"Dazzle Their Eyes"

(Finally posting this story, which has been left unpublished for over a year. All rights, etc, Hasbro).

Brandenburgen Tor erschienen gigantisches als ich ein mädchen war…

Oh, that's right; how silly of me to forget! Most of you are uncultured Americans, and can barely speak your own language, let alone mine. I suppose I'll have to sacrifice some of the beauty and richness of my prose, and tell my story in your ridiculous tongue. (Silent "e"? How absurd!) Try to keep up, if you can.

Now, as I was saying…

Brandenburg Gate appeared gigantic when I was a girl. So grand and old, and frightening; each morning, as my mother drove my brother and I past it on the way to school, I'd imagine the great stone horses leaping from the top of the gate, and swooping down to snatch me away, to do who-knows-what to me.

And, every day, I tried not to think about the Soviet troops who waited on the other side of the gate, behind the Wall, always ready to swoop down and do who-knows-what to us.

I grew up knowing that whenever the attack came, our only hope would lie in the gaggle of loudmouth bullies from strange places like "Wichita," "Milwaukee," and "Staten Island." The crudeness of the American soldiers had a certain appeal, especially after I reached puberty, yet I found it hard to trust my life and the lives of everyone I knew to men who couldn't even tell the difference between Bach and Beethoven!

Nevertheless, an American soldier saved me. He swept me away and showed me I could have anything I wanted, if I was just willing to grab it. He led me to fame and riches I'd only dreamed of. He showed me I had nothing to fear in this world.

For a time, I loved him, with body, mind, and soul. That part burned, and then died out quickly, yet I continued to love him, and I've stayed by his side ever since.

His genius is unmatched. Whatever problems or difficulties he's encountered in his own life, he's never led me wrong. I trust him in all things.

As I stood before Brandenburg Gate, with the Russian soldiers long gone, and a crowd of my countrymen waiting to hear me speak, a dreadful thought came to me:

Riot has made a mistake.

"Danke, mein freunde; it's always a pleasure to play for the lovely people of Germany." Riot romanced the crowd in Hamburg, as he did wherever he played. I hurried to finish adjusting my settings on my Roland keyboard (the other synth on stage, my homebuilt model Entropy, was far less tempermental and much easier to program, I must say!)

I heard Rapture telling her guitar tech to change one of her strings, forcing Riot to stretch out his stage patter a bit longer. I glanced over at her and tipped the brim of my hat—she gave me a wink in return.

Riot mopped the sweat from his brow and chest, and tossed the towel into the crowd. I've timed it before—the screams always start 1.6 seconds later. I've avoided pointing out to him that the screamers tend to be middle-aged housefraus in recent years—I hate to wound his pride. After all, it's not his fault the younger generation is too culturally illiterate to appreciate the Stingers.

"Hear my voice—let it soothe you, as we send you home, richer for having spent your evening in our presence," Riot cooed. The crowd erupted into cheers as we launched into "Under My Spell," one of our earliest songs, and our trademark closing number.

Whenever I play it, I remember the night I first hummed the melody, as the three of us huddled for warmth on a splintering wooden bench at a Munich train station.

Our performance, as always, was perfection. At moments like those, the idiocies of the modern music scene just didn't matter. Whatever anyone else thought, we knew we were still the greatest band in the universe.

"You're joking, of course. Very funny!" I pretended to laugh so hard, I spilled a bottle of nail polish remover on Riot's boots.

He reached down, removed his boots, and tossed them into the trash.

"Minx, I never joke about the Stingers' future." Riot stood with his arms folded, and one eyebrow raised. I couldn't argue with him here—he never does joke about his grand plans for us.

"But politics is so dull and pedestrian. A waste of my time." I turned my back to him and focused my attention on my nails.

Rapture returned from the shower, engulfed by a fluffy yellow velour robe. "What are we talking about?"

"I informed Minx of my plan to have her run for the Bundestag."

"And I said 'No.'" I interjected.

Rapture chuckled. "Isn't that what I told you she'd say?" She picked her up crystal ball and waved it in my face. "The spirits never lie—they told me she'd react this way!"

Riot sighed as he slipped on an identical pair of white boots. "Please, save that nonsense for the members of your little 'organization,' Rapture."

"My worldwide organization," she added. Rapture's True Enlightenment Movement had recruited over a million members since the early 1990's—and had brought us far more wealth than our record sales ever had.

She turned to me. "Anyway, Riot's right. Our fanbase is strongest in Europe, and it just makes sense to have someone in government who can look out for our business interests."

"But, why me?" I pleaded.

Riot gave me million watt smile. "You're the most electable of us."

I pulled myself to my full height, though he still towered over me. "That's not true! You could be elected easily. You could President of the United States, if you wanted!"

Riot dropped his eyes towards mine and shook his head. "Of course I've thought of that. But despite my obvious gifts, my opponents would pounce on my dishonorable discharge." He touched my chin, softly. "No, it has to be this way, Minx. You're the one person who can protect everything we've worked for the last twenty-five years."

Rapture placed her hand on my shoulder. "I believe in you. I know you can win."

Riot traced his soft palms along my upper arms. "As do I."

I sighed. "But I don't want to leave the group. I want to keep touring."

Riot's laughter boomed through the dressing room. "Ah, Minx! You'd hardly be the first politician to pursue…extracurricular activities."

"Fine. I'll think about it." I turned back to the mirror, as I watched the others' reflections.

"Good. I know you'll make the right decision." Riot turned away and began removing the girdle that helped preserve his perfect image.

Reporters are idiots. Nations rise and fall, wars are won and lost. Technology progresses faster than anyone can keep up with. The names at the top of the charts are replaced all the time. I've got too many lines on my face now, and I have hot flashes every other night. But reporters are still idiots, and that never changes.

I'd done hundreds of press conferences, all over the world, but never one like this. Never with my hair in tight braids, and in a bland brown business jacket and knee-length skirt. Never with reporters from serious news programs and financial papers. And never without Riot and Rapture at my side.

I swallowed hard, glanced at my notes, and delivered a quick address, full of vague promises to give the people of my district in Berlin the representation they deserve. I hadn't read the speech beforehand—my campaign manager, our German A&R representative Elke, had written it with Riot the night before.

As I finished, Elke opened the floor to questions.

"Harald Mass, Deutsch Woche," a bald little gnome declared in German. "Ms. Minx, what do-"

"Please," I snickered, "'Ingrid' will be fine." I shuddered at the thought of these strangers being so familiar—but Elke and Riot kept insisting I show "the common touch." Nauseating!

"What do you say to your opponent's claim that you know nothing about politics, and have barely spent any time in Berlin in the past twenty years?"

I yawned. "I say, his poor record speaks for itself. No wonder the people are clamoring for change!"

"Jochen Glock, Berliner Täglichzeitung. Ms. Kruger, what's your stance on the proposed telecommunications legislation in the European Parliament?" The reporter stroked the graying whiskers on his chin as he typed into a Blackberry.

I grinned as I glanced at the index card Elke tapped with her fingernail. "As usual, no one's listening to what the people want. Once I'm elected, I'll ensure that everyone in my district has a voice in government."

I don't know what that's supposed to mean, either, but it sounded good.

A scarecrow with a face like a wrinkled apple pushed his way to the front and shouted out, "Minx! Minx!"

Elke pointed to the security guards. "Check that man's credentials and have him escorted out.

I sighed. "It's all right, I know him. How are you, Pit?"

The irritating American, Pit Slurman, gave the rest of the reporters a wink. "Doing great. Tell Riot the wifey and I really appreciated the Christmas card."

I rested my chin on my palm. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that."

Slurman slicked back his hair. "My Cool Trash readers want to know—what's your reaction the newly-leaked sex tape? Is it really you in the video?"

I made my best nonchalant pose as the crowd murmured around me. "Where did you hear this?"

Slurman's eye teeth poked out from under his smile. "My magazine obtained the tape from record producer Jeff Reed."

Elke coughed loudly. I tried to think fast—Reed? Goatee and a ponytail? No, his name was "Winston," or something. Southern accent and a Harley tattoo? No, that was Shavers.

I saw a sea of hands raised in the air. They looked strange without lighters and glow sticks.

Finally it hit me. 2002—no, '01; the Cobb salad and the Fu Manchu mustache! "Well," I choked out, as I cleared my throat, "I'm very disappointed to hear that." Then, I gave the crowd my biggest smile. "I've lost weight since then, and I look much better now!"

Even most of the reporters laughed. Elke motioned for me to lean over to her. "You can't lose," she whispered.

"I thought you liked Turkish food?"

I picked at my lahmacun, nibbling the occasional pepper or onion. (I keep forgetting, most of you are so uncultured—lahmacun is a Turkish dish, a sort of cross between a pizza and a burrito. Turkey is a country on the eastern Mediterranean Sea. Do I need to keep explaining things, or do you think you can follow along?)

"Minx, are you listening to me?"

I looked up in time to see Riot pop a lamb kebab into his mouth. "What were you saying?"

"You've hardly touched your dinner. I thought you said you liked Turkish food?"

Indeed, I do. Riot and I had spent the last hour in my private dining room at Mahzun's, as he talked my ear off about campaign strategies, poll numbers, and domestic policy. Utterly tiresome twaddle.

"Riot, I want to withdraw from the campaign."

He spilled his yogurt onto his plate, and glared at me as if I'd knocked it from his hand. "Where is this coming from?"

"This election, it's just so…ridiculous. I shouldn't have let you talk me into this."

His smile at me with his still perfect, gleaming teeth. "But, you're ahead in the polls."

I slumped forward. "And that makes me regret this even more! I'm a musician—I'm not qualified to serve in government."

Riot took my hand and peered into my eyes. "You're the smartest person I know, next to myself. The people deserve a woman of your talents."

I flicked his hand away. "Don't think you can win me over with flattery! Not after all this time." I pulled off a strip of lahmacun and chewed it defiantly.

Riot chuckled under his breath. "With that feistiness, you'll be Chancellor before you know it."

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out "Gott im Himmel!"

Riot smiled in triumph as he pointed a kebab at me. "Was that fear…or ambition?"

"I fear nothing," I replied, stone-faced.

"I know. Is my plan not perfect?"

I sighed. "Your plans always seem to be."

It was then I heard a ghost. A high, clear voice from the past, singing of how love would show her the way—to where, I don't know.

Riot held up a "one moment" finger as he flipped open his phone, cutting Jem off in mid-song. "Yes…indeed?…Excellent…I'll make sure to tell her."

I leaned back in my chair as he snapped his phone shut. "More campaign news, I suppose?"

"That was Rapture. It seems Nick Mann has agreed to donate two million euros to your campaign."

"Two million?!" I downed my glass of raki and winced as it burned my throat. "He's out of his mind."

Riot shrugged. "That's nothing new. But he's so grateful to Rapture and the TEM for 'curing' him of his condition-"

"—You mean, teaching him to hide being gay so he can protect his profits at the box office?"

"It's his life. She's merely helping him reach his full potential." Riot smiled, as if he'd ended the debate.

"So, he gives up another facelift to help me get elected? What does he get out of it?"

"Rapture's approval, and our gratitude."

I stretched my arms, knowing I'd never regain my appetite now. "I think I'm ready to leave."

"Whatever you wish." Riot stood and moved quickly. Ever the gentleman, he rushed to help put my coat on. "Next time, you should eat with the public. Let Berlin's Turkish community know you're on their side."

"Good publicity?" I yawned.

"In politics, it's a good 'photo-op.' Not the most elegant phrase, I admit."

I pulled my hair from under the sable collar of my coat, and flicked it back. "Sometimes, I'm amazed a man of your taste and manners could come from such a boorish country."

He patted my shoulders. "You should know by now, I am unique."

"And annoying, when you want to be."

He put a finger to my cheek. "Oh, you think I'm trying to annoy you?"

"You'll try whatever you think will make me do what you want. After twenty-five years, that's something I know for certain."

As I headed towards the door, he called out, "Am I succeeding?"

"For now," I sighed. "Let's go."

The crowd was tiny, compared to what I'm used to—only a few thousand people stood before me at the Brandenburg Gate rally.

In the final days before the election, my life had become an endless series of tedious campaign rallies, tiresome interviews, and dull meetings with important donors and party bosses.

No wonder I kept dozing off during the rally. Rapture nudged me to stay awake; I tried giving her a swift kick to the ankle, but missed.

Finally, my turn to speak arrived. My bandmates, in black suits with yellow lapels that matched my own jacket, jumped to their feet and led a standing ovation for me.

I put on a smile and began reading from the teleprompter, in German: "Thank you, my friends. I know you must find it a thrill to be here listening to me, but believe me, the thrill is all mine."

That got the wild applause we'd planned for.

"It fills me with pride," I continued, "to know that all of you are determined to make a change. That you're determined to make this a better country."

Wild applause, again. I allowed myself a grin. Perhaps politics is easier than I thought?

"And I think we all understand: change begins with…with…"

I waited for the next line to appear on the teleprompter.

Nothing happened.

I gripped onto the sides of the podium and took a breath. "Change begins with…"

Rapture jumped to my side and whispered, "What's wrong?"

I covered the microphone. "The teleprompter!"

I felt Riot brush against my other side. "Use your note cards."

"I didn't bring them."

Silly cards…just a waste of space in my purse.

"Don't you remember how the speech goes?" Rapture implored.

"I…I never read it. Elke handed it to me…I never read it."

I backed away from the podium. I felt my head spinning.

I couldn't take any more of this.

This is nothing like being a rock star.

All those people out there actually want to hear what I have to say.

Their silly little lives depend on what I say, on what I'd do in government.

What an insufferable burden!

Riot addressed the crowd, in flawless German. "My friends, it's nothing to be alarmed about. Ms. Kruger has pushed herself so hard to bring change to you all, that she is in need of a rest."

I heard muted applause as Rapture helped me from the stage.

A few hours later, I checked myself out of the hospital and, in minutes, arrived at Riot's suite at the Adlon Kempinski (Berlin's most expensive hotel, naturally. Anything less would be a travesty).

Riot, his tie undone and his jacket hung on a nearby chair, answered the door with a smile. "Ah, Minx. I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

I slammed the door behind me.

He grinned. "Something on your mind?"

"I'm dropping out of the race," I told him. "I know nothing about politics, and this is just absurd!"

He shook his head. "You haven't seen the latest polls. You're still going to win."

"I don't care. This is a mistake. This isn't what I want, and I'm tired of you pushing me into it. I quit!"

I saw his brows tense. "You're quitting the Stingers?"

I felt a headache coming on. "No, I'm not. Why do you even say things like that? I'll never quit the group. You should know that by now! I'm quitting the campaign, and if you can't understand, then I don't know what to tell you."

He grabbed my arm as I began to turn away. "But I need you to do this! I need your help!"

"Why?! I just don't understand. What aren't you telling me?" I looked down at his arms, still well-muscled despite his age. "You're hurting me."

He let go. "I'm sorry. I'm…" He slumped to the floor. I noticed he still held something in his hand, which he caressed silently.

I sat down next to him. "Riot, what is it? If you can't trust me…"

He pressed a crumpled photograph into my hand. I looked down to see the face of Jem, untouched by time. Her gleaming smile vapid and empty, yet beautiful all the same.

"I took that one morning on San Tropez, on our last trip together. The next night, I proposed to her."

"You never told me that." I ran my finger across the picture and wondered, as I had many times before, just what Riot had seen in that sticky-sweet piece of marzipan.

"She told me to wait. She said she had to think about it." Riot turned to me, his eyes red. "When I asked why, she said she didn't know if she could trust me with the truth."

I handed the photo back to her. "You mean her real name? That's just silly."

"All I know is that we barely spoke for the rest of the trip…I dropped her off at her band's mansion, then I never saw her again."

The memories of those first several years after Jem disappeared came rushing back.

"Oh no," I muttered.

I remembered how Riot nearly destroyed himself, and almost tore the band apart…all because of his quest.

"Minx," he whispered, "I know she was murdered."

I wanted to cry, it hurt so much to hear him say it again. "Why do you do this to yourself? Things have been so much better."

"I've never forgotten. I can't ever make myself forget. I lost the most perfect woman in the world. No amount of time can ever make that go away."

I pulled myself to my feet and turned my back to him. I wiped the tears from my eyes and told him, "Whatever happened to her, you'd be so much happier if you could just let go."

He stood and walked behind, lightly caressing my shoulders. "Minx, I loved her. I'll always love her. You couldn't possibly understand."

I swung around and slapped him across the face with enough force to make him stagger backwards. "Scheißkopf! How dare you say that to me, Rory! You fucking, uncouth bully…whatever else happened, don't you ever doubt that I loved you!"

Riot bowed his head low, and spread his arms in supplication. "I apologize. I can be…forgetful, sometimes. Please forgive me…" He pulled his head back up and faced me, softly adding, "Ingrid."

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.

Riot turned away from me and sat on the edge of his bed. He pulled off his golden wig, so perfectly designed to match the lion's mane of his youth. For the first time, I saw his baldpate and the ring of gray mixed with straggling remnants of yellow under it.

I sat next to him and patted his hand. "And don't ever doubt," I told him in voice just above a whisper, "that I care about you, and I always will."

"Then help me," he muttered.

I brushed away stray hairs from the wig that had stuck to his face. "How?"

"Win this election."

I leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan. "I still don't get it! What's so important about me serving in the Bundestag?"

Riot stood, and began pacing the room. "I need access. I need information. When my dad was still alive, he could help me, but even then, he'd never show me anything classified. But a member of the legislature would have access to certain secret documents, and if you can gain a minister's post-"

"Wait, slow down! What is this all about?"

"Jem!"

I only heard the crash. I bolted up to see him clutching his bleeding fist, with the mirror next to the dresser in pieces at his feet. He'd already regained enough composure to tell me, "There's a first aid kit under the bathroom sink."

I spent the next few minutes bandaging his hand. "You could have bled to death if you'd cut an artery."

He shrugged. "I admit, I wouldn't want that to have been the lead headline throughout the world tomorrow."

"Very funny," I sighed, took a breath, and asked, "All right. Calmly tell me what you want me to do."

He grinned. "I need information about Jem. Once you're elected, I need you to use whatever sources you'll have at your disposal to obtain classified records, documents, or whatever will lead us to the truth of what happened to her."

I finished wrapping his hand. "Be careful with that," I told him. I returned to the bathroom to wash the blood from under my nails. "And if I discover she's alive?" I called out.

"Then you'll help me find where she's hiding."

By the time I returned, Riot had donned his wig again. "Feeling better?"

"I will…if you agree to help me."

I slumped into the Louis XIV chair next to the armoire. "You don't give up, do you?"

He forced a smile. "Of course not. I am Riot." He walked to the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. "If we can discover the secret Jem mentioned, we may discover what really happened to her."

He handed me a typewritten note. The letterhead stunned me. "The White House?! Where did you get this?"

"Not long before he died, my father pulled every string he had to get his hands on that note. But it wasn't till recently I finally…I worked-"

I understood. Riot could never admit it had taken him time to find the courage.

"Look who it's addressed to," he implored. "Look!"

I read the first line. "Jerrica Benton?"

Riot seemed to double over, as if the suspense had become unbearable. "Read the whole thing, Minx. Then try telling me I'm crazy!"

I unfolded the yellowed page. "'Miss Benton,'" the letter began, "'Thank you again for all your assistance.'" I stopped. "Riot, I'm sure this is about that time she helped President Boyd escape from a kidnapper. We heard about that before we even came to the States, remember?"

He sighed. "Keep reading."

I found my place and began again: "'Rest assured, Jem's secret is safe with me.'" I glanced at Riot, who smiled in triumph. I continued: "'Synergy is quite a remarkable wonder. All the best, Your Fellow American, Peter Boyd.'" I looked over the letter again. "What's Synergy?"

Riot snatched the letter from me. "Exactly. 'What's Synergy?'" He peered down at me, his green eyes full of fire. "Whatever happened to Jem, it had something to do with this 'Synergy,' and whatever Synergy is, the President knew about it."

I shook my head repeatedly. "This is unbelievable. That must be some kind of fake."

"If it is, you can find out. The Cold War was still on back then. President Boyd may have shared information on Synergy with other members of NATO-"

"This is getting out of hand!" I brushed past him and tried to collect my thoughts. "We're musicians. We're not spies; we're not detectives."

Riot came up behind me and began stroking my shoulders. "We are the Stingers. We can do anything."

"You're being absurd."

"But you know it's true." He held the letter in front of my face. "And you know there's something to this."

I sighed as I turned back to him; his upper lip curled over his teeth in his most childlike smile. "Yes," I replied.

"Will you help me?"

I shook my head. "Why didn't you tell me this from the start?"

He blew air through his front teeth and admitted, "I didn't think I'd need to, until after you were elected. I've told no one else, not even Rapture. But, I didn't expect you to resist at all."

I chuckled. "Typical of you, Riot. Always underestimating me!"

He nodded. "True, I should know better by now."

I rattled off, "Yes, you should," before I took his face in my palms and kissed him, savoring the taste and tactile impression of his lips on mine. I could tell he had a cut on his lip which had only partially healed.

Riot pulled away long enough to ask again, "Will you help me?" I pulled him to the bed. We made love for the first time since we were little more than headstrong children.

A part of me cursed my own weakness: this wouldn't change his mind. I wouldn't get what I wanted.

Well, perhaps, at that moment, I was.

Aching in places I hadn't hoped to be, I slipped out of bed early in the morning, and left before he woke. Later that day, he wanted to talk to me about the night before. I refused, and we discussed campaign strategy instead.

I won. The vote wasn't even close. You Americans have only yourselves to blame for not showing the type of good sense the voters in my district did. Don't expect to move here either—I'm helping the Chancellor's cabinet draft a bill further limiting emigration to my country.

These days, my chauffeured Benz collects me each morning and takes me to my offices at the Reichstag Building. On my way, I always pass by the Brandenburg Gate.

I look up and remember the fear I felt as a girl. The fear I could never escape until a soldier came into my life and rescued me.

So much has changed since then. These days, instead of Soviet bombs, our main worry is idiot countries in the EU who dig themselves into debt and expect Germany to bail them out. Bah!

And yet…

Every now and then, I'll stumble upon a yellowing file recovered from Stasi, or an old NATO communique, which provides another piece of Riot's puzzle.

Perhaps the Soviet troops were dangerous, but at least I knew exactly what they were.

What on earth is Synergy?

(Special thanks to my beta readers, especially AllieGee).