Port City, USA

Marie's apartment

3:57 PM Wednesday afternoon

There's a knock at the door.

Marie startles at the sound. She contemplates not answering it, but her feet are already carrying her towards the entrance.

She wonders if she ought to open the door as her hand turns the knob.

"Sterling," she says. Even to herself, she sounds resigned. "Won't you come in?"

"Marie," he replies, stepping inside. His tone is a little sad. "Thank you."

"Don't worry about your shoes. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Thank you, no," he replies, no doubt worried she might try to poison him.

Which was fair, she had considered it. Or, briefly, herself, but she had realized that a lifetime of servitude to a supervillain was preferable. Especially this supervillain. Besides which, she was no expert in poisons. She didn't know what would work or how, and it wasn't really worth taking the chance, especially when she didn't really want to in the first place.

"I figured you'd be coming," she says leading him into the living room, trying to keep calm. She doesn't know what's coming, whether he's going to pull a gun, or talk her into insensibility, or just... let her go, or what he might do.

"I wish I could say this is a unique situation," he says, casually taking a seat facing her. "But you're the second person yesterday to reveal that you know who I really am."

She blinks. "So... so you are..."

He nods.

The confirmation sends a rush of adrenaline through her. She sits on the couch. "Wow. So for the past... what, five, six years, I've been..."

He nods again. "Since we met, yes."

She lets out a slow breath. "So, what happens now."

"What happens now depends on you," he replies.

"On me?"

"On you. On what you want, what you need."

"Oh. Oh wow, huh, I guess it's a big decision." She looks away, looks at the blank television. "I don't even know what I'm deciding."

"Well, in a very real sense," he says, "you're deciding who you want to be."

"For the rest of my life."

"That's right."

"That's a big decision to make on like three hours' sleep."

She hears him get to his feet. "You don't have to decide right away."

She turns to him. "I don't?"

"Obviously you have to be... contained, until you make a—" he stops as a blip comes from his phone, which he pulls from his pocket. "You're about to get a knock on your door."

She's about to ask what he means by 'contained' when she hears a knock at her door. Loud, fast, and insistent. "Should I—?"

"Please, let her in before she breaks the door down."

Marie goes to the kitchen as Sterling sits again. The knocking has changed from sporadic to continual, just a constant, rhythmic thumping. Just before Marie gets to the door, she hears a female voice shout, "Sterling? Let me in!"

Standing out on the landing is a short thin Asian woman, her short black hair streaked with red, her fist raised to hit the door again when it was opened. "You're not Sterling. Are you the pizza girl?" The woman asks as she pushes inside. "Where's the brainfucker?"

Marie is a bit bowled over. She closes and locks the door, following the woman to the living room.

"Sterling! I told you I want to know what's going on!"

Marie follows the woman into her living room, confused. "Sterling? I'd kinda like to know what's going on, too."

In response, Sterling Grey—Silver Tongue—looks the other woman directly in the eye. "Tanya, listen quietly," he says, and the change in her demeanor is instantaneous. Her hands relax from fists into open palms and drop from her hips to her sides. Her expression softens from annoyance or maybe even anger to calm. She had been leaning aggressively towards the chair, but she stands up tall now.

Marie feels the power of that moment in her gut. She wants that, wants it badly.

Sterling continues talking. "This is Marie. You've barged into her home and interrupted our discussion without introducing yourself."

Tanya turns to Marie and stiffly extends a hand. "Sorry, Mary, my name's Tanya."

"Nice to meet you," Marie replies, taking Tanya's hand. "I'm Marie, actually."

"Sure whatever," the small woman replies dreamily, turning back to Sterling. "Iszat better now? You'll tell me what the fuck's happening?"

"I was just discussing with Marie what will happen next. If you sit in the corner there and listen quietly, you can stay."

Marie can hear the difference in his voice, and wonders how she ever missed the change. Oh right, she thinks, shivering. Because it was directed at me.

Her heart flutters at the idea.

Tanya nods, docile now, walks over to the corner by the front window, and sits down on the floor. "You better not like wipe my memory or some shit," she says, her tone still airy. She sounds a bit stoned.

Sterling turns to Marie. "Where were we?"

With a gulp that she hopes isn't audible, Marie makes her way back to the couch. "We were going over options, and you said I didn't have to choose right now, that I could be... I think you said, 'contained,' is that right?"

Sterling nods as she sits down. "But all of this depends on what's best for you."

Tanya snickers from the corner, but doesn't say anything.

"And what's best for you?" Marie asks.

"Of course," Sterling replies. "I have my own interests to watch out for. But aside from protecting me and the co-op from risk, I really do want what will work out best for you, too." Sterling crosses his legs. "You've been very, very good to me."

Marie nods, heart in her throat. "You've been good to me, too." When Tanya laughs derisively again, Marie turns. "No, really, ever since I was a kid I dreamed about being under a villain's control, and not only did he make that happen, he did it in a way that made my life better."

Tanya doesn't reply. She'd been told to sit in the corner and listen quietly, so that's what she's doing, more or less.

"I'm glad to hear that, anyway," Sterling says. "I like to avoid causing harm where I can. I want people to be happy."

"And I am, Sterling, I have a job I love working with people I love, I have friends, I have a good life, and I have a secret love affair with a mind-controller. That's pretty much everything I want." Marie sighs. "And I blew it all yesterday with a slip of the tongue."

Sterling nods, stroking his chin. "How did you figure out who I am?"

Marie frowns. "About a year and a half ago, I think, around Christmas, I started to realize every time we got together, everything came out weird and jumbled on the other end, so I did a little research on mind control and hypnotism and stuff like that. Things started to line up when I remembered hearing about Silver Tongue and how he just disappeared, I put together some ages, made some guesses, and..." she flushes, "I filled the rest in with fantasy. I was about eighty-percent sure and the other twenty was just me... hoping, I guess."

"You weren't going to tell me."

"No, of couse not," Marie answers. "If I'm wrong, maybe I just piss you off, and I don't want that, things are good with you. If I'm right, well..." she waves a hand around. "This."

"And you didn't want this," Sterling concludes.

"Actually..." She pauses to think a moment. "This is pretty hot as a fantasy, I gotta admit. The reality is a little scarier."

Sterling chuckles. "This is pretty hot as a fantasy for me, too. The reality is a little... less satisfying."

"Yeah, I bet, but this probably isn't the first time you've had this conversation."

"Every time is different."

Marie nods. There's a moment of silence before she asks, "So... what do you mean by 'contained'?"

"There's an empty apartment in my building, set up for 'containment,'" he explains. "Fully stocked. You just won't be able to leave, until you make a decision."

"Right, can't let the word get out."

"That's why we say 'contained.' It's the information, not the person, we're containing."

Marie thinks about that. "Any chance you can just, uh, work your magic so I can't talk about it?"

"Did you consciously think about saying something to Thomas?"

"No," she admits, "it just slipped out."

"And it could slip out again."

"Right." She feels a shiver up and down her spine as a thought occurs. "Is there... are there any options that wind up with me... disappeared?"

Sterling chuckles. "None that you'd consider. If you insisted on telling people, if you insisted on getting the word out, refused all options to help you, if you literally forced my hand and put people at risk, then we'd have to take drastic action. No one's ever done that before, and I don't think you're going to be the first."

"Okay." Marie breathes a sigh of relief. Curious, she asks, "But you have a contigency plan for it?"

"My security team is amazing. They cover all the bases. I'm not much of a planner, I'm afraid."

"Well, yeah, why would you have to be?" She giggles. "You can just erase mistakes or make people not care about them."

He turns to Tanya. "See? She gets it."

"Well, I have been thinking about this stuff for years, imagining what you might be able to do." Fantasizing about how you do it, Marie added to herself. Hoping you were doing it to me.

"So there's really a few choices, here," Sterling continues, "and I want you to know what they are before you make a determination."

Marie nods. "Okay. Um. I don't work for the next two evenings. Can I... can I think about everything?"

"Yes, of course." Sterling rises to his feet. "Don't get up," he says, and she doesn't.

She shrinks back a little. "What are you going to do?" She's curious and turned on, but the immediacy, the reality of the situation, is a little frightening.

He smiles kindly. "We're going to take a little walk, you're going to have a little nap, and then I'll show you your home for the next couple days."

"I don't get to stay here?"

He shakes his head. "You're going to come with me," he says. His voice rings in her ears, in her head; it's not loud, no louder than it had been.

"I'm going to come with you," she whispers. It was an absolute truth.

"No resistance."

"No resistance." She didn't think about the repetition, it just felt right to do.

"No fuss."

"None." She takes a deep breath. The shiver goes all the way down to her heart.

He—Silver Tongue—reaches out and touches her cheek. "No fear." He lingers there, and the warmth from his fingertips spreads deep into her mind. He's talking, still, but all she can understand is those two words. No fear. She's finally on her feet. She's melting. Her underwear is soaked. She feels like her will is leaking out her pussy. She greets someone in the driver's seat. She's not sure how she got into the car. She's not sure how she got to the car, although she vaguely remembers locking her apartment door. Sterling is sitting in the back with her. There's something in his hand. The spray from the something makes her gasp. She sees the front passenger door open and manages to recognize Tanya before her eyes flutter closed.

She hears the spray hiss a second time, and hears an annoyed "Fuuu..." and then everything drifts away.

4:46 PM

Chelsea's apartment

The Arctic Angel stands in front of Chelsea's wardrobe. She feels small, underpowered. She looks over the available options, wondering what would be best for a casual evening with Sterling Grey.

Chelsea needs his touch, aches for it, the same way that she wants the ferocity of Flamehammer's strength. That challenge to Chelsea's mind sharpened her, fulfilled her, satisfied her in ways that Flamehammer couldn't.

The Angel has to admit that Flamehammer isn't half the speaker that Sterling is. Even to her ears, his voice and his words have a potent aesthetic. On more than one occasion, they had nearly drawn her out, revealed her secrets. Those words are dangerous. But like the combat training she shared with Flamehammer, and the socially testing relationship with Sharon, the danger of Sterling Grey's voice holds great appeal for the Angel. Much like Chelsea, the Arctic Angel has developed a real taste for risk, for threat.

And this threat, dinner with Sterling Grey, requires the proper suit of armor. Reggie Bright does not particularly care what Chelsea wears, since his goal is to remove that clothing and expose the Angel for training, and for fucking. Sharon is less concerned with what Chelsea wears than with how Chelsea is doing, internally. But as much as Sterling is both interested in sex and with Chelsea's well-being, there's something more there, more on Chelsea's side. She wants to present herself in an ideal manner to him. The Angel is not entirely sure why Chelsea wants this, but she seeks to honor Chelsea's wishes all the same. It's only appropriate to treat Sterling with dignity and respect.

After all, he is an important source of information about the rioters and their activities.

He can't be made suspicious, either. If he suspects that Chelsea isn't who she seems to be, the Angel may be driven to act, which would necessarily mean severing the ties between Chelsea and Sterling. Perhaps, in the extreme, a Bright Society containment team might have to be employed. It would be regrettable, certainly, for anything to come to that, so it was important for the Angel to make sure that Chelsea's secrets are well protected.

It would be better for Chelsea if that didn't happen, both because of the danger involved and because of her emotional state. Managing the optics of arresting one of the riot leaders would be a challenge, as well.

She chooses white under and and light blue over, top and bottom. Slacks, a decent blouse, all good for work in case she has to rush there afterwards, not an unlikely event. Chelsea wants to spend every moment she can with Sterling and as such will likely delay until the last possible moment to leave his apartment.

Idly the Angel wonders if she might ever reconcile her love life. It seemed impossible that Flamehammer and Sterling Grey could ever get along, but what about Sharon? She does work for the PCDCC, but she might be convinced to see the light and stand on the side of order, in time. Maybe Reggie could reveal himself to her, and she could work for the Brights as well, like Chelsea and Tanya. Sterling is certainly a lost cause, but Sharon might be worth the effort.

Chelsea considers the possibility, slipping on her panties. Sterling is already an important part of her life, even though they've only known each other a week. And she and Sharon are always going to be close, Chelsea can't imagine anything coming between them, especially not now that they were sharing Sterling—and sharing a bed, too. She adjusts her bra; it doesn't do a lot for her figure, but it's practical, thinking of her work needs. Easy to get off, easy to get back on. She's almost certain that it's going to come off.

She's curious if the Angel would approve. It's a bit of a pity that she can't ask. Chelsea laughs at herself. The Angel is a part of her, not an independent mind. She pulls on the pale blue blouse that she considers one of her standard pieces of work equipment, but is still useful for a casual evening out. Of course, if she were a separate being, the Angel would be opposed to the relationship. The Angel is simple, straightforward. Chelsea's capable of serving divided loyalties, at least for a time, capable of reasoning through the complexities. Sharon is an excellent example, long at odds with her father politically, but still in contact, still on... well, perhaps friendly terms was the wrong expression, but at least casual familiarity. Chelsea was able to be with Sterling and with Reggie, on opposing ends of the spectrum, and with Sharon, who straddled the line between them, in her way.

She sits on the edge of her bed to put on her slacks. What the Hell has happened to my life this week? she asks herself. A new job, new Bright Society responsibilities, and three new lovers. It's starting to feel a little out of control.

Dressed now but for socks and shoes, she closes her eyes, reaches deep inside for that ice-cold core that rests in her heart, the place of solace and the source of power. Always only a breath away. She feels her hands grow cold, colder, the ice sending shivers through her blood. She lets a little piece of it go, a breath across a half-full glass of water on the night-table, covering it with frost but not freezing the liquid within. She's in control of that. That's her work, no one else's. Not Sterling Grey, not Sharon Marrol, not Tanya Nomura, not Reggie Bri—not Flamehammer, she corrects herself. Not even Flamehammer controls the Arctic Angel.

The only person in control of the Arctic Angel is Chelsea Donovan.

For now, the Angel, deep in Chelsea's heart, whispers softly to herself.

4:58 PM

Thomas Holfers' car, parked outside the communications centre of the PCDCC

"I'm going to fucking murder him," Tanya says, her voice still thick with sleep. "I'm going to put my foot through his fucking door, I'm going to get a fucking axe, and I'm going to sever him limb from fucking limb."

"So long as it's just him," Thomas replied from the driver's seat. "If I'm going to let you into the computer room, we need violence at a minimum."

"You shut up and let me be angry or you're next." She brushes hair from her eyes. "Asshole uses his power on me in there, and then fucking drugs me in the car so he can go shove his disgusting cock in the delivery girl." She turns and points an accusatory finger. "You'd be pissed off too."

Thomas shrugs. "I might, but I have a better idea how he operates. He's always considering everyone else in the situation. It's a different level of thinking, you know? Not," he says, raising his hands defensively, "that it's any better, or worse, just different. He goes by his gut and his empathy a lot more than the rest of us, and it's done pretty good so far."

"Yeah well it's gonna get him fucking strung up by his guts, all that goddamn empathy."

"You might change your tune when you see the resources we can put at your fingertips."

"Ain't gonna change my fucking tune," Tanya replies, opening the car door. "Just might sing another one for a while. I can be angry for years, white boy."

Thomas smirks, undoing his seat belt. "I'm like a decade older than you."

"More than that. Doesn't mean you're not a white boy." Tanya stretches in the small parking lot. "Lemme guess. Oh wait, I don't have to. Holfers, Thomas, grew up in the west end of the city, private schools until ninth grade, founding member of the co-op, and a fucking pain in my ass for the last eighteen months."

"Tanya Nomura," Thomas shoots back. "Known online as Brainshokc or 5ColorzPC—nice reference to the city flag, by the way. Never managed to get into my personnel servers, because we're better at keeping you out than you are at getting in."

"Yeah, I did alright just the same."

"You're good," Thomas admits. "But you're just one person. When you're part of a team..."

Tanya sighs. "I was, once. Kinda. But the arrest kinda fucked that up, so..." She shrugs, her fury spent, temporarily. "Lead on, I guess."

The communications building has a small reception area, with a couple offices offshooting it; Tanya presumes that they're for security. Thomas walks through the reception area to a door at the far side, and inputs a complex code on the keypad beside it. Tanya counts at least twelve quick tones before hearing the lock disengage. Thomas leads her inside. There are a few half-separated cubicles, each with a computer terminal, in what looks like a pretty standard office floor setup. Two of them are occupied. A small kitchinette with two vending machines takes up a corner of the floor. On the other side of the space is a large closed-off meeting room and two separate doors that Tanya assumes are washrooms.

From the doorway, Thomas is giving her the tour. "Communications is pretty decentralized, so we have a few workspaces here and the War Room there when we need to co-ordinate efforts. Most of the communications work is done remotely, but you're not being employed to manage social media or develop cellular networks. Everyone managing the internal computer systems has their own terminal here."

Tanya nods. "Alright, then, show me the good stuff."

"Right this way," he replies, leading her to what he'd called the War Room and opened the door.

"Oh, this is more fuckin' like it," Tanya says, seeing the dozen computers hooked to the master. "I think I'll just move in here, thanks."

A short, overweight, dark-haired, middle-aged woman gets up from behind the main terminal. "Thomas, good to see you. And you must be Tanya."

Tanya nods. "That's right, you are?"

"Anna Tolman, one of the three senior engineers here." Anna crosses the room to take Tanya's hand. "Thomas is another, and Tom Harvey, who's off today. One of us is always on hand. Mostly I just sit here and play Minesweeper until something goes wrong."

"Alright, when do I get your job, then?"

Anna and Thomas looked at each other and laughed. "If you're qualified for it," Thomas says, "and you want to spend twelve-hour shifts sitting in that chair, we can find a way to get you into that spot."

"It's the most boring job in communications," Anna adds. "Until something exciting happens."

"More or less you're the security guard for the computer systems. Unless the police, or Brights, or someone like you try to get in, or if we have to co-ordinate something like the defense of the strike."

Tanya scoffs. "It took a dozen people to deal with me?"

Anna shakes her head. "Three. And that was mostly Mark Spirit."

"We didn't convene the War Room, just kept an eye on things," Thomas explains. "Our systems are pretty solid."

"If it's any consolation, we had, what, five people managing Saturday night's conflict with the police?"

"That's right."

"One hacker, no matter how good, hardly rates, comparatively," Anna says with a shrug.

Tanya sighs overdramatically. "Okay, okay, I get it, I'm not up to the fucking mark yet. But give me a couple years and a state-of-the-art-machine and... oh, wait, I'm working for you now," she grins.

Anna laughs appreciatively. "You're probably best at one of the terminals, then. Or helping us develop new applications."

"Or both," Thomas adds. "I suspect you'll fit right in, though."

Tanya sighs. She thinks back to the conversation she'd had an hour ago with Thomas, the list of people who know Sterling Grey's real identity, and realizes that Anna isn't on the list. "I don't really want to, you see, but—"

"Say no more," Anna says, smiling. "The pressures get to us all sometimes. Well, whether you're with us for five weeks, five months, five years, five decades, doesn't matter to me, you won't find a better place to work."

Tanya nods and returns the smile, but doubts that Silver Tongue will let her go so easily. "So... what's next? I get a badge or something? Employee username and password? 10% discount at select fishmongers?"

"Well, I didn't have you on shift until Friday," Thomas says, "but you need to get some gear. You're out a phone, yeah?"

Tanya nods.

"And I should get back to my post." Anna nods to Tanya. "Nice meeting you, looking forward to working with you instead of against you."

"Yeah, same," Tanya says, turning to Thomas. "You got a phone for me?"

"Let's get you set up," Thomas offers, leading her out of the War Room.

Tanya gives a perfunctory wave to Anna as she follows along. She can't help but think of the other woman as her co-worker now. Thomas, too. He's fucking insidious, she says to herself. How many people am I going to meet that he's done his weird bullshit to? Is it everyone here?

She thinks back to when the three of them met Sterling, what Sharon had said—I see you walking around there all the time! You did my entrance interview!—and a few things started to click into place. That's how he can at least establish control over anyone, if he sees them when they first join the confederation, and is always around.

"Hey," she says as she's shown to a terminal. "Fucker."

"I prefer Thomas, if it's all the same."

"Jesus Christ, I'm here, what more do you want?" She looks around, then leans in close as if testing the chair. "How safe is it to talk about... you know."

Thomas frowns. "Don't, unless you know everyone present is safe," he says quietly. Tanya sits in the office chair. Standard. Comfortable. "It makes messes otherwise. Most people look on... him... as a kind of inside joke, and that's how most people will take it if you mention him, but it's better not to take chances."

"Right, until I know the ropes I'll keep my head down," she replies. She nods. Those words sound familiar somehow—no, not sound. Feel. She's said them before. A few dozen times.

Last night.

"Yeah, that's for the best," Thomas agrees.

Fuck him, she thinks to herself loudly enough that she's a little surprised the words don't resonate out of her ears and into the office.

"How about you go through the basic log-in protocols and take a look around, I'll go get you a new phone?"

Finally. "Yeah, alright," she says, fully intending to see what systems she could get into and what damage she could do. Ten minutes later, when Thomas returns, she's half-completed the orientation programs and has a solid idea of what her duties in IT will entail, both on paper and in reality.

And the worst part of it all is that it all sounds both fun and fulfilling.

In a strange chair,

at a strange moment,

with someone stroking her hand as she wakes up groggily,

Marie blinks, looking at a television, not her own. It's not turned on.

That doesn't stop her from seeing strange colors and images swirling on it.

She realizes the images are on her eyes, not on the screen. She'd wipe them with her hand, but someone's holding it. And it seems like she can't lift the other.

"I thought you might prefer this," Sterling says as she gives a little moan. "Instead of waking up alone."

"Waking up alone never bothered me," she answers sleepily. She turns to her right, where Sterling's sitting. "Kinda nice with you here though."

He smiles at her. She can tell, even through the haze, that he's smiling. "Welcome to your new home, at least until you make a decision."

She looks around. The decor is the same bland standardized apartment look as Sterling's, which makes sense if it's part of the same complex. "It's not what I was expecting from solitary confinement."

"Only the best in containment, the PCDCC." He laughs. "Spared no expense, as you can see."

She snickers. "Why can't I move?" she asks.

"Thought you might like the whole villain-kidnapping treatment," he explains. "You're tied up. Gently. If you put up any real resistance it'd be easy for you to get out."

Feeling a little more awake, Marie pulls on her restricted left arm and finds the bonds loosen easily with a little pressure. "I've been deliberately tied up more securely," she teases.

"By me at least once," he replies with a grin. "The point isn't to keep you in the chair, so much as it's for the aesthetic of it."

"Part of the experience, huh."

He nods. "Not what I'd usually do, but you're a special case. Very special."

She blushes at his words.

"Of course," he continues, "I'm going to have to make sure you're not concealing anything..."

"Hehe, I might have a knife in my bra..."

"Or drugs in your panties." He reaches behind himself and pulls out a small, sharp kitchen knife. "Hold still."

She shivers, and not out of fear. "What if I squirm?" she asks.

"Hold still."

It isn't a command, exactly, not by his tone. Just a piece of very, very good advice. Her nose itches, but she's going to hold still and not scratch it. She feels the cold metal of the blade against her arm, but doesn't flinch. Flinching isn't even something she thinks of, even as the blade tears into the old t-shirt she threw on when she got home from work, rends the stitching apart, slices the sleeve in half to the collar. Hold still is foremost in her mind as he moves to her other side and cuts the left sleeve as he had the right, but it's not born out of fear. It is because he says to, and for no other reason, that she barely breathes as her shirt is taken apart at the seams, as the front of it is folded down over her lap, leaving her exposed except for her bra, as he cuts the bottom in two places and removes the cloth that used to cover her belly, leaving the other half of the shirt behind her in the chair.

She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding in. "Do you do this for all your prisoners?"

"Not even close," he replies. The knife is away and his hands are very gently stroking her arms and chest and belly.

"Can't you just... tell me what to do?"

"If you want me to." One hand slides gently down her back, and with practiced fingers, unhooks her bra. "I could use my powers and direct your every move for the rest of your life, if you want me to." He slips her bra off, exposing her heavy breasts. "It could mean giving up a lot, though, which is why I give you the choice."

"But if I didn't have the choice," she reasons as his hand strokes her chest pleasantly, "you could make me just as happy that I didn't."

He touches her cheek. "Even my power has limits; I can't change your mind so significantly if you would hate the idea. Not permanently. And even then, it could take a lot of work to keep you in a place where you're happy, and you don't start fighting the programming."

She shivers at the word. "Programming," she whispers. She hadn't thought that fear and arousal could mix so powerfully, or so well.

He nods and reaches down, undoing the fly of her jeans. "You like that idea."

"Have to admit it, yeah, I do," she says, her voice still soft.

His fingers press against her crotch, through her damp underwear. She gasps sharply. "I can tell."

"You could just ask."

"I don't have to," he says, gently rubbing her. She trembles at his touch. "Why put you out when I can find out for myself?"

She inhales through clenched teeth. "I like your methods."

"Good," he says, slipping around to get in front of her, on his knees. "Help me get your pants off."

It's an easy operation, she just lifts her ass off the chair and...

And she's naked.

She's breathing heavily. Nerves and habits are taking over. "So was I hiding anything important?" she asks, trying to keep her tone light.

He looks up at her and shakes his head. "Not so much as a tissue."

"I haven't kept tissues in my bra since the sixth grade."

"I've seen your breasts many times." Sterling stands up. "You definitely don't need to be stuffing."

Marie flushes. "So what now Sterl—uh... Silv... actually, what do I call you?"

"Sterling Grey is fine," he says. "The other is for people that don't know me." He pauses for thought. "But that's not what you really want, is it? You want the villain."

She nods. "This... this might be my only chance—"

He leans in, catches her eyes with his. The movement is so sudden that it startles her to silence. "I am Silver Tongue," he says, his voice sending shivers through her whole body and mind. "You know me only by this name, and no other. There—"

".... has never been another name," Marie repeats. Her voice sounds dull, flat, even to her own ears. Inside, she's scrambling, trying to make sense of what was happening as her voice simply repeated the words she was hearing, that she knew she was hearing, even if all her attention was focused on how her thoughts were changing. She feels them changing. It's an experience that's everything she could imagine. "I have admired you and your power since we met." She hadn't known that... she had figured out that... she had always known that he was... The shift is almost physical, and certainly she's having a physical reaction to it; her body is writhing, to the extent that it can in her bonds, almost like she's being touched, being... "Your power has kept me from sharing your real identity."

Being fucked.

Every idea, every memory that morphed was like another stroke, another touch, another thrust. She knows what she had known, but that seems like distant fantasy, something which she had imagined once might be real, or maybe they were the lies she told when other people asked her about him. And behind all this is the understanding that she is his, no one else's, not even her own. That realization nearly makes her orgasm on the spot.

She doesn't. Because he hasn't told her to. She is not her own, not anymore.

She's speaking, but the words do not matter, except that they're his—His—words, not hers. That's what matters more than anything. More than everything.

Her body is shaking with need, with desperation. She would like to do something about (something changes) She would like Silver Tongue to (something changes) She has no opinion or will to do anything about it at all. It is simply a reality. The body He owns that she wears shakes with need. If He asks about this, she will report it to Him.

She is hollow, to be filled by His voice. She would repeat these words, but the voice she uses is shaking too violently to do more than stammer.

She is hollow, to be filled by HIS voice. While the body hasn't come, every time she hears the words she feels a powerful orgasm ripple through her mind.

She is hollow, to be filled by HIS voice. Nothing else matters.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing else mattered.

Nothing else will matter.

She has HIM in her mouth. How this situation happened does not matter. What matters is HIM. HE wants her to suck his cock, and that is what she will do until HE tells her otherwise.

She is sucking (something changes) she had been sucking (something changes) she was always riding HIM, fucking HIM. Nothing else has ever been. Her body is / has always been / will always be on edge of orgasm, which she notes because it might be important for HIM to know, but otherwise is of no consequence. HE is consequential, the only thing that is.

HE is coming, and this is all that could possibly matter.

And because HE wishes it, she orgasms, too.

And with that orgasm, time starts to move again. Her orgasm is experienced from moment to moment to moment, and moments of extraordinary pleasure become a continuum, extended and glorious and unspeakably, impossibly joyful. HE... He. He is holding her. Silver Tongue is holding her.

She's crying.

Not tears of fear or of sadness or even of confusion but of sheerest, purest happiness. This could be hers, for the rest of her life, and all she has to do is ask him for it.

"But you can't, not now," he says, and she nods. "Not until you've thought it through."

She nods again, and cannot find words. He's not using his power, she can tell. After so many years, and after he had just flooded her mind and body with his power so completely, it was impossible not to tell. She could remember what she used to believe, and what she now knew to be true because it was told to her only ... well, she had no idea how much time had passed since she woke up tied to the chair, but this (she presumed) evening.

A strange thought occurs to her. "I'm... not your only..."

He shakes his head. "No." He doesn't elaborate.

"It's... a weird thought... but how do you not have like fifty kids running around."

He laughs, loud and genuine. Hearing it feels good. "As I grew into my power, I had that same thought, very early on. I saw a doctor about it and had a minor surgery."

She laughs too. "That makes a lot of sense."

"Reversible, apparently," he continues, "but I've never been interested in being a dad. I have enough going on."

She nods. Files that information away. Maybe it's important. Maybe it's not. "So... what happens next?"

He smiles, petting her tangled hair gently. "We have a shower, and you have a lot of thinking to do."

"Yeah, I guess I do." She sighs, and it's mostly happy. She kisses her way across his chest, just because. "And then?"

"Whatever you decide," he says.

She bites lightly at his jaw. "Was... was that possible? What we just did?"

He takes a deep breath. "Yes, it's one option, certainly." He sits up, and she moves to accommodate him. "There are definitely others. Really, though, it's all up to you; you tell me what you want, I'll tell you what's possible, and we'll meet in the middle."

"If our meeting's anything like that," Marie says with a grin, and trails off.

There's a beeping noise coming from elsewhere in the apartment. Silver Tongue tilts his head to listen. "I'm afraid," he says, "that that is my alarm. I do have another appointment this evening."

Marie puts on a pout, but it's just for show. "Well, I suppose you didn't exactly schedule in me figuring you out, huh."

"There are some things that I have to be adaptable for." He turns to sit on the side of the queen-sized bed. Marie realizes that it's actually a very nice and comfortable bed that they just made love in. That she will be sleeping in, until she makes a decision. "Unfortunately, if it's so late that my alarm is going off, I need to be back in my apartment, and so won't be able to join you in showering."

"Mmm, alright," she says, and her disappointment is more surprising to her than she expects. She has, after all, grown used to simply sharing good sex with Silver Tongue and both of them returning to their lives and... well, what was happening was exactly that. "I think I'll just rest here a while before I do that."

He turns to her and kisses her once, deeply, passionately on the mouth. She feels herself relaxing a little more into the bed as she enjoys the attention. "You may do whatever you like, within the confines of this apartment." He stands. "There's a phone on the wall in the kitchen; when you pick it up, you'll hear a beep, and whatever you say will be recorded. If you need something, it can be delivered, just ask. When you're ready to make a decision, just tell them."

She pushes up onto her elbows. "You'll be back?"

He nods. "I'll be checking in on you, too. And if you're asking if I'll spend some time with you when I do..." He grins. "Of course. If you'll have me."

"If it's anything like that, Silver Tongue, you can wake me up in the middle of the night."

He chuckles. "Perhaps I will, then."

And he's gone. She hears him in the living room, dressing. She lies back in the bed. She has a lot to think about.

But thoughts won't come. She's too warm, too tired, too stressed. She's running on too little energy and too little sleep, and she can't keep her eyes from closing even before she hears the door shut and lock.

5:47 PM

The front steps of the PCPD headquarters

Oleksandr Kolesnyk, J.D., stands at the bottom step of the fifteen leading up to the main doors, papers in his hand. He looks around and sees Elena Reyes in her place in Gerald Bright Park across the street, with a photographer, apparently talking to people enjoying the out-of-doors in this lovely moment of nice May weather.

Perfect.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Everything goes silent. The sound of engines going by, the shouts of children, the breeze. Everything.

He focuses his attention on himself, on his thoughts, on using his power effectively.

Oleksandr Kolesnyk can, and does, stop time.

It's not an incredible, flashy power by any stretch. Everything freezes, including him, in an instant, everything in the universe so far as he can tell. Everything but his mind. He can't act, but he can think.

Having hours and hours to come up with the perfect delivery or the right answer to a question or even the best way to interrupt someone makes him a brilliant lawyer.

Right now, though, he only needs a moment to calm himself, and the noise of the day resumes. He walks up the stairs, perfectly composed, ready to see the chief. From the corner of his eye, he sees Elena reaching for her phone.