Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The American Legion hall buzzed with victory celebration, cigarette smoke mixing with the sweet scent of punch and the lingering aroma of women's Victory Red lipstick. Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" crackled from the phonograph as couples swayed beneath red, white, and blue bunting that had seen better days but still carried the weight of triumph.

Valerie Brunner stood against the far wall, nursing her second cup of punch and marveling at the sheer normalcy of it all. The noise, the laughter, the casual way people touched each other—it was like watching a play she'd only read about in books. Her mother's dark navy dress fit her perfectly, though she avoided looking at her reflection in the punch bowl's silver surface. She'd pinned her black hair back in a style copied from a magazine photograph, though she wasn't entirely sure she'd gotten it right.

"You look like you're seeing civilization for the first time."

The voice belonged to a tall Marine in dress blues, his cap tucked under one arm. Thomas Hartwell had the kind of clean-cut handsomeness that belonged on recruitment posters, with brown hair Brylcreemed to perfection and eyes that held traces of something distant—the look men brought back from overseas.

Valerie's breath caught. He was speaking to her. Actually speaking to her, not through her or around her or with the careful politeness reserved for necessary interactions. "I suppose I am, in a way."

Thomas laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the noise. "That's honest. Most girls would pretend they go to dances every weekend." He extended his hand. "Thomas Hartwell, recently returned from the Pacific."

"Valerie Brunner." She shook his hand, marveling at the warmth of human contact that wasn't clinical or purposeful. "I don't... I don't get out often."

"The mysterious type, huh? I like that." His smile was easy, practiced on a dozen USO girls, but it felt like sunshine to someone who'd spent years in shadows. "What do you do when you're not gracing victory dances with your presence?"

"I live outside town. Study, mostly. Biology and... related sciences." She paused, testing the waters. "My family has always been interested in the mechanics of life."

"Sounds fascinating. And lonely."

The observation hit closer to home than he could know. "Perhaps."

"Well, we can't have that." He gestured toward the dance floor. "Care to dance? I promise I won't analyze your technique."

The offer sent electricity through her entire body. To dance—to move with another person, to be held, to participate in this most basic human ritual. "I should warn you, I've never actually danced with anyone before."

"That makes two of us who are winging it tonight." Thomas led her onto the floor as Tommy Dorsey's "I'll Never Smile Again" began to play. His hand settled at her waist with careful propriety, and Valerie felt dizzy with the reality of it—another person choosing to touch her, to be close to her, to include her in this moment.

"So what kind of biology keeps you busy?" he asked as they swayed together.

"Life processes, mostly. Development. Growth. The way things... change from one form to another." She looked up at him, studying his face for signs of unease. Finding none, she continued. "My grandfather was quite brilliant in his time. A doctor, of sorts."

"Family tradition then?"

"Something like that." She was quiet for a moment, absorbing the sensation of moving in rhythm with another person. "What about you? What did you do before the war?"

"Helped run my family's farm. Nothing as intellectual as your studies, but honest work." His grip tightened slightly as he guided her through a turn. "I'm hoping to expand it when I get settled. Maybe start a family eventually."

The word 'family' sent a warmth through her chest that had nothing to do with the crowded room. A family. The most normal thing in the world, and something she'd never dared imagine for herself.

"That sounds wonderful," she said, and meant it with an intensity that surprised her.

"You're different from other girls," Thomas said, studying her face. "There's something almost... timeless about you. Classic."

If only he knew how literally true that was. "Most people find me strange."

"I don't." His voice was gentle, sincere. "I think you're beautiful."

The compliment hit her like a physical blow. Beautiful. Her. Not the resemblance, not the craftsmanship, not the successful replication—just her, as she was, in this moment.

As the song ended, Thomas didn't step away immediately. "Would you like to get some air? Maybe see a bit of the real world outside this stuffy hall?"

Outside, the September evening carried the first hint of autumn chill, and Thomas immediately shrugged out of his jacket to drape it around her shoulders. The gesture was so natural, so protective, that Valerie felt tears threaten.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling the jacket closer. It smelled like aftershave and something indefinably masculine, and she wanted to memorize the scent.

"So tell me about this grandfather of yours," Thomas said as they walked to his borrowed Buick. "Sounds like he was quite the scholar."

"He was... innovative. Perhaps too much so." Valerie chose her words carefully. "He believed in pushing the boundaries of what was possible. Sometimes that made him unpopular with more conventional minds."

"The best minds usually are controversial. Look at Darwin, or Galileo." Thomas opened the car door for her—another small courtesy that felt monumental. "I bet you inherited his brilliance."

The praise made her chest tight with unfamiliar emotion. "I've had good teachers. And plenty of time to study."

"Sounds lonely though. Big house, just you and your books?"

"Very lonely," she admitted, the truth slipping out before she could stop it.

Thomas paused, his hand on the car door. "Well, maybe that doesn't have to be permanent. Good people shouldn't be alone."

When he kissed her, it was gentle at first, then deeper as she responded with surprising hunger. She tasted cigarettes and punch and something she couldn't name but wanted more of. Valerie's first kiss, and it was like a promise of everything she'd never dared to hope for.

"Would you like to see what normal family life looks like?" he asked suddenly. "My family's farm isn't far. My parents are visiting my aunt in Springfield, but I could show you around. It's not much, but it's... real. Honest."

The offer was everything she'd never known she wanted. To see how regular people lived, to walk through rooms where families gathered and shared meals and argued and laughed and existed together. To glimpse the life she'd read about but never experienced.

"I would love that," she said, and the simple truth of it nearly overwhelmed her.

As they drove through the dark countryside, Valerie's hand rested on his arm, her mind spinning with possibilities she'd never dared entertain. Here was someone who saw her as simply Valerie—not a project, not a reminder, not a burden to be hidden away. Someone who spoke of family and futures and the kind of normal life she'd only imagined.

When the farmhouse came into view, warm light spilling from its windows, Valerie felt something crack open in her chest. This was what a home looked like when it was lived in by people who belonged together. Not a laboratory disguised as a residence, not a monument to guilt and scientific ambition, but a place where love had grown naturally over time.

"Welcome to the Hartwell family farm," Thomas said, helping her from the car. "It's not much, but it's been in my family for three generations."

Three generations of normal people living normal lives, building something together. Valerie stood in the driveway, overwhelmed by the ordinariness of it all—the chicken coop, the vegetable garden, the porch swing where she could imagine Thomas's parents sitting in the evenings.

This was what she wanted. This life, this normalcy, this belonging. And for the first time in her existence, it felt possible.

"It's perfect," she breathed, and meant it completely.

As Thomas led her toward the house, Valerie was already imagining herself as part of this picture—helping with morning chores, sharing meals at the kitchen table, falling asleep next to someone who chose to love her not because of what she represented, but because of who she was.

For the first time since her consciousness began, Valerie Brunner allowed herself to hope.

The front door opened with a homey creak that spoke of generations of daily use. Thomas reached around Valerie to flip the light switch, and warm yellow light flooded a living room that looked like it had grown organically over decades rather than being arranged by design.

"Ma always says the place looks lived-in," Thomas said, hanging his cap on a hook by the door. "That's her polite way of saying we're not the tidiest family."

Valerie stepped carefully into the space, her eyes cataloging every detail with scientific precision turned reverent. A wedding photograph on the mantelpiece showed a younger version of what must be Thomas's parents, the woman's dress indicating a ceremony sometime in the early twenties. Children's handprints in clay decorated the windowsill—Thomas's siblings, she assumed, now grown and moved away. A quilt draped over the sofa bore the careful stitching of loving hands, probably Thomas's mother working through long winter evenings.

"It's wonderful," she breathed, running her fingers along the back of a worn armchair that bore the impression of someone's favorite spot. "It feels... inhabited. Cherished."

"That's one way to put it." Thomas moved to the kitchen, his voice carrying easily through the open doorway. "Ma would have your head if she knew I brought a girl over without offering proper refreshment. Coffee? Or there might be some of Dad's whiskey if you're feeling adventurous."

"Coffee would be lovely." Valerie continued her exploration, pausing at a bookshelf filled with an eclectic mix—farm journals, a few novels, what appeared to be a complete set of encyclopedias from 1938, and a well-worn Bible. Normal books, read by normal people living normal lives.

She could hear Thomas moving around the kitchen—the familiar sounds of domesticity that she'd only observed from a distance. The coffee pot being filled, cabinets opening and closing, the comfortable routine of someone at home in their space.

"My mother would like you," he called from the kitchen. "She's always saying I should find a girl with some depth to her."

The casual mention of his mother liking her sent warmth flooding through Valerie's chest. To be liked by Thomas's mother—to be welcomed into this family circle, to become part of their story. She could picture herself helping with Sunday dinners, listening to family stories, contributing to the comfortable chaos of belonging somewhere.

"What's she like?" Valerie asked, settling carefully onto the sofa as if afraid she might disturb something sacred.

Thomas appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame while they waited for the coffee to brew. "Stubborn as a mule and twice as smart. She runs this place, really—Dad just follows orders and pretends he's in charge." His smile was fond, the kind that came from years of loving exasperation. "She'd probably put you to work in her victory garden within five minutes of meeting you."

"I'd like that." The honesty surprised even her. "I've never had anyone to work alongside."

"What about your family? You mentioned your grandfather..."

"My parents died when I was young. My grandfather raised me, but he was... focused on his work. There wasn't much time for gardening or domestic pursuits." Valerie chose her words carefully, omitting the fact that her 'childhood' had been spent learning to navigate a world built for someone else's memories. "He taught me everything he could about science, but not much about living."

Thomas crossed the room and sat beside her on the sofa, close enough that she could smell his aftershave mixing with the lingering scents of home—wood polish, old fabric, something baking from earlier in the day. "That's a shame. Family should be about more than just lessons."

"What was it like, growing up here?" she asked, desperate to understand this foreign concept of family warmth.

"Loud, mostly." Thomas chuckled, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa behind her. "Three boys and all the neighborhood kids treating our place like their second home. Ma feeding everyone who walked through the door, Dad teaching us to fix everything that broke—which was constantly, with that many kids around."

"It sounds perfect."

"It was pretty good." His voice grew thoughtful. "The war made me appreciate it more. You don't realize how rare that kind of stability is until you've seen places where families get torn apart."

The coffee pot's whistle interrupted them, and Thomas went to fetch their cups. When he returned, he sat closer than before, his thigh almost touching hers. Valerie accepted the coffee gratefully, using the warmth of the cup to steady her suddenly trembling hands.

"You're nervous," Thomas observed gently.

"I don't have much experience with... social situations."

"Is that what this is? A social situation?"

Valerie met his eyes, seeing something there that made her pulse quicken. "I'm not sure what this is."

"Neither am I, exactly." Thomas set down his coffee cup and turned to face her fully. "But I know I've never met anyone like you, Valerie. There's something about you that's... I don't know."

Instead of answering, she set down her own cup and allowed herself to really look at him—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair had come slightly undone from its careful styling, the warmth in his eyes that she'd never seen directed at her before.

"May I kiss you again?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. When his lips met hers this time, it was different from the gentle exploration outside the dance hall. This kiss spoke of intent, of possibility, of the kind of connection she'd read about but never believed could be hers.

His hands framed her face as they kissed, and Valerie felt something inside her chest crack open completely.

"Valerie," Thomas murmured against her lips, and the sound of her name in his voice was like a prayer.

"Yes?"

"Would you... would you like to stay tonight? I know it's forward of me to ask, but..."

"Yes." The word escaped before she could consider the implications, driven by a need she barely understood. "Yes, I would like that very much."

Thomas pulled back to study her face, searching for hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he stood and offered her his hand. "Are you certain?"

She took his hand, marveling at how perfectly it fit with hers. "I've never been more certain of anything."

As he led her up the narrow staircase, Valerie's mind raced with the significance of the moment. His bedroom—the most private space in this family home, the place where he slept and dreamed and planned his future. To be invited in was to be trusted with his most intimate self.

The room was simple but comfortable, dominated by a double bed covered with what appeared to be another of his mother's quilts. Photographs on the dresser showed Thomas at various ages, often with his arms around other young men in uniform—friends who might not have made it home.

"My mother made that quilt when I graduated high school," Thomas said, following her gaze. "Said every man needs something beautiful to come home to."

Beautiful. Like he'd called her at the dance. Like she'd never believed she could be.

Thomas moved closer, his hands settling gently on her waist. "Last chance to change your mind."

Instead of answering, Valerie reached up to begin unbuttoning his uniform jacket, her fingers steady despite the magnitude of what she was choosing. This wasn't just physical desire—this was claiming a place in the world, accepting an invitation to exist as more than just a shadow of someone else's life.

"I don't want to change my mind," she whispered against his throat as his jacket fell to the floor. "I want this. I want you."

And for the first time in her existence, Valerie Brunner allowed herself to believe that she deserved to be wanted in return.

Thomas's hands settled on her waist as she reached up to unbutton his uniform jacket, her fingers trembling with the magnitude of what she was choosing. When the jacket fell to the floor, she looked up at him with something approaching reverence.

"I've never..." she whispered, her voice catching. "I've never done this before."

Something shifted in Thomas's expression—not surprise, but a kind of pleased satisfaction. "I figured as much," he said, his hands moving to her dress buttons with practiced efficiency. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll take good care of you."

Valerie's dress pooled at her feet, and she stood before him in her slip and stockings, feeling more exposed than she'd ever been in her life. Thomas's eyes roamed over her with obvious appreciation, and she felt heat flood her cheeks.

"Beautiful," he murmured, but there was something casual about the way he said it, like he was commenting on the weather. His hands skimmed over her skin as he removed her slip, and she shivered at the contact.

"Thomas," she breathed, reaching for him with desperate hands. "I never thought... I never believed someone could want me like this."

"Shh," he said, guiding her toward the bed. "Less talking, more feeling."

She lay back against his mother's quilt, and Thomas positioned himself above her, his weight settling between her thighs. When he kissed her, it was different than before—hungrier, more demanding. His hands moved over her body with confidence, finding places that made her gasp and arch beneath him.

"That's it," he said against her throat. "Let me show you what you've been missing."

Valerie's hands tangled in his hair as he moved lower, his mouth trailing down her body. She had no idea what to expect, no frame of reference for what was happening as his hands gently parted her thighs, revealing a wet gleaming slit.

The first touch of his tongue against her cunt made her cry out in shock, her body jerking involuntarily. The sensation was unlike anything she'd ever imagined—intense, electric, overwhelming in its foreignness. Thomas's hands held her hips steady as she instinctively tried to pull away from the unfamiliar pleasure.

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmured against her skin. "Just feel."

She forced herself to lie still, to trust him completely, but she couldn't stop her hips from bucking and her thighs from shaking, yet still he held her in place, pinning her and making her take every stroke. The sensations built in waves—each stroke of his tongue against her cunt sending sparks through her entire body. She had no context for what was happening, no understanding of her own responses. Her breathing became ragged, desperate little gasps as something coiled tighter and tighter in her core.

"Thomas," she whispered, not knowing what she was asking for, only that she needed something, needed more, needed—

When the release hit her, it was like lightning striking. Her body convulsed, back arching off the bed as pleasure crashed through her in waves she couldn't control. She cried out his name, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity of finally being touched, wanted, chosen.

As the sensations slowly ebbed, she lay trembling against the quilt, staring up at him with something approaching awe. He had given her something she didn't even know existed, had introduced her to pleasures her sheltered existence had never hinted at.

"Thank you," she whispered, because what else could you say to someone who had just shown you an entirely new way to exist in your own body?

"Please," she whispered when he moved back up her body. "I want to give you everything. Show me how to please you."

Thomas's smile grew predatory. "Eager little thing, aren't you?" He guided her hands to his hard cock, showing her how to stroke him, grip him. "That's good, sweetheart. You're a quick learner."

Valerie poured herself into every touch, desperate to prove herself worthy of his attention. She worshipped his body with inexperienced hands, marveling at the way he responded to her tentative caresses.

Without warning, Thomas gripped her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. "My turn," he said, using his free hand to spread her thighs wider before lining his cock up with her wet cunt.

"Wait, I—" she started, but he was already pushing into her.

The pain was immediate and sharp, her virgin walls stretching around his thick length. Valerie cried out, her body instinctively trying to pull away, but Thomas held her pinned beneath him as he forced himself deeper.

"Fuck, so tight," he groaned, not stopping despite her whimper of pain. "Haven't had a virgin in years."

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as he buried himself completely inside her, her body struggling to accommodate his size. This wasn't the gentle introduction she'd imagined—this was him claiming what he wanted.

"Thomas, please—"

"Just relax," he said, beginning to move with increasing urgency. "You'll adjust."

Valerie tried to focus on the intimacy of the moment, on the way their bodies were joined, but Thomas's rhythm was selfish and demanding. He used her pinned position to drive into her harder, each thrust sending jolts of pain mixed with unfamiliar pleasure through her inexperienced body.

"That's it," he said, his breathing growing ragged as he fucked her. "Take my cock like a good girl. You feel incredible."

She tried to move with him, to give him what he needed, even as the physical sensation remained more overwhelming than pleasurable.

His free hand pawed at her tits as they rocked back and forth with his thrusts, he gripped them tight enough to draw out an especially sharp gasp of pain from her, before pulling his hand back and slapping the tender flesh again and again.

It was painful, as painful as his thrusts but her resolve hardened, this was what he wanted and she'd provide, because she loved him now and as his future wife she'd need to satisfy. That was what she told herself as his hand drifted upwards to her throat and squeezed, not hard enough to cut off her airway completely, but enough that moaning for him was difficult and painful.

That was what seemed to motivate him to pull the hand away from her throat and instead tenderly cup her chin and force eye contact, not concerned about her ability to breathe but his desire to hear her moan for him like she was a private symphony that he conducted.

This was love, she told herself through the pain and confusion. This was connection. This was what she'd been missing her entire life—being wanted so desperately that he couldn't control himself.

When Thomas finished with a harsh groan, collapsing against her briefly before rolling away, Valerie felt a strange mix of completion and confusion. She turned toward him, studying his profile in the lamplight.

"That was..." she began, then stopped, not sure how to articulate the magnitude of what had just happened.

"Yeah," Thomas agreed, reaching for his cigarettes. "Not bad for your first time."

Valerie curled against his side, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat return to normal. She traced patterns on his skin, already imagining all the nights like this in their future together.

Valerie lay in the aftermath, her head on Thomas's chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from urgent to steady. The quilt his mother had made wrapped around them both, and she felt, for the first time in her existence, like she belonged somewhere. The room smelled of intimacy and possibility, and she traced lazy patterns on his skin while her mind spun with plans for their future.

"That was..." she began, then stopped, not having words for what had just passed between them.

"Yeah," Thomas agreed, his arm tightening around her briefly. "It was."

She tilted her head to look at him, studying the relaxed lines of his face in the lamplight. "Thomas?"

"Mmm?"

"When you spoke of wanting to start a family... did you mean that?"

He was quiet for a long moment, and she felt him tense slightly beneath her. "Well, sure. Eventually. When the time is right."

"I've never had a real family," she said softly, pressing closer to him. "What we just shared... I can see it now. A life here, with you. Children running through these rooms like you did. Sunday dinners, holidays..." She paused, then added with vulnerable honesty, "I never thought I could have normal things like that."

Thomas's breathing changed, became more measured. "Valerie..."

"I know it's soon to be talking like this, but I feel like I've known you my whole life. Like I was waiting for you." She lifted herself on one elbow to look at him properly. "Is that foolish?"

The expression on his face made her stomach clench with sudden unease. It wasn't the warm affection she'd seen all evening—it was something careful, almost pitying.

"Listen, sweetheart," he said gently, his hand moving to stroke her hair. "Tonight was wonderful. Really wonderful. But we should probably talk about expectations."

The word 'expectations' fell into the warm space between them like a stone into still water. "What do you mean?"

Thomas sat up, reaching for his cigarettes on the nightstand. The casual movement put distance between them that felt suddenly vast. "I mean we're both adults here. We both know what this was."

"What this was?" Valerie pulled the quilt up to cover herself, suddenly feeling exposed in more ways than physical.

"A good time. A celebration." He lit his cigarette, not quite meeting her eyes. "The war's over, we're both young and alive. Sometimes that's enough reason."

The room seemed to tilt around her. "I don't understand."

Thomas took a long drag, exhaling slowly. "Look, you're a swell girl. Beautiful, intelligent, different from the usual crowd. But I'll be heading back to Springfield in a few days to see my girl. We've been writing for three years—she waited for me through the whole war."

"Your girl?" The words came out barely above a whisper.

"My fiancée, actually. Betty Carmichael. We've been planning to marry since before I shipped out." He said it matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "I probably should have mentioned it earlier, but... well, what happens at victory dances doesn't always need to complicate things back home."

Valerie stared at him, her mind struggling to process what she was hearing. "You're engaged?"

"Have been for two years. She's a good girl—the marrying kind, you know? Wholesome. The type who'll make a good mother and keep a proper house." Thomas finally looked at her, and there was genuine fondness in his expression. "Not that there's anything wrong with girls like you. You're exciting, mysterious. But a man needs different things for different parts of his life."

The casual dismissal hit her like a physical blow. Different things for different parts of his life. She was the exciting part, the temporary diversion. Betty Carmichael was the real part, the part that mattered.

"I see." Valerie's voice was steady, clinical. She slipped from the bed, gathering her scattered clothing mechanically. "I misunderstood the nature of our... encounter."

"Now don't be like that." Thomas stubbed out his cigarette. "We had fun, didn't we? No harm done. You're not the type to get all weepy about these things."

She paused in buttoning her dress. "What type am I, exactly?"

"Independent. Modern. The kind of woman who understands that sometimes people just need to connect without it meaning forever." He was trying to be kind, she realized. In his mind, he was letting her down easy. "You'll find someone who appreciates that about you."

"Yes," she said quietly, smoothing down her skirt. "I believe I will."

"That's the spirit. No hard feelings?"

Valerie looked at him—this man who had shown her a glimpse of normal life, who had made her believe she could be wanted for herself, who had just relegated her to the category of temporary entertainment. He was smiling at her with the same easy charm he'd shown at the dance, completely unaware that he had just shattered something fundamental inside her.

"None at all," she said. "Though I should probably step outside for a moment. Get some air."

"Sure thing. I'll probably grab a quick shower while you do." Thomas stretched, completely comfortable in his nakedness and his casual cruelty. "Take your time."

Valerie walked downstairs in her stockings, her shoes forgotten somewhere in his bedroom. The living room looked different now—not warm and welcoming, but foreign. These weren't her family's photographs, her family's memories, her place to belong. She had been playing house in someone else's life.

She let herself out the front door, her feet finding the path to the barn as if drawn by instinct. The night air was cold against her skin, but she barely felt it. Inside her chest, something was crystallizing—not heartbreak, not despair, but something harder and more dangerous.

The barn door creaked as she pushed it open. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the boards, illuminating the tools of farm life—shovels, rope, a grindstone, and there, hanging from a nail on the support beam, the axe Thomas's father used for splitting firewood.

Valerie lifted it from its hook, testing its weight. Well-maintained, sharp, efficient. A tool designed for one purpose: to split things apart.

She thought about Betty Carmichael, the good girl waiting faithfully in Springfield. The wholesome one, the marrying kind. The one who mattered enough to build a future with.

She thought about Thomas upstairs, probably humming while he washed away the evidence of their encounter, preparing to return to his real life with his real love.

She thought about her own reflection in the punch bowl earlier tonight, and how she'd avoided looking because she already knew what she'd see—her mother's face looking back, a reminder that she was nothing more than a reproduction, a pale echo of someone else's existence.

But tonight, for a few precious hours, she had been Valerie. She had been wanted, chosen, valued. She had glimpsed what it might feel like to be the marrying kind, the real kind, the kind that mattered.

And Thomas Hartwell had taken that away from her as casually as he might discard yesterday's newspaper.

The axe felt good in her hands. Solid. Purposeful. A tool for solving problems.

As she walked back toward the house, Valerie's mind was already working with the clinical precision that would later serve her so well. Thomas would be in the shower now—vulnerable, trapped, unable to hear her approach over the sound of running water. The bathroom door wouldn't be locked; farm families didn't lock doors inside their own homes.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the water running above. For a moment, she considered alternatives. She could simply leave, disappear into the night, nurse her wounds in private like any other discarded woman.

But the memory of his casual dismissal burned in her chest. "Different things for different parts of his life." "No hard feelings." "The kind of woman who understands."

She understood, all right. She understood that Thomas Hartwell saw her as less than human, less than worthy of truth or consideration. A temporary diversion to be used and dismissed.

Valerie Brunner began climbing the stairs, the axe heavy and sure in her grip. The water was still running when Valerie reached the top of the stairs. Steam seeped from beneath the bathroom door, and she could hear Thomas humming—something cheerful and off-key that made her jaw clench. He was humming. Washing away their encounter like dirt from his hands, preparing to return to his real life with his real love.

She tested the door handle. Unlocked, just as she'd known it would be. Farm families didn't lock doors in their own homes.

The hinges gave a soft creak as she pushed it open, but the sound was lost beneath the spray of water and Thomas's tuneless melody. The small bathroom was thick with steam, the mirror fogged completely. Through the translucent shower curtain, she could see his silhouette—relaxed, vulnerable, utterly unaware.

Valerie stepped inside, closing the door behind her with deliberate quiet. The axe felt heavier now, substantial in her grip. She adjusted her hold, remembering her grandfather's lessons about precision, about the importance of clean cuts.

"Hey, is that you?" Thomas called from behind the curtain, his voice echoing off the tile. "Thought you were getting some air."

"I was," Valerie said, her voice steady. "I found what I was looking for."

Something in her tone must have registered because the humming stopped. The water continued its steady drumming, but she could sense his sudden alertness.

"Valerie? You okay out there?"

Instead of answering, she gripped the axe handle with both hands and yanked the shower curtain aside.

Thomas stood frozen under the spray, water streaming down his naked body, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of her—still in her wrinkled dress, her hair wild, gripping a woodsman's axe like an avenging angel.

"What the hell—"

The first swing caught him across the ribs before he could finish the sentence. The axe bit deep, and Thomas screamed—a raw, animal sound that mixed with the splash of water and the wet crack of ribs breaking. Blood sprayed across the white tile walls, stark as paint against the porcelain.

He stumbled backward, hitting the shower wall, his hands pressed against the gaping wound. "Jesus Christ, Valerie, what are you—"

"Girls like me," she said, raising the axe again. "Different things for different parts of your life."

The second swing took him in the shoulder as he tried to raise his arms defensively. The blade severed muscle and tendon, and his left arm dropped uselessly to his side. More blood, painting the shower floor red, swirling down the drain in pink spirals.

Thomas was sobbing now, sliding down the tile wall, his good hand scrabbling for purchase. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You meant every word." Valerie's voice was clinical, detached. "You meant that I was temporary. That I was the kind of woman who understands. That Betty Carmichael is the marrying kind and I'm just the fucking kind."

The third swing was aimed at his head, but he managed to duck, and the axe blade buried itself in the wall above him with a satisfying thunk. Plaster and tile rained down as she wrenched it free.

"No hard feelings, remember?" she said, adjusting her grip. "Isn't that what you said?"

Thomas tried to crawl away, but there was nowhere to go in the small space. His blood made the floor slippery, and he kept losing his footing. The water continued to pour down, washing the blood in streams across the tile.

"I have a fiancée," he gasped, as if this were news to her. "She's waiting for me. Please, she's waiting—"

"Then you should have thought of her before you decided to celebrate your homecoming between my legs."

The fourth swing caught him in the back as he tried to crawl toward the door. She felt the axe bite through spine, heard the wet crack of vertebrae separating. Thomas went limp from the waist down, his legs useless, though his arms still moved frantically.

"Please," he whispered, his voice weak now, losing blood fast. "Please, I don't want to die."

Valerie knelt beside him in the spreading pool of red water, the axe resting across her knees. Up close, she could see the life leaving his eyes, could hear his breathing becoming shallow and irregular. She set the axe aside as she sat him up straight against the wall, a difficult task for her small slender frame, he was large and dead weight but with persistence she triumphed. His dying moments spent feeling his body being positioned like a mannequin so that she could get her last final strike.

"Neither did I," she said softly. "But you killed me anyway, didn't you? You killed the part of me that believed I could be chosen, could be wanted, could be real." She touched his face almost gently, her fingers coming away red. "The difference is, your death will be quicker."

The final swing was precise, clinical. A clean cut across the throat that opened his carotid like a blooming flower. Blood sprayed in a high arc, painting the ceiling, and then Thomas Hartwell was still.

Valerie sat back on her heels, breathing hard. The shower continued to run, washing the blood in rivers toward the drain. Steam rose around her like incense, and she felt something settle in her chest—not satisfaction exactly, but completion. A problem solved. A lesson learned.

She stood slowly, studying her handiwork. The bathroom looked like an abattoir, red streaking every surface. Thomas lay crumpled in the corner of the shower, his body twisted at impossible angles, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"Girls like me," she murmured, hefting the axe again. "You have no idea what girls like me are capable of."

She would need to clean up, of course. Dispose of the body. Make it look like he'd simply disappeared—gone AWOL, perhaps, or decided to start fresh somewhere new. People would assume he'd abandoned his responsibilities, his fiancée, his family farm.

They would never know that Thomas Hartwell had died the moment he decided that Valerie Brunner was something to be used and discarded.

As she turned off the water and began planning her next steps, Valerie felt a strange sense of clarity. This was who she was meant to be. Not the pale echo of her mother, not the shameful secret locked away in a mansion, not the temporary diversion for men who would never choose her.

She was something else entirely. Something that solved problems with precision and permanence.

She looked down at the body now, his naked bloody body. She could see herself now, dragging him down the stairs to throw him to the pigs and letting them dispose of him, trying to clean the trail of blood that would leave, cleaning the bathroom, laundering the shower curtains, the hole in the wall that would need fixing, returning the axe to its place. So many things to fix to make it seem Thomas had simply disappeared. She just simply couldn't possibly do all that alone.

So that wasn't the story for tonight. No one had seen her come with him, no one had reason to trace her to him when he'd chatted to so many women at the dance.

One more axe swing and Thomas's penis fell to the floor, bloody and limp, she picked it up and put it in the sink before pushing his body up against the wall and prying his mouth open and shoving the bloody member in, would be quite the sight for his parents when they found it.

Then she turned to the mirror quickly diverting her gaze away from it as she searched through the cabinets and shelves until she found what must have been his mother's lipstick. With her eyes still closed she lifted it up and did her best to write "Liar" on the mirror. Then she left. Left her shoes in his room to be found, so that it would be known a woman had been with him that night.

He wouldn't be her last victim. Not even close.

Chapter Text

The air outside the Student Union reeked of tear gas and righteous indignation. Valerie Brown knelt beside a freshman whose face was streaked with chemical burns, her black wool dress hiked up to allow better movement as she worked. Around them, protesters nursed their wounds and their wounded pride in equal measure—some comparing war stories from the afternoon's clash with campus police, others already planning the next demonstration.

"Hold still," she murmured to the boy, dabbing saline solution around his eyes with practiced precision. "The burning will fade in a few minutes."

"Jesus, that stuff is evil," he gasped, blinking rapidly. "How do you know what to do?"

"Biology major. Plus, this isn't my first protest." Valerie's voice carried the clinical detachment that made people assume she was older than she looked. At what appeared to be twenty, she'd been attending demonstrations with the consistency of someone fulfilling a religious obligation—always present, always helpful, always alone.

She finished with the freshman and moved to the next casualty, a girl whose arm had been scraped raw when the police charge sent her sprawling across concrete. The wound was superficial but dirty, and Valerie cleaned it with the methodical care of someone who understood infection better than most pre-med students.

"You're very good at this."

The voice belonged to a tall graduate student she'd noticed at several rallies—always near the organizers, always carrying a worn copy of something appropriately radical. Today it was Marcuse's "One-Dimensional Man," tucked under his arm like a badge of intellectual authority. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and a black turtleneck beneath a corduroy jacket, the uniform of serious academic rebellion.

"Basic first aid," Valerie replied without looking up from her patient. "Anyone can learn it."

"But not everyone does. And not everyone shows up to every demonstration like you do." He settled into a crouch beside her, studying her technique with genuine interest. "I'm David Kellerman. Philosophy PhD candidate, though I've been doing some work with SDS organizing."

"Valerie Brown. Biology." She finished bandaging the girl's arm and finally looked at him directly. "I've seen you at the rallies."

"And I've seen you. You're remarkably consistent for someone who never seems to get involved with the actual organizing." His tone was curious rather than accusatory. "Why is that?"

Valerie considered the question while packing away her makeshift medical supplies. Around them, the post-demonstration energy was shifting from immediate crisis response to political analysis—voices rising as those activists that remained debated tactics and strategy.

"I prefer direct action to committee meetings," she said finally. "Standing against war feels more useful than arguing about how to stand against war."

David laughed, a warm sound that cut through the ambient tension. "Spoken like someone who's never tried to coordinate three hundred students without getting anyone arrested unnecessarily."

"Arrest is sometimes the point, isn't it? Civil disobedience requires accepting the consequences." She stood, smoothing down her dress—a simple black shift with clean lines that managed to look both fashionable and somber. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe style that emphasized her pale features and sharp cheekbones. “Look around, all we did was march and chant, now I’m washing wounds.”

"True, but strategic arrest is different from getting people hurt for no reason." David rose as well, and she noticed he was several inches taller than her own modest height. "There's a difference between martyrdom and effectiveness."

"And which category would you put today's demonstration in?"

"Today?" He gestured toward the wounded protesters still receiving aid. "Today was about showing the administration that we won't be ignored. Mission accomplished, I'd say."

Valerie's expression remained neutral as she gathered her jacket—a short black coat that complemented her outfit's stark simplicity. "The mission is ending the war, Mr. Kellerman. Everything else is just performance."

The assessment was delivered with such cool precision that David blinked, clearly reassessing her. Most women at these rallies were either earnest idealists or rebellious coeds playing at revolution. This one spoke like someone who'd already calculated the true cost of political action.

"That's... refreshingly direct," he said. "And probably accurate. Look, would you like to continue this conversation somewhere with better ventilation? There's a coffee shop off campus where we could actually hear ourselves think."

Valerie paused, studying his face for signs of the casual dismissal she'd learned to recognize. Instead, she found what appeared to be genuine intellectual curiosity—the look of someone who'd encountered an unexpected puzzle.

"Are you asking me for coffee to discuss political theory, Mr. Kellerman?"

"Among other things." His smile was easy, confident without being aggressive. "You're clearly more thoughtful than most of the people at these gatherings. I'd like to know what you think about the movement's direction."

Around them, the crowd was beginning to disperse. Some protesters headed back to dorms to nurse their injuries and their revolutionary fervor. Others clustered around David and his fellow organizers, eager to be part of the planning process for future actions.

Valerie watched him for another moment, noting the way other students deferred to his opinions, the practiced way he balanced attention between her and his broader responsibilities. Here was someone who knew how to manage multiple audiences simultaneously—a useful skill for both organizing and seduction.

"All right," she said finally. "Coffee and political theory. But not the campus hangouts—too many people trying to prove their revolutionary credentials by talking louder than everyone else."

"I know a place." David's grin suggested he'd scored some kind of victory, though whether personal or political remained unclear. "Quiet enough for actual conversation."

As they walked from the campus and into the public streets, Valerie caught sight of her reflection in the window of a small shop. The woman looking back appeared young, serious, and entirely ordinary—exactly the image she'd cultivated over the past twenty years of careful reinvention. What David Kellerman saw was a committed activist with interesting ideas and striking cheekbones.

**********

The Grind was exactly the kind of place David would know—dim lighting, mismatched furniture, and the persistent aroma of cigarettes mixing with espresso. Folk music drifted from speakers mounted too high on walls lined with flyers for causes both local and cosmic. A perfect backdrop for serious conversation between serious people.

Valerie settled into a corner booth, her black coat draped carefully over the worn vinyl seat. David returned from the counter with two cups of coffee and what appeared to be a carefully curated selection of topics designed to impress.

"So," he began, sliding her cup across the scarred wooden table, "biology. That's unusual for someone so politically engaged. Most of the women in the movement are studying education or social work."

"Why should that be unusual?" Valerie wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, studying his face. "Understanding how life functions seems fairly relevant to preserving it."

""That's fascinating - so you're looking at life systems from the cellular level up? I've been thinking about social systems from the top down, but there's probably overlap in how complex systems maintain themselves..." David adjusted his glasses—a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his thinking pose. "So your draw to activism must come from am more scientific one than an emotional one. Most people get involved because of feelings rather than analysis."

"And you? What drove you to philosophy?"

"The need to understand systems of oppression, primarily." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering her one before lighting his own. "Marcuse, Sartre, de Beauvoir—they've provided the intellectual framework for understanding how power structures maintain themselves through manufactured consent."

Valerie accepted the cigarette but didn't light it immediately. "You mention de Beauvoir. What did you think of 'The Second Sex'?"

David's face brightened with the particular enthusiasm of someone who'd found his favorite topic. "Revolutionary. Absolutely revolutionary. The way she deconstructs the myth of feminine nature, shows how women are made rather than born—it completely undermines traditional gender expectations."

"Interesting interpretation." Valerie lit her cigarette, taking a slow drag. "What did you think of her analysis of women's complicity in their own oppression?"

"You know, I never thought about it that way - the complicity angle. Most people focus on the victimization aspect, but you're right that she's talking about something more complex. Centuries of conditioning have convinced women that their subordination is natural. But once you understand the mechanics of that conditioning..." He leaned forward, warming to his theme. "That's where the real liberation begins. Women realizing they can reject traditional roles, embrace their sexuality without shame, live as freely as men have always lived."

"Sexual liberation as political liberation?"

"Exactly." David's eyes lit up behind his thick frames. "The personal is political, as they're saying now. Women's sexual freedom is inseparable from their social freedom. Breaking free from bourgeois morality, from the possessiveness of traditional relationships..."

Valerie watched him carefully as he spoke, noting the way his theoretical passion seemed to intensify when the topic turned to sexual liberation. "And what does that look like practically? This freedom from possessiveness?"

"Honest relationships without the artificial constraints of exclusive ownership. Love without jealousy, intimacy without possession." David gestured with his cigarette, clearly enjoying the role of enlightened teacher. "Simone and Sartre understood this—their relationship was based on absolute honesty about other connections. No lies, no pretense, no bourgeois expectations."

"That requires remarkable emotional maturity."

"It does. But isn't that what we're fighting for? A society where people can relate to each other authentically instead of playing prescribed roles?" He stubbed out his cigarette, immediately reaching for another. "Most of us have been so conditioned to need a false sense of security in exclusivity, that they can't imagine any other way of being."

"And the women you've known? Have they embraced this philosophy?"

Something flickered across David's face—too quick to identify, but Valerie caught it. "Some more than others. It's a process, you know? Unlearning a lifetime of conditioning. But the women who truly understand, who've read Friedan and de Beauvoir, who think for themselves..." He paused to light his fresh cigarette. "They're extraordinary. They understand that love and freedom aren't mutually exclusive."

Valerie sipped her coffee, which was bitter and strong enough to strip paint. Around them, other conversations hummed with the urgent intensity of young people solving the world's problems over caffeine and nicotine.

"Tell me about your research," she said, changing direction. "Philosophy PhD—that's quite an undertaking."

"I'm focusing on existential phenomenology, particularly how consciousness creates meaning in the absence of predetermined essence." David settled back into explanation mode. "The idea that we're condemned to be free, to create ourselves through our choices rather than accepting prescribed identities."

"Sounds lonely."

"Revolutionary. Once you understand that there's no inherent meaning, no natural law dictating how we should live, everything becomes possible." His intensity was genuine now, not performed. "We can create new ways of being, new relationships, new societies. The traditional family, conventional marriage, sexual possessiveness—all of it is just habit masquerading as necessity."

"And what would you replace it with?"

"Honest connection. Authentic relationship. People choosing to be together because they want to be, not because society expects it or because they're trapped by jealousy and possessiveness." David leaned across the table, his voice dropping to something more intimate. "Imagine relationships based on genuine attraction and intellectual compatibility rather than ownership and control."

Valerie met his gaze directly. "That would require both parties to truly respect each other as equals."

"Exactly." His smile was warm, seemingly genuine. "Which is why I find you so fascinating, Valerie. You're clearly intelligent enough to understand these concepts, but you're also beautiful enough that most men probably never bother to engage with your mind."

The compliment was skillfully delivered—acknowledging her intellect while subtly referencing her physical appeal. Valerie filed it away with the rest of her growing assessment of David Kellerman's techniques.

"And you? Do you find it difficult to see women as intellectual equals when you're also attracted to them?"

"Not at all. In fact, I find intelligence incredibly attractive. A woman who can challenge my ideas, who brings her own perspective to philosophical discussion..." He gestured toward her with his coffee cup. "That's far more compelling than conventional prettiness without substance."

"How progressive of you."

"I'd like to think so." David's grin was self-deprecating, charming. "Though I suppose the real test isn't what I think about my own attitudes, but whether the women in my life would agree."

"And would they?"

"Ahh I’d hate to speak on their behalf about such matters, but I do try and align with my partners on such matters." He checked his watch—a casual gesture that somehow conveyed both availability and gentle time pressure. "Though I should warn you, I have some unconventional ideas about relationships that not everyone understands initially."

"Such as?"

"Well, like we were discussing—the freedom to connect with people authentically without the artificial constraints of exclusive possession." David's voice took on the careful tone of someone introducing a potentially controversial concept. "I believe in honesty about attractions, about connections with other people. The kind of openness that most traditional relationships prohibit."

Valerie set down her coffee cup with deliberate precision. "You mean sleeping with other people."

"I mean being honest about the full range of human connection instead of pretending that one person can meet every emotional and physical need." David's response was smooth, clearly practiced. "The jealousy and possessiveness that most people mistake for love—that's just social conditioning designed to maintain patriarchal control structures."

"Interesting theory." Valerie's voice remained neutral, but something cold had settled behind her eyes. "And the women you've shared this philosophy with—they've all embraced it enthusiastically?"

"The ones mature enough to understand it, yes. The ones who've moved beyond conventional expectations and bourgeois morality." David leaned forward again, his voice dropping to something more personal. "I have the feeling you might be one of those women, Valerie. Someone intelligent enough to see past social programming to what authentic relationship could actually look like."

Around them, the coffee shop continued its quiet hum of conversation and clinking ceramics. Valerie found herself genuinely engaged for the first time in years—here was someone who could discuss both Sartre and sexual politics without treating either as mere intellectual decoration.

"You know," she said slowly, "most people use philosophy to justify what they were already planning to do anyway."

"Guilty as charged," David laughed. "Though I'd argue that's exactly what philosophy should do—provide frameworks for living authentically instead of just abstract theorizing."

"And your framework has room for... complexity?"

"I'd hope so. The best relationships I've had were with women intelligent enough to understand that connection doesn't require possession." He studied her face carefully. "I have the feeling you might be someone who appreciates that kind of... intellectual honesty."

Valerie sipped her coffee, considering. There was something appealing about David's approach—the acknowledgment that human relationships were more nuanced than social conventions allowed. After years of carefully managed solitude, the possibility of connection without the suffocating expectations that had destroyed her once before seemed almost revolutionary.

"It's an interesting perspective," she said finally. "Though I imagine it requires both parties to be genuinely committed to that honesty."

"Absolutely. That's what makes it so rare." David's smile was warm, seemingly genuine. "Most people say they want honesty until they actually encounter it." He checked his watch again, "It's getting dark - can I walk you back to campus? Or wherever you're staying?" 

“I actually live off campus, I’d hate to inconvenience you that way.” She spoke before taking another sip of her coffee.

"That must be nice, having space away from all the dormitory drama."

As they prepared to leave, Valerie realized she was looking forward to continuing the conversation. Here, perhaps, was someone who might actually understand the complexity of her existence—someone sophisticated enough to appreciate unconventional arrangements.

*******

The week passed like a careful experiment in human connection. Valerie found herself genuinely surprised by David's patience as she maintained deliberate distance between their coffee conversations and anything more intimate. Where Thomas had rushed toward physical conquest, David seemed content to pursue intellectual seduction at whatever pace she set.

Tuesday brought another protest—this time against Dow Chemical recruiting on campus. Valerie arrived early to help with medical supplies and found David already there, distributing flyers with the focused efficiency of someone who'd done this many times before. When campus security moved to confiscate their materials, he stepped forward with quiet authority.

"These students have a right to express their opposition to companies profiting from chemical warfare," he told the officer, his voice calm but carrying across the gathering crowd. "Unless you're planning to arrest everyone exercising their First Amendment rights?"

The security guard hesitated, clearly unprepared for articulate resistance, and ultimately retreated. David's handling of the situation impressed even the veteran organizers—no grandstanding, no unnecessary escalation, just effective action grounded in principle.

"That was well done," Valerie told him afterward as they helped clear debris from the brief scuffle that followed.

"Practice," David replied with a self-deprecating smile. "My advisor keeps warning me that activism will derail my academic career, but some things matter more than career prospects."

"Such as?"

"Such as not being complicit in atrocities because it's academically convenient." He paused, then added more quietly, "I spent two nights in jail after the Columbia protests. My parents threatened to cut off funding if I got arrested again. Sometimes I wonder if they're right, if I'm just playing at revolution while real people die."

The vulnerability in his admission felt genuine, a crack in the composed intellectual facade that made Valerie see him as more than just another graduate student with radical pretensions. Here was someone wrestling with the same questions that had driven her own political engagement—how to translate moral conviction into meaningful action.

Wednesday evening found them in his cramped graduate student apartment, a studio space barely large enough for a desk, a narrow bed, and towering stacks of books that served as both furniture and statement of intellectual seriousness. The walls were covered with posters for various causes—civil rights, anti-war, free speech—alongside reproductions of Picasso's Guernica and a photograph of Simone de Beauvoir looking thoughtfully into the distance.

"I know it's not much," David said, gesturing around the cluttered space. "Graduate student stipends don't exactly allow for luxurious living."

"It feels honest," Valerie replied, examining his bookshelf with genuine interest. Marcuse, Sartre, Fanon, Betty Friedan—the theoretical foundation of his worldview laid out in spine after spine of serious engagement with radical thought. "Your books tell a coherent story."

"That's the idea. Though sometimes I worry I'm just consuming theory without creating anything meaningful with it." He moved to a hot plate balanced precariously on a stack of journals and began preparing coffee with the ritual precision of someone for whom caffeine was a survival necessity. "What about you? What drives your particular form of activism?"

"Efficiency," Valerie said simply. "Most political action is performance designed to make participants feel better about injustice rather than actually addressing it. I prefer approaches that create measurable change."

"Spoken like a scientist. Though I'd argue that changing consciousness is a necessary precursor to changing material conditions." David handed her a mismatched mug filled with coffee that smelled significantly better than anything available on campus. "People have to understand the nature of their oppression before they can effectively resist it."

"And if they don't want to understand?"

"Then you find ways to make resistance more appealing than submission." His smile carried an edge that suggested he'd given this considerable thought. "Most people respond to incentives, even if they're not consciously aware of it."

They talked until nearly midnight, moving through topics with the fluidity of minds genuinely engaged with each other's perspectives. David's intellectual curiosity seemed boundless—he asked detailed questions about her biological research, drew connections between cellular behavior and social organization, suggested readings that might bridge their different academic approaches to understanding human systems.

"You know," he said as she prepared to leave, "most people in the movement treat politics like a hobby. Something they do between classes to feel morally superior. But you approach it like you approach everything else—systematically."

"Is that criticism or compliment?"

"Admiration." David's voice carried a warmth that seemed entirely unperformed. "I've never met anyone who thinks as clearly as you do about complex problems."

By Friday, Valerie realized she was looking forward to their conversations with an intensity that surprised her. David had proven capable of sustained intellectual engagement without the condescension she'd come to expect from academic men. He listened when she spoke, built on her ideas rather than dismissing them, and demonstrated the kind of political commitment that suggested his progressive theories weren't merely fashionable poses.

When he suggested dinner at a small restaurant off campus, she accepted without the careful calculation that had governed her previous responses. David Kellerman had earned her interest through consistent demonstration of the principles he espoused. Unlike Thomas Hartwell, he seemed to understand that seduction required more than physical proximity and charm.

The restaurant was the kind of place graduate students chose when they wanted to suggest sophistication on limited budgets—dim lighting, candles stuck in wine bottles, and a menu heavy on pasta and intellectual pretension. David had clearly chosen it carefully, selecting a corner table that allowed for private conversation while maintaining the public setting that signaled respect for her boundaries.

"I've been thinking about something you said," he began after they'd ordered. "About efficiency in political action. It occurs to me that most of us are so focused on proving our moral purity that we lose sight of practical effectiveness."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we organize protests that make us feel righteous but don't actually change policy. We debate theory in coffee shops while people die in Vietnam." David leaned forward, his intensity genuine. "What would truly effective resistance look like?"

"Targeted. Specific. Focused on weak points rather than symbolic gestures." Valerie considered the question seriously. "Most political action fails because it's designed to make participants feel better rather than create actual change."

"And what would create actual change?"

"Removing obstacles. Permanently."

Something flickered in David's expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "That's a remarkably direct approach."

"Direct problems require direct solutions."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, each seemingly absorbed in the implications of the conversation. Around them, other diners pursued their own earnest discussions of art, politics, and the kind of personal drama that defined graduate student social life.

"Valerie," David said finally, his voice carefully neutral, "would you like to come back to my apartment tonight?"

The invitation was delivered without pressure or expectation, simply offered as a possibility she could accept or decline without consequence. After a week of careful observation, Valerie had found no evidence that David Kellerman was anything other than exactly what he appeared to be—an intelligent, principled man whose progressive politics extended to his personal relationships.

"Yes," she said. "I would like that."

As they walked back through the darkening campus, Valerie reflected on how different this felt from her evening with Thomas Hartwell. There was no desperate hope for salvation, no fantasy of belonging to someone else's life. Instead, there was the calm satisfaction of having found someone whose intellectual complexity matched her own, someone capable of understanding the full scope of her existence.

Back in his apartment, David moved with the same careful consideration he'd shown all week. He offered her wine from a bottle that suggested thought rather than expense, put on a Miles Davis record that created atmosphere without demanding attention, and settled beside her on his narrow bed with the kind of patience that felt like genuine respect.

"I want you to know," he said, his hand resting lightly on hers, "that this doesn't have to mean anything more than what it is. No expectations, no assumptions about the future."

The words were meant to be reassuring, but something cold flickered in Valerie's chest. Still, when he kissed her, the sensation was gentle and present, focused entirely on her responses rather than his own urgency. His hands moved with careful attention to her comfort, and when she tensed at certain touches, he paused to check her reaction.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she hesitated at removing her dress.

"It's been... a while," she said, which was true enough.

"We can stop anytime. I mean that." David's voice carried sincere conviction. "I'd rather talk all night than make you uncomfortable."

His consideration felt genuine, so different from Thomas's assumption of entitlement. When her dress finally pooled at her feet, David's eyes moved over her body with obvious appreciation but without the predatory hunger she remembered from before.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his hands skimming her skin with reverent touches. "Really beautiful."

When he kissed her again, it was deeper, more urgent, but still controlled. His hands found the clasp of her bra with practiced ease, and when it fell away, he took time to appreciate what he'd revealed.

"May I?" he asked, he leaned down his mouth hovering near her breast.

The request for permission, so different from Thomas's assumption of access, made her nod wordlessly. When his lips closed around her nipple, the sensation was gentle at first, then more insistent as she arched into his touch. His free hand caressed her other breast, thumb circling the hardening peak with deliberate precision.

"That feels good," she whispered, surprised by her own boldness.

"Good," David murmured against her skin. "Tell me what you like. I want to know what pleases you."

The invitation to communicate her desires felt revolutionary after Thomas's focus on his own pleasure. As David's mouth worked its way down her body, pausing to lavish attention on particularly sensitive spots, Valerie found herself relaxing into sensations she'd never been encouraged to explore.

When he knelt between her thighs, his hands gentle as they positioned her, she felt a momentary flutter of anxiety. But David's approach was patient, almost worshipful, his tongue finding her with careful attention to her responses.

"Just feel," he whispered against her skin. "Let yourself enjoy this."

The orgasm, when it came, was different from what Thomas had wrung from her—less overwhelming, more sustained, building in waves that left her trembling and breathless. David held her through the aftershocks, his hands soothing against her thighs.

"That was..." she began.

"Beautiful," he finished, moving up to kiss her deeply. "You're incredible when you let yourself go."

As they kissed, she could taste herself on his lips, and instead of feeling embarrassed, she felt powerful. David had given her pleasure with such obvious enjoyment that it felt like a gift freely offered rather than a favor grudgingly performed.

"David," she said softly, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She worked at the buttons with fingers that were steadier than she'd expected. "I want to... I want to touch you too."

His shirt fell away, revealing a lean frame that spoke of graduate student meals and academic stress rather than athletic pursuits. When her hands moved over his chest, he responded with such obvious pleasure that she felt encouraged to explore further.

"You don't have to," he said as her hands moved toward his belt, but there was something in his voice - anticipation barely disguised as consideration.

"I want to." And she did, surprised by how true that was. "You made me feel so good. I want to do the same for you."

David's breathing quickened as she worked at his belt, then pushed his pants down over his hips. When she freed his cock, he was already hard and straining, larger than Thomas had been, the head flushed dark with arousal.

"You've never...?" he asked, noting her hesitation.

"No. I want to learn, though." She wrapped her hand around him experimentally, marveling at the heat and weight of him in her palm.

"God, yes." His voice was rough with desire as he covered her hand with his, guiding her movements. "Like this, just... fuck, Valerie, your hands feel incredible."

She stroked him carefully, learning the rhythm that made him gasp and arch into her touch. His reactions were so immediate, so gratifying, that she found herself growing bolder.

"You know," David said, his voice rough with desire, "true sexual equality means both partners should experience pleasure. Reciprocity." His hand moved to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "I want to make you feel as good as you're making me feel."

"I thought... I mean, isn't this enough?" she asked, still stroking him.

"Of course it's wonderful. But in a truly liberated relationship, we don't keep score." His hands moved to her shoulders, applying gentle downward pressure. "What would really turn me on is knowing you're comfortable exploring every aspect of your sexuality. Without shame or inhibition."

She felt herself being guided downward and hesitated. "I've never... I don't know how..."

"That's what makes it beautiful," David murmured, his philosophy flowing as smoothly as ever. "You choosing to be vulnerable with me, to trust me to guide you. There's incredible power in voluntary submission to someone who respects you."

"Submission?" The word made her uncertain.

"Not submission like oppression," he said quickly, his hands still gentle but insistent on her shoulders. "Submission like choosing to let someone you trust lead you to new experiences. In the best relationships, both partners take turns being vulnerable, being guided." His voice took on that familiar intellectual tone. "Simone de Beauvoir wrote about this - how a truly liberated woman can choose when to lead and when to follow, based on desire rather than social conditioning."

Valerie found herself kneeling beside the bed, David's cock level with her face. The position felt vulnerable in a way that both frightened and excited her.

"The beautiful thing about choosing this," David continued, his hand moving to stroke her hair, "is that you're rejecting the prudish conditioning that tells women their sexuality should be limited. You're embracing your full sexual potential."

She took him into her mouth slowly, experimentally, focusing on his reactions to guide her movements. The taste was clean, slightly salty, not unpleasant. More importantly, the effect on David was immediate and intense.

"Jesus, Valerie," he breathed. "You're incredible. So fucking beautiful like this."

His praise made her bold, and she began to find a rhythm, taking him deeper with each movement. David's guidance was constant but gentle - his hands in her hair, his voice telling her what felt good, how perfect she was.

"Use your tongue more," he whispered, provoking her to circle his tip with her tongue. "Just like that, yes. God, you're a natural at this."

She experimented with different pressures and movements, learning what made him groan and arch over her. When she looked up at him while taking him deep, his eyes rolled back.

"Fuck, that look," he gasped. "You have no idea how sexy you are right now. How powerful. You're completely in control."

The words made her feel exactly that - powerful, in control, choosing to give this pleasure rather than having it demanded of her. She increased her pace, encouraged by his increasingly desperate responses.

"Valerie, I'm close," he warned, his voice strained. "You don't have to... if you don't want to..."

But she did want to. The sense of power, of being able to affect him so completely, was intoxicating. She looked up at him as she intensified her efforts, maintaining eye contact as she felt him tense and shudder.

"Oh fuck, Valerie, I'm going to—"

She didn't pull away. When he came with a sharp cry, pulsing against her tongue, she swallowed reflexively, then continued with gentle movements until he was completely spent.

"That was," he struggled for words as she moved up to kiss him, "that was incredible. You're incredible."

"Was I... did I do it right?" she asked, suddenly uncertain.

"More than right. That was perfect. You're perfect." David pulled her against him, his breathing still uneven. "The way you took control, the way you embraced your own sexuality without shame... that's exactly what de Beauvoir was writing about. You're living proof that sexual liberation is possible."

She moved up to kiss him, pleased by his response, feeling like she'd successfully navigated this new territory. "Was that... did I do it right?"

"More than right." David pulled her against him, his breathing still uneven. "That was perfect. You're perfect."

As they lay together afterward, David's arms around her, Valerie felt a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. Here was proof that her careful evaluation had been correct—David Kellerman was exactly what he appeared to be. A man who could give as much as he took, who valued her pleasure as much as his own, who treated intimacy as something to be shared rather than conquered."Thank you," she whispered against his chest.

"Thank you," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "That was... I've never felt anything like that before."

The words sent warmth flooding through her chest. To be someone's best experience, to be valued for her own responses rather than just her willingness—this was what she'd been seeking without knowing it.

When they made love again later, it was with the easy communication of partners rather than the desperate hunger of strangers. David moved inside her with careful attention to her responses, his hands and mouth worshipping her body with genuine appreciation.

"You feel incredible," he whispered against her ear as they moved together. "So good, Valerie. So perfect."

She responded with an abandon she'd never allowed herself before, meeting his thrusts with enthusiasm, her hands exploring the muscles of his back and shoulders. When her second orgasm approached, David adjusted his angle and rhythm to help her reach it, his own pleasure clearly secondary to hers.

"Come for me," he whispered. "I want to feel you come around me."

The orgasm was shattering, more intense than anything she'd experienced. As she cried out his name, David followed her over the edge, his body shuddering against hers as he buried himself deep inside her.

Afterward, as they lay entwined in his narrow bed, Valerie felt something she'd never experienced before—complete satisfaction, both physical and emotional. David had proven himself worthy of her trust through actions as much as words. Here was a man who could see her as an equal in all things, including desire.

They lay in comfortable silence for several minutes, David's breathing evening out as he traced lazy patterns on her shoulder. Valerie felt the deep satisfaction of having chosen correctly—here was proof that careful evaluation and patience could lead to genuine connection.

"That was incredible," David said finally, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You're really something special, Valerie."

"So are you." She tilted her head to look at him, studying the relaxed lines of his face in the dim light. "I have to admit, I wasn't sure what to expect. It's been a long time since I've met someone who understood that intimacy could be both physical and intellectual."

"Mmm." David reached for his cigarettes on the nightstand, lighting one with the practiced ease of someone for whom smoking was as much ritual as habit. "You know, I'm really glad we connected like this. It's exactly what I was talking about—authentic human connection."

Something in his tone made her pause. There was a casual finality to it, like he was wrapping up a pleasant evening rather than beginning something deeper.

"David," she said slowly, "when we talked about authentic relationships, about honest connection without possessiveness... what did you mean, exactly?"

"I meant exactly this. Two people choosing to share something beautiful without all the complications." He took a long drag, not quite meeting her eyes. "Look, Valerie, you're incredible. Tonight was amazing. But I should probably be clear that I'm not really looking for anything... ongoing."

The word hit her like a physical blow, there it was, the catch she'd missed. "Ongoing?"

"I mean, I'd love to see you again sometime, don't get me wrong. But I'm not really the relationship type—even the non-traditional kind we were discussing." David's voice carried that same gentle reasonableness he'd used when explaining philosophy. "I'm focused on my dissertation, my activism, building my career. I just don't have the bandwidth for the kind of regular connection that even open relationships require."

Valerie felt something cold crystallize in her chest. "So when you talked about Sartre and de Beauvoir, about authentic partnership..."

"I was talking about the possibility of that kind of connection, theoretically. But theory and practice are different things." He finally looked at her, his expression kindly patronizing. "Come on, Valerie, you're too intelligent to need conventional romantic expectations. What we shared tonight was perfect exactly as it is."

"Perfect as a one-time experience."

"Why does it have to be more than that? Why can't we appreciate something beautiful without trying to possess it or turn it into an obligation?" David's tone became slightly lecturing. "Most women would expect me to lie, to promise things I can't deliver. I respect you enough to be honest."

Valerie sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself, somehow she looked at him and he looked like Thomas Hartwell. "How interesting. So all that philosophical discussion about authentic relationships was just... what? Intellectual foreplay?"

"That's not fair. Those were real conversations about real ideas." David's voice carried wounded sincerity. "Just because I'm not ready for a committed relationship doesn't mean the ideas weren't genuine."

"No, you're right. The ideas were genuine. You genuinely believe that philosophical sophistication justifies treating women as temporary entertainment." Her voice was perfectly calm, clinically precise. "You use de Beauvoir and sexual liberation theory the same way other men use dinner and flowers—as tools to get women into bed."

"Valerie, that's not—" David started, but she was already standing, gathering her clothes.

"You spent a week presenting yourself as someone who valued deep connection, who understood that women deserved authentic partnership. But what you actually wanted was a fuck with intellectual conversation beforehand."

"Look, you're obviously upset, and I understand that. But this is exactly why I prefer honest communication." David's tone became defensive. "At least I'm telling you the truth instead of stringing you along with false promises."

Valerie finished dressing in silence, her movements precise and controlled. When she spoke again, her voice carried the clinical detachment that had served her so well over the years. "You know what, David? You're absolutely right. This was educational. And what I learned is that some men are honest about being selfish, and others dress it up in philosophy. But it's still just selfishness."

She moved toward the door, then paused. "I think I'll step outside for some air. Clear my head before I head home."

"Valerie, wait—"

But she was already gone, leaving David alone with his cigarettes and his convenient principles.

She walked quickly through the dark streets think, remembering, some of her memories of Thomas Hartwell were a bit blurry by now, it had been over 20 years ago by now after all, but she could remember her past recollections on them frequently and how she felt stupid in them often. How Thomas has never talked about marrying her or actually told her they were going to last, how she had just foolishly believed going home with him itself was a sign of dedication between them.

David though, he'd talked a big game about relationships and connection, Thomas perhaps hadn't lied to her, perhaps she had just been naive and inexperienced, but David definitely had, he'd genuinely orchestrated his words to mislead her.

She arrived at her mansion and went to the lab quickly, where Victor Frankenstein’s greatest gift to his granddaughter stood, where Valerie Brunner had been granted immortality at a strict price. Her own research notes spread out and why her memory had been lapsing despite the fact she should be in perfect neural condition, as it turned out her 20 year old brain was not properly equipped to handle over 40 years of memory. 

She had drawn up a solution to her problem before her condition forced her into a state of mental degradation as her brain struggled to process the ever increasing number of memories she forced inside it, and David had finally inspired her to test her design, Victor had passed on more than a natural disregard of the natural life cycle and the means to cheat death, he'd passed down the ability to become a monster if it meant achieving research results.

*********

It took three weeks of strategic positioning before David finally stopped avoiding her. Three weeks of appearing at protests where she knew he'd be, always at the periphery, always helpful with medical aid, never approaching him directly. Just present enough that her absence would be noticeable, distant enough to suggest wounded dignity rather than desperate pursuit.

When he finally approached her outside the Student Union after a particularly heated anti-war rally, Valerie felt the satisfaction of a hypothesis confirmed. Men like David couldn't resist the opportunity to be magnanimous to women they'd "educated."

"Valerie." His voice carried that careful tone of someone testing emotional waters. "How have you been?"

She looked up from bandaging a freshman's scraped palm, her expression carefully neutral. "Busy. Lectures, research, the usual academic obligations."

"Right. Of course." David shifted his weight, clearly preparing for a conversation he'd rehearsed. "Listen, I've been thinking about our last discussion. I hope you understand that my honesty came from a place of respect, not dismissal."

"I do understand." Valerie finished with the bandage and began packing her medical supplies with methodical precision. "You were being true to your principles. I appreciate that kind of intellectual consistency."

Something in David's posture relaxed at her reasonable tone. "I'm glad you see it that way. Most women would have... well, let's just say emotional reactions aren't uncommon."

"Most women haven't spent years studying biological systems." Valerie stood, shouldering her bag. "I understand that organisms pursue their optimal survival strategies. Your approach makes perfect sense from an evolutionary perspective."

David's smile grew more confident. "That's exactly what I mean. You think systematically rather than emotionally. It's refreshing."

"Speaking of systematic thinking," Valerie said, as if the idea had just occurred to her, "I've been conducting some one-on-one experiments since our conversation. Very hands-on work exploring human biological responses under... intense conditions."

"That sounds fascinating." David's intellectual curiosity was clearly genuine. "I'd love to hear more about it."

"Would you? It's quite physically demanding research. I need a willing participant who won't back out once we begin—the subject has to be completely committed to the process." She paused, studying his face. "Though I should warn you, most people find the experience rather... overwhelming."

David's eyes lit up with interest that was both academic and personal. "Overwhelming how?"

"Well, understanding authentic biological responses requires total surrender of control. The participant needs to submit completely to the experimental conditions." Valerie's voice took on a sultry edge. "Most people are too inhibited by conventional boundaries to appreciate the full intensity of what the human body can experience."

"But not you?"

"Not me." She met his gaze directly. "I've been exploring questions about dominance, submission, the relationship between vulnerability and genuine physiological response. Very intimate work."

David was definitely interested now, his academic excitement mixing with obvious arousal. "That sounds like exactly the kind of research that could break new ground in understanding human potential."

"Perhaps. Would you like to participate? I have all the necessary equipment at my place." She let her voice drop lower. "Though I should mention—once the experiment begins, there's no stopping until I've collected all the data I need. The process can be quite... extractive."

"Yes." The answer came without hesitation. "Absolutely yes."

As they walked toward her car, Valerie felt the familiar satisfaction of watching a target move toward precisely where she needed them to be. David was already talking about the intersection of biology and philosophy, about the courage required to pursue authentic knowledge regardless of social taboos.

"You know," he said as she unlocked her car door, "I had a feeling you were different. More intellectually adventurous than most people give you credit for."

"Oh, David," Valerie replied, her smile perfectly composed, "you have no idea what I'm capable of."

**********

The laboratory in her grandfather's mansion looked different at night. Shadows pooled around the antique medical equipment, and the brass fixtures caught lamplight in ways that suggested both scientific precision and something far older. Valerie had spent hours preparing the space, arranging instruments with the care of someone setting a dinner table for honored guests. The more intimidating looking implements had been temporarily removed or covered up, some more suggestive looking implements brought in to create the desired “Mad Science Sex Dungeon” necessary for the facade, she was short and petite, even though he wasn't an imposing figure it still would be easier to keep him acting cooperatively as she could.

"This is incredible," David breathed, examining the vintage surgical tools displayed on velvet-lined trays. "Some of these pieces must be over a century old."

"Family collection. My grandfather was quite advanced in his understanding of biological systems." Valerie moved through the space with practiced confidence, lighting candles that filled the room with warm, flickering light. "He believed in pushing boundaries, exploring territories that conventional minds wouldn't dare approach."

David picked up an antique bone saw, testing its weight with fascination. "The craftsmanship is extraordinary."

"They've served their purpose beautifully over the years." Valerie began removing items from a leather case—restraints made of soft black leather, obviously expensive and expertly crafted. "Now, let me show you what real research looks like."

"Are those..." David's voice caught slightly as he recognized what she was arranging.

"Essential equipment for the kind of intensive study we discussed." Valerie's voice had taken on a commanding tone, her movements deliberate and authoritative. "When I said the participant needs to surrender complete control, I meant exactly that."

David's breathing quickened as she laid out the restraints with ritual precision. "I... I've never done anything quite like this before."

"Of course you haven't. Most people lack the courage for genuine exploration." Valerie's smile was predatory, confident. "But you're different, aren't you David? You understand that authentic experience requires abandoning conventional limitations."

She gestured toward the examination table that dominated the center of the room. "Remove your clothes. All of them. If we're going to study genuine biological responses, we can't have any barriers between you and the experience."

David hesitated for only a moment before complying, clearly excited by her dominance. "This is... this is exactly what I hoped for when we talked about liberation."

"Good. Now lie down." Valerie's voice brooked no argument. "Arms spread wide. I need complete access for the monitoring equipment."

The restraints went on smoothly—David eager to submit, even helping position himself as she secured each limb. Arms spread wide, secured at wrists and elbows. Legs positioned and immobilized. A leather strap across his chest.

"How does complete helplessness feel?" Valerie asked, testing each restraint with methodical precision.

"Incredible," David breathed. "The psychological effect is remarkable. I'm completely at your mercy."

"Yes, you are." Valerie's tone shifted abruptly—the commanding dominatrix persona dropping away like a discarded mask. When she spoke again, her voice was clinical, detached. "Which brings us to the actual nature of tonight's experiment."

She moved to her instrument tray, selecting a scalpel with mechanical precision. "David, what I'm about to perform is a comprehensive biological extraction. You're going to remain conscious throughout the procedure so I can monitor your physiological responses in real-time."

"What?" David's confusion was immediate, followed rapidly by the first flutter of real fear. "Valerie, what are you talking about?"

"Beginning with the thymus gland located in the superior mediastinum. This organ produces T-lymphocytes and thymosin, both essential for my neurological research." She positioned herself beside the table, studying his chest with professional detachment. "Initial incision will be made along the midline of the sternum."

"This isn't what we discussed! You can't be serious!"

"Incision depth: approximately four centimeters to access the thoracic cavity." The scalpel pressed against his skin, marking the incision line with clinical precision. "Patient exhibits elevated heart rate and respiratory distress—normal physiological response to pre-procedural anxiety."

"Valerie, please. We can talk about this. Whatever you think I did—"

"Procedure will continue through complete extraction of target organs." The scalpel bit into skin, drawing a thin line of blood across his chest. "Thymus removal followed by bone marrow aspiration from the sternum and femur. Cerebrospinal fluid extraction via lumbar puncture."

David's breathing was becoming panicked, his struggles against the restraints growing more desperate. "This is insane! You can't just—"

"Subject demonstrates involuntary muscle contractions and vocalizations consistent with acute stress response." The scalpel moved deeper, cutting through subcutaneous tissue with methodical precision. "Pain receptors functioning normally. Consciousness remains stable."

The incision opened his chest, each cut narrated in the same detached medical terminology. "Separating pectoralis major muscle fibers. Excellent tissue integrity. Subject appears to maintain optimal health markers."

David's scream echoed off the laboratory walls. "You're insane!"

"Accessing the mediastinal space. Thymus gland visible, pink coloration indicates healthy organ function." Valerie paused in her work, not to comfort him, but to make a notation on a clipboard. "Blood loss within acceptable parameters. Proceeding to organ extraction."

"Other components?" David's voice was hoarse from screaming.

"Bone marrow contains hematopoietic stem cells necessary for cellular regeneration. Cerebrospinal fluid provides neurochemical compatibility factors." Her hands moved with surgical precision, extracting the thymus and placing it in a sterile container. "Approximate procedure time remaining: forty-seven minutes."

"Please," David gasped, his academic arrogance finally crumbling into raw terror. "Please, I'll do anything."

"Subject continues verbal responses despite significant tissue trauma. Remarkable pain tolerance." She reached for a bone saw, testing its weight with professional assessment. "Beginning sternal access for marrow extraction. Subject may experience increased discomfort during bone cutting procedures."

"I never meant—"

"Cranial access will be required for cerebrospinal fluid collection. Temporal lobe puncture provides optimal volume yield with minimal brain tissue damage." The bone saw began its work with a mechanical rhythm despite Valerie’s urge to jerk it a little for the scream factor. "Though brain tissue damage becomes irrelevant given projected procedure outcome."

As David's consciousness began to fade from blood loss, Valerie continued her clinical narration. "Subject exhibits decreased responsiveness. Vital signs approaching critical thresholds. Organ viability remains excellent."

She worked with the focused precision of someone who had found her true calling, each component extracted and labeled according to protocols that would serve her for decades to come. No emotion, no satisfaction—just the methodical completion of necessary work.

"Procedure complete. Total extraction time: forty-three minutes, eighteen seconds. All specimens secured for processing." 

Now was the part that would test her academic credentials, the process of turning spinal fluid, blood and other components into a serum to stabilize her neural condition was more a theoretical science back by alchemical folklore than any actual application of chemistry or biology, but her very existence was due to breaking science conventions for results, she felt adequately equipped for the task.

Chapter Text

1987, Valerie Brunner now goes by Valerie “Salem” Hoffstead

The television mounted in the corner of the basement laboratory flickered with the pale blue glow of evening news, Reagan's voice echoing off stone walls that had witnessed decades of similar procedures. Valerie "Salem" Hoffstead worked with the methodical precision of a master craftsman, her latex-gloved hands steady as she extracted what she needed from the remains of what had once been a Wall Street aspirant named Marcus Webb.

"...take full responsibility for my own actions and for those of my administration..." Reagan's voice droned on, and Salem's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

"Responsibility," she muttered, not looking up from her work. "Now there's a novel concept for American foreign policy."

The brass Eclipse Machine hummed quietly in the background, its purple glow providing supplemental lighting for her harvest. Marcus had been disappointingly predictable—all ambition and aesthetic exploitation with no substance beneath the designer suits and carefully cultivated edge. He'd approached her at a gallery opening, drawn by her obvious wealth and gothic styling, clearly seeing her as the perfect accessory for a man trying to brand himself as a dangerous sophisticate.

He'd lasted three dates before suggesting she might enjoy "exploring her dark side" at some upscale BDSM club where successful men went to feel transgressive. The assumption that her aesthetic choices were a cry for help rather than genuine preference had sealed his fate as efficiently as any weapon. 

"...arms for hostages..." Reagan continued, and Salem finally looked up at the screen, her grey eyes cold with disgust.

"Forty years of this imperialist bullshit," she said to the corpse, though Marcus Webb was well beyond political commentary. "And now you want credit for admitting what everyone already knew."

She finished extracting the last of the usable spinal fluid and carefully sealed the vials. The serum brewing process would take several hours, but she'd perfected the timing over decades of practice, she hoped that she'd be able to knock it down to a few minutes with further refinement. By morning, she'd have replenished her supply while the world continued its stumble toward capitalist decay.

The sound of bass guitar thudded through the ceiling—the evening's entertainment was apparently getting started early. Salem stripped off her gloves and lab coat, revealing a simple black dress that looked appropriately understated for someone who preferred to move through the world unnoticed.

She locked the lab door behind her, climbed the narrow stairs that led from her grandfather's old laboratory a side hallway, locking that door too before the side hallway led to what had once been the mansion’s grand dining room and locked the third and final door between her lab and unwanted guests between her. 

In these days the dining room looked like the aftermath of a concert venue explosion—black-clad college students sprawled across expensive furniture, empty bottles of imported beer mixing with ashtrays full of clove cigarette butts, and the persistent aroma of patchouli and marijuana creating a haze that made the crystal chandelier look like something from a fever dream. She had hosted an after party in the mansion once, never asked her guests to leave and watched as her grand dining room got turned into the local goths scene’s free hangout, followed by the assorted local punks and metalheads, she was certain she had addicts and homeless people assorted throughout the never ending house party as well but she no longer cared as long as they left her lab and bedroom untouched.

"Salem!" A girl with purple hair and more eyeliner than face called from the couch. "Where've you been? Tommy brought his bass rig!"

Salem nodded politely and continued toward the stairs, stepping carefully around a couple engaged in what appeared to be vertical foreplay against her great-grandmother's antique sideboard. She'd stopped caring about the furniture months ago. The parties filled the silence that had become unbearable after Marcus's clumsy courtship reminded her why isolation was preferable to disappointment.

"Hey, weird question," said a lanky boy wearing a Bathory shirt, intercepting her path. "But like, are you actually rich, or is this whole mansion thing some kind of art project?"

"Rich," Salem replied simply, continuing toward the stairs. “Don't bring it up again.” 

"That's so cool. Very authentic aesthetic choice, you know? Like, you could live anywhere, but you choose to embrace the darkness." He gestured around the cluttered room with obvious admiration. "It's very... genuine."

Salem paused on the third step, looking back at him with the kind of expression that had made medieval peasants cross themselves. "Yes," she said quietly. "Very genuine."

The boy beamed, apparently missing the edge in her voice, and returned to his animated discussion about whether Celtic Frost or Venom had better understood the true spirit of Satanic rebellion. Salem continued upstairs, the noise fading only slightly as she reached the second floor.

Her bedroom was the only space in the house that remained entirely hers—locked door, soundproofed walls, and furnished with the kind of austere elegance that spoke of genuine rather than performed sophistication. She settled into a leather chair that predated the American Revolution and poured herself three fingers of whiskey that cost more than most of her houseguests spent on rent.

The Iran-Contra hearing continued on the small television she kept for background noise, and Salem found herself genuinely angry at Reagan's performance. After decades of watching American foreign policy destroy everything it touched, the casual admission of illegal arms dealing felt like the inevitable conclusion of imperial arrogance.

"Fucking Americans," she said to the empty room, then immediately felt hypocritical. She'd been living among them long enough to become one herself, at least in terms of cultural absorption. The money from Castle Frankenstein had bought her safety and comfort, but it hadn't bought her purpose.

A knock at her door interrupted the familiar spiral of political frustration and existential emptiness. Salem sighed and opened it to find a young man she didn't recognize—mid-twenties, leather jacket over a faded band shirt.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, running a hand through disheveled dark hair. "I'm Lenny. Lenny Morrison? I play guitar in Necrosophia. Tommy said you might be interested in some modeling work."

Salem studied him for a moment. Unlike the other metalheads currently occupying her dining room, Lenny carried himself with the nervous energy of someone who'd actually worked for something rather than simply consuming it.

"Modeling," she repeated.

"For our demo cover. We've got the music recorded, but we need artwork, and Tommy said you have... the right look." Lenny's eyes flicked over her appearance with obvious appreciation but without the predatory calculation she'd learned to recognize. "It pays decent. And it's just photos, nothing weird."

Salem considered the offer. She had no need for money, but the prospect of purpose—even temporary, commercial purpose—felt more appealing than another evening of listening to undergraduates debate the philosophical implications of extreme metal while her serum finished brewing in the basement.

"What kind of photos?" she asked.

"Metal stuff. Dark, maybe a little scary. We're going for that whole... you know..." Lenny gestured vaguely, clearly struggling to articulate his artistic vision.

"Gothic horror aesthetic with subtle sexual undertones designed to appeal to adolescent male fantasy while maintaining plausible deniability about exploitative intent?" She folded her arms.

Lenny blinked. "Yeah. Exactly that."

“The dining room is filled with girls that fit your desired aesthetic. Why choose me?”

“You braid your hair the best.”

Despite everything, Salem found herself almost smiling. Here, at least, was honesty about commercial motivation rather than pretense about artistic integrity.

"All right," she said. "When do you want to shoot?"

**********

Lenny's "studio" turned out to be the garage behind a rented house that smelled of motor oil and failed dreams. He'd made an effort to clean the space, pushing aside tools and automotive parts to create what he clearly believed was an appropriate backdrop for underground metal artistry. A few black sheets hung from the rafters, and he'd positioned industrial work lights with the careful attention of someone who'd learned photography from album covers rather than actual instruction.

"So I was thinking something like... dark, you know?" Lenny adjusted his ancient 35mm camera, a battered Pentax that had probably been cutting-edge sometime during the Nixon administration. "Maybe mysterious. Dangerous."

Salem examined the sword he'd provided—a surprisingly authentic medieval broadsword that must have cost him considerable money. The weight was right, the balance proper, and the edge showed signs of actual sharpening rather than decorative dullness.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, testing the weapon's heft.

"Pawn shop downtown. Guy said it was a reproduction, but it looks pretty real to me." Lenny fiddled with his light setup, clearly nervous about the artistic direction he'd committed to. "I figured it would look badass with the right model."

Salem had arrived wearing a simple black dress, but the outfit Lenny had requested was laid out on a folding table—black fishnet stockings, leather jacket that looked expensive enough to be genuine, and underwear that was clearly chosen for aesthetic rather than practical considerations.

“I thought you were looking for a goth look, that screams generic metal girl.” She put the sword down and lifted the jacket, testing its feel.

“Ah well the guys wanted to try a sword and sorcery album cover, hence the sword.”

Salem rolled her eyes. “Fishnets scream sword and sorcery to you?”

“Are those not the right kinda look?”

"You want me to change here?" she asked as she shook her head, best just take the pay check and not argue.

"Oh, uh, there's a bathroom in the house if you want privacy." Lenny's face flushed slightly. "I mean, whatever you're comfortable with."

Salem studied his expression for signs of calculation or predatory intent, but found only the nervous excitement of someone attempting to create something beyond his usual experience. She'd developed a keen eye for masculine motivations over the decades, and Lenny seemed genuinely focused on his artistic vision rather than engineering opportunities for exploitation.

"The garage is fine," she said, beginning to unzip her dress. "Turn around until I'm ready."

Lenny complied with almost comic speed, busying himself with camera settings while Salem changed into the requested outfit. The fishnet stockings were good quality, the leather jacket cut to emphasize curves while maintaining the illusion of coverage, and the overall effect was exactly what she'd expected—suggestive without being explicitly pornographic, dangerous without being genuinely threatening.

"All right," she said, positioning herself with the sword. "What did you have in mind?"

Lenny turned back and immediately forgot how to operate his camera. Salem stood with the broadsword held casually at her side, the leather jacket draped to cover her breasts while revealing the pale expanse of her torso, fishnet stockings emphasizing the length of her legs. The overall effect was striking enough to render Lenny temporarily speechless.

"I, uh..." He fumbled with the camera controls, clearly struggling to maintain professional composure. "Maybe if you held the sword like you were about to use it?"

Salem raised the weapon to a guard position, her movements displaying the kind of natural grace that suggested actual familiarity with bladed combat. The leather jacket shifted with her motion, revealing carefully calculated glimpses of skin while maintaining the basic coverage that separated art from pornography.

"Like this?"

"Perfect. That's... yeah, perfect." Lenny managed to take several shots before his nerves got the better of him. "Maybe try looking more... I don't know, menacing?"

Salem allowed a slight smile to play across her features—not the warm expression of someone enjoying herself, but the cold amusement of a predator contemplating prey. The transformation was subtle but complete, turning her from attractive model into something genuinely unsettling.

"Jesus," Lenny breathed, continuing to shoot. "That's exactly what we needed."

They worked for nearly an hour, with Lenny gradually gaining confidence in his direction while Salem patiently held poses that required considerable physical endurance. She moved the sword through various positions—threatening, defensive, contemplative—while maintaining the precarious clothing arrangement that served the aesthetic Lenny was pursuing.

"You're really good at this," Lenny said during a break while he reloaded film. "Have you modeled before?"

"Not professionally." Salem lowered the sword and stretched muscles that were beginning to protest the extended session. "But I understand the requirements."

"It shows. Most people get all self-conscious about the camera, but you're like... completely natural." Lenny's admiration seemed genuine rather than calculated flattery. "Where did you learn to handle a sword like that?"

"Family tradition," Salem replied simply.

They finished the shoot with a series of close-up portraits, Salem's pale features framed by dark hair while her grey eyes stared directly into the camera with an intensity that suggested genuine danger rather than posed theatricality. Lenny's excitement was palpable as he advanced the film for the final shots.

"This is going to be incredible," he said, carefully packing away his equipment. "The guys are going to lose their minds when they see these."

Salem had changed back into her dress and was examining the sword one final time. "What's your timeline for release?"

"Few weeks to get the film developed and printed, then we'll start distributing through the tape trading network." Lenny handed her an envelope containing the agreed-upon payment. "If this works out like I think it will, would you be interested in doing another shoot? Maybe for our next demo?"

Salem considered the offer. The work had been surprisingly satisfying—not the photography itself, but the opportunity to project controlled menace while maintaining complete control over the situation. After months of passive existence, the chance to actively create something felt almost therapeutic.

"Possibly," she said. "Depending on the concept."

"Awesome." Lenny's grin was infectious, the enthusiasm of someone who believed he might have stumbled onto something genuinely significant. "I'll call you when we see how this one performs."

As Salem drove back to the mansion, she reflected on the afternoon's experience. For the first time in months, she'd engaged in purposeful activity that didn't involve harvesting organs or managing her increasingly chaotic living situation. The modeling work had reminded her that she could still project power and control, even in commercial contexts.

***********

Three weeks later, Salem answered her bedroom phone to find Lenny calling with barely contained excitement. "Salem, you need to see this. The demo is spreading like wildfire through the trading networks, but here's the thing—it's only the copies with your photo that are moving. The ones with our band logo? Nothing. Dead in the water."

Salem cradled the receiver against her shoulder while downstairs the evening's collection of goths debated whether Bauhaus or Christian Death better understood the aesthetic of romantic decay. The success didn't surprise her—she'd understood her marketability since adolescence—but Lenny's obvious realization that she was the product rather than just the packaging was mildly amusing.

"So naturally you want another shoot," she said.

"Obviously. But this time we want to go bigger. More controversial. There's all this Satanic panic bullshit in the news, right? Parents freaking out about metal corrupting their kids? We figure we lean into it, give them something to really lose their minds over."

"And what did you have in mind?"

"Religious imagery. Dark stuff. Really push the boundaries of what's acceptable." Lenny's voice carried the nervous excitement of someone contemplating genuine transgression. "The whole band wants to be involved this time. Make it more of a production."

Salem agreed to meet them at the same garage, though she suspected the dynamic would be significantly different with an audience of hormonal metal musicians rather than just Lenny's amateur enthusiasm.

She arrived to find four young men in their early twenties, all leather and denim and barely contained sexual energy. Besides Lenny, there was Rick the drummer—skinny with bad skin and worse social skills—Tommy the bassist who'd invited her to the original party, and Jake the vocalist, who carried himself with the particular arrogance of someone convinced his screaming voice made him inherently dangerous.

"Fucking finally," Rick muttered when Salem walked in, his eyes immediately scanning her body with obvious hunger. "Told you guys she was worth waiting for."

"Easy there, Rick," Jake laughed, but his own gaze was equally predatory. "Let's see if she's as wild as she looks before we start making assumptions."

Salem noted the shift in dynamic immediately—where Lenny had maintained nervous professionalism during their first shoot, the presence of his bandmates had transformed the atmosphere into something more aggressive, more entitled.

"Gentlemen," she said simply, noting the outfit they'd prepared for her—a modified nun's habit that had clearly been purchased from an adult novelty store rather than any legitimate costume supplier. The fabric was cheap, the cut deliberately provocative, and the overall effect was exactly the kind of juvenile blasphemy that sold records to teenage boys who thought rebellion meant wearing pentagrams.

"So we were thinking," Jake began, clearly having appointed himself spokesperson, "something really dark. Really controversial. Like, 'parents will burn our records' controversial." He stepped closer than necessary, invading her personal space with obvious intent. "Course, that means we'll need someone who's not gonna get all uptight about pushing boundaries."

"Yeah," Tommy added with a crude grin. "Gotta make sure our model's down for whatever the art requires, you know?"

The implications were clear enough that even Lenny looked uncomfortable, though he said nothing to check his bandmates' increasingly aggressive posturing.

Salem examined the costume with professional detachment. "And you want me to wear this while doing what, exactly?"

"Well, uh..." Jake glanced at his bandmates for support. "Maybe something with religious props? We've got some crosses, maybe a Bible..."

"How original." Salem's voice carried just enough edge to make them uncertain whether she was mocking them. "Tell me, boys—do any of you actually understand blasphemy, or are you just playing with symbols you think will shock suburban Christians?"

"What do you mean?" Lenny asked, his artistic curiosity overriding his nervousness.

Salem smiled—not the warm expression of someone enjoying herself, but the cold amusement of a predator who'd found particularly naive prey. "I mean there's a difference between juvenile rebellion and genuine transgression. What you're proposing is Halloween costume blasphemy. Safe. Performative."

She lit a cigarette with deliberate theatricality, taking a long drag while the four musicians watched with growing fascination. "I could show you real blasphemy, if you're actually interested. But it would cost considerably more than your original offer."

"How much more?" Tommy asked, clearly the one who handled the band's finances.

Instead of answering immediately, Salem pressed the lit cigarette against the pale skin of her inner wrist, holding it there while maintaining eye contact with Jake. The smell of burning flesh filled the garage, but her expression never changed.

"Jesus Christ," Rick breathed.

"Exactly the point," Salem said, dropping the cigarette and beginning to remove her dress. "Real blasphemy isn't about costumes or props. It's about genuine transgression."

The four musicians stood transfixed as she stripped completely naked, her pale skin luminous in the garage lighting. She reached for the modified nun's habit, draping the fabric across her shoulders like a cape while leaving her breasts and the rest of her body completely exposed.

"Now," she said, picking up the large brass crucifix they'd provided, "shall we create something that will actually scandalize people, or are you content with the kind of rebellion that your mothers could safely ignore?"

Lenny's camera clicked frantically as Salem ran the crucifix along her body, the heavy brass cold against her flushed skin. She traced it slowly between her breasts, savoring the way the metal warmed under her touch, then dragged it down her flat stomach with deliberate precision. The religious symbol left a trail of goosebumps in its wake, her nerve endings hypersensitive to both the physical sensation and the psychological weight of what she was doing.

She positioned herself on her knees, the modified nun's habit pooling around her like spilled ink. The fabric's cheap synthetic texture scratched against her bare thighs, a reminder of how thoroughly she was corrupting every sacred element they'd provided.

"This is what real sacrilege looks like," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she brought the base of the crucifix to her lips.

The metal tasted of brass and possibility as she ran her tongue along its length, her eyes never leaving the stunned faces of her audience. She could hear their breathing change—faster, shallower, the sound of men trying to reconcile arousal with horror.

"Holy shit," Tommy whispered, his voice cracking like a teenager's.

Salem's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only predatory satisfaction. She opened her mouth wider and took the base of the cross inside, her lips sealing around the metal as she demonstrated exactly what she intended. The weight of it pressed against her tongue as she worked it deeper, coating the sacred symbol with her saliva while maintaining eye contact with Jake, whose face had gone pale with shock.

She could feel their eyes on every movement—the way her throat worked as she took the crucifix deeper, the deliberate obscenity of her tongue swirling around Christ's body. The power was intoxicating, more arousing than the physical act itself.

"You boys wanted authentic blasphemy," she said, pulling the cross from her lips with a wet sound that echoed in the garage. A strand of saliva connected her mouth to the metal for a moment before breaking. "This is what it actually looks like."

The religious symbol gleamed with her spit as she leaned back, deliberately spreading her thighs to give them a perfect view. The garage lighting cast shadows between her legs, and she could see Rick's hands trembling as he watched her position the crucifix at her entrance.

The first touch of cold metal against her most intimate flesh made her gasp—a genuine reaction that sent visible shivers through her audience. She was already wet from the power play, from their horrified fascination, from the sheer transgression of what she was about to do.

"Oh God," Jake gasped as she began to press the sacred symbol inside herself.

"Yes," Salem agreed, her voice growing breathy as she worked the cross deeper, feeling herself stretch around its girth. "Exactly. Call on Him while you watch this."

The brass warmed quickly inside her, the decorative ridges of Christ's figure creating friction that made her moan despite herself. She began to move it in and out with deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending waves of genuine pleasure through her body.

"This is what your Christ died for," she moaned, her free hand moving to cup her breast, fingers pinching her nipple as she increased the pace. "To save sluts like me who desecrate His symbols for pleasure."

The camera's clicking became more frantic as Lenny struggled to capture every moment. She could see the bulges growing in their jeans, the way they shifted uncomfortably as their bodies betrayed them. The conflict between their arousal and their moral shock only heightened her own excitement.

Her movements became more urgent as heat built in her core, the religious icon hitting spots that made her arch and gasp. She threw her head back, black hair spilling across the nun's fabric as she rode the crucifix with increasing desperation.

"Are you getting this?" she gasped, looking directly into the camera lens with half-lidded eyes. "Make sure you capture the moment when I come on your Savior's symbol."

Lenny fumbled with the camera controls, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. The sight of his panic, of all their panic, pushed her closer to the edge.

"Look at you," she breathed, her voice thick with approaching climax. "Getting hard watching me fuck Christ. What does that make you?"

The orgasm built like a wave, starting deep in her belly and radiating outward. She could feel her inner walls clenching around the brass crucifix, could hear her own moans echoing off the garage walls as she shattered completely.

Her orgasm hit with genuine intensity, her back arching as she cried out in pleasure while the crucifix was buried inside her. The four boys watched in stunned silence as she shuddered and trembled, their breathing heavy in the charged air of the garage.

"And that," she said when she could speak again, slowly withdrawing the glistening religious symbol, "is how you create art that will actually matter."

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of amplifiers and harsh breathing. Then Rick stepped forward, his pupils dilated with obvious arousal, fumbling with his belt buckle.

"Fuck, that was incredible," he breathed, his voice thick with want. "My turn, right? I mean, you're already..."

Salem's expression shifted from post-orgasmic satisfaction to something cold and clinical in the space between heartbeats. She rose to her feet with fluid grace, the nun's fabric still draped around her shoulders like a blasphemous cape.

"Your turn?" she repeated, her voice carrying the same tone she might use to discuss a particularly dull scientific paper.

Rick's hands stilled on his belt, uncertainty flickering across his face as he registered the change in her demeanor. "I just thought... after that performance... maybe we could..."

"Performance. Yes." Salem began gathering her discarded clothing with methodical precision. "That's exactly what it was. A performance. For an audience."

Tommy stepped closer, emboldened by Rick's initiative despite the warning signs. "Come on, Salem. We're all adults here. That was fucking hot, and you know it."

Salem paused in pulling on her dress, looking at him with the kind of expression reserved for particularly slow children. "Understatement, hot doesn't even begin to adequately describe it."

Jake interjected, gesturing between himself and his bandmates. "Look, we get it. You're into the dark stuff, the taboo shit. We can work with that."

"Can you?" Salem's smile was razor-thin. "How fascinating. And what exactly makes you think your... participation... was ever part of the equation?"

The garage fell silent except for the distant hum of traffic and the sudden absence of clicking cameras. Lenny had lowered his Pentax, sensing the shift in atmosphere even if he couldn't articulate it.

Rick's face flushed red, his arousal curdling into something uglier. "What the fuck? You just fucked yourself with a cross in front of us, getting us all worked up, and now you're acting like we're perverts for responding?"

Salem finished zipping her dress and turned to face them fully, her grey eyes reflecting the garage lighting like chips of ice. "You paid me for blasphemous and sexualized modeling, I provided paid service."

Jake stepped forward, his usual arrogance reasserting itself despite the obvious dismissal. "Look, you don't have to be a bitch about it. We're not asking for anything crazy. Just some mutual fun between consenting adults."

Salem's laugh was like breaking glass. "Well then find another consenting adult, I believe you there are 4 if you, that makes two partnerships of two consenting men possible.”

"It's not like that," Lenny said quietly, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Isn't it?" Salem shouldered her jacket, the movement sharp enough to make them all step back instinctively. "You set up your little altar, bought your costume, arranged your lighting, all so you could capture images of a woman performing sexuality for your commercial benefit. And now you're surprised that woman doesn't view you as potential partners?"

Rick's hands clenched into fists. "We paid you for modeling, not for... for fucking mind games."

"You paid me for modeling. Which you received." Salem moved toward the garage door, her steps measured and deliberate. "What you didn't pay for was access to my body beyond what was necessary for the photographs. What you certainly didn't earn was the right to assume that my sexual expression was an invitation for yours."

The rejection hung in the air like a physical presence, toxic and humiliating. Salem could see it in their faces—the transition from arousal to anger, from desire to resentment. The particular rage of men who'd been made to feel small by someone they'd assumed they could possess.

"You're fucked up, you know that?" Tommy called after her. "Leading us on like that, getting us all hot and bothered just to cut us off. That's some psycho shit right there."

Salem paused at the threshold, not bothering to turn around. "Gentlemen, if watching someone pleasure themselves constitutes being 'led on' in your minds, then I suggest you examine your assumptions about female sexuality rather than questioning my mental health."

Jake was red, but grabbed his wallet, “fine, slut, how much for me to get a ride.”

Salem didn't bother looking at him as she rebranded her hair by hand. “Body is not for sale, only the imagery and fantasy of the body. Keeps things… manageable.”

“Oh fuck you, you bi–”

Lenny intervened pulling out his wallet, “now now clearly we have a mutually beneficial arrangement as is one that could take us both places if we just act professionally.” He starts rifling through his wallet, “I'll pay your fee and double it for our misunderstanding, a peace offering so that we can have more profitable ventures in the future.”

Salem took the money but didn't actually bother double checking it, Lenny’s choice of inner circle certainly didn’t vouch for his character but she could tell he had sincere interest in her, even if it was unreciprocated.

"Same arrangement as before?" Lenny asked as she prepared to leave, though his voice carried undertones that suggested business was no longer his primary interest.

"We'll see how this one performs," Salem replied, knowing already that she'd created something that would exceed their wildest commercial expectations.

 ********

Two weeks after the second photo shoot, Lenny called with what he presented as a casual invitation.

"Hey, would you maybe want to grab dinner this weekend? Nothing fancy, just thought it might be nice to talk somewhere that isn't a garage full of metal equipment."

Salem cradled the phone against her shoulder, considering. Something in Lenny's tone felt different—less nervous enthusiasm, more calculated purpose. But her curiosity outweighed her caution.

"All right," she said. "What did you have in mind?"

"Actually, I was thinking we could meet at our practice space. It's got better acoustics than most restaurants, and I wanted to play you some of the new material we've been working on."

The suggestion was transparently ridiculous—who planned a dinner date in a rehearsal garage?—but Salem found herself intrigued by whatever game Lenny thought he was playing.

"That sounds... unconventional," she said.

"Yeah, well, we're unconventional people, right?" Lenny's laugh carried forced casualness. "Plus it's private. We can really talk without worrying about other people listening in."

Salem arrived at the garage Saturday evening wearing a black dress, frillier and lacier than usual with burgundy accents, curious to see how this amateur production would unfold. She could hear voices inside—multiple voices, which suggested Lenny's promise of privacy had been as truthful as his dinner invitation.

"Salem!" Lenny opened the door with exaggerated surprise. "Sorry, I totally forgot the guys were going to be here finishing up some recording. They'll probably clear out soon."

"Of course they will," Salem replied pleasantly, stepping into the garage where Rick, Tommy, and Jake were arranged with the casual positioning of people who'd been waiting for her arrival.

"Hey, Salem," Jake called from behind the drum kit, his usual arrogance tempered by something that looked almost like nervousness. "Didn't know Lenny was bringing you by tonight."

"Neither did I, apparently." Salem examined the space, noting several details that seemed odd for a recording session—candles arranged around the room despite adequate electrical lighting, and what appeared to be a small table set up with items covered by a black cloth.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Tommy asked, gesturing toward a mini-fridge that hadn't been present during the photo shoots. "We've got beer, soda... whatever you want."

"Beer would be fine," Salem said, watching as Tommy retrieved a bottle that seemed to fizz more than carbonation alone would explain.

She accepted the drink with a smile, noting the way all four men watched her with anticipatory tension rather than the casual atmosphere of friends hanging out. Instead of drinking, she held the bottle while continuing to survey the room.

"So what's the new material like?" she asked. "Still going for the same aesthetic as the demo?"

"Actually, we've been thinking about expanding our... conceptual range," Lenny said, moving closer to the covered table. "Getting into some darker territory. More authentic occult themes."

"Authentic," Salem repeated. "How wonderfully academic of you."

"Yeah, well, we figure if we're going to do this thing, we might as well do it right," Rick said, his voice carrying the particular nervousness of someone about to attempt something they'd only read about.

Salem continued to hold her untouched beer while the four musicians exchanged glances that suggested some kind of predetermined signal system. Finally, Jake stepped forward with the forced confidence of someone who'd rehearsed this moment.

"Salem, we need to ask you something, and we want you to be honest with us."

"I'm always honest," she replied. "Though I find most people prefer comfortable lies."

"How long have you been living in that mansion?" Tommy asked.

"Several years. Why?"

"Because people in town say there's always been a young woman living there. Always the same age, always with black hair and pale skin." Lenny was moving toward the covered table now, his hand hovering near whatever was concealed beneath the cloth. 

Salem felt a cold smile spread across her features. "And what conclusion have you drawn from this fascinating local folklore?"

"We think you're a vampire," Rick blurted out, apparently unable to maintain the dramatic timing his bandmates had planned.

The garage fell silent except for the hum of amplifiers and the distant sound of traffic. Salem looked from one nervous face to another, then threw back her head and laughed—a sound of genuine amusement that seemed to unnerve them more than anger would have.

"A vampire," she repeated. "How absolutely precious."

"It makes sense," Jake said, pulling the black cloth away to reveal an amateur monster hunter's arsenal—wooden stakes, a Bible, several crosses, bottles of what was presumably holy water, and lengths of rope. "The mansion, your appearance, the way you knew exactly how to pose with that sword..."

"The religious imagery you were so comfortable with," Tommy added. "Most people would have been disturbed by what we were asking you to do."

"But you just... embraced it," Lenny finished. "Like it was natural for you."

Salem giggled before looking Lenny in the eyes. “Vampires are supposed to be repulsed by crucifixes, you ever heard a story when Dracula puts one in his mouth?”

Uncertainty crossed Lenny's face but Jake intervened. “So a couple details are off, you're not human.”

Salem set down her untouched beer and applauded slowly despite the slight pain from that comment. "Gentlemen, I have to admit, I'm impressed. Most people are far too self-absorbed to notice patterns, let alone draw conclusions from them."

"So you admit it?" Rick asked, reaching for one of the wooden stakes with trembling hands.

"Oh, I admit you've identified me as something other than human," Salem said, it hurt to admit but  her voice took on a tone of genuine pleasure—the first real emotion she'd felt in months. "You're absolutely correct that I'm not what I appear to be. You're right that I've been living in that mansion far longer than should be possible."

She pulled the switchblade from her jacket, the blade gleaming in the candlelight. "You're even right that I represent a genuine threat to your continued existence. You're just completely wrong about what I actually am."

"Holy shit," Tommy breathed, scrambling toward the religious implements. "She's not denying it."

"Why would I deny it? This is the most interesting conversation I've had in years." Salem's smile was radiant, almost grateful. "Do you have any idea how refreshing it is to meet someone who's actually paying attention?"

Jake grabbed the Bible and thrust it forward like a shield. "Stay back! The power of Christ compels you!"

Salem laughed—a sound of pure delight. "Oh, does it? Let me check." She pressed the tip of her blade against the leather binding and carved a deep X across the cover. "No, apparently your carpenter god has better things to do tonight."

Rick lunged forward with the wooden stake, aiming for her heart with the desperate fervor of someone whose entire worldview depended on this working. Salem dodged the attack and drove her switchblade up into his wrist.

"The thing about vampires," she said conversationally, wrenching the stake from his grip as his free hand flew to his bleeding wound, "is that they're romantic fiction." She drove the pointed wood through Rick's eye socket, the tip emerging from the back of his skull with a sickening crunch. "I'm much more practical than that."

Rick's body convulsed around the stake, blood and brain matter leaking from the ruined socket as she twisted the wood like a key in a lock. His good eye stared at her in dying horror as she leaned close.

"Plus, your research was shit. Everyone knows you aim for the heart, not flail around randomly."

Tommy had grabbed the rope, his hands shaking as he tried to form some kind of binding. "Demon! We rebuke you in the name of—"

"Oh, shut up." Salem's blade opened his throat. Blood fountained across the garage, painting the drum kit and amplifiers in arterial sprays. "Your theology is as bad as your execution."

As Tommy's head lolled at an impossible angle, Salem turned to Lenny, who stood frozen with holy water clutched in white-knuckled fists. "You know what the real irony is? I actually am evil. You got that part completely right."

She snatched one of the crosses from his makeshift altar, a heavy brass piece that felt solid in her grip. "But I'm not some mystical creature with supernatural weaknesses." She brought the cross down on Lenny's kneecap with enough force to shatter bone. "I'm just a very experienced killer who happens to be extremely difficult to destroy."

Lenny screamed and collapsed, his leg bent at nauseating angles. Salem knelt beside him, pressing the cross against his cheek hard enough to leave indentations.

"See? No burning flesh. No hissing smoke. Just good old-fashioned blunt force trauma." She raised the cross again and brought it down on his nose, crushing cartilage with a wet crunch. "Your precious religious symbols work beautifully as weapons, though."

"Please," Lenny gasped through blood and broken teeth. "We just... we thought..."

"You thought you were heroes from a horror movie. Very sweet." Salem grabbed a bottle of holy water and forced his mouth open. "Let's see if this does anything special, shall we?"

She poured the water down his throat until he choked and thrashed, then brought the heavy cross down on his neck, his neck cracking under the swing.

It was a bit adorable that Jake had been backing toward the garage door throughout the massacre, absolutely terrified of the short petite woman that he could have effortlessly overpowered at any time had the four actually tried moving as a team. When he finally turned to run, Salem was already in pursuit, her strides would be too short to catch him so she threw the cross like a hammer. It wasn't an elegant precise throw but it collided with his shoulder and knocked him to the hard concrete of the driveway.

"And where do you think you're going?" She grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the concrete, reducing his nose to pulp. "The fun's just getting started."

She dragged him back to the altar he'd prepared, his blood leaving a slick trail across the concrete floor, a great strain on her small petite form but she pushed herself through it. The remaining religious implements gleamed in the candlelight—more crosses, another bottle of “holy” water, and what appeared to be a small vial of consecrated oil.

"You boys came so prepared," Salem mused, forcing Jake face-down across the table. "It would be rude not to use everything you brought."

She picked up the vial of oil and uncorked it, the scent of frankincense filling the garage. "Last rites, isn't it? How thoughtful of you to bring your own."

Salem poured the oil across Jake's back, then picked up a lit candle from the altar. "Let's see if holy oil burns any differently than the regular kind."

Jake's screams as the flames caught his oil-soaked shirt were inhuman, primal sounds of agony that echoed off the garage walls. Salem watched with clinical interest as the consecrated fire consumed him, noting how the religious imagery transformed his death into something almost ritualistic.

When the screaming finally stopped, Salem surveyed her work with deep satisfaction. Four amateur monster hunters lay dead among their useless holy relics, their blood mingling with spilled sanctified water on the concrete floor.

"You know what?" she said to the corpses, genuinely cheerful for the first time in months. "Thank you. I'd forgotten how good it feels to be properly challenged."

She began arranging the scene, positioning the bodies around their makeshift altar in ways that would suggest occult ritual rather than failed vampire hunting. The religious paraphernalia would support theories about Satanic cult activity—exactly the kind of underground mythology that would make their band infamous.

As she worked, Salem reflected on the evening's revelations. These boys had given her something precious: proof that she could still feel genuine excitement about her work. The boredom and ennui that had been consuming her was just a symptom of inadequate prey.

Perhaps it was time to be more selective about her targets. Instead of just killing disappointing lovers, maybe she should seek out more interesting challenges. More people who thought they could hunt monsters.

After all, they'd been absolutely right about one thing—she was definitely something that needed to be stopped.

They'd just brought the wrong weapons to try stopping her, all they needed was a gun and to skip the dramatic reveal.