Date: Sat, 15 Jun 2002 19:31:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: smithers1066@yahoo.com
Subject: The Spectacular Quark, Part 1

The following serialized story contains explicit
descriptions of sexual situations between two consenting
adult homosexual men.  If such content offends you or is
illegal for you to view due to age or laws in your state or
country, please do not continue.  All persons and events in
the following story are fictional. Any similarity to actual
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This is the first installment in what I hope will be a
continuing erotic comic book story.  While this first part
is a little light on the "erotic" side, I promise later
episodes will feature much super-hero sex.




I'm fairly new at this (this is my third story), so comments
and criticisms are welcome. Enjoy.




The Spectacular Quark

Episode One: Creation





The moon loomed like a giant interrogation lamp over the
skyline. I sat in my apartment, looking out over the
rainswept streets, seeing glints of moonlight flashing up
from the puddles and cars, like hints of guilt playing in
the eyes of the city. I stared at the skyscrapers, reaching
high into the night, seeming to be pulled up toward the
light and out of the dark. As the events of the night fled
through my brain, I laid back in a stupor of newfound
knowledge...


"Good evening and welcome to the City City News." I read
energetically from the TelePrompTer, feeling the dozen
products in my steel-hard hair sinking into my scalp. "First
for you tonight, Dyzeman Chemicals has announced the closure
of their City City factory.  We go to Jenny Swenson at the
Dyzeman Plant with the story."


My producer nodded to me and I looked in the monitor to see
Jenny, with her pert blonde dye-job, was now on air.  It was
my first time anchoring the evening news and I was nervous.
I knew they were looking for a reason, any reason, to
replace the lead anchor, a doddering fool with shocking
white hair named Al Doherty.  It was commonly known he was
half-senile and a notorious letch, but he was an institution
and firing him meant a maelstrom of bad publicity.  They
needed a replacement the audience wanted more then even Al.
If this went well, if they liked me, I could be made senior
anchor, which at the age of 31 was a huge accomplishment.
Plus, I knew we could all do without the contracted weekly
segments called "Hal's Corner" where the old coot would
blather on about rowdy teenagers and how bad he had it in
the Depression.


As we hit the first commercial break, everything was going
well. Rita, my co-anchor, was a stately black woman who was
way too smart for this room.  She seemed more relaxed than I
had seen her in months.  I think knowing I wasn't going to
accidentally refer to President Truman or make a lame joke
about kids and their computers was reassuring to her.


"You're doing great," she said, placing her hand on mine.


"Thanks," I said, smiling at her.


"Mr. Miller, I have some new copy."  I turned to see Charlie
Swenson, a newswriter and Jenny's brother.  He was nervously
clutching a clipboard and his thick black glasses were
slightly askew.


"Thanks, Charlie," I said, taking the papers from him.  I
smiled at him. He stood for a second, his head ticking like
a canary. Then he turned and shuttled off.


"That guy needs to get laid," Rita whispered to me.  I
chuckled silently and reviewed the copy. An accident victim
had died a few minutes ago, which would change our story.
The producer gave me
a signal and counted us down and back on air.

The show went well.  I didn't made any major screw-ups and
my hair hadn't moved.  The latter, of course, was the
important thing.  As I packed up in my dressing room, Rita
popped in to tell me that I was great that night.  I thanked
her.  I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out to the
hall.  Charlie was standing there.

"Mr. Miller."  Charlie seemed nervous, more than usual.

"Charlie, for god sakes, call me David," I said, a little
tired, but trying not to be snappish.

"David, what do you know about the Dyzeman plant closing?"

"Nothing but what was in the news tonight.  They're closing
it." I really wasn't in the mood for a discussion of current
events at that moment.

"But do you know why they're closing it?"  He seemed to know
something.

"Cost-cutting, I guess."

"I don't think so.  There was some kind of accident there
last week.  We couldn't get confirmation, so we didn't
report it.  But something happened, I know it."  He seemed
determined about something.

"Well, I'll keep my ears open,"

"I think we should go down there," he asserted quickly.  "I
think we should check it out."

"Um, Charlie," I said, slightly amused. "I don't think the
two of us are going to be able to break into a chemical
plant in the dead of night.  I'm not that kind of reporter.
Besides, the amount of gel in my hair could set off some
sort of cataclysmic reaction with the chemicals in there."

"I think there's a story there," he was agitated, he really
wanted my help.

"Look, I'll talk to Larry, maybe we can investigate it, but
not right now.  You wanna go for a drink or something?"  His
brown eyes flashed a bit, but his shoulders slumped and he
looked up at me.

"No, thanks.  I'm going to go to the library and do some
research."

"Okay.  But, Charlie, don't go wandering around down there.
You could get in a lot of trouble."

"Yeah," he said, a little sad at being denied. "I'll see ya,
Mr. Miller."  He trudged off back toward his office.

As I emerged from the back door onto the wet, shining
pavement, I started thinking about what Charlie has said.
Was there a story there?  And why didn't I want to find out.
When I was in college, I dreamed of being the adventurous
reporter, always being called on the carpet by my editor for
my vigilante antics. But then I graduated and started in TV.
Now I wanted to sit in a chair and read other people's
stories.  I never even really was a reporter. I had never
even owned a trench coat.

I wanted a story, I realized.  I wanted to break something,
catch someone.  And I knew, that if I did, if I reported a
big enough headline, I would be made anchor.  But what?  And
how?  I wasn't a gumshoe, I wasn't gonzo.  I was manicured
for god sakes.  And I really wasn't excited about wandering
around a chemical factory at night.

What I needed was a Super Hero.  That's the kind of story
that makes a name.  But the town had been without a hero for
months, years really.  Like any major population center, we
had had our share of minor heroes, but our greatest hero had
died ten years before and no one worthy had taken his place.

While Metropolis had Superman and Gotham had Batman, we had
The Lambda.  He was America's first and greatest gay super
hero. Fighting crime in a powder blue spandex suit, The
Lambda had routed his enemies with a fierce kick, a powerful
punch and a flair for punning.  Soon after his creation, t-
shirts started appearing with his catchphrases like "Let's
re-upholster his face!" and "You ARE going to be caught dead
in that outfit".  He was courageous and brave and,
surprisingly, became a beacon of gay acceptance.  The city
embraced him, though many still called him fag behind his
back.  But when Dr. Squid had rigged his tanning booth with
heteronite, The Lambda was defeated.

Soon a new wave of superheroes, all gay, began popping up.
Master Tom had been successful in destroying Dr. Squid, but
he soon turned dark and became The SlaveMaster, one of our
most ruthless villains.

Dildo Dude had caught the city's attention for a while, but
his choice of weapons made him ill-suited for children.
Plus, he looked ridiculous.  Trust me, Star Wars would not
have been as successful in Luke's light saber had a
foreskin.

Dyke Dame, never without her trusty black motorcycle, had
seemed a ray of hope.  But then she had moved on to bring
safety to the bed and breakfasts on Vermont.  The most
recent hero, Club Kid, was no replacement.  His costume
consisted of white briefs and a form-fitting t-shirt. An
accident had allowed him to shoot bubbles from his wrists,
which was a useless talent.  But he was not too bright and
his lunkheaded decision to wield an actual club had left him
vulnerable to the attack of super villain trio, X, T and C.

So the streets of City City had been a playground for
criminals and evildoers for months.  Even the super villains
had become bored and moved away.  The town had become as
boring and unremarkable as its name. (The founder had
thought it would be very meta and funny to name the town
City, like naming a dog, Dog.  But when the state had taken
its capital for a name, the whole thing became ridiculous.
No arch villain wants an address that reads City City, City.
And the whole "Town so nice they named it thrice" tourism
campaign had been a dismal failure.)

I stepped into my car, eyeing the oppressively cloudy sky.
It was gong to start raining again any minute.  I slid the
key into the ignition as some tingly emotion began fingering
up from my belly.  What if there really was something going
on at the plant? Wasn't it my duty to investigate?  Wasn't
this precisely what I had always wanted to do?  I steeled
myself and pulled out, either being a daring reporter or an
idiot.  Probably both.

As the apartment high-rises and commercial buildings gave
way to houses and low, industrial warehouses, I began to
feel scared and
exhilarated. I saw the ghostly green light of the factory,
filtering through thick smoke in the night.  The factory
stood on a steep, jagged cliff and waves from the bay were
licking furiously at its sides.  I part my car a few blocks
from the entrance and proceeded on foot.

I saw the huge chain-link gates open as a large tanker drove
past me. The Dyzeman logo, a huge black skull, loomed in
front of me as it passed.  This was so stupid, but think of
the glory.  I saw the attendant turn away as the gate closed
and I hurried between the slowly swinging fences.  I ran to
a shadowy area next to the bay day doors and stood for a
moment.  Huge smokestacks rose above me with flashing lights
at their mouths.  There were large tanker trucks parked
everywhere in front, and there seemed to be much activity as
large hoses filled each one in turn.  They were moving
something, but what?

I crept around in the shadows and found a small metal door.
I tried it and it slid open.  I peered around and saw no
one, so I entered the factory.  Huge vats, with walls twenty
feet tall were spread throughout the cavernous interior.
Steel catwalks and staircases stretched all around.  In one
corner, I saw a windowed office, light pouring out between
Venetian blinds.  I could hear muffled voices.  As
stealthily as I could, I crept up a far staircase.  I had to
take care that the footfalls of my wing tips did not echo.
A thick, acrid smell wended its way into my lungs and I
almost coughed.  The voices were growing louder.

"It's the only thing we could do, sir.  The government is on
to us.  We have to get this stuff out of here."  A high male
voice, soaked with panic was explaining.

"Peterson's right, sir.  It's our only option," another,
more reasoned voice was saying.

"If we take this stuff out of here, no one will know,"
Peterson continued, his voice rising still higher.  "And
when it's destroyed-" he was cut off.

"Destroyed?" a deep, deathly cold voice drawled.

"Yes.  We must destroy the evidence."  Peterson was trilling
now with fear.

"We will not destroy it," said the deep voice. "I have
worked too hard."

"Yes, sir, you have," Peterson continued. "But think of what
will happen if we are found out.  We would go to prison."

"You worry so much about prison, Peterson.  There are far
worse fates." There seemed to be a laugh on the dead voice.
"You agree with him, Cecil?"

"Well," the second man began. "It may be safer if all of the
Cynanex was destroyed." I crept closer so I could see
through the window.  A tall, slender man with a sharp nose,
circular glasses and graying temples was speaking. "But
there may be alternatives."

"Alternatives?!" A short, pudgy bald man, Peterson, was
practically shaking. He was speaking to man sitting behind a
large desk.  I could not see him. "There are no
alternatives.  We must destroy it. It's too dangerous.
Think of how many lives-"

Bang!  A single gunshot echoed fiercely through the giant
space.
Peterson slumped and fell to the ground.  As he fell, my
body surged with terror.   I could see the man in the chair
clearly now.  Two glowing red eyes sat trained on the clump
that was Peterson.  The face was like a knotted tree, with
thick gray folds of skin locked in the rigor of a scream.
The cold black maw that passed for a mouth was folded in an
evil smile.

"Was that really necessary, sir?" Cecil seemed impatient,
but not surprised by the turn of events.  "We could have
disposed of him in other ways."

"Of course," the monster hissed. "But I do love to see the
surprise on their faces, you know. Now let's discuss the
alternatives."  The thing stood, a thick purple cloak
hanging off his frail body.

My breath was short as I tried to stave off panic.  I had
just seen a man murdered, and it hadn't even been the worst
thing I'd seen that night.  Even as I glanced around the
factory for means of escape those red eyes were burned into
my corneas.  I stayed as quiet and still as I could, even
though I was sure I was about to be killed.  Cecil and the
man continued discussing the transport of something, but I
was too terrified to concentrate on what they were saying.
Until they stopped speaking at all.

"We are not alone," the monster whispered.  I began
preparing to die; praying silently to whatever God there was
to make it quick.

"What are you doing here," said Cecil angrily.  I glanced
over and saw him facing the opposite direction.  I could not
see what he was talking to.  "Speak!"  Nothing. I heard the
heavy cloak dragging against the floor.

"I don't know you.  Why are you spying on us?"  The voice
seemed to chill the air.

"Wha- What are you?" a small, serious voice said.

"You want to know my name," hissed the thing, smiling.
"Cecil, has the board decided on a name, yet?"

"No, sir, they haven't."

"Sorry."  The thing shrugged and another gunshot pierced my
ears. I heard a loud, sickening splash as the body fell in
to one of the vats.  A loud, anguished scream ripped through
the building. "See what I did there, Cecil?  I saved you the
clean-up."

"Yes, thank you sir.  Perhaps we should get you home.  Two
homicides are enough for one night."

"Perhaps you're right.  I am tired.  Fill out a worker's
compensation claim for Peterson.  Make sure his wife and
children get a nice settlement."

"Yes sir."  The thing stepped out onto the catwalk and I
heard his leaden footsteps descend the stairs. I waited for
an hour or so, staying silent, while two large men came and
carried Peterson's body out.  Then Cecil turned out the
light and left the factory.

It was almost pitch black, with only a few traces of
moonlight sinking through the dirty windows.  I listened,
but heard nothing, so I crept from my hiding place and
started down the stairs.  The something gripped my stomach.
Damn curiosity, again.  I walked back, past the office to
the edge of the vat.  A
thick, blood red liquid roiled and lapped at the thick
walls.  It smelled of sulfur and something I could not
place.  Then I saw something on the other side of the pool
that made me lurch.

A large, rigid hand emerged from the slime.  It's fingers
wiggled and then it was followed by an arm.  The light was
very dim, but I could see ragged, scorched clothes hanging
off what I could now see was a man.  His slow-moving, ashen
fingers gripped the edge of the vat and he hoisted himself
up with remarkable strength.
He stood, his body dripping down from his matted hair.
Suddenly, he turned and looked straight at me.  My mouth was
slung open and my heart seemed to have stopped beating.  I
did not know what to think.  Was this a victim or some new
villain?  His shoulders slumped and I could hear his breaths
get sharper.  I stepped toward him.

"No!" He whispered hoarsely. "Stay back."  I obliged.

"Are you all right?"  I peered at him, trying to get a sense
of his features, but the light only gave me a dull profile.

"Don't follow me."  He heaved himself, limping, into the
shadows. I stood, terrified, then turned and ran down the
stairs, out the door and back, through the opening gate.
Anyone could have seen me, but I had to get out of that
place as fast as I could.

I drove home in a fugue.  I had seen too much.  That
horrible thing, with it's drawn, moaning face.  Peterson
slumping over in a lifeless heap.  The man, or whatever it
was that had emerged from the chemicals.  What was that?
How had he survived?  And what exactly was he now?

I got home and sunk into a chair.  Should I call the police?
But would they believe me?  And what could I tell them when
ever I didn't know what I saw.  "Yeah, officer, you know the
Munch painting `The Scream'?  Yeah, he looked like that."
No, as much as I hated the idea, I needed to know more
before I said anything.  And as lucky as my escape had been
tonight, I knew I probably would not get out of this alive.
I would make anchor, all right.  I'd be a lifeless lump at
the bottom of the bay.

I barely slept, but I went in to work the next day full of
fire. I was going to find out everything I could about
Dyzeman.  And I was going to start with the person who
turned me on to the story. I asked Jenny where Charlie was,
but she told me that he was with their mother.  She had been
diagnosed with terminal cancer and both kids were spending
as much time with her as possible.  She had apparently taken
a turn for the worse when Charlie was visiting her the night
before.

I wasn't anchoring that night and it was a slow news day, so
I spent my time researching the factory.  The company was
owned by Leland Brandt, a reclusive millionaire who was
rarely seen in public.  The CEO, Cecil Travers, ran the
company for him.  I remembered Cecil, his gaunt profile and
sharp nose from the night before.  But what was the thing he
called sir?

The reasons for the plant closure were given as cost
cutting.
But I found that odd when I read that similar plants
in Seattle and Houston were staying open.  Property
values and taxes were much higher in both places, so
this plant seemed an odd choice. And there had
seemed to be something they were trying to hide.
Something in those tanker trucks.

I went home straight after work and puzzled through
what I had learned, but I knew I needed more.  I
couldn't risk another trip
to the factory so soon, and I was exhausted.  I fell
into a deep sleep within minutes.

The next day, Charlie was back. His mother had gotten
a little better.  He seemed to avoid me during the
day, but I cornered him after the broadcast.

"Charlie," I said as he walked down the hall toward

the door. "Wait up."  He halted and turned around.

"Ye-yes?"  He was a little flustered.

"Can I talk to you?  You were on to something."

"What?"

"The plant.  Look, I don't want to talk here.  Do
you want to come back to my place?"  He eyed me
nervously.


"Um, okay."  I gave him the address and told him to
follow me. When we got to my apartment door, I
opened it and let him in.


"You want something to drink?"  I asked him, taking
my coat off.


"Water."  He looked around, like he felt out of
place.


"Relax, Charlie.  If you start out this tense you'll
never make it through what I'm going to tell you."
I went to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of
ice water.  I saw him pacing around, looking at my
furniture and d‚cor.  It was a rather eclectic
apartment, with hard wood floors and brightly
painted walls.  It was not the typical, modern home
of a news anchor. But I like the whimsy of it.
Besides, it had huge bay windows that looked out on
the city and a nice balcony off the kitchen. I
handed Charlie the water and sat down.


"Who's this?" he asked, holding a photograph of me
and another man.


"That's my ex, Steve.  He lives in Cincinnati now.


"You-you're gay?"


"Yeah.  That okay?"  I was shocked he didn't already
know.  I was fairly out at the station.


"What?  Yeah, of course it's okay."


"Sit down," I offered.  He sat, still looking a
little flushed and nervous.  His clothes were
wrinkled a bit, and his sandy brown hair was out of
sorts.  "I went to that factory last night."


"Uh, what?" he asked, very surprised.  "You went
there?"


"Yeah, I don't know why, but I just had to. It
was..." my voice sunk from under me and  trailed off.


"What happened?"  He leaned in, his voice hushed.


I proceeded to tell him the story, of the trucks
hurrying out and the three men, the horrible face of
the lead man.


"He looked like that painting, you know, just
moaning," I described.


"You should call him The Scream," he said, a hint of
authority in his voice.  Charlie is cute, I suddenly
realized.


"The Scream?  Okay," I said, starting to look a
little deeper into him.  He had a smooth, pale face
with soft, pink lips.  He had a bit of a natural
pout.  And the thick glasses set off his face in a
cute bit of geekiness.


"Then what happened?"  He was enthralled now, or
giving a reasonable facsimile of it.  I told him
about Peterson, and the other man whose face I never
saw.


"He fell in?" Charlie asked.  "What was it? What was
in the vat?"


"I don't know.  I don't know chemicals.  But, that's
not the important thing.  He got out.  Like an hour
later he just hoisted himself out."


"Wow," Charlie said, darkness in his voice.


"Then he just ran off.  I couldn't see his face."  I
tried to read Charlie's reaction.


"So you have no idea who he is?"


"No.  I ran the Hell out of there," I said, a little
guiltily.


"You should never have gone there.  It's my fault,
I'm sorry."
He rose from the couch, agitated.

"It's not your fault, I went on my own.  And I'm
okay.  Scared shitless, yes, but okay."  I moved
toward him, reaching out a hand to comfort him.  He
pulled away.  Suddenly his hands shot to his temple
and we wrenched his face in pain.  "You okay?"

"Headache," he said through intense pain.  "I should
go."  He stepped quickly to the door and grabbed his
coat.  He was through the door before I could say
anything.  I ran to the door and opened it to call
after him.  I looked up and down the long hallway.
He was gone.

I walked back in, a bit confused.  I sat down.
Charlie blamed himself, but I was fine.  And the way
he ran out, I thought I had really hurt him.  And,
most confusing of all, I suddenly found myself
thinking about how cute he was.  How sweet his lips
looked.  How much I wanted to see beneath those
rumpled, illfitting clothes.

Charlie avoided me the rest of the week.  I wasn't
sure why he was so upset, but he seemed to be afraid
of even looking at me. My thoughts increasingly
turned to figuring out who the purplecloaked man, the
one we had dubbed The Scream, was.  I decided that if
I could get a sample of the strange chemical, a
friend of mine could analyze it.  If I could identify
it, maybe I could figure out why they were so
desperate to hide it.

On Sunday night, I called Charlie and told him I was
going back to the factory.  He was not home, but I
wanted someone to know in case anything happened to
me.  I had no idea where this sense of bravery was
coming from.  But I thought of Peterson's dead body
hitting the floor and the fourth man's screams.  I
had to solve this before anyone else died.  I also
thought about the soft tufts of hair on Charlie's
earlobes, but I tried to shake that image out of my
head.

The plant was quiet, still, hovering above me like a
dark,
sinister cathedral. The trucks were gone and there
seemed to be only a couple guards.  The gate was
closed so I wandered along the perimeter.  I found a
hole in the chain link and climbed through.  At six
feet, it was a bit of a squeeze.  I slunk in the
shadows to the same doorway and entered.  The light
was off in the office as I slowly ascended the metal
stairs.  I looked around and listened.  Nothing.  I
had purchased a vial and some thick gloves to get a
sample of the chemical.  I reached the edge of the
vat and looked down.  It was empty.  The thick iron
sides were scrubbed clean.  How had they cleaned it
up so fast?

"How did you get in?"  The voice immediately froze my
blood to ice.  I couldn't say a word.  I heard a
cloak drag against the floor with a sick, deep
rustling.  "This is private property."

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, moving a foot to walk
away.  "I'll just be going."

"STOP!" The voice boomed like a cannon.  I froze.
"Turn around!"

Slowly I felt my body turn, as much as I tried to
fight it. I closed my eyes.  I could not see that
thing again.

"Look at me," it growled.  I opened my eyes to find
those horrible red eyes inches from my own.  But I
felt no breath from the gaping mouth.  The deep
ridges of his face curled up into a horrifying sneer.
He cocked his head like a feral dog.  "I know you,"
he hissed breathlessly.

Bright light exploded  all around us, illuminating
the factory with fire.  The Scream constricted his
face and collapsed at my feet.  I looked up and saw a
profile emerging from the shadows. It was a man:
tall, lithe, but muscular.  Everything but his mouth
and eyes were covered with a thin layer of dark, wine
red fabric. His muscles were defined and hard. His
eyes were intense. He walked toward me, his muscles
working visibly beneath the material.  He reached out
a gloved hand.

"We need to get out of here," he commanded, his voice
deep, but pragmatic.  I took his strong hand and
stepped over the bundle of robes that was The Scream.

"What about?  Is he...?"

"You can't kill something that's already dead," he
said sternly while he led me past the office.  I
suddenly felt remarkably like a damsel.  It was not
an unpleasant feeling.

As we ran toward the staircase, two bulky, black-clad
men appeared at the top.  We stopped as they
advanced.  They drew large rifles and, cocking them
as they rose, pointed them straight at us.

"Get down," my rescuer yelled, pushing me to the
ground.  As he stretched out his arms in front of him
and opened his palms, I heard the guns fire.  At that
moment, thick, bright streams of light shot out of
his hands.  Like straight, soupy orange bolts of
lightning, the streams collided straight into the
bullets, exploding them each in a tiny pop.  Each
stream of light hit one of the men square in the
chest, sending them flying backwards.  I looked away
from the brightness to see a tangle of purple velvet
rising behind us.

"Look out!" I screamed.  The hero turned, sending a
ball of bright orange light toward the advancing
figure.  The light hit his chest and sped through
him, sending his robe-covered body
into intense convulsions, like a speeded-up film.  He
stood, rigid, still quaking, his red eyes dulling
over, like he was suspended in space.

"I wondered what that would do," said the man, I

think to himself. We looked down.  There were more

thugs advancing. Whoever this monster was, he seemed

to have a private army of black-clad bouncers.

"How do we get out?" I asked, begin to panic again.

"Hold me," he said.

"What?"

"Just grab hold of me!"  I threw my arms around him,
feeling the contour of his chest pressed against
mine.  I could feel his heart beat and I'm sure he
could feel my own.  I felt his gloved hands at my
back as his mouth drew close to my ear.  "This might
hurt, just hold on," he whispered.


Suddenly everything was a peachy orange light.  I
felt our bodies pressed together at a sub-atomic
level, as if we were amoebas undoing mitosis. The
world spun and I stared into his eyes to keep from
getting dizzy.  They were deep, brown and they stared
right back at me.  I had no idea what was happening
but I felt the ground melt beneath me and I had the
sudden sensation that I was falling, then flying.
After a few seconds, solid ground froze up again
under my feet as the light died away.  I began
breathing again as the man let me out of his grasp.


"What was that?" I asked, breathless.


"I can move through space.  I'm not sure why."  He
was a little out of breath himself. I looked up to
see familiar surroundings. I was outside, but the
view of the city was my own.  I was on my balcony.


"How did you know where I-" I felt a finger on my
mouth, quieting me.


"You'll be safe now.  Go rest."  There was caring in
his voice.
I exhaled a bit, I wasn't quite ready to stand on my
own.

"Who are you?" I asked, peering into his eyes.

"Call me... Call me, Quark.  It's a little geeky,
but..."  I think I saw an eyebrow raise slightly
under his mask.  As a breeze kicked up on the patio,
I felt his strong hand at the back of my neck.  He
tilted his head and I felt his breath on my face.

His lips touched mine and I felt light shooting
through every vein in my body.  As his warm wet
tongue slid gently into mouth, my own mouth
responded, taking him in.  I felt his hands leave my
body.  I closed my eyes and a warmth waved quickly
through me. Swirls of heat wrapped around me,
caressing my skin, turning my body to gooseflesh.  I
felt the heat die away, the soft lips finally leaving
my mouth. I opened my eyes and he was gone.



To Be Continued.