/hang out room with a big pool table in the middle of it. Nothing could hide my huge smile at that. To the left, the door to garage #1. There was a hallway that led into the back area of the house. Following that, she showed me the huge parlor/dining room with a nicely sized kitchen tucked into a corner. The thing had vaulted ceilings, two skylights, a fireplace in the back, and French doors that opened out to the back patio. Everything looked amazing and probably incredibly expensive.

Back through the pool table room, there was a few more half steps to the door to garage #2. I’ve heard of two-car garages, but two actual garages? That was odd. Still heading toward the back of the house, there were the stairs to the second floor and situated in the exact middle of the house was the coolest TV room I’d ever seen. It had a sectional couch that looked extra comfortable and stretched two-thirds of the way around the perimeter of the room. In the center, a snack table. There was over-head lighting like in the theaters. The big kahuna? The television was the biggest one I’d ever seen. According to “call me Becky”, it was currently the largest production model at a whopping 108 inches. To think, I used to fantasize about having a 60-inch. I must have been aiming too low.

On the second floor was the “master suite” with its own bathroom and walk-in closet. It even had a fireplace! There was another bedroom with it’s own unconnected bathroom. The closet was huge, but it wasn’t a walk-in model. Though, interestingly, it had been converted into an office/study rather than used strictly as a bedroom. The master suite, with its bathroom, was easily twice the size of my old apartment. There were two other bedrooms on the third floor along with a little corridor that led to a verandah. From that verandah, one had a pretty nice view of the Golden Gate Bridge, most of the bay, and even Alcatraz.

The best part? It was all for me. Don’t ask me how one person really needs that much space, but that’s what I was told. Of course, as soon as she said that I claimed the master bedroom as mine.

As soon as the tour was over, she discussed some particulars. Namely, I was to immediately march into my bathroom and take a shower, bath, or whatever I preferred. Strangely, she asked what all my sizes were. I mean, it’s pretty invasive to ask someone their dress size, jean size, or shoe size. It gets worse when someone you just met starts asking what size panties you wear and what your bra size is. She informed me everything that I could possibly need was already in the bathroom and had been in case the real owner ever planned to occupy the home. She never told me who the owner was. I was inclined to thank my mysterious benefactor, but she refused to reveal their identity, stating something like “I just do what my boss tells me.”

The bath was amazing. Did I mention I’ve got a Jacuzzi tub? Well, I do now. All those months of sleeping on the ground or on an old army cot seemed to melt away as the water jets gently massaged my muscles. Time seemed to stand still and my perception of the passage of time was lost. Looking at my fingers, I noticed they were quite pruny. So, I hurried in shampooing and conditioning my hair. Both bottles had a really nice floral sent that my nose seemed to like. After that, I found this puffy ball thing that I found out was called a “lather ball”. All I knew at the time is that you put in a little body wash (which also smelled very nice) and it makes a whole lot of suds. There simply aren’t words to describe just how clean I felt after that.

After stepping out and draining the tub, I slipped a terry cloth towel around me, tying it at the chest. Also, the lessons in “hair turban” from Steven really came in handy. Coming out of the bathroom, I spotted several shopping bags on my new bed. Curious, I crossed over to them. On the bed, a silk chemise nightgown and matching panties was already laid out. It looked pink, to me, but I learned later the color is called “lavender” which is a bright purple. Inside the bags were some extra panties, a couple bras, some assorted shoes, a couple pairs of jeans, and some tops I probably wouldn’t wear in my grave. It was all super girlish. I wasn’t happy.

There was a note, though: Talon — Since your clothes are now in the wash, I took the liberty of running down to the local boutiques to get you some provisional clothing. I hope you like them. Wear them if you like, don’t if you’d rather not. Though, you can’t expect to run around the city naked, can you? --Becky

Yep, this woman was an odd one. Letting out a weighted sigh, I glanced over at the nightgown. It can’t be too bad, can it?

Big Ben interrupted my jaunt in slumber land. In that moment, I resolved that no matter what it took I was going to replace that doorbell tone.

The bed was one of those top-of-the-line memory foam things. The minute I put on the nightgown and panties then crawled into bed, I was sleeping like a baby. It had been a really long time since I remember sleeping that well. It was nice, warm, and comfortable where I was. I didn’t want to leave it.

Big Ben beckoned again.

Rolling my eyes and letting out a very effeminate grumble, I slid out of bed and began marching downstairs. Whoever was at the door was going to get an ear full. Marching through the house reminded me of just how big the thing was. Also, it was quite chilly in the morning. I resolved to either turn on one of the fireplaces at night or invest in a nice, thick, warm bathrobe. Getting to the door, I didn’t even check who it was. The door swung open and just before I began to berate them for waking me at this hour my voice froze. There she was, again. Green Arrow, herself.

“Good morning, sleepy head. Cute nightgown. Though, you should have asked for a robe.” She smirked and winked at me. Then, she strode into the house like she owned the place.

“Oh, do come in, won’t you?” My groggy voice uttered facetiously. With a quick motion of my wrist, the door swung closed.

She handed me an unassuming box that I didn’t even notice she had been carrying. “Here. Check these out. Wear what you like. I’ve got a surprise.”

I snubbed my nose at the box. “More clothes? These aren’t the same super girly crap that blonde woman bought for me yesterday, are they?”

She slowly shook her head. “No… they serve a purpose, which you’ll find out once you’re decently dressed. Now, hop to! We’ve got things to do.”

Letting out a scoff, my legs carried me back upstairs while my arms carried the box. Plopping it onto the bed, I opened it up and scanned the contents. Inside was simply a pair of dark blue bootcut jeans, a nice black T-shirt, some feminine biker boots, riding gloves, a Cortech Magnum ladies’ black leather jacket, a pair of sunglasses and a black-and-silver helmet. This girl, whoever she was, definitely knew her biker gear. In an excited rush, I slipped on the jeans. Next, I grabbed some dark purple socks Becky had gathered and slipped on the boots, keeping the cuffs of the jeans over the boots. After slipping out of the nightgown and strapping into a comfortable bra, I slipped on the T-shirt and jacket. Amazingly, everything fit like a glove. Though, I decided to put a brush through my hair before putting the sunglasses and gloves in the helmet. I was back downstairs in about ten minutes.

Green Arrow smiled. “You look comfy.”

“Yea, you know your biker gear. How’d you know my sizes?”

She shrugged. “Lucky guess. Now, do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”

I quickly nodded. “Yes. I’ve had my endorsement in Washington for the last six years. Never got around to getting my own bike, though. They only gave me one parking space, it rained too much to be safe, Washington drivers are blind imbeciles, and Julia was terrified of the things. So, I never bought my own.”

Her smile grew wider. “Good.” She opened the door to Garage #1 and beckoned me to look. Inside sat a brand new Triumph Thunderbird Storm. I could have died happy right then and there. “This baby’s for you. I don’t really like carrying riders. It’s a good thing I know people that can pull off an overnight delivery.”

With a happy squeal, I jumped on her and wrapped her in a hug. “Thank you!”

Grunting from the impact, she nodded. “You’re welcome. Now, do you know the way to U-C Berkeley?”

Releasing her, I shook my head. “I’d probably get lost in most parts of San Francisco. I haven’t been here long enough to really get familiar with the place.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. There’s a microphone near your mouth and speakers over your ears in the helmet. Follow me and I’ll give you directions as we go. Sound good enough?”

I nodded. “Yep. Sounds like it should work fine. I can follow directions.”

She smiled. “Good.” When she opened her hand, a set of keys dangled from it. “This has keys to the bike and a key for the house. The fob has the remote for the garage door. Try to keep up?”

Grinning, I accepted the bundle. “Got it.”

She strode out of the house and I locked up behind her. Heading straight for the garage, I closed the door behind me and pressed the button on the key fob to open the garage door. It seemed like a typical, chilly, foggy San Francisco morning. It’s a good thing I was dressed fairly warmly. My excitement was barely contained as I slipped the sunglasses into the waist pocket of the jacket, slipped on the gloves, and pulled the helmet over my head. As I was fastening the chinstrap, a voice rang out in the helmet.

“Don’t forget to tuck your hair into the jacket or it’ll be a tangled mess when we get there. From what you’ve told me, it’s been a while since you’ve ridden a bike and you probably didn’t have hair that long when you did.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I replied before following her advice.

Then, I slid the key into the ignition and started up the bike. With the walls all around me, the initial roar was that much more intense. Inside, I was grinning from ear to ear. Feeling the power as the engine rumbled and purred between my legs and hearing the sound from the exhaust, I almost felt like a man again. This bike was a bad ass and she wanted you to know it. Pulling the clutch, I pedaled the bike into first gear. It slowly rolled forward until I was on the sidewalk. I pulled the brakes just long enough to press the button that closed the garage and glance around for Green Arrow. She was straddling her crotch rocket in the middle of the street. She revved her engine once and then took off. I eased out of the drive and followed behind her.

She bobbed and weaved through the streets, again, but she at least let me know the street names through our helmet communications. In almost no time at all, we’d gotten to the 101, then the “Central Freeway”, and finally onto I-80 to cross the Bay Bridge into the eastern Bay Area. We didn’t have too much trouble. California drivers may be a little crazy, but most of them knew what they were doing. A few minutes later, we were in Berkeley and headed down College Ave. Hanging a left onto Bancroft Way, she guided me to the university’s central offices. Thankfully, there were two open motorcycle-specific parking spaces right in front. I shut down my bike, but she didn’t.

“Talon, I won’t be coming with you.” Her voice came over the helmet speakers. “There are some things I need to take care of and I believe this is something you need to do on your own. From here on, I’ll see you when I see you.”

I let out a sigh. I’d really never see her again? “Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, right?” I held out a gloved hand to her. “For what it’s worth, thanks for everything.”

She nodded and shook my hand, which is when she slipped Dr. McCoy’s card back to my possession. “If you need help getting back, call me.” She started walking her bike backward. Then, she revved the engine once and was off like a shot.

The trek across campus seemed interminable, even with a map. The drive required navigating a few side roads that were a little difficult to understand. Thankfully, I found the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory offices. Having a big sign out front and armed federal guards for security helped the process along. Getting through the metal detectors was a little difficult. That wasn’t easy to explain away. However, my excuse about a motorcycle accident requiring a few screws and rods in my arm seemed to work okay. I swear I could feel the eyes of the guards on my swishing posterior as I made my getaway. Perverts.

Arriving at his office, Dr. McCoy was nowhere to be found. An aid pointed me in the direction of the biochemical labs where he would most likely be. My palms were sweating when I knocked on the door. The answer came almost immediately.

“Please, do come in,” erupted a rough man’s voice from inside.

Taking a preparatory breath, I swung the door open. “Dr. McCoy?” I asked the man inside. Then, glanced down at the card. “Dr. Henry McCoy?”

The lab seemed like your average chemistry lab with a few devices for several experimentation implements littered about. There were some hi-tech gadgets around that I made a mental note to avoid entirely. The whole concept of “you break it, you bought it” had been instilled in me since early childhood.

The man, himself, had been studying something on his computer screen. Now, he turned to face me and removed the reading glasses from his face. A smile appeared on his weathered face. He must have been in his forties, at least. His soft dark brown hair had a couple of gray streaks starting near his temples. His chocolate eyes hinted at a certain youthful playfulness about him. His smile was genuine and almost paternal. The rest of him? Well, he would put Mike to shame. The man was huge. He was a veritable mountain of a man, once he stood at his full six-foot-two. His muscles had muscles. He was built like a professional linebacker in the prime of his career. The duality of the situation baffled me. Typically, jocks don’t do science or anything else that requires critical thinking, for that matter.

“Please, call me ‘Hank’. It is my preferred nom de guerre, even with my students here. However, you do not appear to be such. Have you gotten separated from your tour group? You should be able to rendezvous with them in the main lobby.” He spoke, but I couldn’t. Seeing how wide my eyes were, he gave himself a glance and chuckled. “Oh, my dear, you’ve nothing to fear from me. I am the epitome of the advice ‘never judge a book by its cover’. My bark cannot be worse than my bite because I don’t even possess a bark.”

That one got me. I let out a giggle. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

Smiling, he nodded. “Yes, I understand perfectly. Now then, what can I help you with?”

Nervous, I stumbled in the search of what to say. “Well, Dr. McCoy…”

“Hank. We’ve covered this.” He winked.

I gave him a nervous smile. “Hank… well, I’m Talon…”

“Enchanté Madamoiselle.”

“Enchanté Monsieur.”

“Ah, vous parlez français?” His eyebrows raised, intrigued.

“Oui, monsieur. J'ai depuis de nombreuses années aprá¨s avoir appris au lycée.” I smiled, proud of my ability to recall French.

He bore a quizzical expression. “In high school? My dear, unless you are an advanced student, you appear to be not much more than a sophomore. Your aptitude, pronunciation, and diction of the French language are nearly perfect and above curriculum standards for someone in your age group. I realize that I previously stated to not judge a book by its cover, but I am human and susceptible to the same assumptions. You have me at something of a disadvantage.”

The proud smile remained. “That’s kinda what I’m here to talk with you about… Hank.” My brain had to stop before saying “Dr. McCoy” and replace it with “Hank”.

“Well, Talon…” he began. “That is a pseudonym, as well, yes?” I nodded. “Right, then. I do not know what required you to travel here and enlist my aid, but I will assist where I can.”

“Thank you.” I glanced down at the card again. “You see this card?” He nodded. “I’ve carried it with me for months. It was given to me by a Dr. Kimura…”

He straightened himself. “Dr. Michelle Kimura? The surname is familiar, I admit.”

“I don’t know her first name. She never gave that to me. But, I met her in a facility with some rather unsavory people. I was held captive there as some sort of experiment. All she told me was to find you and I would get the answers to my hundreds of questions.”

His eyes darted to and fro as though he were trying to remember something. “The last time that we corresponded was approximately the span of a human gestation period.” He smiled at my questioning look. “A pregnancy at nine months, give or take a week or so. That would place the correspondence during May of last year.”

I mouthed the word “Oh” rather animatedly.

“Right, then. At our previous correspondence, she was employed for Hex Industrial Laboratories. The name seemed like a facade. I’m not aware of who their parent company might be. You were held captive, you say?”

“Yes, for a little more than six months in some facility that reminded me of an older jail or penitentiary. The paint was peeling and the bars were made of iron.”

He reached over, grabbed a stool, set it a couple feet in front of him, and invited me over. “Please, have a seat. I gather you have quite the tale to unfold for me.”

He had an aura about him that made me quite comfortable. So, starting at the fight that won me a chance at the local semi-finals, I told him everything. I told him about the kidnapping, elaborated on my time in captivity, described the events of my escape, lamented about my time with Mike and Steven, relayed the tragic events where I killed seven men, explained my life with Posse, and finally told him about running into Green Arrow. He patiently listened through the whole thing. A time or two, he nodded but let me continue speaking. Not once did he try to interrupt the tale. Upon its completion, we both let out a weighted sigh.

“That is quite a weight for a young person, such as yourself, to be confronted with. It is quite the fantastical tale, but it is possibly not a unique tale in these times, unfortunately.” He smiled, reassuringly. “However, do not dispair. There are several contingencies in place that you may not be aware of. I am willing to conduct a few tests, provided that you are comfortable with the prospect. You see, there is a company out there called Science and Technology Advanced Research Laboratories, or simply referred to as STAR Labs. They have been working hand-in-hand with the federal government since the Metahuman Classification and Protection Act of 2011 established the Department of Metahuman Affairs, or simply DMA. STAR Labs keeps a database of known metahumans and what their abilities are. The more mundane tasks such as identity shifts, document alterations, and hardship compensation are all handled by the DMA.”

“All that happened in one year?” I inquired.

“Is it truly so unbelievable? The Department of Homeland Security and the Patriot Act were created in the span of eight months following the unfortunate events of September Eleventh.” He let out a sigh. “Thankfully, the MCPA was passed because of Democratic strategy. Thanks to some sympathetic advocates taking part in congressional hearings and Myka Carter preserving President Obama’s life, the legislation passed with overwhelming bi-partisan support. Without those influences, I have my doubts that it would have passed so favorably for the metahuman population.”

“I don’t really follow politics, that much. I see it as nothing more than an elaborate soap opera that you can watch on C-Span.” I grimaced.

He let out a chuckle. “The exact same metaphor has escaped my own lips, more than once.” He took a quick breath. “Well, then, shall we get started? I believe it appropriate to take a few swab samples near your salivary ducts, perhaps an MRI, and scrape a few shavings from these claws you speak so much of. You see, my equipment is more advanced than you would see at STAR Labs. I should know because I designed most of their equipment nearly a decade ago. So, my dear, you are in good hands.” He patted my knee in reassurance, much like a father or pediatrician would a young child.

He started with the cotton swabs, all sixteen of them. The samples were taken from under my tongue, on top of my tongue, the insides of my cheeks, and the roof of my mouth. Afterward, he was gracious enough to hand me a cup of water to soothe my dry mouth. I could taste cotton for about another hour. Immediately following, he led me to their imaging suite where a female technician helped me disrobe and don a hospital gown. For the next two hours, I laid on a slab and did my best not to move a single muscle. That was hard. Happily back in my biker gear, the technician led me back to Hank’s lab where he wearing his reading glasses again and reading from a bundle of paperwork. He smiled back at me.

“Ah! There you are. Not too fatigued, I hope? The experience in an MRI machine can be a little taxing, I know. It will assist our little investigation.” He explained. “I have been reviewing some preliminary results from your genome. Would you like to hear about them?”

Sitting back in the stool and helping myself to another large cup of water, I shrugged. “Sure.”

“It is painfully obvious that you’re not quite as enthusiastic as I am. However, I am the biochemist and geneticist whilst you are the laymen. You have also been lying still for the past handful of hours. No matter.” He smiled. “What was your age when this all began?”

“Well, I’ll be 28, soon. When all this…” I motioned to my body. “…happened I was only 26.”

“According to my preliminary findings, your genetic markers insist that you are merely two months older than sixteen years of age. I cannot comment on your aging process because I have not conducted the proper tests and that would require a longer-term commitment to study.” He let out a sigh. “I digress. According to your genetics, you are a sixteen-year-old female with an active meta gene. You’ll be pleased to know that I have not found any predisposition to any known genetic maladies, such as Parkinson’s Disease, Alzheimer’s Disease, Autism, Diabetes, or anything nasty like that. Beyond that, I have not conducted enough procedures to elaborate my full findings.”

“Well, that’s pretty much all good news.”

With a smile and a nod, he set the papers down on his desk. “Precisely. Now, about those claws.” He picked up a very shiny rock and presented it to me. “This, my dear, is an uncut diamond. Arguably, it is the single hardest substance on Earth. If your claims are to be believed, then this will enable me to scrape a few samples. For the sake of argument, that is not an implication that I believe you to be lying to me. May I proceed?”

Nodding my head, I lifted my foot up. After removing the boot and sock from my right foot, I extended it out toward him. Making sure it was not pointed at anything, I grimaced then flexed my calf muscles, causing the claw to emerge with a snikt sound. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

“My stars and garters… That is extraordinary.” He breathed. “Is it painful?”

I nodded. “Yes. There’s one that comes out of each foot and two that come out of each hand when I make a fist tight enough. They all hurt pretty badly, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

“I will be as gentle as I possibly can. Also, I will scrape in such a manner as to not upset the smooth surface and cause you further discomfort from microscopic lacerations.” He took a breath. “Here we go.”

He positioned a big magnifying glass over my foot and the claw. Then, he grabbed a petri dish, maneuvered it near the claw, positioned the diamond, and I could feel some kind of scraping as it translated through the metal and into my foot. Though, it wasn’t much different than the sensation of smoothing out your fingernails with an emery board. I watched as several little shavings were collected in the dish, then, he did his best to smooth the surface again. There wasn’t any visible difference in the blade, itself. When he was finished, he threw up his arms and I relaxed. The blade swiftly returned from whence it came with another snikt. He kept his gaze on my foot as the wound healed before his very eyes.

“My word… that is a modern medical miracle, my dear.” I could feel him touching my foot. “Other than a few drops of blood, there is no visual evidence to suggest your flesh had been torn just now. No wound remains and there is absolutely no evidence of scar tissue. Fascinating.”

“Glad you’re so intrigued, Doc. Can I have my foot back? This position is kind of uncomfortable.”

He nodded, clearing his mind. “Yes, yes, of course. My apologies. You can understand my fascination as a scientist, correct?”

Rolling my eyes, I half-heartedly nodded. “Yea, I guess so.” I pulled my foot back and began to encase it in the sock and boot once more.

Dr. McCoy added some sort of solution to the petri dish, scraped it around, and then poured it into a small vial. He put it in some machine that spun it around at high speeds. Then, he finally deposited it into another machine. He explained that it was a mineral spectrometer and was about to explain its function when a sheet of paper started spitting out of it. His eyes widened again when he read over the results.

“By jove…” He breathed. “That is… how did they pull this off without a proper forge?”

“What? What is it?”

His smile grew as he looked at me. Then, he pointed at the diamond. “That, my dear, is about the only thing that can harm those blades. According to the spectroscopy I just performed, the mineral composition in the metal alloy is simply astounding. They may have taken you against your will, but, my dear, they have given you a rare gift. The alloy of those blades is seventy-percent platinum, twenty-percent iridium, and ten-percent osmium. They are some of the hardest, most dense, and most durable single metal elements on this planet. Presumably, some theories suggest that iridium and osmium don’t even naturally occur through the geological processes of our planet. They are incredibly rare and for you to be carrying a metal alloy with them in the composition is truly a thing to behold.”

With a quizzical expression, I attempted to explain his Greek into laymen’s terms. “So… basically you’re saying they’re really fucking hard, really fucking dense, there really isn’t much that can harm them, and they can cut through just about anything. Did I miss anything?”

He seemed to frown. “In more simplistic terminology: no. To be frank, Masamune couldn’t forge a tachi blade that would accomplish what your blades can.”

“The Masamune? Wow… I’m honored.”

“That is the point I am attempting to convey! You may be frightened of them. With their capabilities, you very well should be. They are quite lethal, as you are well aware. However, you are quite literally worth multiple millions of dollars with just how much of those three metals you are carrying with you at all times.”

Now, it was my turn to frown. “No wonder they were after me so intently. With me gone, they’ve lost an investment.”

“Precisely. Now, you are aware of the stakes, yes?”

“Painfully aware.”

“Good.” He let out a quick sigh. “Well, my dear, the hour is late and all this excitement has me quite fatigued. I am reasonably certain you are suffering similar symptoms. That will be quite enough for today. I will continue to analyze your genetic results. Say, perhaps, you return in approximately five or six days? I should have everything by then.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Very well, then. It has been a rare honor and a pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Talon. For both our sakes, I hope we have some enlightening results in the coming days. You should return to your domicile and get some rest.”

I released a yawn. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Giving him a smile and a hug, I made my way to the door. Just before taking my leave, I turned around and smiled at him again. “Thanks, Hank, for everything.”

He winked back. “You are quite welcome. Inform me when you have something other than a pseudonym. I shall enjoy future correspondence.”

Nodding, I turned again and left the lab.

Amazingly, I managed to find my way back to the house without too much trouble. There was a turn I had missed, but managing to get back on course didn’t take very long. The sun had already set and the colors of twilight painted the city in red and gold light. Dr. McCoy had been right about one thing: I was pretty exhausted when I returned. There was another handwritten note from “call me Becky” on top of another shopping bag by the front door. Rolling my eyes, I picked it up and read it. Basically, the contents of the bag were something nice to wear when the federal agents would be showing up at exactly ten o’clock the next morning. Grumbling, I took the bag upstairs to my room where I stripped out of my biker gear and collapsed on the bed in just my bra and panties.

Thankfully, the sun woke me up the next morning. Electing to take a shower, this time, my hygiene duties didn’t take very long at all. Coming out of the bathroom, my eyes caught sight of the aftermath of the previous night. The little shopping bag was fortified by a mountain of black and blue clothing. Snatching it up, I decided to take a look inside. First, I pulled out a puffed, three-quarter sleeve black jacket. Next, a package of black tights. After that, a pair of black, ballet-slipper shoes with a little purple ribbon bow near the toes. Finally, out came a purple dress. It didn’t have any sleeves, it had a closed nehru collar, and it looked like it would reach halfway down my thighs. If it were silk and embroidered, I would have mistaken it for a short qipao (traditional Chinese dress). What was with this woman and her insatiable need to put me in something incredibly girlish?

There again, I did have guests coming over with some measure of importance. Grabbing some underwear, I resolved to slip on the outfit. I was going to wear it, but I didn’t have to like it. If it made “call me Becky” stop buying me clothes, then that’s what it would take. The tights sat lower on my hips than I anticipated and stopped at my ankles. ‘Must be what’s in fashion, these days,’ I deduced. After putting a brush through my hair, I looked like any teenage girl who enjoyed going to the mall with all her “bestest besties”. The groan I emitted at that realization came from deep within my very soul.

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though. Big Ben was beckoning, again. I slipped on the shoes that were, surprisingly, incredibly comfortable and ran down to greet my guests. Most of the outfit was comfortable, actually–even the tights.

The door swung open and the first thing I noticed was the badge being shoved in my face. Only having a short amount of time, I glanced at the badge and ID right next to it. Then, it was pulled back and I finally saw the people on the doorstep.

“Good morning, Miss. I am Special Agent Helen Helligan with the Department of Metahuman Affairs. I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the San Francisco Bay Area branch office, to be exact.” The short woman before me introduced herself.

She stood a little shorter than me, but only about two inches. She was fit, too, with a very nice little figure. The black, curly hair on her head was cut rather short, though. It looked like a feminine style out of the 1980’s. She appeared to be half African-American with olive complexion, black hair, and brown eyes. Did she have to wear the all-black suit of a federal agent, though?

Behind her was a blonde girl just an inch taller than me and an amazing physique. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was some kind of professional athlete. She wore a pair of skinny jeans, one-inch pumps, a plain gray T-shirt, and a thick denim jacket. Behind the blonde, two burly men stood like brick walls. They wore black suits and had little earbuds in their right ears. Yep, they were feds. At least, that’s what they appeared to be.

“Um… hi?” I greeted all of them.

“You are the one who calls herself ‘Talon’, I presume?” Agent Helligan asked.

Letting out a sigh, I crossed my arms across my chest. “I might be.” My eyes narrowed on her. “Who’s asking?”

She rolled her eyes. “I have already identified myself, young lady. Are you the one who calls herself ‘Talon’ or not?”

“You flashed a badge in my face. For all I know, it could be a fake.”

“I resent that accusation.”

“I bet you do.” My stance shifted to one of some aggression. I didn’t know this woman and, even if she was government, there was no trust between the two of us. Standing in the doorway, I attempted to cut off their entry to the house. My glare fell on the short woman and I clenched my fists. SNIKT! Out came the claws. Throwing my right fist forward, I placed the blades just below her chin–just enough to let her know I meant business.

The goons reacted by jolting for their sidearms. Glancing up at them, I almost laughed. I didn’t want to, but I’d taken out twice this many goons before. The short woman held up a hand and the goons remained tense with their hands lingering on their sidearms. Apparently, it was some non-verbal order to stand down, but they weren’t ready to completely do so.

“I can see there’s a measure of distrust…” She started.

“You’ve got that right. Who do you work for? Why are you here? What do you want with me?” The words seemed to hiss out from my clenched teeth.

She let out a sigh. “I already told you that I’m from the DMA. I work for the United States government. My chain of command is as follows: My immediate superior would be the Director of the DMA, Donald Harkin. Above him would be the Secretary of Justice, Attorney General Eric Holder, Jr. Then, the Vice President, Joseph R. Biden. Finally, the President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama.” She raised her eyebrows. “We don’t want anything from you, besides answering a few questions. Contrary to your belief, we are not the bad guys, here. We don’t intend any harm.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Merely routine questions aimed at eventually confirming your identity. I’m told you don’t have identification and haven’t for some time. We can establish your identity and even give you some kind of life back. Would you like that or would you rather I went back to my office and pretended this never happened?”

SNIKT. The blades went away. “I’m willing to provisionally cooperate.” A facetious smile jumped onto my face. “Do come in, won’t you? The parlor’s just down the hall.” I even held the door for them.

Without changing her expression, Agent Helligan entered the house. “Thank you.” She strode down the hallway scanning every nook and cranny with her eyes.

The blonde stopped in front of me and gave me a warm smile. She presented her hand for me to shake. “Hi, there. I’m Olivia Queen. I know it was a little rude of me to not approach you sooner, but I’ve been a little busy, lately. This is technically my house that you’re staying in.”

My jaw dropped to the floor. I was a guest of the Olivia Queen? Wow… when Green Arrow told me she had friends in high places, she really meant it. I stammered over myself for a moment, then shook her hand. “Um… well… uh… thanks a lot! The place is gorgeous, really.”

“Cute outfit, by the way. Becky hasn’t been too pushy, has she? She has a habit of really taking her work seriously.” Olivia lamented.

I shrugged. “She’s hardly been here, actually. I keep finding little gift bags either in the master suite or at the front door with little notes on them.” I looked down at myself, then back up to her. “I really don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I really am, but the stuff she gets is just not my style, at all.”

Now, she shrugged. “It’s no big deal, really. Between us, it’s not really mine, either. She should have the receipts on file and if there’s anything you don’t want we can return it, no problem. I just wanted you to be comfortable, is all.”

“Thanks, again. You’ve been so good to me and I don’t even know you.”

Another shrug. “Don’t worry about it. I do things like this more often than you’d think. You should hear how much my CPA keeps nagging me about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was my mother in a past life or something.” She glanced down the hall. “We shouldn’t really keep Agent Helligan waiting.”

I glanced at the two strong, silent types. Only one moved into the house and trudged down the hallway. “Goon squad not coming?”

“Unless there’s some monster assassin cutlery in the kitchen, I think we’re good without them.” Olivia snickered.

As she continued down the hall and I closed the door, my nose caught the slightest whiff of a familiar scent. I stopped for a moment to decipher it, but it was gone. Once the door was closed, I met with the federal agent and Olivia in the parlor room with the skylights. Agent Helligan was sitting straight in the chair with her legs crossed at the ankles and reviewed some kind of file folder. Olivia sat in the opposite chair and seemed to sink into it in a relaxed posture. This left me with the couch between them. Nervous as hell, I sat with my knees firmly together and my hands wrapped together on my lap. I’m not fond of government types, as one can tell. Setting the folder down, Agent Helligan fished a pen and small pad of paper out of the inner pocket of her jacket.

“Now, down to business.” Agent Helligan wasted no time at all. “Miss Queen, here, tells me that a certain acquaintance of hers contacted her two days ago for help with your situation. As it turns out, I am far from concerned about the report of your petty larceny in regards to a local liquor store, your public intoxication, or your illegal consumption of a controlled substance by a minor. I could frankly care less. What does concern me is the fact that you claim to be a metahuman, which places you firmly within my jurisdiction. Also, you do not possess identification of any kind, so we do not know your identity other than a professed pseudonym.” She let out a sigh. Man, this woman was long winded. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions that will help us determine your identity and metahuman status. Is that understandable?”

I merely nodded. “I told you I’m willing to provisionally cooperate. Get on with it. Ask your questions so we can get this over with.”

She smirked. “Good. Now, what was the name you were given at birth?”

“Lawrence Alexander McKinley.” I even spelt it for her.

“Thank you, Lawrence…”

“Lex, if you don’t mind. I really don’t like my full name.”

“Very well. Lex, what is your date of birth?”

“June 14th, 1985.” Olivia raised her eyebrow at that answer.

Agent Helligan didn’t flinch. “Place of birth?”

“Lincoln, Nebraska.”

“Mother’s name?”

“Sarah Jane McKinley.”

“Mother’s maiden name?”

“Kinney.”

“Father’s name?”

“Randall Elijah McKinley.”

“Parents’ city and state of residence?”

“Falls City, Nebraska.”

“Your former place of residence?”

“Seattle, Washington.”

“Former employer and job title?”

For a moment, I stopped and wondered why she needed to know that. There again, I really did miss my old job. “I was the Junior Lead World Designer at Orion Software in Redmond, Washington. I made video games for multiple platforms.” A reminiscent sigh escaped my lips. “I also did some moonlighting as an amateur mixed martial arts fighter, the nickname they gave me was ‘The Animal’.”

The goon raised his eyebrow. Now, he probably knew I could take him without breaking a sweat. Either that or he glanced at the package I was now encased in and underestimated me.

“Date of manifestation?” Agent Helligan continued.

I had to think about that one. “Um… the week before Valentine’s Day, last year, is when it started, I think?”

“Started?”

“Yes. It took a while. I don’t know why.”

Agent Helligan, switched to making notes in the file. “So, why did you leave Seattle and come to San Francisco, Miss McKinley? On top of that, why do you not have identification?”

Another sigh came from me. “I guess you have to know all of this. I hope you’re comfortable.”

Then, I elaborated the entire tale. I was getting pretty good at it, I guess. Goodness knows, it’s come out of my mouth enough times to have the whole spiel completely memorized. There wasn’t really much reaction from Agent Helligan, except maybe a nod or two. She even took notes of pertinent events. The goon stayed pretty stoic the whole time. Olivia, however, reacted as though she were watching a movie. She even cried in parts, especially once I told about my ill-fated reunion with Julia. I tried to make the point that I really didn’t want to kill those men and the memory still haunts my nightmares. I think Agent Helligan understood and wouldn’t hold it against me. That was a relief. When it was all finished, my own cheeks were tear-stained and I really had to blow my nose.

“Well, Miss McKinley, I think that’s about everything we’ll need.” She stood up, Olivia and I followed her lead. “I will cross-reference the date of the kidnapping and the assault with the Seattle Police Department and their local DMA office. Immediately after that phone call, I will get with my contacts and see if we can’t get some satellite surveillance on that facility you mentioned, if it’s still there. From here, we will proceed with genetics testing and a battery of tests to determine your abilities through STAR Labs. Are you familiar with them, at all?”

I quickly nodded. “Yes, I am. Though, you won’t need to go through with the genetics testing. Dr. Henry McCoy of UC Berkeley is already handling that and should have results soon.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? How does Dr. McCoy have that information?”

“I went to see him yesterday, as suggested by Dr. Kimura. I told you that part.”

“Well, he does have the proper security clearances. We’ll have to tighten up that situation, though. Thank you for informing me.” She turned to Olivia. “Miss Queen, since this is legally your home, how do we proceed with contacting Miss McKinley in the future? Short of showing up at the door, I don’t see many options.”

Olivia pulled a small electronic device out of her jacket. “I was about to give her this phone. It’s already been activated. I can give you the number.” She handed the phone to me. Encased in a purple plastic shell was a brand new QPhone. She looked a little sheepish. “Surprise?”

Taking the phone, I smiled. The thing was pretty nice, being a direct competitor of the ever-famous iPhone. “Thanks.”

Agent Helligan smirked. “Well, then, we have much to do. It should only take a few days to confirm your identity. We will be contacting your parents and performing DNA batteries to determine that they are, indeed, your parents. Once everything is confirmed, we will be back with some papers for you to fill out. Good day, Miss McKinley.”

I furrowed my brow. “Now, hang on a minute. The only reason I told you all of that was to cooperate. Who’s to say that you punch all that into a computer and those people come after me again? This can’t go on record. For all I know, they’re still after me.”

She let out a sigh. “I’m doing my best to humor your paranoia, Miss McKinley, but even my patience wears thin. I’ll have a friend in the FBI look up this Dr. Zander Rice person, if it will suffice. Beyond that, do you want us to put this house and you under surveillance in an attempt to keep you safe?”

My head shook rather violently. “Nah, I’ll pass on the ‘Big Brother’ angle, thanks.”

“That’s what I suspected. Again, good day to you, Miss McKinley.”

She and the goon trudged out of the room, heading towards the exit. Olivia turned to me. I now noticed that familiar scent was back. Obviously, I hadn’t been paying enough attention before.

“Well, there are some things I need to go over with you. First, the code for the security system. It would be bad if the house were left unprotected, don’t you think?” Olivia began. “But, before that, I guess it gets pretty lonely and boring if you’re going to be around the house a lot.” She pulled a card out of the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to me. “Here. It’s a charge card to get you by for a while. I’ll have Becky dropping off food and such, but I think we’ll take her off clothing detail.” She winked.

Making sure the federal agents had left the house, I spoke to her in a low voice. “The Hayabusa really is a nice ride. Also, kelly green is really a nice color on you. And, seriously, thanks for the Triumph. I love that thing.”

Her eyes shot wide open. “How did you…?”

I put one finger up to my nose. “This got really good when I manifested. The nose never lies.”