Chapter 17: Fugitive Fashion
The night air was a slap of cold freedom. SexiWoman sprinted down the slick alley behind the precinct, her heels clicking a frantic tattoo on the wet asphalt. The torn silk bodice offered no warmth, and the handcuffs were a frozen, brutal bracelet around her wrists.
Left here. Down the service ramp. Try not to look like a fugitive in evening wear, it’s terribly obvious.
“I’m trying!” she gasped, the words puffing out in a cloud of steam. Her lungs burned. Adrenaline was the only thing holding the transformation steady; beneath the polished exterior, John’s consciousness was a swirling vortex of terror. He could still feel the crack of the door against Diaz’s nose, the solid, sickening impact.
You succeeded admirably in the ‘looking like a fugitive’ part. The ‘not getting caught’ part is still in play. Your friend Chloe lives six blocks northeast. Move.
She dodged behind a dumpster, its rancid smell a welcome alternative to the station’s sterile despair. Peering out, she saw the first flashing red and blue lights converge on the front of the building. Sirens began to wail, stitching the night with urgency.
Six blocks. In heels and handcuffs. Through a city that was suddenly hunting her.
Stop contemplating the distance and start covering it. Use the shadows. And for the sake of whatever you hold dear, do not get an erection. The cityscape is not that inspiring.
The journey was a blur of frozen panic. She moved from doorway to alley, from the shadow of a fire escape to the gloom beneath a boarded-up awning. Twice, she flattened herself against brick walls as patrol cars sped past, their sirens Doppler-shifting into the distance. Every shouted order from the police radios felt personally directed at her.
Finally, she stood before a weathered brownstone. Chloe’s apartment was on the third floor, the fire escape a skeletal ladder to salvation. The window was dark.
Up you go. And try not to break an ankle. Or a heel. They look expensive.
“They’re part of me,” SexiWoman muttered, grabbing the cold, rust-flaked iron. The climb was a precarious, humiliating ordeal. The handcuffs made gripping difficult, and the delicate heels kept slipping on the rungs. By the time she hauled herself onto the small platform outside Chloe’s window, she was shaking with cold and exhaustion.
The window was unlocked. Chloe never locked it.
She slid it up, the old frame protesting with a squeal, and tumbled inside, landing on a soft, cluttered floor.
Chloe’s apartment was a sensory overload after the stark terror of the alley. Neon beer signs cast a pulsing pink and green glow over mountains of thrift-store velvet and stacked engineering textbooks. The air was thick with patchouli and the faint, metallic ghost of soldering irons. Half-empty mugs of tea covered every surface, sharing space with disassembled electronics and wilting daisies.
The room was empty. The low murmur of a television came from around a corner.
Announce yourself. Before she comes out here with a taser she built from a toaster.
“Chloe?” SexiWoman called out, her voice rough. “It’s… it’s John. Kind of.”
There was a moment of silence. Then a squeak. A head of messy brown hair peered around the doorway. Chloe’s glasses were smudged, her eyes wide with sleep and confusion. They tracked from the auburn hair down the torn, fishnet-clad legs, to the handcuffs.
“Holy shit,” Chloe breathed. She stepped fully into the room, clutching a well-loved copy of Quantum Electrodynamics to her chest like a shield. “John? What the actual hell? You look… different. And… detained.”
“It’s a long story,” SexiWoman said, struggling to sit up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You think?” Chloe’s analytical mind was visibly battling her shock. She pointed a finger at the handcuffs. “Okay. Priorities. Are you hurt? Did they… who did this? Why are you dressed like a… a…”
A devastatingly attractive super-spy? Amy supplied.
“A corporate Halloween party gone wrong?” Chloe finished.
Before SexiWoman could formulate an answer, the television in the other room switched to a news bulletin tone. A too-chipper voice cut through the apartment.
“—breaking news from the 12th Precinct. Police are searching for a suspect involved in a bizarre assault and escape tonight. The individual, described as male in initial reports, is now believed to be a female presenting as highly distinctive, possibly armed, and considered dangerous.”
Chloe’s eyes went even wider. She darted back into the living area, with SexiWoman stumbling after her.
On the screen was a grainy, blown-up still from a security camera. It showed the alley, moments after the transformation. It was a blur of motion, but the silhouette was unmistakably SexiWoman’s, caught mid-stride, all flowing hair and dramatic shadow.
A graphic slid onto the screen: WANTED FOR QUESTIONING. Below it, the description scrolled: ‘Armed and dangerous. Approached with extreme caution. Last seen wearing dark, torn lingerie.’
The news anchor continued, a slight, perplexed smile on her face. “Authorities stress the suspect should not be approached, describing her as both physically formidable and, quoting the police bulletin, ‘suspiciously well-dressed for the alleged offenses.’”
Chloe slowly turned from the TV to look at SexiWoman, then back at the screen. The correlation was absolute.
“They think I’m a prostitute,” John’s voice leaked through SexiWoman’s controlled facade, high with despair.
“They think you’re a violent, armed prostitute who broke a detective’s nose and fled police custody,” Chloe corrected, her tone analytical. She pushed her glasses up her nose. “That’s… a significant escalation from your usual ‘forgot to return a library book’ crimes. Okay. System reboot.” She took a deep breath. “Start talking. But first…” She walked to a drawer, rummaged, and pulled out a pair of precision lockpicks. “Let’s get those off you. They’re ruining the… aesthetic.”
As Chloe expertly worked on the handcuffs, the tiny clicks loud in the room, SexiWoman—with Amy’s impatient interjections—began to stammer out a fragmented explanation. The necklace. The sage. The unwanted transformations. The alley. The cell.
The cuffs snapped open and clattered to the floor.
Chloe didn’t reach for a weapon or scream. She picked up the heart-shaped necklace, which had been resting against SexiWoman’s collarbone, and held it to the pulsing neon light. Her scientist’s eyes were alight with furious curiosity.
“A non-localized metaphysical consciousness bound to a… frankly tacky… substrate,” she whispered. “The energy signature must be phenomenal.”
Finally, Amy’s voice projected, clear and dry, making Chloe jump and drop the pendant, someone with a functional cerebrum. The idiot’s been running on panic and poor impulse control for hours.
Chloe stared at the necklace on the floor. “Okay,” she said again, her voice steady with forced calm. “So John’s magical-girl trauma is real. And he’s wanted by the entire city police force. And you…” She pointed at the necklace. “You’re the snarky tutorial mode.” She took a deep breath, looking at the stunning, distressed woman shivering on her thrift-store sofa. “We need a plan. First, we need to get you out of those clothes.”
Relax, hero, Amy purred, her voice now echoing lightly in the room for both to hear. At least they got your good side on the news.
A sudden, violent pounding shook the apartment’s front door.
“Police! Open up!”