[WARNING/REMINDER: This is an ACRAPHOBE Imprint. It ain't warm fuzzies.]

[SPECIAL WARNING: Some scenes may upset some readers. Discretion is advised.]

Blue Light Productions presents:

        A top Black and White comic

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|BLiP|  | _ | |   | |   | |     |   |   |   |   | |     |         \
|Annu|  | | | |   | |---  |     |   |   ~   ~   ~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
|al#1|  | | | |   | |\    |     |   |        (An ACROPHOBE Imprint)
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~~~~~~  ~   ~   ~   ~   ~ ~~~~~ ~~~~   FEATURING: Marsha Burgenstock

                            ANNUAL - YEAR ONE
               "She was _something_ from the beginning."

       [Focus is on Marsha, strapped to a large chair. A woman and 
        a man can be seen from behind on either side of her. From 
        Marsha's head, but obscured by the title are thought bubbles, 
                containing scenes from Marsha's past.]

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                   **** The SoftCenter Saga ****
                         **** Part 3 ****

                "Don't make a pact with the Devil.
                   It might be God in disguise."


Marsha Burgenstock sat. She didn't have a choice about it. She was 
strapped firmly into a chair.
        She had been kidnapped and brought to Queen Enterprises in 
Sin.ci.net.ty. She had only come to the city for a holiday, just passing 
through on her way to wherever. Now, she was trapped and drugged, 
forced into her past to relive her memories, and reveal her life.
        However, she had been pushed back to far. Now she was a child, 
reliving all the horrors that went with it. And there was no-one to help 
her.

                                _-~-_

"Mommy, why don't you love me?"
        This was Marsha, aged four. Her mother had come to her nursery 
on one of her rare visits, during one of her brief occurrences of 
"maternal instinct". Her mother was already regretting it.
        "Why do you think I don't love you, honey?" Lady Burgenstock 
was old, but, as they say, well preserved. Marsha had come at the end of 
her childbearing period. Lady Burgenstock had sure that it was the end. 
When one was fifty, one did not need children to inconvenience things.
        "You never come to see me," Marsha explained, that being all the 
proof she needed.
        "Your mother is a very busy woman," Lady Burgenstock said. "I 
can't be with you all the time, as much as I want to."
        "Why does Daddy never come?"
        Lady Burgenstock sighed inwardly. "Daddy is also very busy. He 
doesn't have very much time either. I miss Daddy very much as well."
        "Do we have a horse?"
        Lady Burgenstock was thrown by the question. Where did that come 
from? "Yes, we have many horses. Would you like to ride one?"
        "Nanny says that you spend all your time be," Marsha drew 
breath, obviously about to embark on a long and difficult sentence, 
"be-ing roger-ed by your black," another breath, "black stally-eon. 
Isn't that funny, Mommy? You have a horse called Roger." Marsha beamed 
at Lady Burgenstock, proud of her efforts.
        Lady Burgenstock stood up and glared at the nanny. Surprisingly, 
the nanny didn't wilt under her gaze. "I'll talk to you outside!" Lady 
Burgenstock commanded.
        "Mommy? Can I ride on your Roger horse?" Marsha asked.
        "Not now, dear. Maybe later. Go and play with your toys now, 
darling." Lady Burgenstock walked over to the door and held it open, 
commanding the nanny, with her eyes, to precede her outside.
        The nanny walked out, still unabashed, and Lady Burgenstock 
followed her. She nearly slammed the door shut, but checked herself in 
time. Marsha could still hear their voices, raised in magnitude by 
anger, but didn't pay any attention to them. She was having fun playing 
with her PULP dress-up dolls.
        "How dare you fill my daughter's head with those kind of 
malicious lies."
       "They're not lies and we both know it. You spend all day and night 
upstairs with him, just-"
        "That is enough! Get out of my house. I shall find someone else 
to be a mother for my child."
        "That's right, isn't it. Someone else to be a mother. You know 
you'll never be one!"
        Footsteps echoed away, but Marsha took no notice of them. She 
was surprised to suddenly find herself with a new nanny, but soon came 
to accept her. She was told that the other nanny had left for a long 
holiday.
        Late at night, she would hear someone whispering, outside her 
door, "You killed her. You killed her."
        She felt suitably guilty about this, although she wasn't exactly 
sure why, but only when she remembered to.
        She forgot all about the horse called Roger.

                                _-~-_

"You've taken her back too far. Bring her forward."
        "Pleeze. These thinks are very hard to judge. Ve vill have to 
work slowly, go forward in stagez. That is the only vay we can remain in 
control.
        "Now, Marzha, I vant you to move forward in time. Feel yourself 
growink older, feel time passink you, let more memories come back. You 
are older now. Vhere are-"
        "You take that back!"

                                _-~-_

"You take that back!"
        Marsha was now aged twelve. She stood in a school courtyard, 
somewhere in Sweden. She had been sent there to be educated when she was 
five, her mother finally tiring of her, and wanting Marsha out of her 
life for a while.
        The school was very 'posh', but the Burgenstock budget could 
easily afford in. That budget could have afforded to colonise the moon. 
Still, all kinds of girls came there. The spoiled rotten, the shy 
mouses, and the 'mentally well-adjusted'. School bullies were almost a 
prerequisite.
        Marsha had her fair share of friends, but even they couldn't 
stand up to 'Ten-ton' Tabitha 'Tabby' Vaughn. Unfortunately, all ten 
tons of her were muscle. She was the pet of the gym instructer, Ms 
Bartlew. Ten-ton was a believer in _force majeure_, and she proved it 
every day.
        "It's too late, Marshamallow," sneered Ten-ton. "Everyone 
already knows it's true. Right, girls?"
        Ten-ton had her hangers-on, and they all coursed their assent.
        "Yeah," one of them jeered. "Everyone knows that she only 
married him for his dick."
        "We got this letter, here, from Bingley's mother." Bingley 
proudly showed off the letter in question. "Bingley's mum told her all 
about the decrepitude of the Burgerstocks."
        "That's not true! You don't even know what 'decrepitude' means."
        This was true. It had been in the letter, and Ten-ton had been 
impressed by it. She always had a fondness for large words, making her 
sound more adult, or so she thought. No-one dared tell her otherwise.
        "Oh yeah," responded Ten-ton, not one to let a challenge escape 
her. "It means that she lies around all day having sex-sex-sexual 
intercourse with his dick." That was another new term she had picked up. 
The girls had recently learned about this in biology class, and, 
although fascinated by it, Ten-ton still had to sort some things out.
        "No, it's not true." Now tears were running down Marsha's face, 
and she turned away, her cheeks burning. This only served as further 
encouragement.
        "Marshamallow, Marshamallow, her heart is soft and her 
brain is hollow." This was one of Ten-ton's chants. She had made one up 
for everyone she tortured, and they were all flawed in some way or 
another, however good they might seem to sound. Again, no-one dared to 
tell her any differently.
        As the rest of the pack chanted in the background, Ten-ton 
continued her torment.
        "You weren't even wanted. Your mum only had you because she got 
preggynant, and she gave birth to you with all her intestines wrapped 
around you." Typically graphic. Typically wrong. "She had sex, then you 
came out. She didn't want any children. She didn't want you. You are not 
wanted, you are not wanted."
        This was picked up as well. Soon, it was ringing in Marsha's 
ears. "You are not wanted. You are not wanted."
        "Nobody loves you, everybody hates you." The rest joined in with 
this, recognising the rhyme. "Go down to the garden, and EAT SOME WORMS!"
        Marsha ran from the courtyard, tears streaming down her face, 
laughter hounding her.

                                _-~-_

"No. It's still not far enough."
        "Ve will get there, Heir. It juzt takes time.
        "Now, Marzha, I vant you to go forvard again. Go forvard in 
time. Let ze memories come back. You're much older now, your school days 
are far behind you. Just relax and let time pazz."
        "Where the hell is Finchley with that report?"
        "Pleeze, Heir. Zis is very delicate. I need silence in vhich to 
vork."
        "Get on with it, man."
        "Now, Marzha-"
        "Look out!"

                                _-~-_

"Look out!"
        This was Marsha, aged twenty-three. School was far behind her, 
but she wasn't thinking about that.
        Her thoughts were on the crane, the load it was dropping, and 
the man standing underneath it.
        This is Cal.net.fornia, land of sun, sea, and citrus fruit. It 
was also a place where new buildings were being erected. A place where 
cranes were used to hoist building materials into the air. A place where 
people wearing hard-hats would walk about, whistle at women passing by, 
and, occasionally, work.
        A place where cranes dropped their loads on the foremen beneath 
them.
        In this particular place, Marsha Burgenstock was there to see 
this happening. She gave a shout of warning, but could tell that 
something horrible was going to happen anyway.
        She ran towards the man, and he slowly turned around to see who 
was shouting at him. Other workers had also seen the accident in 
progress, and had also started running, but none of them would get there 
in time.
        Marsha took the foreman down with a flying tackle, and thumped 
onto the ground. The girders, what the crane had previously been 
lifting, crashed down. Not onto the foreman. Onto Marsha's legs.
        "This," she muttered, "is a definite 'owchie'."
        "Quick," someone yelled, "get some men over here."
        Someone knelt down beside her. "Don't worry, we'll get out of 
there soon."
        "The ambulance is on its way."
        Four men, two to each end, heaved, and the first girder, of six, 
was lifted away. Another four men bent to the next one.
        "Um, there really isn't need to hurry. It's quite all right 
really," said Marsha, although no-one was listening. "There's no pain. 
Well, not much. Okay, there *is* pain, but not as much as you'd think."
        The first of the bottom three girders was lifted away. The men 
reflexively winced when they lifted it, but surprise was more the order 
of the day when they saw what was actually underneath it.
        The ambulance pulled up, and orderlies sprang out, all ready to 
berate onlookers about inadequate medical attention. When they saw the 
condition of Marsha's legs, they also spluttered into silence.
        Instead of the mash of blood and bone they expected to see, 
Marsha's legs were a kind of pink goo. Onlookers finally heard Marsha's 
commentary. "My leg'll be just fine, once the other girder's are 
removed. Although I not fully used to this yet, I can stand this kind of 
thing. My whole body's like marshmallow, all soft and springy. Also, it 
has the added bonus of being able to reform itself, nothing any normal 
marshmallow could do, especially the ones we used to roast over an open 
fire. Boy, those one's _really_ melted. We kinda left them on too long, 
and they went just too gooey for words."
        Already, Marsha's legs, where they were now exposed, were 
beginning to take normal shape, filling out and roundening. Some of the 
workers hurriedly removed the rest of the girders, and watched amazed as 
Marsha's body slowly healed itself.
        The senses of the medical orderlies returned, and they bustled 
forwards, pushing others out of their way. "Clear the way, clear the 
path, sane people coming through." The moved the complaining Marsha onto 
a trolley, and pushed her back towards the ambulance.
        "Really, guys, I'll be all right. Just a few hours rest, that's 
all I need." She wasn't returned to the ground. "Or perhaps you could 
give me a lift home them. That'd be really nice of ya." The faces of 
those around failed to respond to anything she said. Marsha sighed. "All 
right then, perhaps you could take me to the hospital, probe me in 
ungodly ways, and treat me like a piece of meat."
        This they did.

At the hospital, Marsha was assigned a bed to rest in, and told to stay 
there until a doctor was free to see her. "I don't need a doctor. I'll 
be all right. This has happened to me before. I was helping someone lift 
a piano up some stairs, when the whole things tumbled back towards me. I 
was back to normal within the week. Admittedly, I can't walk right now, 
but I should be able to leave in a few hours."
        The orderlies tucked her in without response, and vanished out 
of the room. "I'LL JUST STAY HERE THEN, SHALL I?" she yelled after them.
        She heard a voice from out in the hall. "Please, there really is 
no need to shout. If I come in, will you promise not to shout at me?"
        "And who are you?" Marsha asked, suspiciously.
        "I'm a doctor. I'm here to examine you." His voice sounded rich 
and deep. Marsha felt a thrill of anticipation rush through her, then 
berated herself for having feelings towards someone she hadn't even seen 
yet.
        "Yes. All right. I wont shout," she promised.
        In walked a hunk Marsha wouldn't expect to see outside of 
Bay.watch. He motioned to her legs, giving the visual equivalent of 
asking to see her legs, and Marsha hurriedly threw back the bed sheets. 
She blushed as she realised what kind of first impression that made, but 
the doctor only smiled.
        "They think they know best," said the doctor, amiably.
        "Who do?" Marsha wasn't paying much attention, lost in her own 
fantasies.
        "The orderlies. They're really only medical students trying to 
make their way through medical collage, but they try hard, get paid, and 
make a correct judgement three out of seven times." The doctor felt 
Marsha's legs, and a frown crept over his face.
        This she noticed. "Is there something wrong?"
        "Hmm? No, it's just unusual. We don't get superhero types in 
here."
        "Superheroes? What superheroes?"
        "Oh, they started coming out of the woodwork a few years ago. 
They call themselves things like 'The Tantalising Teens' and 
'L.E.G.I.O.N.' and whatnot. They're all congregating in some place 
called Net.ropolis. Can't say I've heard of it before."
        Oh. Superheroes. With, presumedly, super powers. She wouldn't 
confess to her ability being a super power, but they might be something 
to look up sometime.
        "Do you mind if I get some other doctors to look at this? You're 
quite fascinating."
        "Oh, no. Not at all."
        The doctor turned towards the door and called "Nurse. Nurse!"
        A nurse soon arrived. Marsha stared at one of the blackest men 
she had ever seen, and felt anger sweeping through her. "Get him away 
from me!" she screamed.
        The doctor turned back to her, puzzled. "What?"
        "Get him away from me!" she creamed again, reaching out blindly 
for something to throw. She found a pen on the table beside her, and 
chucked it at the nurse in the doorway, who battered it aside in surprise.
        She turned to look for something bigger, and the doctor moved 
into action. "Now calm down. You're becoming hysterical." As he 
struggled to hold Marsha down, he called for assistance. "Nurse, help me 
to restain this patient."
        When the nurse touched Marsha, she went berserk. She grabbed 
another pen from the doctor's coat pocket, and stabbed the nurse with it.
        She was thrown out ten minutes later. As she picked herself off 
the pavement, she considered her options. Perhaps the superheroes thing 
wasn't so bad. She might get the chance to take care of more black 
bastards.
        It would take her a while, but Net.ropolis, here comes Marsha.

                                _-~-_

"Now you've gone too far forward. You've passed it."
        "Ve're narrowing it down. Ve're nearly there. Now, Marzha-"
        "Heir? This just arrived from the Snifter. It's a preliminary 
analysis."
        "What? Hand it here."
        "Now, Marzha, I vant you to go back. Back before that incident. 
Go back in time."
        "Doctor, this is amazing. It says here that her body contains 
the ability for morphic change. Every cell contains a full set of 
instructions to rebuild her entire body."
        "So? Zat's bazic DNA."
        "You don't get it, do you? Separate her arm from her body, and 
another Marsha would grow from it!"
        "I doubt zat ze new Marzha would have the same memory and 
behavioural patternz."
        "Perhaps. Are you finished yet?"
        "Nearly. Marzha, vere are you?"
        "Is anyone here?"

                                _-~-_

"Is anyone here?"
        Marsha, aged 17. Freshly returned from Sweden, she arrived at 
her house in a taxi, and entered to find it deserted. She let her bags 
fall to the ground, and listened carefully. Apart from the dying echoes 
she had just created, there were no other sounds.
        She ascended the wide staircase in the middle of the large hall, 
up to the second floor, where the bedrooms were. Her heels clicked on the 
cold floor, sounding too loud in the quiet air.
        She stopped outside her old bedroom, and pushed the door open. 
The room was still decorated just as it was 13 years ago, with pink 
frills, bunny rabbits and bouncing balls. It had obviously been cleaned 
every day in her absence. Sunlight gleamed off the white dresser, 
casting a glare in her eyes.
        Marsha put up a hand to shield out the light and looked over her 
room. It was now cold place, the warmth draining out over the missing 
years. It was an old place, and the sparkle had left it. Marsha shut the 
door, letting it rest in peace.
        She continued along the balcony connecting the rooms, and 
overlooking the first floor. She came to the door opening into her 
mother's suite and paused. She placed a hand on the door, feeling its 
woodenness underneath her hand. She had been inside once before, when she 
was very young. All she could remember was how large the whole room was. It 
contained the whole world, and the bed had been the largest mountain she 
had ever seen.
        Looking back, she could tell that childish awe had overwhelmed 
her senses, and she knew that a special part had gone. She had lost her 
innocence over the years. The school had stripped all that away, had 
stripped all the livery and trappings that her mother had cast over 
their lives.
        Marsha wasn't sure why she came home. None of her letters had 
ever been answered. Towards the end, she wondered if her mother had even 
known that she had sent them. They probably went straight from the mail 
box to the incinerator. All her feelings, all her special moments which 
she had tried to share with her mother, all lost in ashes. Just like her 
life.
        Not being met at the airport clinched things. Her school had 
sent home warning of Marsha's graduation, and subsequent return, 
detailing her flight plans. Those had probably been burnt as well. She 
had waited two hours at the airport, hoping with every car that arrived 
that her mother would get out, run up to her and wrap her arms around 
her, and tell her that everything she had heard about home was lies. No 
car. No mother. No non lies.
        Marsha took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Now she 
heard sounds. Marsha recognised them, and responded with disgust. One of 
her friends had snuck videos into the school, and they had stolen down, 
in the middle of the night, to the lounge room to watch them, sound 
turned low, but still audible.
        They had been pornos, of course. The best, or the worst, 
depending on your viewpoint, that Sweden had to offer. That night, 
Marsha witnessed some of the most degraded acts the human race is 
capable of, all in the name of pleasure. Most of the girls felt aroused 
by it all. Marsha felt sick.
        In every video, for every woman, Marsha saw her mother's face. 
In every scene, Marsha could see her mother doing just what they were 
doing on the screen, only to a higher degree, enjoying it more. Marsha 
had wanted to get a large hammer and smash the television set into 
little pictures. But she hadn't. She watched all the tapes, all the 
combinations, and her life breaking with every gasp.
        It was similar gasps that Marsha was hearing now, bringing 
back all those memories, all that disgust, all that sickness. Marsha 
knew what her mother was doing. What her mother had been doing her whole 
life.
        Fucking it all away.
        Marsha entered the suite, trembling with every step. Inside was 
a large room, filled with furniture and paintings. A small kitchenette 
was off to one side, and on the other side was the bar. Just the sort of 
thing for entertaining those important guests. That is, if her mother 
had any time for guest. That was, if her mother had anytime for anything 
else. Like her.
        A door on the opposite side of the room lead into the master 
bedroom. It was from there that grunts and gasps, moans and exclamations 
escaped. Marsha walked through the room, taking note of every chair, 
every table, every object d'art, on her way to that bedroom door. She 
felt cold, distant, as if it was happening to someone else. It wasn't. 
It was happening to her, and it was happening now.
        She stopped just in front of the door. It was slightly open, 
letting the noises out. She peeked through the gap and looked inside. 
Inside was the bedroom, just as big as she remembered it. She could only 
see a part of it, just one wall. She could also see a corner of the bed. 
It was moving up and down, pounded by the forces pounding away above it. 
Over on the wall was her mother's dresser and makeup table. It was one 
of those large ones, like showbiz stars have. It had three mirrors, 
pointing inward toward the chair that stood before it. In the main 
mirror, Marsha could see something moving. It reflected the bed, and 
Marsha was glad she couldn't make the shapes out.
        Marsha turned back around and walked back to the centre of the 
room. She glanced around, and spotted a large, overstuffed chair. She 
pulled it across the floor, not caring if anyone heard it scrape, but 
suspecting that no-one did anyway. She positioned it facing the door, 
and sat down. She would be the first thing anyone would see when they 
came out that door. And Marsha was determined to wait until someone did.
        Marsha sat through the heaving and humping, the groaning and 
grappling, and, finally, amazingly, the sounds stopped. Silence filled 
the air, then Marsha heard another grunt, this one of exertion. 
Footsteps crossed the bedroom floor, travelling from the bed to the door.
        Marsha's mother stepped out of the door, sweaty and naked from 
the activity. She saw Marsha sitting there, watching, and puzzlement 
crossed her features. Not embarrassment from her nudity, not outrage at 
this person daring to disturb her. Just puzzlement. Not even recognition.
        "You have no idea who I am, do you?" Marsha asked, more 
rhetorically than anything else.
        Her mother drew herself up, placing her hands on her hips. Her 
face took on the stately grace that only the high up can assume. "No, 
miss, I do not. And if you don't leave my house this instant, I shall 
have you thrown to the dogs."
        Marsha stood up and crossed over to her mother. She stared at 
her, and her mother stared back. "You would, wouldn't you?" Marsha 
said, almost amazed. "You don't know who I am and you don't even care.
        "I'M YOUR FUCKIN' DAUGHTER, YOU WHORE BITCH. THAT'S WHO I 
FUCKIN' AM!"
        Lady Burgenstock did not react in anger, not in outrage, not 
even in fear, but in surprise. "Marsha? You're home?"
        "You just don't care, do you _mother_? I have been away from 
thirteen goddamn years, and you didn't even notice."
        "Well, the house seemed quieter. Would you like a drink?" Lady 
Burgenstock walked casually over to the bar and unstopped a large 
whiskey dispenser. She poured a little into a glass, and drank it in a 
single gulp.
        Marsha threw her hands in the air. "Is that it? I come home, 
call you a 'whore bitch' and you ask me if I want a drink?"
        "A proper Lady must always think of her guests needs."
        "A guest? I am no guest, mother, I'm your daughter. As for my 
needs... when did they ever concern you?"
        "I made sure you had constant attention as a child. I provided 
the best education for you that money could buy. What more do you need?"
        "You sent me away, mother. Sent me away because I was stopping 
you from getting fucked every second of your life."
        "I will not having you questioning me lifestyle in this house! 
Either start acting grown up, or get out!" Lady Burgenstock, with a 
sharp motion, brought her arm out and pointed at the door leaving the 
suite.
        "What's going on out here? What's all da racket?"
        Marsha spun around and, for the first time in her life, saw her 
father. He stood in the doorway, naked. He was 7 feet tall, and black as 
coal. Marsha's shocked gaze travelled down his excellent physique until 
she reached his penis. She took in its eleven inch length and the last 
few tumblers clicked in her brain.
        Marsha spun back to her mother. "That's it, isn't it? That's why 
you spend your entire life in the bedroom, flat on your back. That's how 
come you ended up having me, and why I have this skin colour when your 
so milky white. That's why you brought some black shit in from some 
Jamacain paradise to be your husband. So you could spend every moment of 
your life getting shafted!"
        "Get out this instant! You have no idea of my needs and my 
drives. When you get older, and you feel your biological clock ticking 
away, you may understand. But until then, I want you out of this house!"
        Marsha was already walking towards the door. "Don't worry, I'm 
already leaving. Don't bother to show me out, I'm sure I can find some 
way out of this godforsaken hole." She opened the door, walked through, 
then turned around to face her mother, holding onto the doorknob. "And 
from now on, you are no longer my mother!"
        She slammed the door, felling satisfied in the way it caused the 
wall around it to shudder momentarily. She stormed along the balcony, 
pausing every now and then to kick either the wall or the railing.
        Tears were staring to fall when she descended the stairs, and 
they were flowing freely when she slammed the main door behind her as 
she left.
        She walked out of the mansion grounds, never looking behind her, 
never seeing her mother's face watching her walk away.

                                _-~-_

"Well, that certainly explains something. But, it isn't what we want."
        "Ve must be zere. Zis next step vill give you vhat you vant to 
know."
        "It had better- Ah, Finchley, what an unexpected pleasure. What 
are you doing here?"
        "We just can't make do with the sample you provided us. We can 
stop it from replicating itself, but that's not the problem."
        "And what, pray, _is_ the problem?"
        "She's been programmed for something, programmed on the 
molecular level to replicate, sure, but there's got to be an overriding 
program, something that she's been designed to do. We can't tell what 
that is. We're gonna need something more that just a genetic sample to 
investigate this one."
        "Very well. Stay here. We should just be uncovering the source 
of her powers now. If that doesn't help, you can have her afterwards for 
a more in depth study."
        "Thank you."
        "Now, doctor. And get it right this time."
        "A moment, if you vill. Now, Marzha, move forward though time, 
juzt a little, no sudden leaps. Let yourself move to the next event in 
your life. Now, Vhere...?"
        "I hear you have an opening."

                                _-~-_

"I hear you have an opening."
        Marsha, aged twenty. She hasn't been very successful in life 
since she left home. If it wasn't for the expense account her mother 
left open for her, Marsha would had starved to death two years ago. She 
had tried to make do, tried to make her own life, her own money, but 
nothing seemed to work. Nobody wanted to hire her, and she didn't know 
enough to start her own business.
        That account was her lifeline. She wasn't sure why her mother 
left it going, kept putting money into it. It was just possible that it 
was an automatic process, something that went on without her mother's 
intervention, but, after that event three years ago, she thought her 
mother would have thought of her enough to block her expenses.
        Still, Marsha still tried to make do with as little as possible, 
getting jobs where she could. That was why she was here, in 
Cal.net.fornia. She had heard of a possibility, but it was dangerous, 
and the success rate, if there was one, wasn't given out.
        "What opening _would_ that be?" the secretary peered over the top 
of her half-moon spectacles. She knew _full well_ what jobs were open, and 
what this scuffy young woman _would_ be applying for, but there was no 
need to make this easy.
        "The..." Marsha waved her hand about, trying to imbue 
knowledge. "The experiments..."
        "Oh, those. Well, they _would_ take _any_ kind of person." Marsha 
didn't think much of the look the secretary gave her, but she didn't 
much care either.
        The secretary tore a piece of paper off a pile, and handed it to 
Marsha. "Go through _that_ door, past _three_ doors on your _left_, and 
then go into the door on your _right_. Fill in _that_ piece of paper and 
_hand_ it in. Good day." The secretary turned back to her work, 
dismissing Marsha.
        Marsha watched the secretary for any signs of further interest 
in her, but spotted none. She shrugged and went through _that_ door.
        Inside was a colour maelstrom. The walls were painted in bright 
vivid patterns, the floor and ceiling in much darker shades of blue, and 
the doors themselves would have scared even Joseph.
        She walked past three doors, always with the feeling that 
something was going to jump out of this craziness and yank her off to 
fit her with new bell-bottoms and spray-paint daisies in her hair. She 
reached the door on the right without anything like this happening to 
her, but she did receive some very warped views into the painter's mind.
        She pulled open the door to reveal a perfectly normal waiting 
room, such as can be found in many dentists' buildings, or outside 
doctor's offices. Marsha sank gratefully down into a chair, grabbed a pen 
from a well of them on the table, and examined the questioner form in 
her hand.
        She handled her name easily enough, as well as the simpler 
questions, but she had trouble with remembering her blood type (O 
positive), and she actually had to get the receptionist at the desk to 
tell her her eye colour (green).
        She handed the form in, and sat back down to wait.
        Someone else entered the room, almost running. He was clutching 
a piece of paper similar to her one. He flopped into a chair, and 
Marsha heard him mutter "I never want to go through that again." He then 
picked up a pen and started filling in the form.
        Marsha gave him a quick once over, as it was obvious that he was 
going to be a fellow experimentee. He looked about 5 ft 10 while sitting 
down, but as he slouched, it was hard to be definite. He had brown hair, 
and a freckled face. His clothes consisted of a brown leather jacket, a 
white striped shirt, black pants and white sneakers.
        He ran a hand through his long hair as he concentrated on the 
sheet before him. "Name... parents... bank account number?... eyes." He 
looked up, meeting Marsha's eyes immediately. He didn't realise this, 
intent on the questions.
        "What colour are my eyes?"
        Marsha stared into his eyes, but didn't actually see them. She 
shook herself slightly, and looked carefully at the iris. "Brown," she 
replied.
        The boy smiled. "Thanks." He wrote it down. "It's amazing, 
innit? We can go through life looking at others so much, yet we don't 
even know what we really look like."
        "I had the same trouble with my form," Marsha admitted.
        "What? You're here for the experiment as well?" Marsha nodded. 
"I didn't think they'd accept... well, it is dangerous, not that I'm 
saying..." The boy trailed off, embarrassed.
        "That's very sweet of you." Marsha saw the boy wince. She had 
called him 'sweet'. She smiled inwardly. "But, I am more than capable of 
looking after myself."
        "Yeah. Um, after this is over, you wanna go and get a coffee, or 
something?"
        "Big words from someone who hasn't even handed their form in 
yet," Marsha pointed out.
        The boy looked down at the form in his hand. "Oh, yeah. Hang 
on." He went over to the reception desk, spotted a last question he 
hadn't answered, and bent over to fill it in.
        A side door opened, and a man came out. "Marsha Burgenstock?" he 
asked generally.
        "That's me," Marsha called back. She stood up and walked over to 
him.
        "Wait," the boy called. "How will we get together?"
        Marsha went over to the boy. "Don't worry. I'm sure we will." 
She lent over and gave him a peck on the cheek. He brought his hand up 
to cover the spot in surprise.
        "See you on the other side," said Marsha, as she followed the 
man through the door.

                                _-~-_

"Well, why had she stopped?"
        "I'm not shure. Zere may be blocks zere. Ve vill have to go 
deeper."
        "What was the name of the place she went?"
        "She didn't say."
        "Well, I want to know anyway. Get onto Hayar and Lethbridge about 
it. They should have _something_. Tell them to concentrate in the 
Cal.net.fornia area."
        "Yes, Heir."
        "And if we can't find anything out this way, then you can have 
her."
        "Thank you, Heir."
        "Now, doctor."
        "Yes, I'm onto it. Marzha. Listen to me, Marzha. I want you to 
go deeper. Deeper. Past any restriktions. Past any pain. Deeper, deeper. 
Continue and tell us vhat happened."

                                _-~-_

Marsha followed the man down the corridor. It was plain, white and 
totally featureless. The man opened a door that had fitted seamlessly 
with the wall, and showed Marsha through.
        The room inside was also white, but Marsha could just make out a 
white dentist chair in the middle of the room. The man indicated the 
Marsha should sit down. She did so, and the man disappeared while she 
settled herself.
        She lay there, feeling quite comfortable, and wondered what was 
going to happen next. She stared up at the ceiling and let her eyes 
relax, unfocus. The whiteness blurred, and grey crept in where parts of 
the room overlapped. Marsha smiled to herself at this, and refocused 
her eyes. Was anything going to happen?
        Her attention was drawn to the wall in front of her. Was there 
something there? Marsha strained her eyes trying to make something, 
anything out. After a while, she was sure that a dot had appeared in the 
middle of the wall.
        The dot slowly expanded, increasing in size and changing in 
colour. It was blue originally, or was it black? Anyway, it shaded 
through blue to green, then to yellow, orange and red. By this time, it 
had taken up half the wall. As it continued to grow, spreading out onto 
the ceiling, it shaded back towards blue again.
        Something else was happening in the middle of the circle. 
Another dot was growing inside it. It was also changing colour, 
sometimes to match the parent circle, sometimes to contrast against it.
        Marsha watched this and felt her mind beginning to drift. Other 
circles grew elsewhere, causing ripples and conflicting colours where 
they crossed. Soon, other, more complex patterns, were emerging.
        Everything around Marsha was now coloured, shifting and 
changing. Even the chair she sat on had patterns moving through it.
        Marsha felt her eyes closing, her mind falling asleep. A voice 
sounded in her ear, soft and alluring. "Relax. Relax. Relax..." The 
voice continued in the manner for a while, and soon Marsha was fast asleep.

Three men entered the room where Marsha slumbered. The room's colour 
chase had been paused, and lurid light filled the room, from too many 
garish patterns. One of the men held up a syringe, tapped it to make 
sure that there was no air in it, then injected Marsha in the arm with it.
        The other two men picked up her body, and carried it away.
        Marsha was unceremoniously dumped on a surgeon's table, and quickly 
stripped of clothing. A surgeon (presuming that's what he was), examined 
her for a moment before turning to a table containing painful-looking 
tools. He picked one up, but discarded it in favour of another.
        He waved the instrument over Marsha's body. A thin blue line 
traced its way down, taking readings all the while. The surgeon studied 
the readings, and gave a grunt. "The specimen seems to be of below 
average constitution. She has suffered from malnutrition and too much 
cholesterol, probably in the form of 'junk food'."
        He replaced the scanner, and took up another instrument. It 
resembled nothing more than a saw. "I saw now examine the reproductive 
centre." He activated the saw, and brought it whirring down onto 
Marsha's stomach. It bit into her skin, shredding nerve and tissue.
        The surgeon cut down to Marsha's womb, exposing her ovaries and 
Fallopian tubes. The surgeon examined this area for quite a while. He 
retrieved a probe from the table, touched it to Marsha's insides, then 
prepared a slide. He slipped it under a microscope, and muttered to 
himself. He straightened and looked back at Marsha's exposed uterus 
before giving his final judgement. "The specimen had contracted an early 
form of salpingitis. She would be unsuitable for childbirth, and any 
clones of her will also be prey to such a disease, and therefore useless 
to Project Prodigy."
        He discarded the used probe and slide, and continued his 
examination. "I would not recommend enrolment in the Achilles Project, 
nor the Nuremburg Tests. The patient's wasted condition would not stand 
up to those rigours. I shall now examine the brain."
        He took a shaver from the table, and soon Marsha's long black 
locks were lying on the floor. The surgeon picked up a marker and drew a 
circle around the top of Marsha's freshly exposed head. He made 
criss-cross marks at the best places to cut.
        He traded the marker for a fine knife. He cut into the cranium 
at the marks he made, making sure to keep each cut clean. The surgeon 
selected a saw with a tiny circular blade, and started it. He placed 
goggles over his eyes, and cut into the brain pan, wincing slightly 
every time a piece of bone chipped off and hit his face.
        He carefully cut the top off, and deftly pulled at the top with 
one hand, while switching the saw off with the other. He placed the top in a 
dish, and the saw back on the table.
        The surgeon focused light on the glistening brain. "The 
synaptic passages look clean. Could be good material here."  He turned 
and picked up a different scanner, this one similar to a cat scan, but 
slightly more enhanced. "I'm getting good patterns. It looks very 
favourable. I will now test reflexes required for the BioBot Project."
        The surgeon connected pads to various parts of Marsha's brain, 
making sure that the pads were clean, and the contact was secure. He 
attached wires to the pads, and plugged all the wires into a device, 
which looked like a keyboard with LED lights. He pushed some buttons, 
then flicked a switch.
        Marsha's arm rose and pointed straight upwards. The surgeon 
entered more instructions, and Marsha's hand rotated around her wrist a 
few times, before the arm was brought down to perform a salute. The 
surgeon chuckled to himself, then remembered his purpose.
        "Brain is reprogrammable. Send a collection team it, with full 
life support. I will now take a body sample for the cloning process."
        Casually, the surgeon took up a large knife and lopped off 
Marsha's right hand. He held it up proudly.

                                _-~-_

"She hasn't said anything, doctor."
        "I know zat. I have been here."
        "You are bordering on insubordination, doctor."
        "My apologies, Heir. Zis patient is unlike those I had handled 
before."
        "Very well. You can go. We'll get no more out of her this way. 
Send Finchley in."
        "Yes, Heir."

                                _-~-_

This was an operating room, a different one. The surgeons here were not 
disectors, they were programmers. On the table before them lay a large 
container, full of fluids and bubbles, all controlled by the life support 
on top.
        It also contained Marsha's brain, her eyes, and other upper 
organs.
        "When can you begin?" This was from a man, dressed incongruously 
in a full formal business suit, out of place with the other people, all 
dressed in lab coats.
        "The brain is nearly ready. We are just making sure that we have 
a full copy of her memories before we begin. If anything disastrous 
should happen this time, we can erase the brain and start again."
        "You have blocked the most recent memories, haven't you?"
        "From when she left the waiting room outside. She met a boy out 
there. I believe he entered the Transpolymorphic program. I am not sure 
how they deal with security there. If they should met, and he remembers 
her, but she doesn't remember him, things could become suspicious."
        "Good. Her body is nearing completion. Each cell has been fed a 
copy of the full program, and integral cell structure has been 
strengthened. When we are finished here, her brain must undergo the same 
treatment."
        "Well, we are now ready, I believe. Yes? Yes. Right, if you 
could hand over the tape?"
        "Right." The man reached into his suit and extracted a small DAT 
tape from an inside pocket. He handed it to the doctor, who inserted it 
into a slot beside him.
        "It will take a few moments to boot, then we can begin the 
transfer."
        "I hope you're clear on final procedure."
        "Yes. Although most don't make it to that stage, I am well 
versed in the isolation procedure. We remove a potion of her brain from 
the rest of her mind, and lock it off so that information can come out 
of it, but nothing goes in. Then, I check to make sure no other brain 
patterns have been disturbed. Then, it is ready to be transfered into 
her new body."
        "Very good." The man checked his watch, comparing the time with 
a schedule he kept in his head.
        "If you are busy, you could come back later. This will take some 
time."
        "No," the man replied coldly. "I must make sure that company 
security is not endangered at any point. After I input the code to 
unlock the program, I will stay here until it is finished, then take the 
tape back. You must not come near me at any stage. I am authorised to 
shoot to protect our secrets, if necessary."
        "Really, your former was so much more friendly."
        "He was lax, and that is why he is no longer with the company, 
and why I am here to make sure that sort of thing does not happen again."
        "Ah. Well. Good, good." The doctor checked the monitor by the 
tape-reader. "Ah, it is done. If you would?" He stepped out of the way, 
and gestured towards the small panel on the computer face.
        The man stepped up to the panel and glared at the doctor 
suspiciously until the doctor got the idea and moved away. the man 
punched in the pass-code, making sure all the time that no-one else could 
see it. When he was finished, he straightened, and pushed the "Execute" 
button.
        The machine hummed, and information passed from the tape (whose 
contents were now in the machine's memory, but were wiped as they were 
processed), along wires, and directly into Marsha's brain.
        Everyone held their breath, but when the machine refused to back 
feed and explode, they let it go.
        The doctor shook his head in sadness. "If only they were all as 
co-operative as this one. The suicide rate was so high." He gave the man 
a sidelong look. "I don't suppose you could tell me how the body is 
being processed?"
        The man drew out a small gun, and levelled it at the doctor. 
"That would be a breach of security."
        "Ah. Then, I believe that I no longer wish to know."

                                _-~-_

"Ah. Finchley, so glad you could make it this century."
        "Yes, Heir. We've been trying to track down whatever corporation 
it was that did this."
        "And?"
        "We can't find it. There doesn't seem to ba a corporation anyway 
that we found to be doing anything like this."
        "I see I shall have to make a personal involvement, again."
        "Yes, Heir."
        "Very well. Take Marsha and subject it to whatever tests it is 
you people do. I want a full report when I arrive."
        "Yes, Heir. Thank you, Heir."

                                _-~-_

The doctor looked down fondly at her work. It was so gratifying when 
everything came together like this. She stared down at the new body of 
Marsha Burgenstock, new and improved, thanks to her and her fellow 
workers.
        She heard footsteps approaching and turned to find the director 
himself standing behind her.
        "When will she awaken?" he asked.
        She glanced at her watch. "In a few minutes. It really is 
amazing, you know." The director nodded. "The combination that a real 
brain in any body achieves. Even though we can easily create a new body, 
one with certain special abilities, the brain is a blank, useless. 
So, we take the original brain, reprogram it to suit our needs, and plug 
it into the new body. When the two meet, they form what philosophers so 
lamely call the soul."
        "Yes," said the director. "That has always been a problem. We 
never could program a blank brain, not good enough to fool anyone. And 
copying brain patterns caused certain other problems."
        The doctor had been studying Marsha intently, looking for the 
first signs of activity. She finally spotted some, and held a warning 
hand up. It wouldn't do to have the patient hear the background details.
        Marsha stirred in the bed, and slowly opened her eyes. "Muh.. 
wuh.."
        The doctor sat down beside Marsha. "Just rest. You've been 
through rather a lot. And, I'm glad to say it was all a success."
        Memories stirred in Marsha's mind, memories of signing up to be 
a test subject in some experiment for such-and-such a corporation. She 
realised what the doctor just said. "I.. it worked?" she whispered, her 
throat feeling quite dry.
        "Yes, it did. Can you feel your new abilities?"
        Marsha wondered what the doctor was talking about, then it came 
to her. She could do _that_. And _that_ would happen. And, if she really 
wanted to, she could even do _that_. It all seemed so wondrous to 
Marsha, a whole new world stretching out before her.
        "You can see it now, can't you?" said the doctor. "With these 
new abilities, you have a new life to live. You will be able to live how 
you want to, help people whenever you want to, or just be yourself..."
        "Yes," breathed Marsha. It was all there, in her mind's eye.
        "And, we'll help you. We wont forsake you. We'll teach you to 
use these abilities of yours with confidence, with precision. We can 
also teach you other skills, other adept ways of defending yourself."
        "I've never been very good at karate. We had to try it at 
school." Marsha considered that she might be babbling, but the doctor 
didn't look too concerned.
        "Don't worry, we can teach other things, like how to properly 
defend yourself with a baseball bat, perhaps."
        Yes. Marsha could imagine that. She could also imagine other 
things. At last, she might be able to leave her mother's shadow behind. 
Go out and live without her help.

Over the next few months Marsha learnt about her new body, what it was 
capable of. She suffered bullets and being crushed. She learnt how to 
swing a baseball bat with deadly effectiveness, but she always backed 
down from terminal force.
        When she finally left, it was with the blessings of the company. 
She was rather surprised that they hadn't asked anything of her. No 
payments, no little favours for her to perform out in the real world. 
Just to go out and be her new self.
        She never saw the boy she met at the beginning of this around the 
place but then, she never thought to look. She was too busy learning 
how to live her new lifestyle.
        When she left, she went immediately for a vacation, somewhere 
out in the sun. Cal.net.fornia appealed to her, and she made her own way 
there, quietly, secretively. If she was going to be her new self, it 
would be in a definite place, not the back end of beyond.
        And so, it was in Cal.net.fornia that she finally introduced her 
new self to the world.

One year later, the company behind the experiments quietly, and without 
any ripples spreading out, folded up and disappeared. No trace of it was 
ever found, and it left no tracks to show that ever had been formed.
        Marsha forgot all about it, and was never contacted by anyone 
associated with it.

                                _-~-_

"Right, people, I want a full analysis. Give me blood readings, give me 
cell structure. Open up her damn brain and give a physical map of it if 
you have to. Just tell me what's going on in there. I want to know, and, 
more importantly, the Heir wants to know."
        "Yes, ma'am."
        "And I want it in one hour."
        "But.. but, we can't be ready by then."
        "You'll have to be."

                                _-~-_

Marsha woke. In hell. She was strapped to a metal trolley, being pushed 
through some corridor or another. She could see light bulbs as they 
flashed by. Turning her head slightly, she could make out figures 
running on either side of her, guiding the trolley as it was pushed along.
        The trolley vibrated as it forced some doors in its path to 
part. The room she entered was large, and, from her point of view, barren.
        The trolley sunk towards the floor, and Marsha realised tha the 
legs had been collapsed. This gave her a better view of the white 
clothes those around her wore.
        "Mmpf. Mmm mmpfm." It was now that she noticed the gag in her 
mouth.
        No-one took any notice of her murmurings as they lifted the 
trolley up and onto some other surface. She could hear clicks as the 
trolley was locked into place.
        With a judder, Marsha was away, gliding on a conveyer belt. She 
became aware of a loud humming from some where in front of her, and she 
struggled to get a good look at what it was, to no avail.
        Her vision was obscured by a large metal hood, and the conveyer 
belt stopped. She could hardly move her head, and only banged it when 
she tried. "Calm down!" she heard some voice shout from afar. "This is 
just a cat scan! You won't be hurt!"
        Her right arm was grabbed, and wrenched away. Marsha "ow"ed, but 
was unable to resist. Her arm was fastened in some kind of holding clamp 
and something pricked her jest above her elbow.
        The humming increased, leading Marsha to the impression that the 
scans were commencing. She shut her eyes and waited in misery, hoping 
that this would be all over soon.

In a processing room, Erickka Finchley was gathered with others around 
monitors that showed pictures of what was inside Marsha's head. Finchley 
was more aware of a dull pain in her back, than she was of what was on 
the screen anyway. Not that she would have understood it. That's what 
these people were for. She was really getting too old for this.
        Finchley moved away to fetch herself a cup of coffee from a 
machine. She always thought machine coffee was too bitter, but she could 
never be bothered to do anything about it, She sipped her coffee and 
waited for people to tell her things. Things she could understand.
        She could hear comments being thrown around in front of her, but 
let them wash over her without taking any of them in. She'll find out 
what she needed to know soon enough.
        She glanced at one technician that wasn't with the rest. He 
looked young. Too young. What sort of kids did this place employ? Fresh 
out of school and straight into a job where retirement was usually in 
the form of a bullet. Either from a rival corporation who thought you 
were too dangerous, or from Queen Enterprises itself, when you were too 
much of a liability. Finchley wondered how long it'd be before she fell 
into one of those categories.
        The technician noticed her gaze, and looked up. "Is there 
something you need, ma'am?"
        "No, no," she hastened to assume him. "Just waiting for the 
opinions to average out." She nodded towards the people clustered around 
the diagrams.
        The technician nodded his understanding, and turned back to his 
work. Finchley wasn't quite sure what it was, but it was most likely 
important. She wasn't sure what any of them were doing here, but it all 
contributed towards something.
        The Snifter, that's what she was. Behind her back, it was 
referred to as the 'nose hairs'. She knew that, just as she knew what the 
job description of the Snifter was. Privately, she thought that 'nose 
hairs' was a lot better term.
        Analysis. That's what it boiled down to. Once a situation had 
happened, she, in co-ordination with the Retina and the Tap, would try 
to piece together what had happened. That's what a nose did. Sniffed 
something and tried to work out what it was.
        They were more like nose hairs, though. Responding to something 
as it bushed past, barely having any clue what it was, just carrying on 
with the job of being sensitive to what was around them.
        Finchley hated her job, but she knew if she didn't do it, 
someone else would. And, if she wasn't doing it, she would most likely 
be dead. So, she kept at it, if only to prove to herself that she was 
still alive.
        "Come along, people," she warned, on general principles of 
keeping her people on their toes, while she sipped her coffee. "I 
haven't got all day."
        This caused a stir among them, and finally one was ejected with 
some paper attached to a clipboard. He was still feverishly writing as 
he walked towards her, and Finchley patiently waited while he sorted the 
last few details out.
        "Erm," he started. "The scanner found some interesting anomalies 
in her brain. There's, um, a section, a part of her brain, um, which is-"
        "Without hesitancy would be appreciated," Finchley admonished 
gently.
        The man froze like a frightened rabbit seeing the headlights 
bearing down on it, but recovered himself. "Right. Sorry ma'am. There's a 
part of her brain locked off from the rest of her. As far as we can 
tell, it is connected via what would be one-way paths, like. Although 
some think that the one-way path is into that section," he shot a quick 
look towards the others for confirmation, "most of us think that the 
one-way is out of that section."
        "Whose side are you on?" asked Finchley.
        "P..pardon?"
        "Which way do you think it is?"
        The man looked as if he'd been strangled, but swallowed and 
replied. "C.coming out. Ma'am"
        "Very well. And why do you think that would that be?" Finchley 
sipped more coffee.
        Instead of hesitancy, the man had now acquired a stutter. "To 
d..deliver instructions of some k..kind."
        "What instructions?"
        The man moved uncomfortably as he answered. "To.. fo.. so.. we 
don't know," he finally admitted.
        Finchley turned away. "Then find out, mister. That's why we 
employ you."
        "Ma'am?"
        Finchley stopped. She didn't turn back around, but she cocked 
her head.
        "It might be he..helpful if we make a clone. T.. to compare 
with, that is. M..ma'am."
        Finchley considered this. "So be it," she said, dropping her cup 
into a waste bin.

Marsha breathed a sigh of relief. The humming had died down to bearable 
levels. The scans seemed to be over for now.
        The conveyer belt juddered as it started up, and Marsha was 
carried out of the hood. She blinked a few times as light levels 
increased. The conveyer belt
        She felt another prick in her arm, but she was unable to turn 
her head to see what caused it. She felt a numbness sweep though her 
arm, and soon she was unable to feel anything below her right shoulder.
        Marsha heard a thud, then pain shot through her arm. She opened 
her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped the gag. Mercifully, the 
numbness took over, and the pain died. Marsha could sense something 
missing, but was unable to detect what it was.
        The conveyer belt started again, and figures in white shirts 
grew around her. The belt stopped, and Marsha felt her arm replaced by 
her side as the trolley was disconnected, and placed back on the floor.
        The legs were unfolded, and soon ceiling lights were whizzing 
past Marsha's vision again.
        Marsha felt yet another injection, and consciousness faded.

                                _-~-_

"Well? What is she?"
        "She's been programmed for something. She had the source of the 
instructions in her head."
        "To do what? Who put them there?"
        "We can't tell yet. We'll have to perform some more tests."
        "How much longer, Finchley? How much longer to do intend for me 
to wait?"
        "As I said, there'll be a few more tests yet. It's all there in 
her head. We just have to get it out."
        "Well, get on with it. Cut it out if you have to."
        "But, that'll kill her!"
        "I want to know what's going on in her head, Finchley. I want to 
know who put that there, and what they wanted to achieve. And if Marsha 
Burgenstock has to die for me to find out, then SO BE IT!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Credits:

Marshmallow Lass was created by Campbell 'Sasquatch' March

Everyone else is mine.

Back to the Index.