mfrose@montego.umcc.umich.edu (Martin Rose)

      Thunder Force log, Standard date August 3rd, 2321.  I was
      starting to get that feeling again -- it always comes around
      the general time frame of my birthday.  It's not my own
      birthday that's the problem, though, but those of my late
      brothers; we were all born in the same calendar month.  I've
      never really admitted to anyone that I miss my family a
      great deal.  Sure, when you've lived with them for a while
      they seem annoying, but ... it was a basic comfort I took so
      much for granted.

      We defolded in Earthspace a couple days ago.  It was the
      first time I'd seen my homeworld in over three centuries.
      The lot of us did the Tourist Thing for a while.  I went off
      alone to Michigan, to see what there was of my family to
      find.  Turns out there was quite a bit to be found.  My
      ancestral family is still around, and in no small numbers --
      but, naturally, I was presumed dead after the Neo-Worcester
      incident, and my given name may be commonly knowable, but
      it's pretty much fallen into disuse.  So, I'm basically an
      outsider to my own relatives.  I didn't bother introducing
      myself.

      Eiko and Riko decided to track me down after a little while.
      I'm glad they did -- they caught me as I was visiting Mom
      and Dad's grave.  They put aside their differences for the
      occasion.  The combined support they gave me was more than
      welcome.

      Anyway, after that, we came back to the Indignation.  We'd
      received a call while I was out.  Nothing complicated; just
      another pirate run out in the boondocks.  We're folding over
      there in a few minutes.

      Well, not 'we'.  They.  Over duly-noted strong objections by
      most of the group, who think I'm in no mood to go running
      off alone, I'm leaving Riko in charge for this run.  Me, I'm
      taking a little time out -- flying Batwing to New Japan.
      I'm going to visit a friend.

      I wonder if I'll find him.  It's a big planet.


                        Wrong Side of the Ocean
                          in association with
                    Smalltime Writers, International
                                presents
                    a tale of Undocumented Features


                        H A M M E R   T I M E :

                     D A Y S   O F   T H U N D E R


                      THE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH


                       by Martin "PCHammer" Rose


   Martin walked silently along the forested mountainside.  Considering 
the amount of dried foliage on the ground, this was no mean feat, but, 
thanks to the rigorous training of a Predator of the Ripperfang clan, it 
was as easy for him as riding a bicycle.  The rhythmic rustle of dead 
leaves one would expect was eerily absent.
   He'd been circling the planet of New Japan for a day and a half, 
asking around at the spaceports.  Coming up empty there, he started 
looking around in more secluded areas (which is where he should have 
started in the first place, he duh'd to himself).
   He paused and looked around, checking his bearings.  Nothing in 
sight.
   That's okay, he told himself ... sight is only what you make of it.
   He transformed, making a faint buzzing-crunching sound as he did so.  
Once in his Rotofoil mode, he invoked his "edges" view and rotated 
slowly in place.
   The forest around him was now a collection of glowing lines, the 
outlines of trees, leaves, branches and shrubbery.  All the lines were 
either green, yellow, or some combination of the two.  It made for quite 
a confusing sight, and definitely would have been useless for any 
attempt to navigate through the woodlands.  It had other uses, though.
   For instance, there was that sharp, bluish outline that came slowly 
into his field of view.
   Metal.  Jackpot.
   Martin transformed again, returning to his human form, and continued 
on his silent way toward the object he'd sighted.  He was wearing an 
unmarked navy-blue jacket, black denim jeans and a red plaid flannel 
shirt.  The shirt bore a large Thunder Force sigil, which was presently 
obscured by the jacket.
   At last, he came to a clearing in the woods.  He stepped into the 
open sunlight and looked over his objective -- a lonely Hyper-Valkyrie, 
in the peculiar squatting stand of Gerwalk mode, bearing WDF symbols, 
electric blue and black edging, and the image of an eight-ball.
   He orbited it slowly, hands in his pockets.  The wild grass had grown 
in around its "feet", healing the patch of ground that had been charred 
by its landing -- it hadn't been moved in a long time.  The afternoon 
sun glinted off of its clear canopy as Martin walked by.  He idly 
regarded a collection of small symbols painted beside the cockpit -- an 
iconic record of one of the most impressive kill lists in the entire 
Wedge Defense Force.
   Of course, he also noticed how clean it was, particularly for a 
neglected piece of equipment -- which meant that it wasn't neglected, at 
all.
   Martin checked his shoes; they seemed clean enough.  With a flick of 
his ankle, he sailed through the air, landing soundlessly just behind 
the transparent blister atop the fuselage.  He knelt down and looked 
into the cockpit, reading what he could from the mostly-dormant 
instrument panel.  Fuel cells nearly full, all systems green and 
functional.  Ready to go on a moment's notice.
   He sighed, wondering, for just a moment, how he'd feel if he were 
being hunted by someone who'd once loved him.  This was quickly replaced 
by a silent prayer that he'd never have to find out.
   He stood upright, scanning the clearing.  He was still alone.  He 
considered leaving a note to let the plane's owner know he'd been there, 
but decided against it.
   With another hop, he boosted himself into the lightly-clouded blue 
sky.  He transformed to Rotofoil-Chopper mode, hovered for a moment, and 
banked away, leaving the fighter just as he'd found it.  After all, its 
owner would need it, sooner or later.
   Take care of yourself, Ben.

   Mega-Tokyo was, in all likelihood, one of the worst places to be if a 
person was seeking complete physical isolation.  The megatropolis's 
average population density was easily among the top ten for the entire 
United Galactica.  An unceasing swarm of people were on every street, in 
every building, at nearly every hour of the day or night.  It was an 
endless bustle of activity, whether working, playing, struggling, or 
just living.
   None of these facts bothered Martin in the least -- he could isolate 
himself in the middle of a crowd of thousands.  After all, he mused as 
he strolled absently down a busy street, that was just about how he'd 
spent his first month aboard the Wayward Son.
   The Son.  His biological family no longer knew who he was -- the 
Wedge Defense Force had been the closest thing he had to a family for 
nearly three centuries.  Now, even that was gone.  All that remained was 
a small group which had somehow sought him out as a rallying point.
   Did he pity himself for his situation?  Maybe.  Experience, however, 
had repeatedly taught him that he was far from the most pitiable 
creature in the cosmos.  Every time he'd tried to convince himself that 
he was, he would immediately be proven wrong.
   He walked the thoroughfares of Mega-Tokyo for hours, waiting for just 
such an occasion.
   It didn't seem to be coming.
   He kept walking anyway.
   It was now past midnight.  (A small display seemed to flicker into 
existence in a corner of his mind as he wondered what time it was, 
informing him that it was 00:27 in the local time zone.  His 
continuously-increasing cyberhuman abilities were starting to compensate 
for his poor sense of time.)
   He was still walking, but he was now in an urban residential 
neighborhood.  Apartment buildings and closed-up shopfronts lined the 
sidewalks, standing in rigid formation like a platoon just out of boot 
camp.  He didn't see them.  His eyes were fixed forward, and his mind 
was somewhere else entirely.  He didn't even notice that he was the only 
person in sight.
   He pulled himself to a halt, turning his head to one side.
   Footfalls.  Light and rapid.  Running, stumbling.  Gasping breaths.  
High-pitched ... possibly female, probably a child.
   More running feet.  Heavier.  Sounds like ... three, maybe four pair.
   A chase.  Someone's in trouble.
   I'm needed.
   He took a breath and faced the sound's direction of origin, preparing 
for whatever may come.

   The girl collided with a large plasteel waste bin, capsizing it and 
nearly falling.  She managed to twist herself to bring another foot 
down, though, keeping her balance at the cost of an iota of speed, which 
she quickly regained.  She swatted a lock of her long, wavy red hair out 
of her eyes and kept running, her torn, half-length skirt flying about 
her legs in a hurricane of panic.
   Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! she grated to herself.  You could have 
just told a policeman, but noooooo, you had to look into it yourself and 
be Miss Junior Sleuth.  Miss Junior KLUTZ is more like it!  Now they've 
seen you, and you can run all you want, but you'll never get away!
   Shut up and run, she replied.
   There was a sudden jerk at her left arm -- the material of the sleeve 
of her sweater had caught in a hinged gap in the side of a dumpster.  
When she'd received it at her last birthday, she thought the slightly 
too long sleeves, which she could adjust so that her fingertips just 
peeked out the cuffs, were a cute touch.  Now, she grumbled at the 
inconvenience and yanked it free, ripping the soft material and 
returning to her escape.
   The steps of her pursuers rang in her ears.  They're getting closer!  
Oh, God, someone help me!  I'm so tired...
   At last, the alleyway came to an end, and she emerged into the stark, 
artificial light of the street.  She slid on the smooth soles of her 
shoes as she scurried around the corner, banking a sharp left turn and 
breaking into a full run once more.  She was three blocks from home.  A 
tiny voice of despair whispered that she'd never make it, but she kept 
running anyway.
   That's when she first spied him.
   She'd never seen him before.  At least, not in person -- something 
about him looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place it, and lacked 
the time and inclination to try.  He was tall -- no, he was HUGE -- over 
two meters.  (Wow!)  Somewhat thin, with a jacket, some sort of T-shirt 
under that, black jeans, and short, brown hair.  He looked like he 
didn't know he was in trouble.
   "Mister!" she shouted between gasping breaths.  "Run!  They're 
coming!"
   He didn't run.  He crouched down, catching her by the arms as she 
tried to herd him away.  His grip was gentle, but she could feel the 
strength behind it as she struggled to free herself.  "Hey, hey, slow 
down, little lady!"  He spoke calmly, quietly soothing her panicked 
spirit.  "Who's coming?"
   She faltered in a quick search for words.  She quickly decided she 
must have been quite a sight -- hair tossed carelessly, torn sweater 
barely hanging onto her shoulders, skirt almost ripped in two up one 
side.  It was a little embarrassing to think about.
   The sound of running feet and voices from the alley became the sound 
of running feet and voices on the sidewalk.  She whirled with a gasp.  
Too late!  The four punks had caught up with her.  She shrank back 
against the stranger.
   She felt a hand on her head.  When she turned to look, she saw a pair 
of determined, unyielding eyes regarding the men, if the term could be 
correctly applied to her hunters.  "Stay close to me," he whispered 
before rising to his full height.  She moved cautiously around him, 
hiding behind his legs.  She didn't notice that he spoke the same 
language as she, though he was obviously a foreigner.
   "Hey, hey, hey!" one of the hoods opened.  "Looks like we'll get 
t'have a little fun before the main event!"  She decided she didn't want 
to know what that was supposed to mean.
   "I don't suppose I should bother asking what you want with the girl," 
the stranger said with undisguised contempt.
   "'I don't suppose' it really matters," a second hoodlum replied 
mockingly.
   "'I don't suppose' you'll live long enough to care," finished the 
first.  With a flick of his wrist, he was holding a monoblade.  He 
walked forward without a worry in the world, since the stranger had 
assumed no fighting stance.
   The girl clung tightly to her new companion's leg.  She wanted to 
run, but she knew she'd never get away if she tried.  Besides, her 
terror had her rooted to the spot.  The punk was so close, she could 
read the serial number etched into the side of his knife.

   Shiro stopped, regarding the stranger with more than just a little 
distaste.  He had to look up to meet the stranger's eyes, since he 
himself just barely topped a meter and a half.  It didn't faze him; the 
stranger was lean, almost wiry, while he was bulky and muscular.  This 
foreigner had no threatening posture, while he knew all the best 
fighting techniques of the street gangs.  And his hands were fast, with 
the usual cyberenhancements augmenting his trained reflexes -- par for 
the course, if you want to be In.
   The stranger had one thing that clearly marked him as Out:  what 
could be seen of his T-shirt clearly showed something resembling a WDF 
logo.  Shiro snorted.  A Wedgie.  A dreamer, or a loser, though it 
didn't matter which.  He was dead either way.
   The girl made a short cry as, without preamble, he thrust his blade 
forward.
   It didn't reach its target.  The unbelievably strong hand on his 
wrist saw to that.
   Suddenly feeling very helpless, Shiro gritted his teeth as the 
pressure around his arm gradually increased.  He spat every expletive he 
could think of as his hand loosened and the monoblade fell to the 
pavement with a brief clatter.
   "That was quite rude," the stranger stated in a deep voice filled 
with dark menace.  "You should be kind to children, and respect your 
elders."
   Shiro's tortured growl became a loud yelp as the hand gave a quick 
squeeze, snapping the bones in his forearm.  There was no visible effort 
in the stranger's face; he continued looking down on him with the same 
contemptuous glare as before.
   With deliberate movements, the stranger picked him up by the throat 
and threw him into the midst of his gang, ten meters back.  He hit the 
concrete hard, knocking his head and filling his vision with a thousand 
points of light.

   The girl gasped and took a step away from her protector.  She had two 
reasons; firstly, she knew he might need a little freedom of movement to 
fight, and secondly, he scared her.
   A second of the punks clenched his fists and charged forward, 
cyberspurs extending from the backs of his hands as he ran.  He leaped 
onto the stranger, ready to disembowel him.
   With a quick song of sliding metal, the stranger abruptly grew swords 
from the backsides of his arms.  He swatted his attacker with the flat 
of one blade, throwing him off-target.  The other blade whistled through 
the air, neatly removing one of the assailant's hands.  His leg came up 
before the punk had even landed, kicking him in a screaming arc all the 
way back to his cohorts.
   "Take a hike, Wolverine."
   She stared in wide-eyed wonder.  Swords from his sleeves?  Could it 
be ... ?
   The punk in the rear whipped out a pulse pistol.  "Bad mistake, 
asshole.  Your last mistake."  He aimed and fired.  Again.  And again.  
And again.
   Every shot was deflected by one of the stranger's swords.  The 
seventh shot attempted to go past him, directly at the girl; as a reward 
for the attempt, it was returned to its point of origin, fragmenting the 
pistol's barrel and tearing through its wielder's hand with shards of 
steel.
   The swords sang out once more as they returned to their hiding place.  
"Go away," the man commanded.  "You annoy me."
   The foursome limped back into the alley, assisting each other as best 
they could.  "You'll regret this, fucker!" the sole uninjured member 
shouted.
   "I doubt that."
   And they were gone.

   Martin sighed and looked backward, expecting to find only the 
retreating back of the one he'd chosen to protect.  Instead, he found 
her gazing up at him with sparkling emerald eyes.
   He blinked with surprise.  She can't even be ten yet ... heck, she 
looks closer to seven ... and she's not afraid of me?
   He slowly dropped to his knees, holding out his arms to see how she'd 
react.  Wordlessly, she stepped toward him, reached forward, and 
carefully opened the front of his jacket, blinking with wonder at the 
image it had concealed.
   He smiled brightly at her.  "Surprised?"
   She just stared at his chest.  "It's really you," she whispered.
   He nodded.
   She spoke softly as she traced her finger along the crooked outline 
of the stylized yellow thunderbolt, superimposed over the time-worn WDF 
symbol.  "I hear about you on the news ... every so often.  I'm your 
biggest fan.  I never thought ... I never dreamed..."
   He cocked an eyebrow.  "I didn't know we had a fan club."
   She giggled.  "Well, it's not official.  I'm the only member."
   "Guess that makes you the president."
   She nodded, now smiling brightly at him with uncontrolled admiration.  
"Mm-hm!  I have a scrapbook of every newspaper story about you.  It's 
really neat!  I had to go through a news database to find the one about 
your Funkotron case, but I found it!"
   His eyebrows rose.  "Wow.  That's persistence."
   She grinned.  "My mother likes you, too.  She says she's glad I've 
found a good role-model.  She says there aren't enough heroes these 
days."  She sighed.  "She gets a little worried, though, when I say I 
want to be a policewoman when I grow up, because it's a dangerous job 
... she thinks I should be an aerobics instructor, or run a 'lawn-juray' 
shop--" the French loan-word came out a little awkwardly "--or 'be 
something normal', as she says."
   She realized there was something there she didn't know, looked up at 
him and asked, point-blank, with all the innocence of youth, "What's 
'lawn-juray'?"
   Martin cleared his throat to disguise the slight coloring of his 
face.  "Um ... I don't think I'm the right person to ask.  <Ahem, cough, 
ahem!>  So, now that I know all this about you," he said quickly to 
change the subject, "what's your name?"
   Her face lit up at the question.  He could almost hear her thoughts:  
Wow, he asked me my name!  He LIKES me!  (Which was true, actually.  He 
found her cute, friendly, and remarkably intelligent for her age, and 
not just because she was his fan, either.)  "I'm Nene!  Nene Romanova."
   He smiled at her, putting a hand on her head and ruffling her hair 
just a bit.  "Well, Neee-ne," he said, speaking her name in a sing-song 
fashion, "don't you think you're out a little late?  Your mom and dad 
will worry about you."
   She started hemming and hawing, just as he'd expected.  "Well, they 
... don't know I'm out," she said meekly, clasping her hands behind her 
back.
   "And why don't they know you're out?"  He wondered, for a moment, how 
much like his late father he sounded.
   "Because ... I snuck out."  Her eyes examined something terribly 
important by her feet.
   "And why did you sneak out?"
   "Um ... because I was following this lead, you see..."
   "'Lead'?"
   She finally found the courage to look at him again.  "Well, yeah, I 
heard these guys talking earlier today, you know, and they were talking 
about some kind of planning meeting tonight.  They're not exactly 
debate-team material, so what else could they be planning, right?  So I 
tried to be sneaky and quiet and find out what they were up to, only--"
   Martin sighed.  "Why didn't you tell a police officer, Nene?  The 
police are here for that, you know."
   She looked up with frustration.  "Because I only had a couple little 
hints!  A word or two here, a look over the shoulder there -- police 
can't act on that!  Police need a search warrant -- how can they get one 
with no solid tips?"  She looked around suspiciously, then whispered 
conspiratorially to him.  "The kids are members of a world-wide gang.  
They've been getting away with all sorts of things, and they can't 
arrest the leaders.  They don't have enough proof to make them stand 
trial."
   Gadzooks! Martin thought.  This girl has a good understanding of due 
process, for her age.  She will _definitely_ make a good policewoman -- 
if she lives that long.  "Nene, criminal investigation is no place for 
little girls!  Or little boys, for that matter.  This isn't a game!"  He 
took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye.  "You're 
playing with your life!"
   She sighed, exasperated.  "But who else would do it?" she whined; 
then, checking her tone, she resumed her previous whisper.  "Besides, I 
overheard them talking tonight.  Their boss was there, and he said he 
wants the Security Commissioner 'rubbed out'."  She nudged him for each 
syllable of the last phrase in a you-know-what-that-means fashion.
   Martin paled.  "And they know you heard them?"
   She nodded solemnly to him.
   Here comes that sinking feeling, Martin noted.  After picking up the 
dropped monoblade and stuffing it in one of his jacket pockets -- it was 
a switchblade-style knife, and retracted easily -- he wrapped his hands 
around Nene's tiny waist and lifted her, cradling her in his arms as she 
hugged herself to him.
   "Let's get you home, Nene.  You'll be safe there."  I hope.

   Her parents were a bit reluctant to believe who he was, at first.  Of 
course, when he demonstrated a quick transformation for them, they were 
utterly dumbfounded.  Nene giggled with delight when he returned to 
human form in his Darkwing costume.  She was all but walking on air 
around him, and all three adults (if you count Martin as one, that is) 
could readily see how she doted on him.  Martin, for his part, was 
feeling more than just a little uneasy under her blatant hero-worship, 
but resigned himself to live with it, for the time being.
   They put little Nene to bed.  Martin gave her a comm-pin in the shape 
of the Thunder Force logo ("If any of those goons gives you trouble 
again, just call me, okay?"), and a kiss on the forehead.  With that 
completed, he returned to the living room, where her parents waited 
expectantly.
   "Sir, Ma'am ... I'm afraid I have some disturbing news for you."  He 
took a deep breath and seated himself.  "Tonight, if what she told me is 
true -- and she seems quite honest -- your daughter has overheard a 
planned murder conspiracy against New Japan's Security Commissioner."
   They looked at each other with grave concern.  "Are you serious?" the 
mother asked hesitantly.  The color and style of her hair reminded 
Martin of Noriko, but her eyes were a pale blue.
   "Deadly serious, I'm afraid.  She was also discovered."
   The mother gasped.  "Was she hurt?" the father queried.  His thinning 
scarlet hair and lively green eyes served only to accent the worry on 
his face.
   "No, she didn't say anything about that.  But the gang knows what she 
looks like."  He paused, making certain they grasped the implications of 
what he'd told them.  "She may be in danger."
   The parents sat a while in silence.
   "What can we do?" the father asked at last.
   Martin stood.  "I'd recommend getting the police involved in this, as 
soon as you can.  See if you can arrange for some kind of watch on Nene 
at all times, and keep an eye out for suspicious characters who look 
like they're not doing anything in particular.  As for me, I'll be 
around town for a while.  That pin I gave her wasn't just for show -- 
when she calls, I'll be there.  You can count on it."
   They smiled, reassured by his resolve to protect her.  After an 
exchange of farewell pleasantries and helping initiate a call to the 
police, Martin was once again walking the streets of Mega-Tokyo.

   The dumpster stood, immobile and uncaring, with a small piece of soft 
sweater caught in one of its hinged seams.  Martin noted its presence 
and moved on.
   The trash bin lay on its side, its pungent contents strewn on the 
ground.  Martin observed the layout of the scattered garbage.  It was 
knocked over, then kicked aside afterward.  He stepped over it and moved 
on.
   He walked silently, as one with the shadows.  His eyes carefully 
followed the faint patterns on the ground.  Four sets of footprints with 
large shoes, and one set with small ones.  Nene's.
   Skid marks indicated that she'd turned a corner in her flight.  He 
followed the trail.
   The trail ended, or, rather, began at a closed doorway.  Martin 
placed a hand against it, closed his eyes, and listened.
   Nobody's home.
   He tried the knob.  It gave easily, and the door swung open with a 
gentle creak that made the hair on his neck stand on end.
   I HATE that.
   The interior was as black as the Lovely Angels' CVR armor.  He 
quickly produced a handlamp and swept the room with its beam, muttering 
"NBC Mystery Movie" from sheer force of habit.  One of the two doorways 
leading inward was open.  He followed it.
   The hallway left very few options.  If she'd actually made it this 
far without being detected, Martin admitted, she was definitely more 
than just a pretty face.  Either that, or these goons were exceptionally 
sloppy.
   Another doorway had a short bit of nail protruding from its frame.  
This nail was currently decorated with a long, thin strip of material.  
Martin recognized it -- the same material as Nene's skirt.  He pushed 
the door open and walked through it.
   The room was completely barren, save for a slightly-cracked door 
leading even further inward.  The wall behind the door bore a large dent 
where the knob had been slammed into it; this, apparently, was where the 
chase began.  He swept the beam of his lamp around the floor, and 
noticed one last detail -- a button from Nene's sweater.
   Apart from that, these last two rooms were empty, visually cleared of 
litter and evidence.
   Martin began walking around the inside room, watching the floor with 
his handlamp.  The room itself was dominated by a large, heavy 
conference table, and the several chairs gathered around it.
   Come on, come on, let's have something in here.  Even I don't clean 
up THIS neurotically.  There must--
   His lips formed a slow smile.  "There you are," he whispered, bending 
down and pulling at a small fleck of white that had caught his eye.  It 
was part of a small sheet of paper, mostly concealed underneath the 
massive table.
   Standing erect, he snapped the half-sheet to attention and examined 
it.  Impressions on its surface indicated it had been written on 
indirectly, perhaps with one or two sheets on top of it.  And it bore 
what looked like a corporate letterhead.
   Fisk-Ishikawa.  The "i" in Fisk was dotted with what appeared to be a 
faceted diamond.
   Martin sighed.  Nothing beyond the circumstantial.
   He began to turn to leave when he heard the sound of slow, cautious 
footsteps outside in the alley.  So, the police have come, after all.  
He went to greet them.

   "FREEZE!"
   "Calm yourself, Corporal."
   With a nervous glance at his superior, the officer lowered his 
pistol, switching its safety catch back on.
   Martin removed his hat with a nod and a slight smile, stepped forward 
and offered his hand.  "Your men are well-trained, Detective..."
   The police detective, a medium-build New Japanese native wearing an 
open trenchcoat and a Dick Tracy hat, accepted Martin's offered hand.  
"That's quite a compliment, coming from an Autobot.  I'm Lieutenant 
Katsuhiro Zenigata.  I apologize if your welcome was less than cordial."
   "Lieutenant Zenigata."  I wish the universe would stop doing this, he 
didn't say aloud.  "No apology is necessary under the circumstances.  
>From what I've seen of this town, a little paranoia can be a healthy 
thing."
   "Thank you, PCHammer."
   Martin waved a hand.  "Please ... don't kill yourself trying to 
address me properly.  'Hammer' will do."
   "Very well, Hammer.  You should call me Katsu, then."  Katsu looked 
at his men.  "I take it you've already looked the place over."
   Martin nodded sagely as three officers hustled past him, flashlights 
cutting into the gloom.  Three more went through the door he hadn't yet 
investigated.  "Nothing to find from the way I came, really.  Just a few 
confirmations of the Romanova girl's story -- bits of her clothing and 
the like -- and this."  He handed the letterhead to him.
   The detective looked it over, shaking his head.  "Fisk.  It always 
comes down to Fisk."
   "I don't suppose you could spare a little time to tell me what this 
is all about," Martin opened.  "After all, I'm new in town."
   "So I'd guess.  By the way, what'd you do to that girl, anyway?  We 
almost had to pry this location out of her with a crowbar.  She only 
talks about you."
   Martin sheepishly scratched at the back of his head.  "I hope it's 
just a phase she's going through.  Did you leave someone behind to keep 
an eye on them?"
   Katsu nodded.  "Two undercover men will watch their building at all 
times, and another will specifically look after the girl."
   "That sounds good.  She's bright, crafty, observant ... someday, she 
could be bucking for your job."
   Katsu smiled.  "I hope I'll still be working when that day comes.  
She'll certainly get a positive reference from me.  Oh, she mentioned 
that you captured a weapon from one of the assailants."
   Martin snapped his fingers.  "That's right, I almost forgot!  She 
doesn't miss a trick.  And neither do you, I should add."  His hand 
vanished into his cape, returning with a handkerchief-swathed grip on a 
monoswitchblade.  "Here you go."
   One of Zenigata's men was instantly beside them and accepted the 
weapon with a white-gloved hand, dropping it in a clear, plastic 
evidence bag.
   "Did you pick up the, ah, souvenirs I left in the street?"
   The lieutenant nodded.  "You must be everything the grapevine says 
about you to be able to take off that punk's hand without injury.  The 
'spurs were made this year -- that guy was state-of-the-art."
   Martin shrugged.  "His body, maybe.  But no amount of tech can make 
up for basic stupidity."
   "Sir."  Katsu turned to face the three officers who'd gone past 
Martin earlier.  They saluted him sharply, carrying plastic bags 
containing the items Martin had noticed earlier.  "The Thunder Force 
leader was correct, sir.  They cleaned the place out quite thoroughly 
before they left."  The other three also returned at this time, and 
indicated they had come up equally dry.
   "Prints?"
   "Wiped clean.  Sorry, sir."
   The detective cursed under his breath.  "Thank you, Sergeant."  He 
returned his attention to Martin.  "Well, Hammer, if you'll accompany us 
to the station, we can fill you in on what ails this city."
   "Thank you, Lieutenant."
   "What did I tell you?"
   "Katsu.  Sorry."

   Lieutenant Zenigata had a fully-enclosed office in Mega-Tokyo's high-
rise police headquarters, rather than a cubicle out on the main floor, 
which offered a break from the constant noise of telephones and 
keyboards.  Two of the walls were completely occupied by large windows, 
one facing in and the other offering a view of the outside.  From the 
fifteenth floor, however, the view was still dominated by the 
surrounding buildings.  From the thirtieth floor and up, as Katsu had 
told Martin, you could see above most of the rooftops, and could easily 
pick out the tallest, most massive structure in the city -- GENOM Tower, 
the mega-corporation's planetary headquarters.
   Martin said nothing.  GENOM wasn't his problem.  Not anymore.
   "Ah, here we go."  Katsu pulled a rather thick file folder from one 
of the cabinets in his office.  He dropped it on his desk and sat in the 
chair behind it; Martin pulled up the office's other seat, which had no 
wheels or swivels, but, at least, was well-padded.
   "I see this is a hobby of yours."
   The detective grunted.  "Not hobby; job.  I specialize in criminal 
organizations, and this is the biggest we've got."  He flipped up the 
top of the folder and began shuffling through its contents.
   "The new heads of the Yakuza?"
   "I wish.  This new organization makes the Yakuza look like Tiki's 
Little Neighborhood."
   Martin shuddered.  'Tiki', an overly cute Salusianesque marionette, 
was the modern-day equivalent of the 20th century's greatest scourge, 
'Barney the Dinosaur'.  "There goes the planet."
   "And here you are."  Katsu uncovered a photograph, and handed it to 
Martin.  It was an obvious enough picture of two people, probably taken 
during some high-society gathering.
   The woman was obviously of Japanese descent, tall, sleek and slender, 
but not quite so much so as the Righteous Indignation's chief engineer, 
Nadia Davion.  The pale crimson gown she wore left no doubt that she was 
not at all ashamed of her figure.  Her face carried an unconcerned, 
regal beauty, accented just enough to highlight her features, and her 
ebony hair was gathered stylishly atop her head.  She was not smiling.
   "The woman is Ishikawa Ginrei," Katsu explained.  "She's the daughter 
of a powerful industrialist, and descended from a samurai bloodline, 
ironically enough.  Don't be fooled by her looks.  They called her the 
Dragon of New Japan, even before the Earther entered the picture.  She's 
cold, cunning and ruthless -- perfect for her job."
   Martin nodded, then examined her companion.  The man was enormous -- 
Martin guessed him to be nearly his own height.  "Thin" was not the 
first word to come to mind when looking at him.  "Bucket" seemed more 
appropriate, as in "Better get me a", but his stomach did not sag, as 
one would expect from such a mass amount of flab; in fact, his entire 
torso was roughly equal in circumference at all points.  His white suit 
fit him rather sharply, and his thick, dark eyebrows stood in stark 
contrast to his completely bald scalp.  One hand held a thick, smoking 
cigar; the other bore a ring with a large diamond.  His gaze seemed to 
pierce right out of the page.  He wasn't smiling, either, and looked 
like nothing could make him want to.
   "The man is Wilson Fisk.  He's Ishikawa's match in every respect, 
from all reports.  Just as she's supposed to be deadly in the martial 
arts, you mustn't count him out, either -- that bulk is solid muscle.  
His history shows him to be a self-made man, the builder of his own 
criminal empire on Earth -- starting out in North America, then 
expanding over the entire globe.  He's known as the Kingpin."
   Martin whimpered silently.  When does the hurting stop?...
   "They consolidated their operations five years ago, easily wiping the 
Yakuza and just about all other native gangs completely off the map.  
According to the headlines," he added, displaying a newspaper clipping 
as evidence, "there was a similar elimination in Earth's crime 
syndicates around that time, as well.  Ever since, crime on both worlds 
has gone like clockwork; we have our hands full 24 hours a day, and we 
can't keep up.  Allegedly, they're looking into expanding their 
operations onto the Salusian homeworld, and beyond.  Syndicates 
throughout the Quadrant are trying to pull themselves together, but they 
won't be able to iron out their differences in time.  They're scared 
silly."
   "Can't blame them, can you?"
   "Not a bit."
   Martin looked over the photo again.  The future rulers of an 
underworld empire, perhaps as large as the United Galactica itself.  And 
the UG's deteriorating state could easily make the two of them the more 
powerful governors, if they succeeded.  Once again, by no fault of his 
own, he was exactly where he was needed.
   "With that kind of power ... why would they bother with one Security 
Commissioner?  They seem to just walk all over the law as it is."
   "'Seem to' is the right choice of words.  Our new Commissioner was 
appointed just a year ago, and he's been dogging their heels from day 
one.  He works together with President Haggar, who's stuck closely to 
the law-and-order platform that got him elected.  It's no secret that 
our last President was just a puppet of Fisk-Ishikawa, which is why they 
got away with so much.  Thanks to a lot of hard work, and some good 
luck, we may finally have a crack at cleaning up this place."
   Martin handed the picture back to Katsu, who returned it to the 
folder.  "I don't suppose I could speak to the Commissioner or the 
President myself."
   The lieutenant stood and walked across the room, returning the folder 
to its place.  "Actually, I'm sure they'd both be honored to meet you.  
Your little friend isn't the only one who considers you to be something 
of a legend."
   Martin groaned.  "Don't say that.  A Legend is a driver's license 
picture of Truth -- not a very good likeness."
   Katsu laughed, already stepping through the doorway.  "Come on, the 
New Japan Security HQ isn't far.  I think Perry may be in his office."
   Martin rose (yes, yes, I know) and followed, already getting that 
familiar I-really-don't-want-to-know-the-answer-to-this-question-do-I 
feeling.  "'Perry'?"
   "Mason."
   Get me out of heeeeere...

   The lock on the hotel room door snapped to attention, and the door 
slid open easily.  The room's lone occupant walked in.  "Lights," he 
announced in a tired voice.
   At Martin's spoken command, the room was quickly flooded with soft 
light from an overhead fixture and a couple table lamps.  The door slid 
shut behind him, and he surveyed his temporary home.
   It was a fairly typical affair, as hotel rooms went.  Just the 
equivalent of a large bedroom with a shower, toilet and closet in an 
attached room.  He wouldn't even be using the closet -- his 
transformational abilities guaranteed that he never needed to carry a 
change of clothes.  Even his closet back aboard the Righteous 
Indignation was empty.
   He walked to the room's second most important feature:  the window.  
Inspecting it visually, he quickly determined how to open it.  Then, to 
make sure he was right, he did so.  The glass pane slid smoothly to one 
side, allowing entry to the sounds of the city.  He smiled.  The last 
time he was in a room with non-openable windows, he got an emergency 
call and had to smash through.  That jacked up the room fees quite a 
bit, and it was a false alarm, to boot -- Danilia'd set off a distress 
beacon while fishing for change.
   He slid the window shut and pulled the drapes over it.  Walking 
toward a large empty spot in the room, he transformed (another 
requirement he had for hotel rooms was enough space to transform in) to 
Rotofoil and back, changed into a set of light pajamas.  With that 
completed, he dumped himself on the bed.
   "Lights out," he muttered, and the room was dark.  He closed his eyes 
and thought about the past couple hours, since, this being an unfamiliar 
bed and all, he knew he'd never actually get to sleep.
   All things considered, the situation was going rather well.  Most of 
the people he'd met tonight already recognized him.  He had to admit, 
Thunder Force was gaining quite a reputation.  He hoped it wouldn't 
exceed them.
   Security Commissioner Mason was, as Martin had feared, a former 
defense attorney with an astonishingly good track record.  That served 
to fuel his passion for justice all the more; having worked in defense 
for so long, he was acutely aware of how important concrete evidence and 
irrefutable proof were for a successful conviction.  What he'd gathered 
against Fisk-Ishikawa so far, in close collaboration with his 
counterpart on Earth and President Haggar, who'd also been introduced to 
Martin, was taking shape into a truly solid case that could completely 
shut down most, or even all, judge willing, of the syndicate's known 
fronts.
   Assuming, of course, he lived to take it to court.  He'd seemed 
somewhat reluctant to listen to the alleged hearsay of a seven-year-old 
girl, but having a three-hundred-year-old Autobot to collaborate the 
story proved quite helpful.  He promised to take more precautions until 
something more concrete could be brought to light.  In the meantime, the 
police watch on the Romanovas would continue.
   Speaking of which, Martin reminded himself forcefully, you'd better 
get some sleep if you expect to help keep an eye on little Nene during 
the day tomorrow.  (Sorry, it's not tomorrow ... it's this morning, only 
a few hours from now.)
   With an impetus like that, how could he refuse?
   Zonk.

   Nene walked warily down the street, hugging her bookbag to herself.  
Her eyes looked carefully around her, taking in the scene as thoroughly 
as possible.  They'd start to slide shut every so often, but she snapped 
them back open when she noticed it.  She wasn't going to let her guard 
down just because she didn't get enough sleep last night.
   She nervously fingered at her blouse.  Her gaze fell onto the small 
Thunder Force pin that was mounted high on her lapel.  It bolstered her 
confidence a little, but only just.  After all, she was only one girl.  
How much attention could someone like him spare for her?
   She tried to stifle a yawn, but it escaped anyway.
   "Neee-neee!"
   Nene gasped as her head whirled to face the source of the loud call.  
Her alarm was poorly-justified, though, and she sighed with a hand on 
her heart once she'd confirmed that.  "Hi, Usagi."
   A girl, with long, blond hair, done into a pair of waist-length tails 
originating near the top of her head as two small, tight balls of hair, 
hopped up beside Nene, carrying her own bookbag by the handle.  "Good 
morning, Nene!  Wow, you look tired.  Get your math homework done?"
   Nene nodded.  "Yeah.  It was easy."
   Usagi gave her a quizzical look.  "Only for you!  I was having a 
terrible time with it!  Until I called Sho and got his help, that is."  
She sighed happily.  "He's so smart.  And cute, too."
   Nene smiled.  "Maybe you should give up math and become a 
professional boy-watcher."
   "Well, math is harder than relationships!  Besides, at least I'm 
watching boys my own age," Usagi teased, whirling around Nene as they 
walked, "unlike SOME people."  She nudged Nene with an elbow, winking at 
her.  "I'll bet you were up late thinking about that guy I caught you 
watching yesterday."
   Nene glared at her.  "I was not!"
   Usagi giggled.  "Getting touchy!  I was right!"  She skipped beside 
her irritated friend, singing, "Ne-ne's got a cru-ush!  Ne-ne's got a 
cru-ush!"
   Nene dropped her head into her hand.  "Give it a rest.  Besides, 
Leon's six grades higher--"
   "HA!"  Usagi grinned, pointing an accusing finger at Nene's nose.  
"You went to the trouble to find out his name!  You DO have a crush on 
him!"
   Nene waved the finger away from her face.  "I'd hardly call it 
trouble.  Every girl in his grade knows him."
   Usagi's grin vaporized into a look of surprise, which grew into a sly 
smile.  "Oh, I see," she said as coyly as an eight-year-old could.  "You 
just don't think you have a chance with him, then."  She tsked.  
"Becoming a realist so early in life.  So sad," she sighed, mimicking a 
mournful pose.
   Nene groaned.  She knew there was no way to dissuade Usagi from her 
theory, untrue though it may be.  Leon McNichol _was_ cute, though, in a 
six-years-older-than-her kind of way.
   And she suddenly realized they weren't alone anymore.
   There was a man sitting on the bench by the street, in front of the 
school's entrance.  He was dressed in a slightly battered-looking coat 
and dark slacks, with a brown fedora down over his eyes, obscuring his 
face.
   He was right in their path.
   Usagi could feel Nene tensing as one of her hands moved over her 
lapel pin.  Where'd she get that, anyway?  She didn't have it yesterday.  
"What's wrong, Nene?"
   Nene didn't hear her.  Her walk slowed to a nervous shuffle as she 
kept her eyes riveted on the stranger, ready to tap, scream and run on a 
moment's notice.
   The stranger took a hand out of his coat pocket, using his index 
finger to push the hat up as he lifted his head to look at her.  He 
smiled faintly, winking one of his hazel eyes and turning his collar 
slightly to reveal a pin identical to hers.
   She relaxed herself, releasing a deep, relieved breath.  They nodded 
to each other, and Nene resumed walking, her former tension replaced by 
cheerful reassurance.  He said he'd watch out for me, didn't he?  That's 
the last time I'll ever doubt him.
   Usagi walked alongside her, looking from her to him and back again, 
wondering if she was missing something important.  "Nene ... that guy's 
WAY too old for you."
   Hammer shook with stifled laughter as Nene rolled her eyes.

   Shiro made an irritated noise and rolled his head toward the window, 
away from his broken arm.  He was told that the organization wasn't 
willing to foot the bill to get the entire forearm replaced, so he would 
have to wait for it to heal the usual way.  Even with the modern medical 
techniques available at their private hospital, that still meant he'd be 
spending a couple weeks out of action.
   Being off-line that long grated on him, particularly knowing that the 
asshole who'd put him here the first place was still out there laughing 
at him.  Foreign bastard.  Give him a second chance and he'd show the 
fucker his own backside, and he'd do the little redheaded rugrat, too.
   Respect your elders, my ass.  He's not that much older than I am.
   The schedule for any of that was all wrong with his situation, too.  
Timetables were being pushed forward, and it'd all be over before he was 
even out.  Word came through their inside contact that Commissioner 
Mason and President Haggar were on to them, because of the girl.  He 
knew he'd get plenty of shit for letting her get away.  She wouldn't 
have even been believed if she hadn't befriended some guy everyone was 
calling 'Pee-see-hammer'.  What the hell kind of name is that?  How do 
you spell that, anyway?
   He snorted another breath through his nose.  If only he could get 
another chance at that bastard...
   The door to his room swung open.  The reflection on the window 
garnered his attention, and he turned his head back to face it.
   He was, to understate severely, quite surprised to find that he was 
being visited by the very Dragon of New Japan herself.
   She stalked into his room, pacing a slow path to the foot of his bed.  
She was wearing a flamboyant crimson overcoat which, despite its 
thickness, clung to her figure rather well.  Her ebony hair was mostly 
pulled back into a tight bun on her head, and her face bore an 
unreadable expression.  Her cat-like eyes never left him for a moment, 
and he felt naked under their relentless scrutiny.  Not that he would 
have minded being naked in a room with her, mind you -- as long as she 
was, too, and they were alone -- but she was accompanied by two men with 
business suits and sunglasses and three in white hospital uniforms.
   "I understand," she said after a very long, uncomfortable silence, 
"that you were among those assigned to bring back the girl."
   Shiro swallowed a dry lump in his throat.  Every bad feeling he'd had 
in his life paled in comparison to what he felt right now.  "Yeah," he 
croaked.
   Her eyes narrowed.  "You will address me with respect," she hissed, 
"or die."
   A cold trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his head.  Oh, shit, 
I'm really in for it now.  "I ... I beg forgiveness, Milady."
   She smirked.  "Better.  You can never expect to rise above the common 
street dogs if you have no manners."
   "Y-yes, Milady."  He wondered why he wasn't dead already.
   "I also understand," she said coldly, picking up where she'd left off 
previously, "that you desire revenge against the one who came to the 
girl's aid and put you where you are now."
   His mouth formed a smile before he could stop himself.  "Yes, 
Milady."  He hoped he didn't sound _too_ eager.
   She seemed to pick up on his tone anyway.  "He has angered you 
greatly.  Excellent.  Such determination deserves a just reward."  She 
clapped her hands twice, the sound muffled by the black gloves she was 
wearing.
   The men in the white uniforms stepped forward immediately.  Shiro 
felt something cold against his neck.  There was a sharp sensation, 
accompanied by a brief hiss.  He tried to piece together a respectful 
protest, but his vision, as well as his mind, began to cloud in moments.
   He looked up toward the Dragon, who smiled as she walked toward him.  
"When you awaken," she cooed, "you will have the power to carry out your 
desires."  He tried to reach up toward her, but everything was moving in 
slow motion to him, and his limbs wouldn't budge.  He felt his bed begin 
to move, and heard the quiet rattle of plastic wheels on the sterile, 
tiled floor.
   Somewhere, in the fading dimness, he heard voices.
   "Hammer will pay dearly for trifling where he is not wanted.  Is 
there anything more on the girl?"
   "We have a name now, Milady:  Nene Romanova."
   "Excellent.  Perhaps Miss Romanova's schoolmates could help her learn 
a valuable lesson in obedience."
   "Very good, Milady."
   He felt sharp, cloth-swaddled fingertips brush his hair away from his 
forehead.
   He felt the cool rush of air against his face and arms.
   And then, he felt nothing at all.

   The final bell rang, signaling the end of the day.
   For Nene, it didn't come a moment too soon.  She'd been stifling 
yawns all day, and could really use a nap before tackling the day's 
homework.  It was the closest she'd ever come to falling asleep in 
class, and she hadn't escaped the teacher's notice, either.  The harsh 
snap of the meterstick against her desk still rang in her ears.
   "So," Usagi teased from the seat next to hers, "are you in for 
another busy night?"
   "Go away," Nene groaned.  Usagi's incessant teasing was another thing 
she'd had to deal with all day.  She tried to ignore it as she 
transferred the books she'd need from her desk to her bookbag.
   "Oooo, trying to brush off her best friend.  She must have it 
baaaaad."
   "When I get home," Nene grated, "I'm going to _sleep_, _eat_, do my 
_homework_, and then _sleep_ some more.  What you seem to _think_ I'll 
be doing is none of my concern."
   Usagi gave her a mock pout, which Nene ignored completely.  "Fine.  
Just take all you can handle, and don't share any with your friends.  
See if I care."  Quickly slipping into an impish grin, she hopped to her 
feet and fairly skipped out the door, blond tails flying behind her.
   Alone at last, Nene dropped her head to the desk and heaved a great 
sigh.
   Why me?
   It was another couple of minutes before she was actually on her feet 
and on her way.  As she stepped out into the empty hallway, she could 
already hear the loud whir of the floor polishing machine from the 
stairwell -- the custodian was starting early today.  She loped down a 
flight of stairs to the ground level (where the whirring was loudest) 
and trudged toward the main exit, glad to be done with this particularly 
boring day.
   "Hey, kid."
   Nene gasped at the gruff call, and her head whirled to face its 
source as her feet froze in place.  There, in a nearby doorway, were two 
boys, much older and taller than herself, leaning against the sides of 
the recessed doorway.  They were dressed for school, wearing the basic 
boys' school uniform, but their demeanor suggested that schoolwork was 
definitely not on their minds at the moment.
   "Yes?"
   "We hear you've been makin' trouble."  The one on the right was 
speaking; his hair was styled into a flat-top.
   Nene swallowed.  "Trouble?  I'm not in any trouble."
   "Oh, yeah, you are."
   Nene's eyes darted toward the wide-open exit.  Two more boys stepped 
out in front of it, standing with their arms folded.  She chanced a 
glance behind herself as well, and found yet another duo closing that 
route, entering from opposite sides of an intersecting hallway.
   Trapped!
   "You see, there are things that people like to keep between each 
other and not tell anyone else," Flat-top chided.  "If someone who isn't 
supposed to know it hears it, they shouldn't go telling other people 
about it.  It's bad manners."
   Nene reached up slowly, pressing her fingers on her lapel pin and 
holding them there, making it look like a nervous gesture.  "I ... I 
don't know what you mean."
   "Oh, you poor little girl."  The two boys in the doorway pushed 
themselves upright and walked toward her.  Footsteps to either side of 
her told her the other four were advancing, as well.  "Didn't your 
mother ever teach you good behavior?  It's not nice to spread secrets 
around."
   Nene stepped backward, soon finding herself pinned against the wall.  
"I-I still don't see--"
   "Stop playing stupid, you little bitch," the other one, who wore a 
red band over his left sleeve, finally said.  The two of them were now 
towering over her.  "The Dragon doesn't like people who aren't honest."
   Nene swallowed a little harder, feeling very, very small under their 
shadow.  "D-- ... Dragon?!"
   Flat-top offered a smile Nene immediately disliked, rubbing his right 
knuckle into his left hand.  "A lot of people are unhappy about how much 
you talk.  Maybe y-- ...  Hey!  HEY!"
   All eyes turned toward another figure who had just entered the hall 
from behind the two farthest inside the building.  He was a tall, gawky 
offworlder with brown, tousled hair, dressed head-to-toe in rumpled 
coveralls and moving to an unheard beat from the headphones on his ears.  
The only reason anyone noticed him was that he was presently guiding a 
very noisy floor polisher in front of himself, making even loud 
conversation impossible.
   "HEY, CAN'T YOU DO THAT SOMEWHERE ELSE?" shouted Flat-top, obviously 
irritated.
   The custodian, walking with his eyes nearly closed, brushed past the 
two closest to him, whistling a hint of a tune that Nene almost thought 
she recognized; Flat-top was blocking her view, though, and she couldn't 
see his face.  He didn't seem to hear a word anyone was saying.
   "HEY!"  Flat-top was bellowing at the top of his lungs as the janitor 
began to march past him.  This seemed to make the man pause, and he shut 
off his polisher.  The blaring music from his headphones was audible 
now, and he took them off, too.
   "You say something?" he asked in a thick offworld accent.
   "Look, old man, just take your stupid scrub brush and beat it."
   He shook his head.  "Afraid I can't do that, youngster.  How will the 
floors get clean if I don't take care of them?"
   Seeing what she thought was an opening, Nene tried to dash for the 
door, but was instantly caught in Red Band's grip.  "You stay put, you 
stupid brat."
   "Let me go!  You're hurting me!"  She tugged futilely against his 
grasp.
   He gave her arm an unkind twist, and she shrieked in pain.  "We'll 
fix you right now if you don't shut up, bitch."
   "Hey, what do you think you're doing to that poor girl?"
   "Stay out of this, old man."
   "I can't stand by and let you pick on that poor child!  You!"  He 
jabbed at Red Band with his index finger.  "You let her go!"
   Flat-top grabbed the chivalrous custodian roughly by the chest of his 
coveralls.  "I SAID stay OUT of this, bastard!"  He locked stares with 
the man, who just looked back at him.
   He got the unfamiliar feeling that he was making a rather large 
error.
   "You should be kind to children," the man said coldly, his thick 
accent suddenly becoming a distant memory, "and respect your elders."  
Before he really knew what was happening, Flat-top found himself flying 
away from the man, who'd cast him aside like a straw dummy.  His brief 
flight ended when he ran into the two boys from the inside hallway, 
bowling them over.
   "Fucker!"  Red Band released the girl, who remained rooted to the 
spot, and threw himself at the new enemy.  His reward for his courage 
and skill was a rapid trip to La-La Land, as he was immediately ushered 
to the floor, head first.  Hard.
   "You like throwing your weight around, don't you?" the man asked the 
remaining five.  "You like making people afraid of you.  Especially if 
they can't fight back."
   The five of them, definitely the unobservant type, took fighting 
stances, each producing a vibroswitchblade.  "We'll teach you what it 
means to fight!"
   The janitor folded his arms, stood in the center of the hallway and 
tapped his foot impatiently.  "I'm waaaaitiiiing," he sang tauntingly.
   That did it.  They ran whooping toward him, knives humming through 
the air, three in front of him and two behind.  Nene shut and covered 
her eyes and winced at the ensuing cacophony of shouting and thumping.  
When all was quiet once more, she opened them again, peeking comically 
through her fingers.
   As she'd expected, only one person remained upright.  Well, there was 
another, but only because he was being held up by the hand wrapped 
around his ankles.
   Hammer looked his catch over.  "Too small," he complained.  "I'll 
have to throw it back."
   The catch, who Nene recognized as Flat-top, looked significantly 
worse for wear.  "Who are you?" he croaked.
   Before Hammer could reply, another voice did it for him.  "He is the 
terror that flaps in the night," Nene said as ominously as she could.  
"He is the sword that will slay the Dragon, the bowling ball that will 
topple the Kingpin!  He is--"
   "A-HEM."
   She stopped abruptly, then smiled sheepishly up at Martin's look of 
mock annoyance, her emerald eyes sparkling with gratitude.  "Sorry."
   "It's okay this time."  He swung his handload over, catching him by 
the collar and hissing into his face.  "Your bosses know who I am ... 
and they fear me.  You fear me, too, don't you?"
   The kid nodded dumbly.
   "That's a healthy attitude.  It'll keep you alive longer.  I noticed 
you seem to do all the speaking for this little gang of yours."  He gave 
the nearby heap of unconscious (alleged) humanity an unkind kick, and it 
emitted a collective groan in response.  "So I want you to do a little 
speaking for me.  Ready to take some messages?"
   He nodded again.
   "Good.  Tell your bosses that they're fooling no one but themselves.  
Tell them the Hammer says their days are numbered.  And tell everyone 
you know that anything they try against anyone named Romanova will be 
taken, by me, as a personal insult ... and I don't _like_ being 
insulted.  It makes me very unpleasant."  He pulled the kid just a hair 
closer.  "Got that?"
   He nodded a third time.
   "Thanks.  You're a sport."  He gave the boy a congenial pat on the 
cheek, then dropped him onto his pile of friends.  He then turned his 
attentions to the small redhead nearby, crouching down on the balls of 
his feet.  "You okay?"
   She smiled back at him.  "Thanks to you."
   "Sorry if I made you worry."
   "It's okay ... I knew you'd keep your promise."  She sighed.  "Think 
you could carry me home?"
   He did the lift-and-cradle thing with her again, standing to his full 
height.  "Wouldn't you rather ride?"
   "Nah," she said tiredly, resting against him and closing her eyes.  
"I want something warm right now.  And walk slow, please.  I could use 
the sleep."
   "This could be construed as an abuse of privilege, you know," he 
warned with a smile.
   "Yes, I know," she yawned.  "But I also know you'll only do what's 
best for me."  Her voice lowered to a mumble as she allowed herself to 
slip away in his comforting embrace.
   After phoning her parents to let them know she'd be home a little 
late, and asking the police to clean up the mess he'd left behind, he 
did as she'd asked.

   "Mr. Fisk is here, Milady."  Ginrei looked up from her desktop 
computer's flip-up display and nodded her silent approval.  The servant 
bowed deeply in acknowledgment, retreating through the enormous, ornate 
carved doors to show her guest in.
   The office was furnished like a throne room from a glorified vision 
of ancient Japan, with lush tapestries, delicate artifacts, suits of 
samurai armor, abundant plant life, and even a small brook running along 
one side.  The glass ceiling far above would flood the room with light 
during the daytime; it was nighttime now, so the lighting was 
artificial, but remarkably tasteful.
   At the head of the room, immediately before a tall, clear wall of 
solid polyglass, sat Ishikawa Ginrei herself, dressed in a ravishing 
green, gold and white vested gown, her chair and desk standing where one 
would expect a golden throne for New Japan's dark shogun.  She 
considered herself a supreme modern warlord, having conquered all her 
adversaries in the battlefields of the underworld by strategy, skill and 
force.
   The doors opened once more, and she rose from her seat, walking 
around her desk to greet a fellow conqueror and gingerly pushing her 
desktop display into its flat, closed position from sheer force of 
habit.  He walked boldly, massive arms swinging confidently around his 
bulky frame, clothed in his trademark white suit.  He was a somewhat 
coarser warrior than she, by her reckoning; where she prided herself in 
her deceptively demure tact and adherence to Japanese traditions, he 
strode boldly, afraid of nothing and damn proud of it.
   Still, even he knew when he was a guest, and he stopped at the foot 
of the tall dais of her desk, where she stood patiently.  As he bowed 
with respect, his voice boomed softly, "Madame Ishikawa."
   She smiled, toying with her hair, black as midnight and cascading 
down her back.  Coarse though he may have been, he was still a charmer, 
and the traditional ideal of the unification of two warring families 
appealed to her in this context.  "Please, Wilson ... you, and you 
alone, may call me Ginrei."
   "I was not certain we were alone."
   "We are."
   He continued forward, pacing up the ten steps to stand beside her, 
though, with their feet at the same level, he loomed over her like a 
shining monolith.  "The girl remains at large," he stated.
   His American bluntness, which she'd thought she was finally getting 
used to, startled her for a moment.  She recovered quickly.  "Miss 
Romanova has been dealt with."
   "No, she has not."  He looked impassively through the windows behind 
the desk, over the twinkling lights of Neo-Tokyo.
   She regarded him coldly.  "I sent agents to put her in line."
   "They were rather soundly beaten."
   Her eyes widened.  "How do you know this?"
   "They took advantage of their phone call to notify one of our 
offices."
   Ginrei's gaze fell to the enormous diamond on his finger.  "I see.  
The girl has a bodyguard."
   Wilson nodded.  "Not just any bodyguard, Ginrei.  The group you sent 
claims he identified himself as 'the Hammer'."
   She scowled.  "Hammer again ... what is he doing in New Japan?  
Thunder Force is fighting a pirate blockade near the border of Salusian 
space even as we speak."  Her eyes narrowed, a possibility forming in 
her mind.  "Unless that's _precisely_ why he's come here ... if those 
Elasi fools have double-crossed us..."
   He leaned down on one hand, looking directly at Ginrei.  "Why he is 
here is no longer important.  He's protecting the girl, he knows what 
we're working toward, and he's challenging our domination.  It's either 
him or us, now."
   Her ruby lips twisted into a fiendish smile.  "How heroic ... a fight 
to the end.  I've made arrangements for a little surprise for him, when 
the time comes."
   Fisk lifted himself to his full height, once again scanning the 
evening skyline.  He knew what she had in mind, and it didn't sit well 
with him -- but this was her home domain.  "To be relying on such a 
contingency so soon, after all our preparation..."
   "The careful warrior prepares for every possibility, Wilson.  Even 
the unthinkable must be anticipated.  And Hammer has proven quite adept 
at doing the unthinkable."  She lifted a bauble from her desk, a 
beautiful golden statuette of a dragon, and studied it with her hands.  
"Continue your plans to remove the director, Wilson.  Hammer will find 
that the tail of the Dragon may succeed where tooth and claw do not."

   It was Day Four, and Nene was growing a little weary of her 
continuous state of Protective Custody.  The knowledge that the police 
were almost constantly watching her was more a discomfort than 
otherwise; she was getting quite good at spotting their undercover folk 
as she tried going about the business of being a third-grade girl.  
Seeing them just about everywhere she went was annoying.
   One of the side benefits of noticing the undercover cops was also 
noticing the other eyes that followed her from time to time.  Though 
they hadn't tried anything since that afternoon at her school, she knew 
they were still around, watching and waiting, as if listening for a snap 
of the Dragon's fingers as the signal to pounce.  For whatever reason, 
the signal never came.
   Frankly, the only person she _hadn't_ seen was Hammer.  She knew 
enough not to let it bother her, though.  If he didn't want to be seen, 
he wouldn't be, until she called for him.  She gently brushed a fleck of 
lint from her commpin and smiled a private smile.
   There was a second reason for the smile, of course; she'd just 
succeeded in eluding her protectors.
   She all but skipped through the mall, trying not to laugh aloud at 
the certain frustration of the two cops who'd tried to follow her.  
She'd lost them somewhere on the other end of the complex, ducking 
through an elaborate sequence of shops to keep them on their toes, and 
she was now engaged in furiously relaxed window-shopping.  She would 
just stay out of sight until it was time to rendezvous with her parents, 
which she would determine with her own little wristchron.  Not a Rolex 
by any means, but it kept the time well enough for her purposes, and 
bore a group picture of Thunder Force on the face -- she'd saved a 
depressing number of box-tops to get it.
   The mall itself was a marvelous place, a lovely, sprawling six-story 
temple of consumer excess just outside the northeastern city limits of 
Mega-Tokyo.  It had a sea breeze that kept the air around it cool and 
clean, and a clear, glassy roof that allowed the dwindling rays of the 
early evening sun to shine on the upper two levels.  She wasn't on the 
upper two levels, of course, since she had no great love of squinting.  
(Mustn't strain my pretty young eyes unduly, she chuckled inwardly.)  
Besides, the third floor had more than enough of the shops she wanted to 
check out.
   She stopped to browse through a software store, told the ever-helpful 
clerk that she was beyond help (greeted by a typical look of surprise, 
followed by an all-too-predictable "oh my, how cute" response), and 
meandered through the racks of games for the Sega machines.  She took a 
promising-looking box from the shelf and examined it.  It was the third 
Thunder Force edition of the ever-popular Street Fighter series, and she 
grinned an elfin little grin as she pored over the screen shots on the 
back.  The picture of a match with Danilia judo-tossing Dund made her 
laugh.  She made a mental note to pester her parents about an advance on 
her allowance.
   From there, she continued on to a shoe store.  She peered doubtfully 
at one of the newer items, wondering just what type of person would want 
a pair of shoes that would play the Tiki theme, note-by-note, with each 
step.  As if to answer her question, a girl from her class tromped by 
with her parents, taking her steps with a careful rhythm so as to try to 
match the tempo of that very song, producing a note with each footfall.  
Nene groaned and tried to look like she'd never seen that girl before in 
her life.
   From there it was only a few paces to a trend-follower's fashion 
outlet.  The sheer size of the Tiki-licensed section made her roll her 
eyes, as she realized that every piece of clothing, both visible and 
hidden, could have a Tiki logo on it.  This included a wide line of 
accessories, toy jewelry and the like, and T-shirts with Tiki slogans on 
them.  She didn't even honor the Tiki panties with so much as a 
scrutinizing glance.
   Another, somewhat smaller section of the store, on the side opposite 
the Tiki area but still up front, caught her attention easily.  She knew 
Hammer must have had some kind of say in what items Thunder Force would 
endorse; still, she thought, a set of TF undies would be cool, in a 
silly sort of way.  There were none to be had, though, and only obvious 
forms of outerwear could bear the insignia.  She was slightly startled 
at the price tag on the charm bracelet, until she realized that it was 
made from real silver.
   She took a jacket from its hangar on a nearby rack, a replica of the 
Thunder Force uniform jacket in her size, and pulled it onto herself, 
turning to look in the mirror.  She smiled at the image for a moment, 
whirling like an out-of-practice fashion model, but considered it again 
as her smile faded.
   Someone was entering the store.  She could see him in the mirror; a 
fairly muscular guy, probably high-school age or slightly over, and 
probably a member of the Dragon's gang, judging by his dress and the way 
he seemed to be looking for security measures.  He scanned past her, but 
kept going, walking deeper into the store; either he didn't notice her, 
or he wasn't after her.
   She put the jacket back on its hangar, trying not to make any sudden 
moves, and turned to face the entrance.  Two more punk kids were 
strolling in, just like the first.  They also did nothing unusual as 
they looked at her, but they moved toward the sales register island in 
the center of the store from different directions as the first one made 
like he was interested in Tikiwear, across the main central aisle from 
her.
   Trouble.  Big, big trouble.
   She began to move her hand toward her commpin, but paused.  Should I 
call him?  He gave me this to help against the gang, right?  Well, yeah, 
but he said if they came after _me_, not if I happened to be a robbery 
witness, after all, I've seen plenty of trouble so far in my little 
life.  But I know he wouldn't want me to just stand by and do nothing...
   "EVERYBODY DOWN!  NOW!"
   Well, that settles that, Nene thought as one of the punks by the 
register pulled a weapon from his jacket and started firing in every 
direction, his shots eerily quiet but no less lethal.  Her quick dive to 
avoid making a target of herself resulted in her colliding with a junior 
mannequin, and both of them tumbled to the floor.  A shriek behind her 
made her whirl just in time to see another kid in her section, maybe a 
year or two older than her, fall in a spray of red.
   'This isn't a game!  You're playing with your life!'
   Those words meant a lot more now than they did when Hammer'd first 
spoken them.  She forced herself to tear her eyes away from the body.
   The other punk by the register, the first to enter the store, was on 
the clerks in a flash.  He slashed at the nearest one menacingly with a 
shiny, humming weapon -- a vibroblade, Nene deduced -- and she went down 
with nasty cuts on her arms.  He grabbed the other frightened young lady 
by the shirt, pulled her up to him in a cruel parody of an embrace, and 
held the flat of the knife to her throat, causing her whimper to gurgle 
slightly.
   "Open it!" he commanded.
   She complied, quickly disabling the security around the main daytime 
cash store.   He threw her aside once she was finished, banging her head 
loudly against the edge of the counter.  He began jamming the creds into 
his bag.
   "Freeze it, you two!  You're under arrest!"
   Nene sighed with relief as two mall cops, a man and a woman, stood at 
opposite sides of the front of the store, their guns drawn and ready.  
The two punks began to straighten up slowly, but the one toting a gun of 
his own still held it.
   "Drop the gun!" the woman shouted.  "NOW!"
   About then, Nene remembered the one who'd stopped to look at Tiki 
items.  She looked in his direction; she didn't see him there.
   "LOOK OUT--"
   Even as Nene uttered the warning, she was too late.  The third punk 
leaped from his hiding place, cyberspurs already extended from the back 
of his right hand, and pounced on the female guard, impaling her in the 
chest.  She shrieked as he tore downward through her jacket, shirt and 
flesh, and fell, curling into a ball of blood and pain.
   "Hitomi!" the male guard shouted, and the distraction cost him his 
life.  He went down with a startled whimper as three bloody holes pecked 
through his stomach and chest, lying less than a meter from Nene.
   Nene was now officially frightened.  The punks resumed emptying the 
cash box, hurrying to avoid any further delays.  If she just sat still 
and did nothing, they'd leave her alone and she wouldn't die ... God 
knows she didn't want to die...
   Instead, of course, her mind seized upon a plan.  It was risky, and 
foolish, and impossible, and just plain stupid, but she couldn't sit by 
and let this happen.
   "Okay, let's GO!"  The punk with the bag jumped to his feet and 
vaulted the counter as the other two scattered.  The one with the 'spurs 
was already long gone as the one with the pistol raced past her, hopping 
over the body of the guard he'd felled, his foot slapping the floor 
right next to her.  Nene braced herself.  The leader was coming her way.  
He was jumping over the guard...
   NOW!
   With a hard push, Nene forced the felled mannequin out into the 
punk's path.
   His jump had been a bit too showy, and his foot, not expecting to 
meet the white-tiled walkway again for another twenty centimeters or so, 
landed squarely on the dummy's head, which rolled out from underneath.  
The foot went sailing out from under him, and he didn't even have time 
to curse before he was flat on his back, knocking his head hard on the 
floor.  In all of this, he lost his grip on the bag, and it flew out in 
front of him.
   Nene jumped up, dashed over the punk (placing a gratuitous footfall 
on his crotch), scooped up the bag, and ran.
   Yes, she immediately realized, this was a VERY stupid plan.
   "YEEow!  What the-- FUCKIN'-- GET BACK HERE!"  The punk scrambled to 
his feet and gave chase.
   "HEEELLLP!" Nene wailed plaintively into her commpin as she darted 
through the crowd, a forest of pants and skirts that kept her from 
getting away, but also kept her pursuer from getting close enough.  She 
pushed past, dodged around, and ducked under more pairs of legs than she 
wanted to think about, inciting some rather surprised and alarmed cries 
in her wake, which became even louder and more abusive as her pursuer 
charged through behind her, knocking several of the people completely 
off-balance.
   "Hey!  Stop'er, dumbass!"
   "Stop who?"
   The shout and its reply made Nene realize she was charging toward the 
gun-toting thug, who'd been wandering through the crowd as if nothing 
happened.  She gave him a hard kick in the shin as she ran past.
   "OW!"  He grabbed at his bruised leg, hopping to remain on his feet 
(or, in this case, foot).  "Stupid little bitch!"
   "Forget your damn leg, she got the haul!"
   "She WHAT?!"
   A glance behind her after another few seconds of flight confirmed 
what Nene'd feared; she was now being chased by two rather than one.  
The other punk had his gun drawn, and the crowd couldn't seem to decide 
whether to cower or part before him.  She let them make up their own 
minds, and continued running, skipping back and forth.
   Just then, something seemed to go right.
   An elevator was open and waiting, some distance in front of her.
   Whispering a few thankful words to who-or-whatever was looking out 
for her, she dashed toward it.  Her thanks turned to pleading when the 
doors began to close.
   "Stop'er!"
   With a final burst of speed, she slipped through the doors without 
triggering the sensor that would have opened them again.  She whirled, 
slapped the "6" button, and collapsed into a fit of gasping against the 
door.  She could hear the muffled pounding and curses of her pursuers, 
and would have laughed if she'd had the breath to do so.
   She worked to calm her frantic heartbeat as the elevator made its 
merry way to the top floor, and decided that, when the revolution came, 
elevator music would be the first thing to go.  Far too soon, the car 
reached the sixth floor.  With a soft, electronic chime, the doors 
opened.
   And Nene flattened herself against the rear wall of the elevator at 
the sight of the large, hulking boy before her.  She hadn't counted on 
them being able to call for help.  She and the brute locked stares for a 
long moment.  He grinned.  Nene swallowed and tensed.
   With a yell, he leaped forward, grabbing at her.
   With a scream, Nene dove and rolled forward, under his legs.  She 
caught one of his ankles accidentally with her foot, and a desperate tug 
pulled him off of his already-precarious balance.  His head made a loud 
bang against the elevator's far wall.
   Grabbing the sack, which she'd dropped beside the door, she fairly 
flew out of the elevator as the doors began to close.  She was a few 
steps away when a couple sounds gained her attention:  firstly, the 
sound of the brute's hand stopping the doors, making them reopen, albeit 
ponderously, and secondly, the sounds of running feet from the nearby 
stairway.
   Not waiting for either to yield its inevitable result, she ran.  Her 
head was spinning with fatigue, her heart was pounding in her ears, and 
her breath came in yelps, but she knew she couldn't give up as she once 
more charged and thrashed through the crowd.  Somehow, she could still 
hear the voices behind her, their feet drumming the ground like an 
unholy thunder.
   Where is he?!
   Her head whirled to face a sharp howl next to her, where a man fell 
to the ground, clutching at his now-reddened leg.  Oh my God, they're 
shooting into the crowd!  I have to get away from here!
   She bolted to the side, into one of the outcropping lounge areas, 
small islands of rest among the infinite sea of walkways.  She glanced 
behind herself, needlessly verifying that she was still being followed, 
and scaring herself witless with the sight of the gun-toting kid drawing 
a bead on her.  She sprang onto one of the benches, vaulted over it, and 
was in mid-air when she realized that she'd made a minor miscalculation.
   The bench she'd chosen was situated with its back to the guardwall.  
She now had an unobstructed view of the ground floor.
   Forty meters away.
   Straight down.
   WHAT AM I *DOING*?!?
   Nene shrieked a long, loud note as she fell, eyes as wide as dinner 
plates at first, then squeezed shut, as if not watching her impact would 
make it any less painful.  The crowd, yelling and darting around in a 
frenzy below her, was coming closer, closer, oh God I don't want to die, 
damn it Hammer you'd better HURRY...
   "OOF!"
   .....
   Not to complain, but ... shouldn't that have hurt more?
   Wherever I am, it feels suspiciously like being held in someone's 
arms.
   Am I dead?
   The voices of the crowd surrounded her.  No, I can't be dead, she 
decided; death would be a lot quieter.  As it was, her ears were 
smothered in a blanket of "look at that"s, "lucky kid"s, "nearly got 
killed"s, "amazing!"s and "good thing"s.  And through it all, the 
rising, increasingly grateful murmur of a single name.
   She opened her eyes and looked on the smiling face of her savior.
   "There are safer ways to get down from the top floor, Nene," Hammer 
stated.
   She stared at him for a time, emerald eyes shimmering in wonder, 
before grabbing his violet jacket and hugging him tightly, first 
laughing, then crying in the security and comfort of her hero's embrace.  
He rocked her back and forth as her voice choked and babbled.  "Oh 
Hammer it's so good to see you I was so scared they were after me I was 
gonna die oh God I was so scared I thought you wouldn't come..."
   He put a hand to her face, and she looked up at him.  "I'm sorry I 
scared you like that ... are you going to be okay?"  His fingers wiped 
the tears from her cheeks.
   "I ... I will."  She fell against him again.  "Now."
   Other running feet came to visit them -- the alarmed shouts of her 
bodyguards, the startled cries of her parents -- but she didn't really 
pay attention to them.  His voice soothed her, its deep, gentle sound 
resonating through his body and humming pleasantly against hers, as one 
of his hands smoothed her tousled hair.
   "Aw, SHIT!"
   Nene didn't need to open her eyes to know that her former pursuers 
had finally caught up with her.  They were probably hoping to simply 
remove the money from her dead, limp hand.  They weren't counting on 
having to deal with this.
   Hammer barely moved at all.  He merely straightened one arm, pointing 
it at the lead punk.  A muffled BLAM announced the firing of his 
grappling cable, and said punk had barely taken a step when he found his 
legs bound tight.  He hit the floor hard as Nene's undercover bodyguards 
dashed after his compatriots, and he was immediately surrounded by 
security officers.
   Nene smiled.  Her stupid plan _had_ worked, after all.  Not quite the 
way she'd intended, but in this case, she'd take what she could get.

   Dr. Evanston Tym tapped the butt end of a datapad pen, one of several 
he kept around the lab, since he would always lose track of just one or 
two, against a noteworthy piece of information on his still-updating pad 
as he strolled from one of his laboratory's status displays to another.  
His thin lips formed a tight line -- his latest patient was coming along 
exactly as he should.  Which, to Dr. Tym's estimation, couldn't be a 
good thing.
   Dr. Tym was one of the galaxy's current leaders in the fields of 
robotics and organic-cybernetic interface research and practice.  As 
such, he was not an overly athletic man, by any standard; short in 
stature, rather weak in build, with a hawkly nose, curiously sunken eyes 
and shallow cheeks framed by a moustacheless beard and a head of unruly, 
thinning black hair.  It made him look like a bad artist's rendition of 
the historical United States president, Abraham Lincoln, albeit in a 
loose-fitting lab coat, rumpled shirt, unkempt necktie and baggy 
trousers.  Fortunately, his contemporaries were not great students of 
ancient history, and he was spared any comments on that subject.
   His work was, as he once liked to put it, "the Human Body Shop".  His 
efforts had mostly gone into the field of replacement and enhancement of 
organic body parts, a field which would have long ago been called 
bionics.  Whereas most cyberlimb work strove to make the replacements 
stronger, quicker, and more durable than their original counterparts, 
Dr. Tym had focused on making his work seem more "real" to the wearer -- 
most of his patients would have long since forgotten they even had an 
artificial limb, if the loss of the original weren't so psychologically 
jarring at the time.
   He was a great scientist, and a fine physician.  Unfortunately, he 
was not a good accountant.  He had consistently undercharged for his 
work, because, in his single-mindedness, he had completely forgotten 
just how much each one had cost.  No hospital would keep him on after a 
few of these incidents, due to the amount of money that would be sunk 
into his operating expenses with no chance of being recovered.  His 
attempt to run a practice on his own wiped him out after just one 
operation.
   This was how Ginrei Ishikawa had found him -- a brilliant and capable 
man, tragically destitute because his work was expensive and he just 
couldn't keep books.  She took him out of that and convinced him to work 
for her.  (She didn't have to sweet-talk him at all -- at that point, he 
would have done anything to avoid a job which involved the phrase, 
"Would you like fries with that?")
   He hated his work, now.  He spent his days watching street punk after 
street punk have their own, perfectly healthy limbs removed, replacing 
them with special Swiss-Army limbs that contained more weapons than a 
professional assassin's closet.  Cybernetics, by his reckoning, was a 
tool of necessity and reconstruction, not a breeding ground for new ways 
to kill.  They were only children, for God's sake!  What she had him 
doing was unethical, immoral, unthinkable!
   But one must work if one expects to eat.
   "Good afternoon, Doctor."
   And speaking of eating, here was the woman who'd made him chew up his 
very soul.
   He stopped for a moment in his tracks, whirled to face the Dragon, 
and bowed curtly to her, droning, "Good afternoon, Milady."  He then 
went directly back to what he'd been doing before.
   Ginrei ignored his display of controlled hatred, having long since 
grown accustomed to it.  She'd forced the man to compromise every 
principle he could possibly hold dear, taking open pride in the 
knowledge that he could do nothing about it.  Despite that fact, he 
never tried to rebel against her authority, and he still did excellent 
work.  For that, at least, he had her respect.
   She stalked forward to stand in front of an enormous window in the 
center of the lab's dominant wall, nearly totally black due to the 
darkness on its other side; it was specially polarized to prevent it 
from becoming reflective under those conditions, as most any other 
glass-like material would.  A few dim lights did shine within the 
solitary chamber, though, illuminating a poorly-defined form of dull, 
cold metal, connected to what seemed like a hundred umbilical cables, 
and with no more than three small indicator lights visible and blinking 
slowly.
   "Is the body complete, Doctor?" she asked after a long moment's 
contemplation.
   "Yes, Milady," he replied, staring at one of the status displays.
   "Is he activated, then?  Can he hear us?"
   "At present, no," Dr. Tym replied, satisfied with his readouts and 
walking to stand just out of the Dragon's physical reach.  "I still have 
him in hibernation, to minimize the inescapable damage."
   "Surely he'll need some time to adjust to the new form," she 
suggested coldly, "if he's to make effective use of it against Hammer."
   "That, Milady, is the _last_ thing that should happen."  Dr. Tym 
tried to restrain his anger, but found he could not.  "I've done all I 
can to program the new reflex and motor control patterns into his 
wetware.  When he awakens, he'll know more about how to use this new 
form than he ever knew about his own flesh and blood!  But if he spends 
one minute more than is absolutely necessary _conscious_ within that 
hulking, inhuman monstrosity of a robot shell, he's going to develop a 
case of cyberpsychosis so severe that he'll go _violently_ insane, 
without a snowball's chance in HELL of recovering, even if he's 
installed back into his original body!"
   Her eyes turned to regard him with sharp menace, but he wasn't about 
to back down.  They glared at each other in a long, tense silence, 
disturbed only by the faint background noise of the lab itself.
   "Very well," Ginrei conceded at last.  "He shall remain off-line 
until the moment he is needed."  She lifted a black-gloved finger and 
continued emphatically, "But if _anything_ goes even slightly amiss in 
his operation..."
   "I accept full responsibility, Milady," he interrupted.  "He _will_ 
do his best, when the time comes.  You have my word."
   After another long, cold look, the Dragon whirled on her heel, her 
tight scarlet overcoat snapping faintly with the movement.  Her heels 
rapped sharply on the floor's hard tile as she marched back out the way 
she'd come.
   Dr. Tym stared numbly at her back, even after the door had closed 
behind her.  Then, he returned his gaze to the figure behind the dark 
glass.
   To him, it seemed to glare accusingly back at him.
   "Dear God," he muttered, not for the first time, "what have I 
become."

   Nene entered her classroom humming a song from one of her Clay 
Pigeons albums.  She'd been listening to their music nearly constantly 
for the past three days, using it as background music while she did her 
homework, and then just singing or humming along with it when she was 
done.  Her parents kept her inside most of the time, fearing for her 
safety.  In truth, she felt safe everywhere she went, because she knew 
who was watching out for her.
   She'd also been keeping a close watch on the news concerning the 
ongoing crusade against the Fisk-Ishikawa syndicate.  She was slightly 
surprised when her family had received notice, just last night, that she 
was to testify in a preliminary hearing as a witness for the 
prosecution.  She surprised the attorney who'd called by asking what she 
thought was a rather basic and obvious question concerning the 
admissibility of her testimony in a court of law.  At length, she 
received her answer; despite precedents that may discredit her validity, 
mostly relating to her age, they felt what she had to contribute was 
sufficiently damaging to the defense to warrant its inclusion.
   Still, as she made her way to her seat, she couldn't shake the 
feeling that something was wrong.
   She sat down just as the start-of-class bell rang.  She sighed; she'd 
have to wait for a break in the lecture to move her books from her bag 
to her desk.  She looked into it anyway, to take a quick stock of the 
materials she'd left overnight.
   Her eyes immediately fell upon a long, white envelope, with her name 
typed on its face.  There was also a heart drawn in red crayon, right 
next to the additional words "Do Not Open Until Lunchtime".  She 
groaned.  She'd been on the receiving end of a relentless stream of 
curiosity and rumors from her classmates, particularly concerning just 
why she was being protected by a celebrity like the Thunder Force 
leader.  The last thing she wanted was a secret admirer.
   "Nene!"
   Startled, Nene looked up from her desk.  "Y-yes, Miss Ayumi?"
   "I asked you if you know where Usagi has gone to."
   Usagi?  Nene looked beside her, and, sure enough, Usagi's desk was 
vacant.  Of course, she realized to herself, _that_'s what seems wrong!  
You didn't have Usagi pestering you about your love life this morning!  
Well, at least _some_thing's going right today.
   She looked back to the teacher and shook her head.  "I'm afraid I 
don't, Miss Ayumi."
   Miss Ayumi looked thoughtful for a moment.  "Her mother didn't call, 
or leave any messages at the office ... ah, well."  Shaking her head, 
she made a mark in her attendance book.  "Unexcused absence for Usagi 
Moone.  *tsk*  There goes her perfect record..."
   Nene's selfish smugness turned to concern.  Though she may have been 
a mischievous young delinquent at the age of eight, Usagi never, _never_ 
skipped class -- perfect attendance was her sole claim to sainthood.  
She took the envelope out of her desk and fingered it idly.  Perhaps the 
answer was in there...
   She set the mysterious envelope back where it had been, returning her 
attention to the front of the room.

   Lunchtime, Nene soon determined, was never so far away as when you 
were anxiously waiting for it.  She took her Thunder Force lunchbox and 
the envelope out into the schoolyard, walked around to the side of the 
building, and sat on the grass under the tree where she and Usagi had 
been eating lunch and sharing stories since they'd met in first grade.  
Much as she hated to admit it, Nene was actually starting to miss 
Usagi's constant pestering.
   The lunchbox took low priority, of course.  The envelope was far more 
important.  She wedged her finger under the unpasted part of the flap 
and began to tear it open.
   She became aware of the soft whoosh of an idling hovercar engine.  A 
sidelong glance through the schoolyard fence allowed her to see a large, 
black sedan.  The windows were darkened, preventing her from seeing into 
it, but the front windows slid downward as if to accommodate her.  She 
saw the driver, an imposing fellow with dark glasses, short, black hair 
and a dark suit jacket.  His head turned, and, behind the shades, she 
knew he was looking at her.
   She pushed her finger along the inside of the top edge of the 
envelope, slowly ripping it open, suddenly feeling very uneasy about 
what she'd find within.
   She pried her fingers into the paper prison, immediately feeling its 
contents.  A single, smooth, stiff sheet, with a glossy, almost waxy 
feel on one side -- a photograph.  There was also a small slip of normal 
paper near one end of the photo, held in place by a paper clip.  She 
lifted it out and examined it.
   The image was that of Usagi, looking frightened out of her wits; 
redness in her wide young eyes evidenced that she'd been crying.  The 
background of the picture wasn't any place Nene recognized, with bland, 
unremarkable walls that could belong to a large number of places.  The 
note was quite succinct.
   [Go with the driver and she'll be safe.  Tell no one.]
   Nene's face paled as her pulse pounded in her ears.  She lifted her 
gaze and saw the man in the hoversedan again, watching her with no 
readable expression.  She now noticed that he was wearing what looked to 
be some kind of tiny earpiece.  Probably to keep in touch with his 
higher-ups, she told herself.  One peep out of me and...
   Oh, Usagi ... what have I gotten you into?
   Snatching up the envelope and completely forgetting her lunchbox, 
Nene bolted to the tree's blind side and flattened her back against its 
thick trunk.  Once there, she tapped her commpin.
   "Hammer!" she hissed, afraid that, even here, she might be heard.  
"Come in!"
   "I'm here, Nene," his voice responded after an eternal moment, clear, 
calm and quiet.  "What's wrong?"
   She closed her eyes, sighing with the slight relief provided by his 
reassuring voice.  "Bad news.  Remember that girl I hang out with, 
Usagi?  The one with the blond tails?"
   "Yes."
   "They've kidnapped her."
   He paused.  "That's bad."
   "They left a note in my desk -- there's a guy here in a sedan who I'm 
supposed to go with.  Looks like a real creep.  He can't see me right 
now, but he's waiting for me."
   Silence.
   "Please ... what do I do?"
   She heard him sigh, then say something quick and harsh in a language 
she didn't recognize.  "I should have seen this coming ... I'm afraid 
you'll have to go with him, Nene."
   She swallowed nervously.  "I was afraid you'd say that."
   "First, though, move your commpin someplace where it's hidden, but 
still secure."
   "Okay..."  Her hands carefully removed the small pin from her lapel.  
She looked herself over for someplace to hide it.  A small stroke of 
inspiration flashed a smile across her face, and she pinned it to the 
inside of her sleeve cuff, close to her wristchron.  That way, the chron 
would throw them off if they scanned her for metal.  "Got it," she 
announced to her wrist.
   "Good girl."  His voice was slightly muted by the pin's new location.  
"I've told the police not to try to stop you from leaving.  While you're 
with them, keep this in mind:  don't _be_ afraid, just _act_ afraid.  
Get it?"
   She nodded.  "I understand."
   "Welcome to undercover work, Nene.  Good luck.  If you need me, I'll 
be there."
   "I know.  Thanks."  She twisted her cuff inside-out and gave the pin 
a quick kiss.  "Nene out."
   She walked back out from behind the tree, taking uneven steps and 
wiping at her eyes, trying to look as if she'd just had a good angst 
session instead of a teleconference.  She fumblingly collected her 
lunchbox as she looked at the driver, who smiled a tight, smug smile she 
instantly hated.
   She strolled toward the gate, looking around all the while, acting as 
best she could like a nervous little girl trying to act casual.  It was 
a lot more natural than she'd've liked.  The car followed her around the 
building, turned the corner, and stopped at the gate.
   Nene stepped forward, meekly approaching the vehicle, both hands 
gripping tightly to the handle of her lunchbox, with the envelope, photo 
and note wedged under her right thumb.  The rear door on her side 
clicked and opened with no visible assistance.  She entered, assuming a 
penitent pose as she sat on the far-too-large seat, and the door 
automatically shut behind her.  She set the lunchbox and papers beside 
herself, folded her hands in her lap and, for the second time this week, 
felt very, very small.
   "Smart kid," the driver said with an audible smirk as he accelerated 
into the street.  "You just do what you're told, little girl, and 
everything'll be just fine."
   Nene's eyes bored into the back of his head, firing 600 icy daggers 
per second.
   You'll get what's coming to you, you creep.  Just you wait.

   "Okay, Hammer, she's in the car.  Now can you tell me why we didn't 
stop her?"  Lieutenant Zenigata, who'd replaced the sergeant formerly 
assigned to watch Miss Romanova at school, was rather unhappy with the 
current turn of events.
   "Because the syndicate's kidnapped one of her friends," Martin 
replied quietly, watching the incredibly mundane-looking sedan enter the 
flow of traffic.  It was nearly indistinguishable from any other such 
vehicle in seconds.
   "So?  We comb the city, find her, and bring her back.  We can't 
endanger our star witness now, when it's all coming to a head!"
   Martin looked at Katsuhiro.  "And if the operation doesn't go right?  
What then?  Usagi dies."  He turned his head to face back out the window 
of their stakeout post.  "I don't want that on Nene's conscience."
   "Hammer, the probability--"
   "Is there, Katsu.  Nothing ever goes completely to plan.  And the 
risk run by charging into that scenario blindly is very, very great, 
especially for her."  He paused.  "This way, at least there's a chance.  
Check on Usagi's parents while I'm gone, would you?"
   "Wait," Katsu said as Martin headed for the door.  "Where are you 
going?"
   He turned and smiled.  "To follow them, of course.  You didn't think 
I was going to just let them _take_ her, did you?"
   "But..." Katsu stammered, his eyes darting back out the window.  "But 
it's long gone already!  How will y--"  That was the moment when his 
mind remembered the commpin planted on Nene's person.  "Ahhh, I see.  
You can trace that signal?"
   Martin's smile turned to a grin.  "As though I could see it.  Nene, 
Usagi and I will see you later, Katsu, though I can't say how much 
later."  With that, he closed the door behind himself.  Katsu heard the 
distinctive sound of his transformation, followed by the soft, fading 
whupping of a helicopter flying off.
   He wondered how to word the communique to HQ so as not to give away 
what was going on.  Whatever Hammer was up to, he'd definitely need the 
element of surprise.

   "Miss Romanova has arrived, Milady."
   Ginrei tried not to look overly smug as she rose from her seat, 
pacing around to stand before her desk.  "Excellent.  Please, have her 
escorted in."
   The servant bowed and retreated through the doors, which swung more 
fully open behind him.  Through them marched a slightly odd-looking 
trio:  two dark-haired men, wearing black suits, sunglasses and 
expressionless faces, flanking a rather small girl with brilliant red 
hair, wearing a tidy school uniform with a non-regulation scarf about 
her collar, in some indeterminable state between frightened and angry.  
The men matched pace with the girl, who clasped both her hands around 
the handle of a lunchbox decorated with a large, colorful Thunder Force 
insignia.
   The three of them halted at the foot of the raised deskthrone.
   Ginrei nodded to the men.  "Well done.  You may leave us."
   "Yes, Milady."  They bowed, whirled sharply, and marched out much 
more swiftly than they'd marched in.  The doors thundered shut behind 
them.
   Nene fixed Ginrei with a silent stare, her emerald eyes as cold and 
fierce as any elementary-schoolgirl's had ever been.
   The Dragon smiled down at her controlled, impotent rage.  "So, at 
last I meet the troublesome Miss Nene Romanova.  Come, child."  She 
beckoned for Nene to approach her; swallowing a lump in her throat, the 
little girl did so, silently deciding that ten simple stair-steps had 
never seemed quite so frightening before.  When she'd reached the 
plateau of the dais, Ginrei leaned forward, hands over her knees, in the 
most condescending pose imaginable.  "Have you nothing to say for 
yourself, my dear?" she sang.
   Nene's glare remained constant.  "Show me Usagi."
   The Dragon sighed, shaking her head slowly with her fingers pinching 
the bridge of her nose, her lovely face displaying a pained expression.  
"My child, my child, where are your manners?  Have you no respect for 
your elders?"
   "Only the ones who deserve it.  Show me Usagi."
   "Such poor etiquette," Ginrei chided quietly, straightening to her 
full height and looking haughtily down at the impudent girl before her.  
"You'll never accomplish anything with such an ... unhealthy attitude."
   Nene ground her teeth, fixed a gaze of pure evil on a potted plant to 
one side of the room, and grumbled, "Please, I would like to see my 
friend, Usagi..."
   Ginrei regarded her with mocking impatience.
   Nene forced herself not to spit as she added, "...Milady."
   Ginrei now allowed herself to look very smug, and she patted Nene 
atop her head, a gesture which quickly earned her the girl's undying 
hatred.  "There," she sang, "that's _much_ better."  Ginrei looked back 
toward her desk, turning the computer to face herself.  Quickly tapping 
in her access ID and password with one hand, she confirmed that her 
other guest was waiting outside her office.  Satisfied, she rested a 
finger on her intercom button.  "Wilson, you may bring the girl, now."
   One of the huge double doors opened with a loud click, and Nene 
turned to face it.  The opening was soon filled by an immense, bald man 
in a very white suit, wearing a diamond ring on one finger.  She 
instantly recognized him as Wilson Fisk, or, as most called him, the 
Kingpin.  He wasn't who she was looking for.
   Before him, however, was a small, blond, very frightened girl, 
dressed in a school uniform nearly identical to her own -- minus the 
scarf, of course.  Where the Kingpin's stride was bold and confident, 
this girl's was skittish and uncertain, but his hand on her shoulder 
kept her moving forward as the door boomed shut behind them.
   "Nene!"  Usagi pulled free of the Kingpin's grip and ran toward her 
friend.
   Nene let go of the lunchbox with one hand as she turned and hopped 
down the stairs.  "Usagi!"
   Usagi made a bee-line for Nene, colliding with her not far from the 
base of the dais in a shamelessly terrified embrace.  "OhNeneI'mso-
scaredIdidn'tthinkI'dseeyouagainImissMomandDadwhatareyoudoinghereanyway-
thesepeoplearescaryIwannagohome!" she blurted through her tears, nearly 
too fast to follow.  She buried her face in Nene's deep violet scarf.  
Nene'd bought it near the beginning of the school year, while shopping 
with her mother, due to its near-perfect match to Hammer's distinctive 
costume.
   Nene quietly returned her friend's fearful hug, never once letting 
her eyes off the Kingpin as he approached.  He walked up to the girls 
unhurriedly; after all, they weren't going anywhere.  Rather than take 
the Dragon's approach of talking down to her, he regarded the young 
redhead from his full, imposing height.
   "We meet again," he stated flatly.
   She didn't reply.
   "You've caused us a good deal of trouble, young lady."  That didn't 
sound so much like an admonishment as a statement of fact.
   "Well, now you have me," Nene said, fear and anger still evident in 
her voice.  "Let Usagi go."
   A cold shiver ran down her spine at the sound of Ginrei's chuckle.  
She was very nearby, having come down from her dais to join the happy 
reunion.  "Ah, the innocence of youth," the woman sighed.
   "I'm afraid the two of you will have to remain here for a while," 
Wilson replied, almost by way of explanation.  "There is much to be done 
-- and no one must know of it, or of our involvement in it."
   "I ... I won't tell," Usagi sniffled, lifting her head from Nene's 
shoulder to beg for the Dragon's mercy.
   "Oh, but you might," Ginrei purred.  "People can be very persuasive.  
I should know.  It's a risk we just can't afford to take."  She leaned 
down again, brushing a lock of Usagi's light yellow hair away from her 
eyes.  "You're a bright little girl ... you understand, don't you?"
   Nene's eyes widened, then narrowed.  Oh, I understand, all right, she 
didn't say aloud.  You won't let us go.  At least, not alive.

   Hammer stood on a rooftop less than a block from the Ishikawa 
skyscraper, the flapping of his cape in the wind the only sound he made.  
He'd overheard the entire conversation, just as he was hearing what they 
were saying now.  As he regarded the tower, he could feel the location 
of the commpin in his mind, its image as clear as a bright red dot in 
his vision.  They were many, many levels up, nearly on top of the 
building, in what he guessed to be Ginrei Ishikawa's very office.  It 
was brazen of them to take her here, but also clever as Satan himself -- 
an act of cavalier confidence, which, he was loath to admit, was quite 
well justified.
   From what he'd seen before and could see now, the place was actually 
an upscale, midtown fortress.  Three city-blocks on a side and over 200 
stories tall, constantly guarded, armored behind a deceptive layer of 
glass and steel, corridors likely bristling with automated defenses ... 
a burglar's nightmare.  He needed little more than an energy scan to 
know that the ceiling and all windows were alarmed and booby-trapped; 
that's why he wasn't inside the building right now.  The men standing 
watch at the entryways -- there were two waiting at every entrance to 
the building, and another two nearby -- were obviously cybered to a 
rather high degree.  They must spend their entire lunch break polishing 
all that chrome, he joked to himself, failing to muster a laugh.  Within 
their trendy castle, Fisk and Ishikawa were king and queen, undisputed 
rulers with nothing to fear.
   That, of course, would have to change.
   The conversation stopped as the Dragon ordered them taken elsewhere 
to "wait", though she didn't specify what they were waiting for.  The 
sounds he received as the commpin began moving again told him that the 
two girls were being kept together.  The squeaky wheel gets the grease, 
he mused; the pairing was probably due to the guards' unwillingness to 
put up with any more of Usagi's crying.  She was still whimpering, but 
Nene was quietly consoling her, telling her everything would be okay 
soon.
   Her confidence in him brought a smile to his face.
   "I won't disappoint you, Nene," he whispered.

   Katsuhiro wasn't overly surprised when his pocket-phone twittered for 
his attention.  He pulled it out, opened it, and droned, "Zenigata."
   "Good news and bad news, Katsu."
   His attention quickly turned fully to the voice over the phone.  The 
school was a whirlwind of inactivity now, anyway.  "Ah, Hammer.  Good 
news first."
   "She's arrived at the syndicate safehouse, and is presently with her 
friend."
   "Great ... where's that?"
   "That's the bad news.  They're in Ishikawa Tower, a few floors shy of 
the top."
   Katsu paused, letting this sink in.  "I see."
   "I'm sure you understand that a large extraction team is out of the 
question.  There's no way you could scale about two hundred stories of 
urban skyscraper without being detected."
   "How about a roof landing?"
   "I get the distinct feeling that they're very prepared for such an 
attempt.  You could make a hobby of watching the building defenses zap 
pigeons like an oversized bug-lamp."
   "Great.  So she's not coming out."
   "Oh, I never said _that_.  I just said _you_ couldn't do it."
   "You're crazy, Hammer."
   "It's what everyone loves about me.  By the way, how about the 
Moones?"
   "They're at the station.  Seems they were about to file a missing-
persons report on little Usagi when I started calling around."
   "Good.  Two less complications to worry about."
   "What should I tell the higher-ups?"
   "Tell them not to even think about trying to move in yet -- more 
manpower will only make this scenario worse.  Oh, and tell the Romanovas 
not to worry.  Talk to you later.  Hammer out."
   Katsu closed his phone slowly, wishing there was something he could 
do beyond just staying out of the way.

   A large truck, bearing the bold red words "LIVE CRAB" on its sides, 
backed into Loading Dock 4, the northernmost loading dock on Ishikawa 
Tower's east side.  It was immediately flanked by two pairs of guards 
who eyed it with little more than bemusement.
   "Looks like another dinner for the Big Shots upstairs," one of them 
noted aloud, adjusting his cap to give his long, blond hair some air.  
"Wish I could afford crab."
   His partner, a slightly shorter fellow with shorter, darker hair, 
chuckled.  "If I had that kind of money, crab would be the _last_ thing 
on my mind."
   The blond smiled wickedly.  "Coming from you, I believe that."  He 
watched the driver of the truck, who was presently showing her ID and 
delivery authorization.  Workmen came from inside the dock, opened the 
back of the truck, and unloaded its contents -- eight large, heavy 
crates, each bearing the same words as the truck.  The workers were 
audibly wishing that live crabs could be shipped without filled 
aquariums to carry them.
   "Saaay, that driver's cute.  Think she'd be interested in--"
   "No."
   "Oh, why not?"
   "Because you have the character depth of a microwafer, Null-Set.  
Besides, she's leaving already."  Sure enough, she'd started her vehicle 
and was pulling away from the loading dock.  She got lucky and found an 
opening into the heavy traffic around the Tower, and pulled out, gunning 
her engine for all the push it could muster.
   "Ahh, shit.  So much for my grand designs..."
   As the guards returned to their posts and the dock's wide door began 
to lower itself with a noisy hum and rattle, the blond paused, noticing 
that there was a damp trail from one of the crates.  He shrugged and 
followed his partner; after all, a leaky tank was none of his concern.
   Less than a minute after he was gone, the door clattered shut.  Soon 
after that, though, the top of the very crate he'd wondered about hinged 
upward, and something which should most assuredly be his concern climbed 
out, dripping wet.
   Hammer scowled as he looked himself over.  He'd transformed into a 
sort of Purple Ninja costume, minus the mask, before secreting himself 
aboard the delivery truck.  He most assuredly hadn't counted on having 
to hide in a water tank, but it wasn't a problem; he could hold his 
breath for a few hours, if he had to.  He just didn't like how the 
costume felt when it was completely soaked through.
   He reached behind himself, pulling off a crab which had latched onto 
his backside, and tossed it back into the tank, closing the lid of the 
crate.  Then, with a quiet sound of transformation, he changed forms 
twice, going first to Rotofoil, then emerging in his Darkwing guise, 
clean and dry.
   Hammer smirked, whispered a quiet thank-you to the utterly clueless 
crabs, gathered his cape around himself with a slight flutter, and 
merged with the shadows.

   "How long have you been here, Usagi?"
   She sniffled.  "S-since ... last night..."
   Nene gave her friend a quick embrace.  "Shhh, shhh ... come on, cheer 
up!  It'll be okay."
   "Re-- *snif* Really?"
   "Really."
   Usagi started to speak again, but a faint growling sound made her 
nearly jump into Nene's arms.  "Yaaah!  Nene!  What's THAT!?"
   Nene smiled at Usagi, looking slightly embarrassed.  "My stomach."
   Usagi blinked, realization slowly creeping in around the general fear 
that had surrounded her throughout this entire ordeal.  Once it had made 
its way clear through, though, she actually giggled.  "Missed lunch?"
   "Yeah.  Good thing I brought it with me."  Nene opened her lunchbox.
   "Spent your lunch period watching Leon again?"
   Nene groaned.  Maybe she was better off when Usagi was paralyzed with 
panic.  The plastic bag she'd wrapped her peanut-butter sandwich in 
crinkled lightly as she removed it, balled it, and placed it back in her 
lunchbox, barely aware of her habitual litter-free practices.  Just as 
she was wrapping her mouth around the bread, though, she stopped.
   There was something faintly familiar-looking on the far side of their 
large, darkened room.  Taking a slow bite from her sandwich, Nene rose 
to her feet and walked carefully toward it.
   "Nene?"
   "Ffhh..." came Nene's attempt to utter a "sshh" with a mouth full of 
white bread, raspberry jam, and peanut butter.  The little redhead 
continued across the room, intently looking at the hint of reflected 
light she'd barely noticed before.  She smiled as the object she'd 
thought she'd seen came close enough to see despite the gloom.
   A network terminal.  The screen seemed to have a faint non-light of 
its own, as if it were on, but displaying black.  Nene reached forward 
carefully and gave the backspace key a gentle tap.  In response, the 
screen blinked instantly to life, displaying a classic "login:" prompt 
and an impatient, blinking cursor.
   "Oh-ho-ho-hooo, funtime," she grinned quietly, slipping into the seat 
in front of it as she took another bite.  The peanut butter adhered to 
the roof of her mouth in a manner she would have found thoroughly 
annoying if she weren't as distracted as she was now.

   Hammer sank into a doorway, vanishing from sight just as a group of 
businessfolk turned the corner, strolling down the hallway.  They were 
discussing something involving market shares, public image, and nanotech 
research.  He silently listened to them babble, but there was nothing 
even remotely incriminating in their conversation -- apparently, equal 
amounts of legal and not-really-legal work went on within Ishikawa's 
walls.  None of the people in this particular gaggle were likely even 
aware that a pair of schoolgirls were being held hostage less than two 
hundred floors above them.
   When they were past, he re-emerged and continued.  He'd been 
fortunate so far, he mused to himself as he strode briskly, the lower 
edge of his cape fluttering behind him.  He'd actually found a staircase 
that wasn't littered with security cameras and alarm tripwires -- why 
the stairwell was unbugged and the elevator shaft was crawling with 
security, he had no idea -- but it only took him twenty stories up 
before reaching its terminus.  He was presently looking for another way 
up.
   The bright lighting of the corridors didn't please him much, either.  
It's difficult to skulk through the shadows when the shadows are few and 
far between.  It spoke well of the Tower's maintenance staff, that a 
building of such an immense size could remain so well-lit everywhere, 
but that knowledge did nothing to aid his task.
   The doorway to another stairwell was waiting at the end of the second 
hallway he entered.  He marched up to it.  Peering through the narrow 
slit of a window, he could see that this one went up as well as down.  
This was a refreshing change.  He began to twist the doorknob.
   Whoa, whoa, hold it.
   He relaxed his grip on the knob, took a step back, and transformed.  
He switched to an edges view and looked through the door again.
   His caution was well-rewarded -- a security camera, mounted up in the 
near corner, was patiently scanning the landing right at the door's 
opening.
   He returned to human mode and sighed.  Whirling with a brisk snap of 
his cloak, he strode back down the hall, looking for some other 
solution.  Maybe I should have stayed in the crab tank, he thought 
glumly.
   It was about then that he heard a peculiar tickle in his ear -- the 
familiar three-tone he'd associated with a specific commpin.

   "Hammer!" Nene hissed into her wrist.  "Hammer, are you there?"
   "Who are you talking to?" Usagi queried.  She was standing behind and 
to one side of Nene, trying to make some sort of sense of what her 
classmate was doing.
   "Shh!" Nene cautioned, a little more harshly than she should have.  
She resumed her call.  "Hammer!"
   "I'm here, Nene."  The soft, masculine sound from Nene's wrist would 
have startled Usagi if she wasn't already getting used to so many other 
completely weird things.
   "Where are you?"
   "Right now, about twenty floors up.  I'm having a little trouble 
finding a way to get higher without alerting building security -- I'll 
need some time to get to you."
   "Nene, who is that?"
   Nene smiled back at Usagi.  "A good friend of mine."
   She blinked back.  "That voice is too deep for Leon."
   Nene's smile turned to a frustrated scowl.  "Can't you give that a 
rest for just a minute here?  Hammer's trying to rescue us."
   Usagi looked confused for a moment, then gasped with surprise, as her 
mind made the connection she'd been missing.  "'Hammer'?  You mean -- 
_PC_Hammer?  _THE_ PCHammer!?"
   "Well, we aren't available in stores yet," Nene's wrist replied with 
an audible smirk.  Usagi blanched while Nene stifled a laugh, glad to 
see someone else behind the eight-ball for once.
   The little blonde took Nene's forearm in her hands and spoke 
nervously into her wrist.  "Um ... h-hi, PCHammer, I ... uh ... I'm 
Usagi M-Moone ... pleased to ... um, like ... meet you..."  Nene 
completely lost her composure at this point, breaking into a subdued 
belly-laugh with her free hand clapped firmly over her mouth.
   "Good to meet you, too, Usagi," the wrist replied.  "Hopefully, we'll 
be able to meet in person before the end of the day.  Nene, if you 
called to ask if I'm coming yet..."
   "I know, I know," Nene stated, her laughter abating.  "Actually, I 
was calling to ask if you needed any help."
   "What kind of help?"
   "Well," she said smugly, "it seems our hosts were kind enough to hand 
me and Usagi the top-level security ID for the compound before locking 
us in a room with a terminal."
   A pause.  "You're kidding."
   "Have I lied to you yet?"
   "Well ... no, now that you bring it up."
   Nene chuckled.  "I almost can't believe they'd do this.  I mean, she 
typed in her password right in front of my face!  Like the fact that it 
doesn't display could keep me from watching her fingers.  And then 
locking us in with a computer -- do they expect us to play Minesweeper 
to pass the time or something?"
   "Maybe they were expecting a pair of ordinary third-graders."
   Nene made a motion as if cracking her knuckles, but produced no 
sound.  "I'll teach 'em to underestimate _me_," she grinned cruelly, 
curling her fingers into typing position.

   <So,> the voice in Hammer's mind said, <what should I hose first?>
   <No hosing,> he replied, his lips moving involuntarily while no 
actual sound came from his throat.  This was one of his oldest 'tricks', 
one which he'd had since the day he was rebuilt -- the ability to 
project the "sound" of his thoughts across sub- and realspace radio 
communications bands.  <Try to keep a low profile.  I still have about a 
hundred and eighty floors to climb, and I'd like to stay undetected for 
as long as possible.>
   <You're no fun.>
   <This isn't a game, Nene.>
   She sighed.  <I know, I know -- we're playing with our lives.>
   <And don't you forget it.>
   <Okay, okay ... want me to open up a staircase for you?>
   Martin backtracked to the door to the stairway he'd rejected just a 
minute ago.  It was only a few steps away; he'd frozen in his tracks 
when he heard Nene's call.  <I'm next to Stairway Seven West, on level 
21.  There's a camera inside, right next to the door.>
   <Just a sec ... okay, I have it.  It's linked to a screen in Monitor 
Station G.>
   <Anything you can do to make it look like nothing's there?>
   <I could blank it out...>
   <No good.  That'd grab their attention instantly.  At the very least, 
they'd send a maintenance crew -- I've yet to see so much as a light 
bulb out of order in this place.>
   <Hmmm ... let me check on something here.>  He heard the rapid rattle 
of a keyboard as her fingers flew.  <Okay, I got it.>
   <What?>
   <I'm sending the camera signals from a different stairwell to the 
monitors for this one.  They all look exactly alike, anyway.>
   He grinned.  <That's the way.  Can you pull this off for the whole 
stairwell?>
   <Already done.>
   Hammer pushed the door open and walked through, closing it carefully 
behind himself.  He turned to the security cam and gave it a thumbs-up.
   <You're welcome,> Nene replied.

   Fooling security cameras was easy.  That was a good thing, since 
there turned out to be many, many cameras to fool.  This task began 
getting more difficult when they were out of the nondescript, all-
identical-looking stairwells and in the hallways between them.  One of 
the building's more annoying features was the lack of a single set of 
stairs going any more than twenty floors up at one shot, so choosing 
paths between them became a bit of a task.
   Nene found herself taking an enormous role in the process, and 
eagerly accepted the challenges presented to her.  She searched a bit, 
locating floor-by-floor diagrams of the building and the inter-floor 
connections.  She brought them up on her display and shuffled them as 
rapidly as she could, trying to stay a step ahead of Hammer to warn him 
of cameras and alarms and advise him on his route.  This all went well 
until he'd reached the one-hundredth floor.
   That's where they started posting armed patrols.
   Hammer bided his time behind a corner.  He'd been rather fortunate 
that neither of the guards was looking his way when he'd walked into 
plain view of the both of them.  He'd nearly made a sound as he jerked 
himself back around the corner.
   <Anything yet, Nene?>
   <Still searching.  Sorry about that.>
   <It's not your fault.  We should've known they'd start posting guards 
somewhere in here.>
   <Okay, here we go.  I've added the guard posts and patrol routes to 
the map.>
   <How's it look?>
   <Hmm ... not good.  I don't see any paths between your position and a 
usable staircase without any guards.>
   Martin sighed, rubbing his knuckle into his opposing palm.  <I knew 
it'd come to this, sooner or late-->
   <Someone's coming down your hallway!>  Nene's voice was agitated -- 
apparently, she was so intent on the task of getting Hammer past his 
current obstacle that she'd laxed in what she felt was her obligation to 
check his back.  Actually, Hammer should have noticed it himself; 
whoever was coming was pushing a none-too-quiet cart in front of them.
   He glanced quickly behind himself, spied an open doorway, and dove 
into it, pulling the door shut behind himself.  That reflex certainly 
saved him from a grievous, noisy blunder, as his grip on the doorknob 
kept him from crashing into the janitorial supplies that filled the 
oversized closet he'd selected as his hiding place.
   Well, well, he thought to himself.  Isn't this convenient.  Even ... 
yup, a set of uniform coveralls.  Add a building ID, and I'd be all 
set...
   The cart, which possessed one misbalanced wheel that was the cause of 
its faint rattling sound, came to a halt directly in front of the door.  
Hammer judged his options in a split-second, and found none.
   The door opened, and the custodian -- or perhaps that should be 
custodienne, as she was a tall, rather lovely woman with short, bright 
blond hair, combed straight and not quite reaching her shoulders -- 
reached in for one of the long-handled squeegees, not even looking in to 
notice the violet-suited arm that her hand reached first.
   "What--"
   That was all she had time to say before she all but flew into the 
closet.

   The guards looked up hopefully as the rattling janitor's cart turned 
a corner and came into view.  Unfortunately, their expectations were 
poorly-met; they'd been hoping that the pretty young custodian (whom the 
both of them had been unsuccessfully trying to hit on for the past two 
weeks) was making another of her required rounds, and this new fellow 
with short, thick hair was, by comparison, a major disappointment.  His 
height was certainly nothing to sneeze at, though.
   "Guess we'll never know," one of them, who was standing, said quietly 
to his seated partner, who nodded.
   "Afternoon," the man said as he paused at the guard station.
   "Hard to tell in here," the standing guard said.  "What happened to 
the girl who usually runs this route?"
   "Oh, she came down with something."  (Sudden unconsciousness, his 
sense of humor elaborated.)  "I'm subbing until she gets better."
   The guards smiled.  So long as she'd be back, they were happy.  
"Okay.  Let's see your pass."
   The new guy blinked.  "Pass?"
   "Yeah, that thing clipped to your pocket there.  You _are_ new here."
   "Oh, that.  Yeah, they called me in from a temp agency."  He took it 
off and handed it to the nearer guard, who handed it to the seated 
guard, who flashed it in front of a scanner.  The scanner produced a 
happy ping just as the first guard was handing it back to him.
   "All set.  Need any help with directions?"
   "Thanks, but I've already got that covered.  Laters."  The tall 
fellow wandered off, his cart rattling before him, as the guards 
returned to their previous state of utter boredom.  If they'd bothered 
to look at the screen of the ID scanner, they would have likely found 
something wrong with its claim that his name was Mary Blue.  It'd only 
remained that way for a moment, though, before the "Mary" changed to 
"Mark".

   "That was close," Nene commented with a sigh to her wrist.  "Good 
thing they didn't bother to look at the ID screen -- I almost didn't 
notice it."
   "Can't be helped," Hammer's voice replied.  "Unless we can get our 
hands on a magstrip writer, we'll be doing this a lot.  At least it's 
not a picture ID."
   "We may not get away with it much more, either," Nene retorted.  
"That strip holds a lot of data about her, including physical stuff -- 
height, weight, hair, eyes, stuff like that.  If they're watching the 
screen before I can change it, they've got you."
   "Oh, fun.  This'll definitely be short-lived.  Any secret passageways 
in this place?"
   Nene shook her head.  "Nope, sorry.  I've looked through the normal 
hallways, service 'n' freight hallways, elevator shafts, even the air 
ducts.  It's all rigged with cameras, touchpads, motion sensors or some 
combination.  I think even the roaches need passcards around here."
   "Lovely.  Time to knock some skulls together.  Just the attention I 
was hoping to avoid."
   Usagi grinned.  "We won't mind, honest..."
   "You will when the Dragon hears about it and decides you aren't worth 
the trouble to keep."
   Usagi's grin vanished, and she swallowed hard.  "Um ... well, don't 
hurry on our account..."  Nene snarfed as quietly as she could at her 
companion's sudden change of heart, and the blonde turned away from the 
screen to try to hide her embarrassment.
   The commpin sighed.  "At least I can use an elevator without forcing 
the doors, now.  Is there any limit on how high I'm allowed to go with 
this passcard?"
   Nene's fingers flew across the keyboard.  "Hmm ... upper floor limit 
for Mary Blue:  none.  Guess that means you could take an elevator all 
the way up to the main office, if you'd like."
   Hammer's voice chuckled sardonically.  "Lucky me for waylaying a Most 
Trusted Janitor.  Let's hope the elevator doesn't check my weight.  Have 
you figured out which floor you're on yet?"
   "Got it covered.  We're on level 197, near the south center of the 
complex.  I suppose finding us won't be a problem once you're on the 
same floor, will it?"
   "Not really."
   "Nene..." Usagi said in a quiet voice.
   "Just a second, Usagi."  Nene studied the displayed map of Hammer's 
current floor.  "Hmm ... there's an elevator not far from you.  Take a 
right at the next hallway.  I'll have it ready and waiting for you when 
you get there."  Her fingers danced rapidly again, ordering the elevator 
car into motion.
   "Good thinking.  The sooner we get this over with, the better."
   "Um, Nene..." Usagi said again, tugging lightly at her friend's 
sleeve.
   "Just a second, Usagi."  Nene quickly switched to the map of the her 
floor.  "You'll be turning right when you get here, just so you know.  I 
could give you detailed directions, but the layout isn't complicated at 
all, and I don't see any regular guard posts or patrols listed."
   "It'll be nice to have something simple for a change.  Stick close to 
Usagi until I get there.  I see the elevator now, and I can hear it on 
its way up -- good work, Nene."
   "Thanks."
   "See you soon.  Hammer out."
   Nene lowered her wrist and turned to face Usagi, who, she noted, 
looked a bit frazzled.  "Okay, what is it, Usagi?"
   In response, the little blonde just pointed mutely.  Nene turned, 
following the finger's path, and quickly discovered what was troubling 
her friend.
   The door to their room was open.
   And there was a tall, slender silhouette in it.
   "First, you start spreading my secrets around the city," the Dragon's 
soft, familiar voice cooed.  "Then, you refuse to address me with the 
basic respect I deserve; and now, you abuse my hospitality.  Your 
parents have certainly been negligent in your upbringing, my dears."
   It was now Nene's turn to swallow hard.
   "We're in trouble, aren't we?" Usagi whimpered.
   "Yeah, I'd say so," Nene replied, not in the mood to point out how 
glaringly obvious that statement was.

   The elevators in this building, Hammer realized, were the most rapid 
he'd been i