1300: Breakfast of Champions

Her eyes creaked open slowly, as the momentary confusion she always had after a dream swam over her. Instantly, every detail of the room shot into sharp focus - she could count the stubble on the ceiling and hear the buzz of the alarm clock's batteries as they slowly drained out.

One arm flailed out, and Mitch wasn't there. A burst of confusion, and then realization - yes, of course Mitch wasn't there because she had fallen asleep at her parent's, hadn't she?

She began to sit up and winced as she felt pins and needles shoot through her tails. She'd gone nova while sleeping - which was a first. The dream may have been a factor... and she had to write it down quick, before it slipped away.

She fumbled for her PDA, and clicked open a file marked Dream Journal. She cast a sidelong glance at the clock, and groaned as 1:14 PM blinked back at her. She'd overslept - she could hear her mother gently tut-tuting away already. She wrote quickly on the stylus-pad, in shorthand - a skill she'd picked up when one barely functional hand was all she had to type with and shorthand was the best way to say what she meant quickly. Now, with full motor control, it still came in handy.

Her entry complete, she stood up out of bed, grumbling to herself. "So, Doctor Roxanne Richardson," she muttered to herself. "What's your diagnosis? Why does the subject sleep in fits and starts - okay for days without it and then crashing like the Hindenburg?"

She examined herself in the full-length mirror, and groaned. She was in her nova form, which had certain upsides - telepathic ability, the power to generate mental illusions, heightened senses, hypnotic voice, flight, fire and lightning generation, invisibility and intangibility, and those were just for openers. But the body had its downside, which was a simple one: she looked like a cross between a normal woman and a three-tailed fox, neither of which were at their best looking after waking up.

Her long, white frizzy hair was cowlicked and disheveled. One pointy ear had bent inside out, slightly painfully - she winced a little as she straightened it out. An elegant fur coat, in orange, white and black, adorned her body - and half of it looked like it'd been combed by a spastic, crushed this way and that. A pair of green eyes, a rich and bright emerald tone, blearily stared across the bridge of a canine muzzle at her reflection. Behind her swished her tails - all three of them foxlike and all three of them full of pins and needles.

She stretched a little, feeling tiny pops going off within her body. Then she reached inside, and pulled herself inwards.

Describing it was difficult. There was a term for it - 'dorming down.' But it didn't quite do the act justice. It was the act of reaching out throughout your body with the tiny clump of tissue in your forehead, getting a firm yet relaxed grip on all the quantum-suffused energy throughout your body, and then gently pulling it back, tucking it away safe and sound within your Mazarin-Rashoud node. The bright side of it was that quantum energy that wasn't under your control and had a tendency to manifest as embarrassing aberrations got taken along for the ride as well. Why, was a stickier matter - why her muzzle would reform into a normal human face, why her fur would recede and her tails would withdraw into her body. She had her theories on it, which were looking to be a lot less solid as the days went by.

She stared at herself, no longer The Vixen, but instead Roxanne Richardson, the only outward signs of her status as a nova being her white hair and green eyes, both not exactly uncommon nowadays so that was all right. She pulled her bathrobe off the wall, and then paused.

She examined the mirror again, and then put the robe away.

"Hmmmm. Doctor Richardson, your diagnosis must be put on hold. There's a new theory that needs to be tested out." Inside of her, the tiny flickering flame of quantum energy sat calmly in her mind. "The theory is this: am I still going to look like I got in a fight with the neighbor's dog when I go nova?"

The flame spread with passion and speed, and the fur returned, the tails returned, the head reshaped and the eyes flared for a moment, a brilliant glowing eldritch green. There was no pain - there was never any pain. For her, it was like putting on another set of clothes.

She examined herself, smiling. Her fur was no longer crushed, and the pins and needles in her tails were gone. "Your theory appears to be 100% incorrect, Doctor Richardson - the subject no longer looks like she overslept while undormed." She sighed, grabbing her robe. "And someday when I meet another nova who turns into a plush toy, this knowledge may benefit another."

She exited her room, and padded down to the bathroom. Entering, she grabbed her special shampoo - which came in a big bottle - and turned on the water.

She stood in the shower for a few minutes, feeling the temperature of the water as it fell from the bathtub drain. The house's plumbing was laid out like a Rube Goldberg device, and hot water took its sweet time traveling from the pump through the pipes and out the shower head. One of the appealing things about the upcoming move was that she'd get to use Mitch's shower more often, which was less temperamental.

The hot water finally came, and she squeezed out a large dollop of goo from her bottle. She lathered it into her fur. It had taken some time to track down - it was the sort of thing they sold to dog breeders, ones who had to bathe a large amount of dog. She'd tried masking the odor at first with aloe and other weapons from the bath shop, but she could still make out the sharp scent of the shampoo, so she didn't bother anymore. She just breathed through her mouth until it was over.

She rinsed it out of her fur, and shut off the shower. She toweled off briskly and pulled her robe back on, and then stood in place for a few minutes as the last drops drained away.

I wonder if the others go through this, she thought. No, probably not. I have to laugh. Pink hair? Glowing eyes? Green skin? I'll take that over this, thank you.

Satisfied that she was no longer dripping water on the carpet, she rose into the air, and floated upstairs.

On the kitchen counter was a note, in her mother's scrawl:

Roxy-
Went out grocery shopping. Should be back around five. Call me if staying with Mitch tonight. - Mom

She put the note aside, and opened up the fridge, which had changed considerably in the last year or so. Nova-level quantities of food were now stored within, stacks of lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, and other leafy greens. Not as much as at other houses she'd been to - the size of the Amp Room's storage locker had to be seen to be believed - but then again, she drifted towards the low end of the scale when it came to nova-powered appetites.

She hauled out the grill, and pulled out the pancake batter mix. Whistling quietly, she cooked away.

There were many things she liked doing while dormed down, and many things she liked to do in nova form, and some that had down sides either way. Cooking was something she loved to do as a nova - the scents of everything mixing together in the bowls and grills and pans was literally mouth-watering, rich and full and lovely. But she didn't cook for others this way that often because of a depressing tendency to shed into whatever she mixed. Cooking for herself, however, was no contest.

Drifting scents filled the room as she deposited a stack of pancakes on the plate. She wondered idly if nova stomachs were larger than a normal baseline's - it was possible for the stomach to stretch, she knew that much, but to accommodate two to ten times as much food was a herculean feat. Maybe it got broken down faster, and novas just learnt to eat at a pace that didn't exceed the breakdown rate. Something to test, anyways.

The tower of pancakes sat before her and she poured on some syrup and some butter, and then stabbed one with a fork and began to eat. She took care not to get syrup in her fur, for it took effort to get out; a year's worth of novahood had given her practice in how to steer around some of her body's quirks.

She polished off the plate quickly, and then sat back, watching the birds through the window.

It was going to be that kind of day. She could feel it.

1400: Leaving the Nest

Nourished and fully awake, Roxanne deposited herself in front of the TV. The blinking light on top told her she had new shows ready for download, so she started up the menus and accessed the channels.

She thought back to life before the OpNet, when you actually had to sit down at a time dictated by the networks and watch - or failing that, to remember to videotape it. Now you had instant access to any program at any time, and 99% of it was still abject crap.

The program was Rising Stars - adapted from an old, favorite comic of hers, by the man who wrote it. It had gained cult popularity, as shows about superpowers sometimes did in a world where superpowers were real. They weren't as popular as the documentaries and based-on-a-true-story TV movies that came along, but that was never a sign of quality...

The phone rang. Roxanne paused a discussion on a conspiracy in mid-rant and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Roxy."

"Mom! Hi!" Roxanne shut off the television and cradled the phone. "I got your note-"

"Yes, you were still so tired when I left, I thought I'd just leave a note. How are you?"

"Watching TV."

"That's nice, yes... are you going to be staying at Mitch's tonight?"

"Yeah, I am, Mom. I'll be dropping off a change of address form tomorrow."

"Oh, good good, yes... how are things between you and Mitch, then?"

"He's housebroken, if that's what you're asking." Despite herself, Roxanne curled her lip. She felt the conversation being gently steered towards a place she didn't want to go.

"Oh, well, that's good. He's neat? Tidy?"

"No, not really. he will be once I'm done with him. That's how it was like with you and Dad, right?"

"Yes, well... I just worry about you, I'm your mother and I'm allowed to do that. Moving in is a big step together and you've only been dating a few months..."

"Yeah, but Mom... I've known him for years. I've worked with him half my adult life. He's a friend as well as my boyfriend, and we get along great..."

"I just worry, is all."

An intuitive leap tugged at her, and she grabbed the remote, muting the television and then going through the history log. "Relax, Mom. We get along great, and we always have, and he's got a really steady and stable job and I don't have any intention of becoming a housewife, so we'll be good for money..." She highlighted last night's viewing, an interview with some Elite on one of those talk shows that had their lips firmly planted on quantum-powered buttocks-

A precis of the interview was available. She scanned it, realization hitting her like a baseball.

Archive: Luthor Fleming Interview, August 20, 2011. DeVries Elite talks about love and money...

"Mom... is this about the fact that... you know..."

"Oh, well... kind of, I suppose, honey. I hear about how... people like you get along best with other... people like you...."

"The flying and mind reading and all of that? Mom, that's just... that's like a skill set, that's all. Just stuff that I do - it's not who I am. And yeah, I saw the interview too. That guy, he's... how do I put this, he's a professional mercenary. If he doesn't get along with his girlfriend 'cause she's a baseline, bully for him, but he's not me."

"Oh, I know, it's just..." Roxanne could feel her mother struggling for words on the other end.

"We will be fine, Mom. Trust me."

"... okay. I just wasn't sure. That's all."

"Nothing wrong with that, Mom. Like you said, it's a big step." Roxanne checked the time - 2:34 blinked back at her. "I've got a little stuff I need to do - I'm going to swing my Nicole's store in a few minutes, so I have to let you go..."

"Okay, honey. You take care, there might be rain later."

"I'll grab a garbage bag."

"Honey-!"

"Three holes and it makes a perfect coat. What? Haven't you seen the engineers wear them?

"They're engineers, though."

"... you have a point. Okay, I'll take my raincoat, okay Mom?"

"Okay."

"Talk to you later. G'bye." Roxanne hung the phone up, and exhaled. She stared daggers at the television set. "Terrific. Now my mom thinks I'm an asshole like the rest of you."

She checked the clock again, and groaned. Rising Stars would have to wait - she had an appointment to keep.

1500: Nobody's Victim

"That'll be $14.98... from fifteen?"

The till clicked open and the tape machine clattered, and Nicole tore the receipt free and handed it to the customer. The customer nodded his thanks, and left, and the store was once again quiet.

Nicole looked over the bookshelves, mentally noting which copies she was running low on. The Pratchett was beginning to catch on, and with an adaptation of Neuromancer coming to theaters she'd need to restock the Gibson. The standee for the last Clancy was getting old and so was the book, so she decided she'd retired it tomorrow. She hoisted up a copy of Q-Team Delta: Seven Thunders and read the blurb:

John Jackson, leader of Q-Team Delta, the Directive's crack anti-supercrime squad, has learnt a horrible truth: the President of the Russian Confederation is a spy, reporting to his mirror team within the bowels of the Teragen hierarchy. Now he must navigate a serpentine web on intrigue and danger while unraveling a vast global conspiracy that is poised to destroy the world's supplies of synthetic eufiber for the next five years...

Nicole made a face, and put down the book. "'Bowels of the Teragen' is right," she sniffed. Clancy was one of those writers she had to support to stay in business, but if he'd suddenly switch sales numbers with a contemporary British humorist or two she would shed no tears.

The lighting in the store changed just slightly, and she turned around to look at the arriving customer... and smiled warmly. "Sis!"

"Heya, Nicole." Roxanne entered, dressed in a tank top, shorts and her denim vest. Her hair was windswept, and Nicole knew she'd flown over, even though she was now dormed. "How's your day been?"

"Oh, a little quiet. Which is good 'cause I need it. How about you? Getting ready for the big move?"

"Sure am. Hardest part's been reassuring Mom..."

"Ah, yeah. She's looking at the empty nest, though. And with Dad in the hospital, well..."

Roxanne nodded softly, the memory of her father getting shot still clear as could be in her mind. Nicole nodded as well, then spoke. "So, hey, sis... would you mind?"

"Oh, you need a help with restock? Sure, I-"

"No, no. This." Nicole tapped the side of her head lightly. "I just wanna make sure."

Roxanne nodded again, snuck a peek out the window to make sure no one was looking, and then went nova, fur spilling out of her skin. Tails snaked out of the hidden flap in her shorts, and her eyes flickered with emerald energies as she touches Nicole's forehead softly.

Memories streamed past the mind's eye of Roxanne. She ignored the finer details, instead looking for anomalies - signs of outside tampering. She could detect traces from the mental therapy that Amira, from the Project, had accomplished, and the faintest impressions of Bastian's original tampering... and nothing else.

"You're golden, sis."

Nicole exhaled, as Roxanne withdrew her palm, and dormed down once again. "Thanks, Roxy. You have no idea how reassuring it is..."

"It's no problem, Nicole. None at all." Privately, Roxanne was thankful Nicole had asked - it was a sign that she was healing. Before, she'd have reacted with vehemence and hostility, but Nicole Richardson had come a long way in a short time.

"Thanks. I know you're figuring I'm being paranoid-"

"No, I don't. Honest. I get relieved every time you check in with me." Roxanne passed her gaze over the shop. "How're the new help?"

"Hopeless. So in two weeks they'll be whipped into shape. And you? How's the glorious life of a contractor?"

"I'm going to have to actually take a contract soon. Between Dad, and... all the other stuff... the money's starting to run low. They'll shoot me a new one soon, though, they just need to stick me back into rotation after being out for so long."

"Yeah - imagine that, you'd have to work." Nicole winked and grinned. "I'm teasing, of course. Where's Mitch? Work?"

"Yep."

"So you're the housewife."

"I most certainly am not." Roxanne folded her arms in mock offense. "If I wanted to, I could put us both in a mansion. Although if I did, it'd mean spending a lot more time away from home... and more time than I already spend developing my powers...."

"I'm teasing again. I'm happy for you both."

"And you, sis? Still looking for a man?"

"Still am, yeah. Thought of trying OpNet dating services, but... well, you get an image of a guy who spends all his time at the computer...."

"Yeah, I know. Maybe I should introduce you to Mark, or some of the others from the university. You never know... tenure's a selling point."

"Yeah, but when they GET tenure they're too old to have any fun with it."

"Truth, yeah... oh, Nicole. You'll find a man, don't worry..." Roxanne's face turned mournful suddenly, as she vividly recalled her own brushes with loneliness... the feelings of worthlessness, of rejection, self-loathing and naval-gazing. Before, when she was paralyzed, and after, when she was a freak...

Nicole nodded softly. "Yeah... yeah, I will." She smiled back at Roxanne, and then grabbed her back-soon sign. "Want to go for ice mocha?"

"Sounds great! But make mine a double."

"Ah, yes, nova metabolism." Nicole set the time of return for 3:45, and then hung it up on the door. "Must suck a little, never getting a coffee buzz, never getting drunk..."

"So how'd that be different from how I lived before?"

"Good point."

1600: Teacher's Pet

"... now there's going to be points when your imagination wants to run away with you, and zip merrily down a path that might only have a little to do with the evidence at hand..."

Professor Mitch Lang was nearing the last ten minutes of the day and was, by now, a firm believer in the theory of relativity. Time dilation stretched out before him, turning ten minutes into ten hours, and possibly even more. The clock crawled into position, reading 4:45, and would read 4:45 for the next ten years.

The class was beginning to grow restless as well. It was halfway through the semester and the student body was slimming down, as more and more students found out that Advanced Zoology wasn't for them. And it was near the end of the day for them too, and they had places to go and things to do that involved copious amounts of alcohol. It was a Monday, too - that was hard on anybody.

Mitch's mind dwelled on other subjects as his mouth ran on something close to automatic.

"... resist this temptation. Science isn't about intuitive leaps, although they do happen. Thunderbolts don't strike that often - most of the time, 99.9% of the time, it's little baby steps forward as one speck of data is accumulated after another..."

I hope Jordan McDevitt can settle his salary dispute with NPR.

"In science, one of the hardest things to come to grips with is the knowledge that something is there to find out but you just can't figure it out. Think of it as a rope, made of many tiny strands, instead of a chain with links. A link breaks and the chain breaks as well, but if one of those strands in a rope breaks the strength of the rope hardly diminishes. Each strand represents one fact..."

Do I have enough for parking tomorrow? That stupid vending machine ate my money. I swear, they design the damn things that way on purpose...

"... the second most electrifying moment in science is when something happens and it's what you expect, and the most electrifying moment is when something happens and it's not what you expect - it's something new..."

I wonder, if I cross-patch the Beamer's sound system with my old music player, I could get past the compatibility problems with my latest sound pack-

~Hi, Mitch.~

Mitch blinked, and his mouth's automated process broke down. ".. that's what it's all... about..."

Roxanne sat in the front row, grinning widely. Her eyes were glowing, which they did when she was using her powers, and no one else was noticing her... she had to have turned invisible, broadcasting her "S.E.P. field" and excluding him.

She usually did this when trying to embarrass him. Mitch coughed, and Roxanne stretched lazily.

~Oh, don't mind me, Professor. You were saying something about scientific method?~

"... and... when the unexpected happens, that's when... that's when they separate the wheat from the chaff. So to speak. When you show what you're really made of. Mmm."

~Oh, silly me - I put on too small a shirt today! I'd better take it off.~

Roxanne began to peel off her shirt, and with great effort Mitch tore his gaze away. "Andthat'sallthetimewehavefortoday! Assignment4isdueFriday. Youcango."

The class slowly began to get up, gathering up books and knapsacks, and Mitch returned his gaze to Roxanne, who'd stuck her shirt back on. ~You know, Roxanne, there's nothing wrong with taking a seat at the back and waiting for the lecture to let out.~

~My way's more fun.~

Mitch nodded - she did have a point there. As the students began to file out, he saw her return to 'normal' - dorming down, internalizing quantum, slowly becoming visible at the exact moment no one was looking.

She bounded over to Mitch and smothered him in a hug, granted him a few quick kisses as he held her tight. "Missed you," she muttered.

"I can tell," he replied. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a rock. Only got up a few hours ago. Ready to go? I got this great tape we can watch-"

Mitch's expression grew pained. "No, I... there's a faculty meeting. They want me there."

Roxanne sighed, pouting. "Awwww...! Stupid ol' faculty members. Want me to talk them out of it?"

"If I bring my girlfriend in to explain for me why I can't come to a meeting, I might as well slice my nuts off and hand them over in a bag." Mitch grinned back at her. "But I've got some time before the meeting. You up for dinner?"

"Sure! Where to? The Steakhaus? Club Quantum?"

"Old school. Passé. I found a new place..."

1700: Being An Informal Discussion of the Common Physiological Changes Found in Homo Sapiens Novus

"The Beatnik Beefhouse?"

"The Beatnik Beefhouse."

"The Beatnik... Beefhouse."

"Yes. The beefhouse, full of beatniks."

Roxanne and Mitch could spend minutes at a time playing this game, which had no name and no rules but they both knew how to play anyway. It involved the incredulous restating of words that did not belong together.

The Beatnik Beefhouse was one of the hipper restaurants in the Seattle area, which they ate at more often now that money was looser than an anorexic's t-shirt. It consisted of staffers in berets and beards, bongo drums and low-key music, mood lighting and the occasional poet.

"If I was to picture a beefhouse in which, resides beatniks, this would be the beatnik beefhouse I pictured in my head. Yes." Roxanne examined the menu quietly, and made a face. "Geez... look at these prices...! I thought beatniks were supposed to be poor."

"Oh, I'm sure we can afford it. Right?"

"... right. Yeah. I'll just eat light."

"Eat light? You?"

A sharp glare from Roxanne told Mitch exactly how much hot water he'd be in if he didn't pick his next words very carefully. "I mean, yeah, you normally... have the... metabolism... thingee...."

"Keep talking, Mitch. I've never seen a man dig his own grave before."

"I'm sorry, Roxy."

"Naw... it's okay, I'm teasing. When I'm dormed, I don't get as hungry."

"Hmmmm. Why is that?"

Roxanne set down her menu, thinking for a moment. "Nova bodies need a lot of fuel. Some novas can subsist on ambient quantum particles, but other novas need to chow down on a LOT of food. They don't gain an ounce, either. I don't think it's possible for a nova to overeat."

"Yeah, but if - for example - you ate a lot of food in nova form and then dormed down soon afterwards, it would get metabolized and stored as fat, anything that wasn't used as energy, right?"

"To a degree. It'd get consumed when I went back into nova form, though, and during that time I wouldn't feel that hungry. Something about the way pain signals get rerouted in a nova - I wouldn't need to eat and I wouldn't feel hungry until I had to get some nourishment."

"Is it possible to starve to death without noticing it if you're a nova? Are they any cases of that happening?"

"You mean, are there any cases of a nova not being able to afford food? Don't think so."

Mitch smiled at her. "You know what I mean..."

"Well, it's... I don't know quite how to put it. I notice when I'm hungry but it's less of a driving force. My stomach doesn't growl... it just sits and waits for food. Sorry, I haven't studied it that closely."

"Oh, that's okay...."

Mitch trailed off as a beret-bearing goatee-growing waiter attended them. "Dig it, cats - you ready to order?"

"I'll take a Hipster House Special and a beer. And you, Roxy?"

"Chicken salad. ... but hold the chicken."

Mitch arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. "And a Coke," she finished lamely. "Please."

The waiter nodded and took their menus. "Should be cookin' a good scene in 'bout fifteen minutes, good ladies and gents - so around half past five, daddy-o." The waiter then left.

Mitch turned back to Roxanne. "A chicken salad without the chicken?"

"What's wrong with that? Nothing else I can eat here."

"Nothing else you will eat, you mean..."

"Mitch, you might recall I'm picking up the tab. How deep do you want to dig that grave?"

"Just teasing, hon... geez. About how long have you been vegan?"

"Well, it's something I gravitated towards even before my eruption, but now... well..." Roxanne examined the ceiling, blowing out between her lips, trying to figure out how to express herself. "We've discussed this a time or two. Everything has a very unique scent to it... like a fingerprint. If I wanted to I could track down one person out of a million-plus in this city. And there's a sort of an undercurrent of a scent as well... I'd name it but there's no language for it. It's the scent any animal has when they're alive..."

"Like a... a scent of life?"

"Yeah. And when it's gone, it leaves this other scent, a scent that's not pleasant at all... like corpses and cadavers, this sort of scent of death. And I smell it on anyone or any animal that's died and is decaying. And that's what pushed me into it, I guess. I couldn't stand the smell."

"Like an ex-smoker."

"Yeah. Like them."

"Hmmmmm. Well, long as you're not going to be one of those types I get at the university, who throw buckets of red dye on people-"

"Oh no, no. Personal choice. And it's more than just my heightened senses. It's healthier, easier on the stomach, if I stay away from meat, and it's a better use of resources - it's better to eat the grain than to feed it to a cow and eat the cow. Plus, the notion of eating something that died violently as a jackhammer split its skull open... it never appealed that much."

Mitch's face turned green slightly. "... well, there goes my appetite. Thanks a heap, Roxy."

"Anytime, Professor Lang."

1800: One Ring to Rule The Mall

They'd finished their meal quickly, and then Mitch had gone back to the university. He said the meeting would get out around nine, which gave her around three hours to kill.

Thus, the mall beckoned.

The bookstore was the first to be raided, as Roxanne scanned through their titles, and noted with a grim satisfaction that her sister's operation was standing toe to toe with the selection available in the mall.

The next target was Gizmo Hut, which sported a remarkably accurate name - it was a hut, full of gizmos. Roxanne cackled with glee as she found binary-display alarm clocks that blinked 6:21 at her, talking robotic poodles, air pistols, smoke generators, plasma globes and dozens of other refugees from an 80's era gift store. Roxanne found the strength within her to turn away, even though every route she took through the mall mysteriously led her back there.

After that came the old music store, hanging on by its fingernails in this day and age of self-downloading OpNet music players, mostly by offering a great collection of obscure stock and albums. Roxanne took a note of a few bands se followed herself, and then reminded herself of how much the Beatnik Beefhouse had set her back and moved on.

A brief trip through the department store was nearly overwhelming. Even as a baseline, her senses were sharpened - and she could smell, quite potently and nearly painfully, the perfumes that clogged the air on the lower floor. Instead she began pricing out a few things she thought that the two of them would need, pots and pans and blenders and the like.

A few clothing stores caught her eye, but she found that everything she needed, needed to be custom-sewn for her anyway. A few of the lacier offerings caught her eye, however...

The computer store was saved for last. Roll-out LCD monitors, the latest computer games, new PDAs... all out of her price range until her cash flow got a little more flow to it. Still, you could look and dream.

It was a fun enough way to kill an hour.

Towards the end, however, she felt a need for more than just empty consumerism.

1900: Art Attack

"Excuse me - is the curator of the museum in? Or your manager?"

Roxanne smiled warmly as she made this request, and the man at the front counter stammered slightly. "O-of course, ma'am. Was there a problem?"

"Oh, no, none whatsoever."

The man nodded and took his leave, finding his superior. Roxanne cast her eyes about the gallery - one of the finest ones in the city, with a trove of minor finds and one or two major coups. 7:06 blinked back at her from the wall clock. The museum closed at nine - plenty of time yet for what she had to do tonight.

The man from the front desk returned with another, older man, who looked like he'd just been taken out of a suitcase without having been ironed. His voice had a slight tremor to it as he spoke. "I am the manager of this museum, madam. Is there something I can do for you?"

"My name is Doctor Roxanne Richardson."

The man looked askance at Roxanne, while the younger man began to realize the thread of the conversations, and slowly backed away. "Yes, and...?"

"Usually that does it all by itself. Okay, hold on a sec..." Roxanne fished out her Washington State ID card - what they issued to people who needed a photo ID but didn't drive. She also fished for another, slimmer card, one with a decidedly different photo.

She handed them both to the man, who saw first one, and then paled slightly at the other. "You're... which one is you?"

"They both are. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Most of the time I look like this one... but sometimes I look like that one." She pointed to her Project Utopia passcard. "While I look like that one, my senses are sharper - eyes, ears, and nose. What I would like to do is enjoy your fine art gallery here with said sharper senses, but while I'm in that form I occasionally shed a little fur Since you have a No Pets sign up-"

"Madam, that sign is for pets, not for people. And I am honored to meet you, Dr. Richardson - I've read about you in the paper for quite some time."

"Oh, good, so that's a yes?"

"As long as you abide by all the rules of our gallery... that is a yes."

"Excellent! Thanks!" Roxanne paid the admission fee, and began walking gently through the gallery. She stopped to examine a mask from a bygone civilization, a good third of it chipped away but still a remarkable find...

She looked around, and no one was in the gallery. It was a Monday and doubtless, no one really had the time. So she reached inside and fanned the flames into being, and the effect was like watching a picture come into focus. Everything sharpened, and became clearer.

She left the mask for the time being, and looked instead at her favorite... a piece with text describing a face, that slowly as you followed the text would turn into a face. It was labeled, simply, "Abstraction." It had taken her a while to figure out why.

She sat on the bench, examining it, triplicate tails twitching. She examined the colors, and the format, and thought about what the artists might have been thinking, besides "Artistic block grant for Washington State's just about to get renewed, and I hope I get a check for this." She inhaled deeply, and then coughed politely, old dust clogging her nose.

Her gaze played over the juxtaposition of words into a picture, from the abstract description of a face through text to the simpler description of a face with a drawing. She looked at the face, wondering whose it was, if they knew they were immortalized in a painting, and she examined the play of subtle lighting on the uneven paint thickness, and she felt the dull hum of the climate control and the faint buzz of the motion sensors on the painting.

She wondered how much it would cost to buy it.

Probably the equivalent of my next contract, she thought glumly.

2000: Vigil

Silence dwelled within, but did not rule, the room. It was the kind of silence that made all the noises that much louder.

The beep of the heart monitor. The hiss of the respirator. A squeak of a wheel on a cart in the hall. The gentle ticks of a wall clock that read 8:22. The occasional muttering in his sleep.

Richard Richardson, whose father was not the most imaginative man on Earth when it came to names, lay asleep in the room, undisturbed. It was past visiting hours, and his wife had long ago gone home. All there was at this time was rest - tomorrow there would be visits, and there would be physiotherapy, but tonight there was only quiet.

To the casual observer, anyways.

A brief burst of color rippled out across the wall as a semireal vulpine form slid through solid matter, floating in the air, invisible to the naked eye but still there nonetheless.

She looked down at her father.

The memories came back - seeing him fall after the crack of a bullet, everyone screaming, and she'd panicked, fearing that the scent of death, the smell she hated so much, would be smelt upon him.

But he pulled through. He survived.

He was out of critical condition, but the wound would keep him here for some time yet. Roxanne had already felt the financial pressure, but more than that she'd felt the loss, the feeling that chaos could reach out and take it all away at any time.

But it wasn't chaos. It was someone she knew.

She floated over him, feeling his thoughts bounce around inside his mind, the energy patterns of his dreams and nightmares. He was having a dream about driving his cab again, a fare that stated a location that Richard didn't know and the panic mounting as he tried to figure out how to find the location.

Roxanne knew this nightmare well. Sometimes she had it herself, that she'd be called upon to do what she did and fail somehow. She'd felt it in Mitch's mind, and in Nicole's - the fear of failure, of a mistake that would tarnish you.

She wondered if fear was something Bastian felt.

She fingered her celphone idly and sighed, thinking of a file on her older computer at home, that saw little use now that she had her new one. A compressed audio file that she didn't know quite was to do with.

But looking at her father now, she realized that she had to do something. She couldn't let this go without a fight.

"I'll find him, Dad," she said softly. "He won't hurt us again."

2100: When Bites The Beamer!

They tryin' ta shame us/
Makin' us famous
Been killin' for years, so why would they blame us/
Only magnum they got is a forty fuckin' four/
Mephistofaleez says we gotta even the score-

"Oh, shut up."

Mitch cut off the song in mid-rant, the radio in his car going silent. The radio station turned into the time - 9:18 PM. He gripped the steering wheel in frustration and kept his eyes on the road.

The faculty meeting could have been productive, but for the lure of celebrity. Half the night had been spent shooting down various nova-related questions about his girlfriend, and so the minutes would have to be heavily edited, and the issue of what exactly could be done to increase the visibility of the Life Sciences faculty was still unresolved at present.

The last thing he needed was to listen to some nitwit novox rapper shoot his mouth off about how novas were being repressed.

Not being a nova himself, he couldn't claim to be an expert on the issue - but he was dating a nova so he couldn't claim ignorance either. He knew that if Roxanne had wanted to, she could be a millionaire in months, but the cost of that had been deemed too high, and she had made her decision with clarity and foresight, which were attributes that were in short supply in every demographic, novas included. He'd hear no talk of exploitation - he read OpNet newsfeed from all parts of the world and he read history books, and he knew what exploitation really was: it traditionally involved less multimillion dollar contracts and interviews on N!, and more forced labor and institutionalized repression and the occasional mass grave.

If they were upset that their choices in life didn't lead them to exactly where they wanted to be, then his response was: welcome to real life.

He realized his knuckles had turned white, and he forced himself to relax. It happened sometimes - a line of thought would start in his brain and it would roll and roll and roll along, and before he knew it his heart joined in as well.

He thought to a year or two ago - or maybe it was longer? - when Project Utopia's dirty secret was unveiled. He remembered the loss of faith that so many had, and the sense of vindication that Utopia's critics had felt as well. He'd even admitted to himself by now that he'd been let down - that the idol turned out to have feet of clay.

But so many had acted as if it were inconceivable that a large, powerful institution overseeing many tasks and incorporating many minds, would turn out to harbor those who abused their power. Privately, he'd known that the organization couldn't be totally pure. Human nature didn't work that way. It was the same for governments, for corporations... for everything. It all was a work in progress - true perfection would never be attained.

He stopped at a stop light, forcing his thoughts away. They would do no good to dwell upon while he was driving.

He waited for a moment, and then....

Then he smiled.

It started as a presence, and then became her, close to him again. A rainbow-hued form slid down through the roof, and settled comfortably into the seat beside him. She shifted her form back to normal, and smiled at him. "Heya... couldn't wait."

"I'm glad you didn't," he replied.

And they kissed.

2200: Big Eyes, Small Nose, No Plot

The lights flickered on, and Mitch and Roxanne entered the house. It was steadily getting cleaner ever since she started staying over more often, and now there was only a small stack of pizza boxes to keep the memories of bachelorhood alive.

"So how was the meeting, honey?" Roxanne shrugged her purse off and set it on the counter top.

"They're unsure of how to drum up enrollment in the faculty so they can keep their jobs, and so they spent half the night asking me questions about you."

"Awwww..." Roxanne's face fell. "I'm sorry, Mitch."

"It's okay. I just... I wish they'd stop chasing after enrollment. There's more to university than that. Studies cover a huge portion of the funding-"

"Yeah, but I remember them saying that they couldn't keep up with institutions like Triton."

Mitch sighed softly. "Yes, there's truth to that. I just don't want to see Pinnacle University turn into a hollowed-out shell of what it used to be... a technical college and nothing else." He leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. "Sometimes I miss when we used to work together."

"I don't."

"Wha?"

"Puttering around in a wheelchair? Using that damn voicebox? I don't miss it, Mitch. Not one bit." She pecked him on the cheek. "But I do miss you sometimes."

Mitch returned the kiss. "So what do you want to do tonight?"

"I downloaded a movie off of the OpNet. I saw five minutes of it and knew you'd want to watch the remaining ninety with me."

"Oh boy. Let me guess, the Filipino Batman & Robin movie? The Bollywood Superman musical?"

"Worse."

"Oh, boy." Mitch took the steps up to the TV room two at a time, a sudden spring in his step. Roxy bounded up after him.

The TV was sizable, and the collection of chipped movies and older-style DVDs lined a bookcase. Roxy withdrew a small flashcard from her pocket and slid it into the player. 10:01 disappeared from the front display, replaced by LOADING FLASHCARD DATA.

"So what is it?"

"It's a surprise."

The screen turned on. The video quality was a little pixilated, but they were used to it by now, having giggled themselves silly at Japanese television commercials and Turkish movies that violated a dozen copyrights by the end of the opening scene.

An animated pink haired girl in a strange-looking variant of a sailor fuku leap on screen, gigantic eyes and mouth shouting something about the breaking of evil's face.

The logo appeared.



Mitch blinked. "Ohhhhhh, Christ."

"Yep. That's what I said."

"If I'd known you had this in store, I'd have quit work to get home early."

"Patience comes to those who wait."
The television screen showed an incomprehensible conversation between an animated Endeavor and a three foot midget which wouldn't stop running around.

"I've never met that midget," commented Roxanne idly.

"Is this thing even legal?"

"I don't think so, no. Sure is fun, though."

Endeavor leapt into the air, her clothing disappearing in a flash of color and reappearing as battle armor. She shouted something fairly exciting.

"So, she usually takes off her clothes in front of you?"

"Not quite like that, no."

"I think I figured out why you never went for fame."

"The websites alone are weird enough."

"Oh, I dunno, the one with you on top of Apep was-"

"Ewwwww-"

"I'm just saying the photomanipulation was-"

"Image in brain not wanted. Must get it out."

On the television, Endeavor waved her arms around frantically while twin fountains of tears erupted from her eyes. Her mouth had assumed a binary state, flapping from tiny to huge with no state in between.

"So her nova power is to cry me a river?"

"I think I saw her nose bleed once. Does that count?"

"Was she doing cocaine?"

"No."

"'Cause that'll do it - I heard-"

"No cocaine."

An unedited commercial featuring someone in a raccoon suit with giant testicles appeared on screen. The two of them burst out laughing, unable to find the words.

"Ehehe.... hehe... Roxy...?"

"Yeah?"

"I needed this after today. Thanks."

She smiled, and pecked him on the cheek. "Any time."

On screen, Endeavor discharged her Hyper Cherry Blossom Power Burst. Neither of them noticed.

2300: Do You Wanna...?

The Endeavor grey-market cartoon petered out, and the two of them reclined. The clock blinked 11:40 at them.

"So, what do you wanna watch now?"

"How was Rising Stars?"

"Eh... so-so. Not one of the better ones. How about a Storms over Sunset rerun?"

"Kinda... naw. Not really."

Silence reigned for a moment. Mitch found himself staring at the ceiling. Roxanne scanned the titles on the wall. Neither of them liked awkward silences, when they ran out of things to talk about, since neither of them were always that good at filling them in....

"Hmmm."

"Hmmmm?"

"Do you wanna?" Mitch asked earnestly.

Roxanne rolled her head in his direction, and thought for a moment. "Hmmmm. Do I wanna? I dunno... it's been at least two hours since you told me you love me."

"I didn't know I was on the clock."

"Well, you are. It's the latest thing. So how badly do you wanna?"

"Roxanne, you're the light of my life. you're the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about when I go to bed at night. You are the sun, moon and stars to me - one heavenly body."

"You had me up until the pun."

"Ahhh, geez...!"

"Kidding." Wordlessly, Roxanne went nova, each micropulse of quantum acting like lights on a highway, on the long link between the two of them she'd established some time ago. On the other side was him - his hopes, dreams and fears, his passions and prides. She felt his excitement rise as she unbuttoned her shirt.

~So Mitch... exactly how do you wanna?~

~You have any ideas?~

Wordlessly, Mitch was flooded with images and sensations, becoming acutely aware of every scent in the room, including his own - and how intoxicating it was to her, how much she enjoyed inhaling it. And he felt her reaction to the feelings he felt, as she was quietly reassured once again - that dormed or undormed, human or nova, she would always be beautiful to him.

She smirked invitingly as she slipped a hand inside her shirt. Mitch gasped as the sensation shot back and forth between them like a ricochet, and slid towards her. The universe grew smaller and smaller, and there was no battles with the faculty over policy in his world, and no worries about her father's health in hers. There was only their world, and the only ones inside were the two of them.

And for the moment, that was all they needed.

2400: Even Better Than The Real Thing

Attention. The management wishes to apologize for the exclusion of the hardcore sex scene.

Initially, in this narrative, the characters of Roxanne Richardson and Mitch Lang would be getting, as they say, hot and heavy right now. However, each of them has been made aware of where this story is to wind up and neither of them approved of, as Mitch put it, "metafictional porno." Negotiations between the writer and the characters involved have reached a state of compromise, however, and we are happy to include the following snippet of this section of the narrative completely out of context.

"Oh, wow." Mitch stared down at himself (herself?) and gaped at the shapely, furry form he (she? now wore, jammed full of strange sensations. Behind him (her?) he felt tails... three of them... moving as if with a mind of their own. He (she?) looked to Roxanne, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "I didn't know that you-"

Wordlessly, Roxanne snuggled up next to Mitch, and Mitch gasped as she pressed up against him (her?) Roxanne giggled. "Settle down, girlfriend, I'm just a little curious. And reading your mind, Mitch... it turns out you're a little curious too."

The characters of Roxanne and Mitch wish to reassure the reader that Roxanne is not a lesbian and Mitch is not a transsexual and that what they do in the midst of a psychically-fueled lovemaking session is none of you business anyway. They have also informed the writer that they will be speaking to a lawyer.

Incidentally, the above narrative took place at 12:23 AM, in keeping with an alliterative theme that the writer thinks is subtle but is anything but.

The rest of the story contains no psychic illusions of transsexuality or lesbianism but we hope you will enjoy it anyway.

0100: Eyes of Night

"No stamina at all. You need to work out a little bit more."

Mitch groaned, and Roxanne laughed. They were cuddling in bed, bathed in the pale blue glow of an alarm clock that read 1:47. Roxanne was dormed again, as she usually was when in danger of falling asleep, and she was running her fingers through the hair on Mitch's chest.

"You've got half a forest growing here...! Then again I shouldn't talk."

"Naw, you shouldn't." Mitch mustered up the energy to peck her on the cheek. "I have lectures in the morning, Roxy, and I need to be semi-coherent for them. That means sleep, hon. Sorry."

"Ohhhhhh... okay." She relented and rested her head on the pillow, and Mitch leaned back and closed his eyes.

It took only a few minutes - his breathing slowed and his body language changed. Roxy was still wide awake, and just watched him drift off.

She remembered back to when she'd first met him... a passing meeting before they'd started working together. She remembered being in the wheelchair, all but strapped inside, being pushed along by Nicole through the halls of the Life Sciences faculty.

She remembered marveling at the research being done in the building, and felt a twinge of regret that later they'd lost it all. She remembered being pushed along slowly, meeting and greeting each of them in turn... Mitch, Mark and Mary, the M-squad, a trinity that would later break up, and there was him alone among them...

She didn't remember the conversation that they had but she recalled being entertained by him, by his quick sense of humor that mirrored her own. She remembered how she made her laugh, and how her laugh was more of a noisy wheeze than anything else and how he didn't mind...

And then one day, the shell had burst open and the prison of her broken body was no more, as she'd known it would one day be. One day she was suddenly one of them - one day she was suddenly normal.

And she suddenly could see, plain as day, what he'd been feeling all those years. And from that to this, to a loving cuddle in bed, a future together, happiness and warmth stretching on forever.

She wondered if the others had moments like this... moments of pure humanity, so perfect she could weep. A golden moment where you felt that whatever you had to do next... it could wait.

0200: The Wee Small Hours

Someone should have punched your mother in the stomach when she was pregnant with you sat on the screen, like an undigested sandwich that had exited the body. The message board poster was listed as n3gr03nf0rc3r in the mutated shorthand of the 'Net.

The room was lit by soft blue and she sat in her bathrobe, a lopsided grin on her face, facing the computer with her hands poised over the keyboard. She diligently hunted and pecked out her response.

One more typo out of you and I'm going to crawl through this screen and across the OpNet and emerge Samara-like from your screen and do things to you that will take the coroner years to unravel.

She laughed and shook her head, mashing Backspace. No, it was best not to threaten them. Besides, she was a nova - that could be construed as a serious threat rather than hyperbole.

She went to the top of the forum list and decided that the eternal debate that had plagued man for generations, namely who would win in a fight between James T. Kirk and Captain Picard, would have to rage on without her input for another night. It was painful to shirk her responsibility towards TNG, but she had faith that others could shoulder the burden.

She decided to swing by the N!Prime forum and see what was shaking. She didn't post that often - there were only so many spins you could put on the debate of "Utopia sucks!" versus "No they don't." Occasionally a good thread would start up and she'd jump in, but that was becoming less and less of a case nowadays. Her coma had cut her out of the loop and she couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

She combed the recent posters list, looking for a poster whose name was seven letters long and began with a B. No such luck - he'd been staying low.

Well, he'd crawl out from under his rock eventually. She skimmed the topics list and then shut the window, and sat back, momentarily at a loss for something to do.

She brought up a search engine, and just for fun, typed in Vixen nova Seattle and hit return.

In less than a second it gave her a long list of hits. Up top, the statistics sat: Search started at 2:31, took 0.21 seconds. Results: 10,000 high confidence.

"Ten grand? Oh wow." Wordlessly, she clicked on one. It spat out a fully animated site dedicated to her, with a cartoon of her in the center and at least a dozen sub-documents surrounding it.

Fascinated, she navigated through the site. There was her biography, and a few blurry pictures snapped by a crowd, and there were a few more press-release style photos... a get-well section with hundreds of comments that warmed her heart...

An art section. In two parts.

She frowned. "Hentai? What the hell is that?"

She clicked. The page loaded. She stared at the screen, feeling critical parts of her brain shutting down as the chemicals in her brain reached a level of imbalance so acute it felt like her head would explode.

"Holy moley," she said. "Jesus."

The highlight-able thumbnails sat upon the screen, each with a different title.

Vixen's greatest enemy - tickle torture!

Vixen versus the quicksand

Vixen overcomes the nova fertility problem and has a little one on the way

Vixen offers to taste

Vixen and... Vixen!?

She stared at the last one and grinned wickedly. "Ho ho ho... they read your mind, Mitch."

She closed the window, and then cleared the cache of her browser, and then overwrote the section of the hard drive that the cache usually resided in. She contemplated blocking out the site as well, but she'd think on that a while longer.

There were people out there with too much time on their hands, she decided.

She was one of them.

"Someday," she said.

America's Most Wanted: OpNet sat in front of her. Her search results were displayed in front of her.

Result #1 was a large mass of muscle and result #2 had no clear photo file attached. #1 was described as a terrorist with Teragen sympathies and #2 was simply an enigma with Teragen sympathies. #1 had clashed with T2M repeatedly as well as Nippontai and was still a free man - #2 preferred to stay out of the limelight, but was still wanted for questioning by the Directive.
It seemed that #1 was the most dangerous threat. And maybe he was.

But #2 was no slouch either.

She hovered her mouse pointer over the submission address, where someone could submit information about the whereabouts or activities of someone in America's Most Wanted's supercrime database. One click, and a short conversation later, and she could send it in. Of course, te conversation would have to wait until morning because it was 3:58 in the morning, but it would still come...

And then they'd have something on him.

She growled at herself. Why was she waffling on this? Even Hamlet could make a decision faster than this. Why had what she held back?

Because, of course: he had her at a disadvantage. Striking at him would do minimal damage - and his retaliatory strike would be far, far worse.

She had to do something. She knew that. What, she didn't have a clue about. But it had to be something. Maybe she could call V from T2M. Or Codex, or Endeavor, or any of the others on the board. They might not like Utopia but they would probably like him less.

Maybe.

Maybe someday.

"Yeah. Someday," she said bitterly, and shut down the browser.

She pulled open a private file, and keyed in a password that was two dozen characters long, and then fished under the desk for a security key that she then plugged into the computer's SIO port. The file sprang to life before her eyes.

Real Name: Unknown
Nome de Novus: Bastian
Known Powers: Invisibility, telepathy, empathic manipulation, force field? teleportation?
Distinguishing Characteristics: Black anima banner crawling with shadows that appear to trigger mild hallucinations regarding sexual desires
Known Affiliations: Teragen affiliate, specific subgroup unknown (Harvesters, Nova Vigilance, Pandemonium are top contenders)
Known Criminal Activities: Sought for questioning by the Directive in connection with several international incidents (confirmed)
Telepathic manipulation ("rewriting") of slaves found within Blackburn hotel (unconfirmed)
Telepathic assault on Richardson family (Nicole Richardson, empathically/telepathically manipulated, Roxanne Richardson, telepathically assaulted/extorted/framed) (unconfirmed)
Warning: Subject is psychotic and is detached from conventional views of morality. Subject is B-class at least. Subject has friends within Teragen movement and will use them to evade capture. Use extreme caution with apprehension.
Recommended assault tactics: Use nova agents who are resistant to telepathic and empathic manipulation. Attempt to surprise subject to negate his teleportation. Any baseline agents should pass all our best willpower tests and mood stabilizing drugs should be used when engagement is imminent.

She leaned back, looking at the file. It had taken no small amount of string pulling to withdraw it from T2M's files - a few favors had to be called in. And she didn't know quite what to do with it, either - except look at it and hope a revelation struck her.

She shut the file down and sighed.

Someday.

0400: Practice Makes Perfect

Mitch had taken to calling it the Danger Garage. The name had stuck.

She turned the lights on. There were dozens of little inventions and a thick binder full of notes sitting on every available surface. It wasn't T2M's training facility - it wasn't even a Rashoud clinic's test chamber - but it was close to where she lived and she could access it at any time.

Mitch's Beamer took up a lot of the garage, but there was still room enough left for her little toys...

She picked one up. It looked like a potato clock, the type of contrivance that you got kids to get them interested in science - and so she was quite familiar with it. The clock had been replaced with a much bigger clock, however - and a much less energy efficient one.

She took out the small prescription vial and shook out an adrenocilin tablet. The vial was marked with poison warning labels along with a list of side effects, and how often she was to take them and the dosage she shouldn't exceed. She'd read it a hundred times, and took the time to read it again, just to be sure.

She swallowed the tablet and waited a few minutes, feeling the faracytes in her node zip around just a little bit faster and a little bit more efficiently. it was Jolt cola for the nova set - a stimulant. Of course, after what happened the last time, she was wary of overdosing, but she was also wary of Bastian's warning that he would return, and she was determined to be ready for him then.

She held the prongs of the potato clock in her hands, and concentrated, feeling the lightning beneath her fingers. She could generate a lot of the stuff, but what about just a little - just enough to power the clock?

She felt a tiny trickle of it escape through her fingertips, and the clock flared to life. But then it went blank again, and Roxanne sighed softly, focusing and trying again.

This time it came to life more slowly, and stayed steady. She could feel the energy pulsing between her fingertips, running through the circuit in the clock and-

There was a pop and a smell of ozone. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Oh, great," she muttered, as the clock's LCD screen bled out.

She tossed it in a pile with the others she'd blown up and sat down in a chair. So that was a bust for now... still, she was getting better. The last ones had died immediately.

She pulled open the binder full of notes and started writing.

Oct 29 4:12 AM I know, another late night.

Tests with running current seem to be improving. In a week or so I should be able to recharge a battery and then probably get a consistent charge. After this is mastered, more manipulation of the electromagnetic spectrum is warranted.

She set the binder aside and sat back, and then sniffed the air, frowning... and feeling something else as well, something that engages senses six through nine...

She looked at the pile of scrap clocks and gasped as smoke curled out of them. "Oh, crap," she muttered sourly, and grabbed the fire hydrant off the wall-

And stopped.

Slowly, she set it down, her eyes glowing green once more, and she pointed a finger at the box, feeling for its presence... and yes, it was there...

She tugged at it and it came loose, in a flash of quantum energies, cut free from its fuel source and tied to another, more primal one. A tiny marble of fire floating in the air, tinged blue, hovering before her unbelieving eyes.

She felt it starting to grow and realized that it was still feeding - the fuel source was ambient quantum energy, and there was quite a lot of it...

Keeping her concentration steady, she held it aloft with one hand and with the other, grabbed the fire extinguisher. Carefully and quietly she twisted out the safety pin and the ripped it with one hand, pointing the nozzle at the ball of flame...

It would need two hands.

And I only have one, she thought. By now it had grown to the size of a gumball and she could feel the heat from it...

No, that wasn't true. She had two hands. She only though she had one free, but she wasn't holding the flames with her hand, only with her mind. So slowly she withdrew her hand, and yes, it was harder without pointing, but it was manageable...

She gripped the nozzle and the trigger and pointed the extinguisher. By now it was the size of a tennis ball and she felt a growing certainty that it would only get hotter. It had to be now...

She fired. Cold carbon dioxide sprayed over the area which the fire floated in, and she felt a brief burst of smoke, and then...

It was gone. Leaving only the sharp scent of burnt air and carbon dioxide in the air. She exhaled and sagged, the headline emblazoned in her mind's eye: Nova Burns Down Lover's House in Fit of Rage.

Well, they'd have to wait to print that one. She set the extinguisher aside and made a mental note to get it refilled, and then sat down, taking a few calming breaths, and wondering if this was how other novas practiced with their powers.

It didn't occur to her for some time that she'd actually been controlling the flame instead of generating it... and when it did, all she could muster was a slight smile.