Short note: Just a little story on the side that came up to my mind some time ago, and has been sitting on my drafts ever since. Please don't take it too seriously... for now. This is something akin to a short sequel to the Marvel-themed shared stories I wrote with Tirepanted a while ago. It's not mandatory to have read them to understand the plot, but it can help understand better.
Here Comes a New Challenger!
*************
I wash my hands, rinse my face, and look at myself in the mirror of the restrooms.
I see the reflection of an elegant redhead with a soft round face, a white skin and chestnut brown eyes, and with some freckles on the cheeks.
I’m wearing a pristine-looking grey button-up business jacket, a crisp white button-up shirt, jet black business trousers, and shiny brown shoes. My pixie cut helps me look even more distinguished.
I smile.
Renting this suit was my best idea.
And yes, I said “renting”. Good old Mary-Jane didn’t need to knock out a mafiosa (or is it ‘mafioso’ even for a girl?) to steal her suit. At least, not this time.
Of course, good old Mary-Jane wouldn’t need to anyway, since this gala is 100% legal...
… and since she got an invitation!
Well, technically.
I’m here for one of my jobs. (A real one. Fighting supervillains and mugging their mooks is my hobby.) I work part-time as a freelance photographer reporter. Oscorp Industries has come up with a brand new design. Nobody actually knows what they’ve invented this time, so everyone is dying to get the info. I’m one of the many journalists sent to cover the event.
But who cares about details? Around my neck, there’s a lanyard with the precious VIP badge. Free buffet, here I come…
I finish adjusting my outfit. At the same time, I hear the door being opened.
In the mirror, I notice a lone woman. She has brown hair, green eyes, and a white skin. Her haircut is a bob cut. She’s wearing the blue uniform of a delivery woman – cap, t-shirt and trousers.
However, something about her seems off. Her clothes look ruffed out, and the legs and sleeves are too long. They’re not her size, and she most likely had to fight someone to get her hands on the outfit.
Trust me. I’m an expert at stealing women’s clothes. I have eyes for that sort of details.
I reflexively touch the VIP pass around my neck.
I realize I’m alone. In public restrooms. Near a maintenance closet. And wearing something any infiltrator would need to enter restricted areas.
Suddenly, I have a very bad feeling…
The delivery woman pulls out a dart gun.
I know what’s going to happen.
“Oh, for the love of-”
She shoots. The dart hits me in the clavicle. I can feel some sort of serum flow in my veins.
My entire body becomes numb. I lose control of my limbs.
I fall on my side. Ouch.
I frown.
Strange. Why am I still conscious?
“Nothing personal, girl. But I need your badge and your outfit.”
The fake delivery woman grabs me by the legs, and starts dragging my motionless body.
My limbs feel heavier than lead, and I can’t move a muscle. Even opening my mouth is impossible. I can only move my eyes to look around me.
Yet, I can feel the cold tiled floor of the rest room through my clothes, and the grip of the woman’s hands on my calves.
A paralyzing dart… She’s using a paralyzing dart… Who does that? At least, when I mug someone, I render them unconscious beforehand! Damn amateur...
The woman notices my glare. She scratches the back of her neck with an awkward look on her face.
“Usually, I have an accomplice who knocks out the girl for me… But she’s not available today.”
She speaks with an accent, though I can’t quite put my hand on where it’s from.
My mugger opens the door of the nearby maintenance closet room. At least, it’s not a tight cupboard... With some luck, she’ll leave me on the floor, and not stashed inside a locker.
Snoops like me have some experience in getting tied up and left in dark rooms anyway. Although it’ll be the first time I’m mugged for my outfit.
Err… Forget I said that.
I’m not a damsel in distress… I’m not a damsel in distress…
Getting stripped of my clothes is a surreal experience – especially since I can still feel my garments being removed off my body.
First, she takes off the VIP pass. Next, she unlaces and pulls off the shoes. Then, she unbuttons and shimmies the trousers down my legs. She unbuttons my business jacket and my shirt. She lifts my upper-body and arms to pull off the two garments.
I’m left in the same state of undress I left many women across my career as a vigilante.
At least, this morning I decided against wearing my Screwball-themed underwear. My undergarments are red socks with white polka dots, plain light blue boyshorts, and a pink full-cup t-shirt bra. I’ll be keeping part of my dignity today.
Key words being ‘part of’.
The fake delivery woman grabs the discarded VIP pass, looks at it, and smiles.
What is this girl’s end game? Surely she must realize each pass has a picture of the guest. And she doesn’t remotely look anything like me.
“Please don’t freak out.”
Why does she say that-?
The woman takes a breath, and focuses. Her black hair turn red. Her sharp cheekbones and angular chin swell until her face becomes more round-shaped. Her skin lightens ever so slightly, and a few freckles appear on her cheeks. Her eyes take a chestnut brown shade.
“By the way. Thanks a lot for having short hair. Growing them up is a pain.”
A shapeshifter. Figures...
I stare blankly at her.
Fake Mary-Jane stares back.
“You seem a lot calmer than the girls I used to mug in Toronto, Quebec or Montreal.”
So she’s from Canada. That would explain the accent.
“I guess what they say about New-Yorkers is true… Nothing fazes you guys!” my lookalike adds.
The average New-Yorker would actually freak out a little. But I’m not exactly the average New-Yorker. (If you’ve read my saga from the beginning, you already know that.)
My lookalike twirls to show her new appearance from all angles. “Pretty rad, uh?”
A neat power indeed, but nothing to jump to the ceiling either. I can name two other mutants who have similar powers. And one entire race. Don’t act like you’re special, girl!
Fake Mary-Jane takes off her delivery woman uniform, and drops it onto the floor, standing proudly in kiddie-looking candy pink panties and bra.
“I wanted to call myself ‘Chameleon’. But the nickname is already taken, and ‘Lady Chameleon’ just doesn’t appeal to me...”
God! Can’t she just get done with it already? My predicament is humiliating enough as it is!
…Do I sound that annoying when I quip?
“My partner suggested ‘Blender’, but I don’t want to sound like a kitchen appliance, you know?”
My lookalike puts on my clothes. Soon, Fake Mary-Jane looks like the real deal. (Well, if the real deal was indulging in too many pastries and other unhealthy food.)
“I thank you for not making things awkward, by the way. The delivery woman was… weird, to say the least. I mean. Who wears clown-themed lingerie?”
While she’s busy buttoning up her stolen trousers, shirt and jacket, I notice two things.
First, it seems she can’t change her body mass. It’s pretty clear my outfit is too tight around the waist for her. Maybe she should do more exercise instead of leaving the task of knocking out women to other people...
Second, I can move my fingers again. Good news. The paralyzing serum is wearing off. If it takes her ten more minutes to button up my clothes, I may be able to stand up and kick her ass.
Of course, even with the baby fat she’s retained, the Canadian criminal doesn’t need ten minutes to finish dressing up. She glances at me.
“Oh right. The paralyzing serum will wear off soon.”
She searches the shelves of the maintenance room, and grabs a coil of strings, some cables, and a roll of duct tape.
Being bound and gagged is a more familiar experienced for me, compared to being stripped.
Err… I mean… Dang it.
Fake Mary-Jane wraps cables around my calves, then tightens them to bind my limbs together. She does the same to my thighs. Next, she immobilizes my shoulders and upper-arms with cables. She uses strings to cross-tie my wrists behind my back. Then she adds a few layers of tape to be safe. She also wraps tape around my fingers. For a gag, she takes a clean rag, stuffs it into my mouth, and wraps tape to make sure I can’t spit it out.
Her ropework is good. At least she’s not an amateur in that field...
I’m not a damsel in distress… I’m not a damsel in distress…
Fake Mary-Jane drags me in a corner of the room, and sits me against the wall, in-between two shelves. She conceals me under a tarp.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to frame you. I want people to know there’s a new mistress of disguise in town! The dreaded Chamele-” She interrupts herself. “Dang it! I really need to find a nickname...”
Fake Mary-Jane turns off the light, exits the room, and closes the door, leaving me in the dark. I hear her break the doorknob outside.
A new mistress of disguise in town...
Great. Just what I needed the most. More competition! As if Felicia wasn’t enough...
The damn tarp concealing my body smells terrible. I can’t wait for the paralyzing serum to wear off so that I can wriggle out of it. I have experience with being bound. I may be able loosen my bonds.
Hopefully, I can free myself before someone finds me. I pray Peter, Gwen, and Miles don’t know about today’s heist. Last thing I want is to be found by them!
I’m not a damsel in distress… I’m not a damsel in distress…
Damn you, Lady Chameleon (or whatever you’ll decide to call yourself)! You haven’t heard the last of me!
**************
Some days later...
**************
**************
Today, I have a headache. And no, my nocturnal activities don’t have anything to do with it.
The culprit is the woman seated in front of me.
Charlotte Beaulieu, if that is her real name (I suspect she’s dumb enough to give it to me), is a French Canadian cat burglar wannabe who recently came to New York to make it big.
As the saying goes, she doesn’t look the part. Cat burglars are usually the ‘tall, fit and slim’ type – like yours truly. Charlotte is not tiny by any means, but definitely in the low average when it comes to height. She has the plump thighs, chubby waist, and round cheeks of someone who enjoys eating pastries every day but don’t exercise much. Her neck-brown curly light brown hair and sparkly amber brown eyes give her a juvenile-looking appearance. She has the tanned skin of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.
As far as criminals go, Charlotte seems to have ambitious dreams, a moderate amount of talent, and zero common sense. Case in point: She thinks it’s a good idea to contact me – Black Cat – to offer a partnership.
Normally, I wouldn’t even have bothered to come.
But the fact Charlotte knew how to contact me intrigued me. I wouldn’t say I’m worried – at least not yet. However, finding such information isn’t within the reach of anybody. I decided I had to learn more about this new competition. Just to be safe.
So I put on a wig, disguised myself, and went to the café in which Charlotte gave me the appointment.
I’ve regretted my decision ever since she’s started to talk...
“I’m just saying joining forces has many advantages and, like, zero drawbacks… My exploits speak for themselves. Heard of the robbery at Oscorp Industries?”
“It was you?”
“Yep!”
I read on the newspapers that a delivery woman was found stashed in the back of her van; and a journalist, locked inside a maintenance room. Both were trussed up in their undergarments. Their outfits had been stolen. And one of them was Mary-Jane.
I confess I snickered at the irony.
Having mugged MJ should have earned Charlotte some brownie points in my book. The problem is that she’s even more annoying than Mary-Jane. She’s making Red look tame in comparison!
“They said the robber was a mistress of disguise…” I remark.
“A mistress shape-shifter!” the girl retorts with a smile.
“Figures. What’s your moniker? Lady Chameleon?”
“Funny you ask me that. Finding the right nickname is, like, actually the hardest part of this gig. You see, ‘Chameleon’ is already taken, and I don’t want to be known as the one who’s like ‘Chameleon’, but only female. So...”
I stop paying attention to her rant – something about blenders and face offs. I’m still trying to figure out if she’s as dumb as she appears – of actually a genius and mistress actress.
I don’t know what I dislike the most about Charlotte. Her annoying French Canadian accent? Her motor mouth? Her way of talking with her hands?
No. It must be her hyperactive enthusiasm. The girl looks like she’s gulped down a jug of coffee and a dozen cans of Red Bull before coming here. She doesn’t walk, she bounces. She doesn’t sit, she bounces. Take a chill pill!
Under normal circ*mstances, I’d have put an end to the conversation by knocking her out, and stuffing her inside some dumpster.
But Charlotte isn’t quite the air-headed tart she appears to be. She insisted to meet me in a public place. I can’t exactly shut her up with a neck-chop in front of twenty witnesses or so.
If I want to get rid of this pest, I’ll have to be a little subtler…
I take advantage of a pause Charlotte makes in-between two monologues to speak. (Thankfully, she still needs to breathe from time to time.)
“You sure sell yourself well. Problem is, I only have your word you did the deed.”
As I’m speaking, I suddenly get an idea. My lips twist to form my favorite cat-like grin.
“Say what. I’ll consider your offer if you prove me first-hand you’re skilled…”
Charlotte nearly jumps from her chair.
“A test it is? I accept the challenge!”
Too easy...
I glance outside through the café’s window.
On the other side of the street, there’s the entrance of the Queen Gem’s Hotel. Since my last visit, they’ve upped the security.
And by that I mean they hired a cheap security company to put a guard in front of the main door. Sometimes, the richest places are also the biggest cheapskates…
Currently, the security guard is a thin tanned-skinned woman with black hair. The sides of her head are shaved, and she has a shoulder-long medium ponytail. The woman is wearing black shoes, black trousers, a thin black security uniform jacket, a white t-shirt, an earpiece, and a black cap. She looks tough to an untrained eye, I’ll give her that. But even from a distance, I can see her stance is bad. I could unbalance her with one plain leg sweep. Clearly, that woman’s training in martial arts is lackluster at best...
I think I found my idea.
“See that security guard across the street? The black-haired one with the ponytail and the shaved sides? With the black uniform and cap? I want you to steal her clothes, enter the luxury hotel she’s watching, and rob something of value.”
“Piece of cake!”
Charlotte literally springs out of the café.
I suppress a chuckle.
Sucker...
**************
I have a little time before step 2 of my plan. I calmly finish my pastry, drink my hot chocolate, then pay my and Charlotte’s orders and tip the waitress (with the money of a wallet I pick-pocketed on my way).
Then I leave the café.
I cross the busy street. The security guard I dared Charlotte to mug is conspicuously absent.
I smile to myself, and walk into the alleyway behind the luxury hotel.
There are several dumpsters in a corner.
I open the one at the end, and take a glance inside.
I’m greeted by the sight of a bound-and-gagged woman, clad in a scarlet red sports bra, striped red-and-black knickers, and white sports socks.
She’s of average size, tanned, thin and athletic-looking. Her black hair are shaved on the sides. Her haircut is a shoulder-long medium ponytail. Her wrists are zip-tied behind her back. An other pair of zip-ties binds her ankles. Tape has been used to wrap-gag and to blindfold her.
Perfect.
I close the lid, take my cellphone, clear my throat, and dial 911.
“Police? I’d like to report a robbery at the Queen Gem’s Hotel.”
That should teach Charlotte a lesson.
With the compliments of Black Cat, dodo! There’s no way I’m letting an other mistress of disguise walk on my turf!
Though I can’t help but think I haven’t heard the last of her… I still don’t know how she managed to find information about me.
******* Epilogue *******
I usually hate watching TV – especially the news; I consider journalists a bunch of no-good sh*t diggers. However, when you’re recovering from a flu and have to sit on the sofa all day, you don’t have much else to do.
Ironic... I’m the muscle of my team, and I’m taken out by a flu, of all things…
At least, Sarah is where I can see her, on an armchair nearby, listening to some ear-blastingly loud music with her earphones.
Now, hopefully, Charlotte hasn’t done anything stupid this time-
“Kelly Kincaid reporting! Breaking news!” a journalist is saying on the TV. “Thanks to an anonymous tip, police has just apprehended a burglar attempting to rob the Queen Gem’s Hotel!”
She and the cameraman approach two officers escorting a cuffed chubby woman wearing a security guard uniform too tall for her.
Of course, I recognize her immediately.
God dammit Charlotte...
“Stop manhandling me! Police brutality! This is police brutality! Police brutality, I say!” she’s complaining. Of course, the policemen ignore her. “Don’t you know who I am?! I’m-” She trails off. “Actually, I don’t have a cool nickname for now, but when I have one, you’ll be sorry!”
Kelly Kincaid moves in front of the camera. “The poor security guard she mugged has been found locked in a dumpster, stripped to her undergarments."
I see an other woman escorted by a policewoman. She's using a blanket to cover herself, but she can't conceal the fact she's only wearing her undergarments underneath. I notice the cameraman subtly tries to focus on the exposed parts of her half-naked body - especially the legs. Looks like he knows what the virgin male demographic wants... Kelly most likely noticed his maneuver too, because she walks in the middle of the line of sight, and moves the attention back to Charlotte.
"Take a look at this fiend! One can only shudder at the path of crime and debauchery this devious burglar has taken!”
I roll my eyes. Journalists… Damn sh*t diggers...
“Hey! That’s slander! Slander I say!”
The two police officers apparently decide they’ve had enough with their prisoner, and escort her to their car.
Before the door is closed, Charlotte manages to shout: “NOT FAIR! Things were supposed to turn out differently this time!”
I turn off the TV, and rub my forehead. This is the Montreal fiasco all over again… And the Quebec fiasco… And the Toronto- You got the picture.
On the other side of the room, Sarah takes off her earphones. “Taylor... I sense you’re preoccupied…” she comments.
“Next weeks are going to be busy.”
**************
END?
