6~

The rest of the school week could charitably be described as eventful for Marcie Fleach.

Marcie and other cultists would cruise, prowl, and pillage Crystal Cove bit-by-larcenous-bit whenever their parents went to sleep or performed their husbandly and wifely duties. With Ringleader playing the role of an alpha male, he would send his tie-dyed wolf packs out for swift plunder.

Marcie found herself doing night shifts on that score, either assisting in nightly heists that were planned days before or going on Ringleader-approved, solitary hunts, randomly choosing homes that looked like they sheltered, at least, upper-middle-class families.

With her homemade acids, she melted locks, safes, and vaults, gas the occupants, and then swipe any and all valuables.

Her days turned out to be just as memorable.

Ever since Ringleader activated her reward trigger, she would spend long and lively days chatting, dancing, singing, going on walks, going to lunch, reading to, and being read to by the phantom Velma Dinkley. At the same time, anyone close enough to notice the solitary girl gregariously interacting with nothing would just shake their head in pity for her obviously slipping sanity.

However, a gradual addiction to the reward events she enjoyed was an after-effect that she couldn't have noticed or prepared for. The longer the servitude, the stronger the hallucinations, and the stronger the need for them. Just as her master had planned.

Happy slaves were, after all, harder working ones and the individually tailored triggers he implanted in the victims' minds were the perfect, cost-effective way to ensure obedience.

In fact, the ones playing in Marcie's addled mind were so complete that whenever she invited "Velma" back to school, she would get befuddled, angry, and dismissive reactions from the people there.

This made her seriously believe that the people who couldn't see or interact with the illusory Ms. Dinkley were either absolutely insane themselves or trying to play some cruel trick on Marcie that obviously didn't work.

She already had to deal with the jeers and jibes she encountered in school for her typical dress style, now intensified due to her current garb. But, the solidarity she enjoyed from seeing other cult members going to school in similar attire put her mind at ease these days.

The early evening breeze gently tousled the lawn in the back of the Fleaches' home.

It flowed through the windows, flickering the lit candles arrayed around the interior of Marcie's lab, a large, former storehouse and garden shed that her father had cleared out, modified, and gave to her for her thirteenth birthday.

The door creaked open, allowing Winslow, who had come home early from work, to see his daughter sitting stoop-shouldered on her stool, watching something with silent interest.

Unobtrusively stepping in, he gave the interior an inspectional look-see. Although the tapers' glow gave the building a somber mood, he could see that everything was, more or less, fine with the otherwise clean lab.

Its chemicals, Bunsen burners, and most of its glass- and cookware were put in storage, as was proper for the upkeep and maintenance of a laboratory when not in use.

However, instead of seeing the usual bubbling brews she frequently working on and the scattered notes that weren't already pinned to her over-ladened bulletin board, all of her remaining equipment had been placed beside the candles, repurposed into makeshift lava lamps.

"Marcie? Are you okay?" Winslow asked. "I thought you'd be working on some strange chemical, like always. Plus, I'm pretty sure lighting candles in a laboratory is pretty dangerous."

Marcie continued watching a flask lava lamp dreamily.

"Groovy," she answered back. "Hey, Dad. Did you know that lava lamps were invented by a British accountant? They're just a mixture of mineral oil, paraffin wax and carbon tetrachloride suspended in water. Far out."

Indeed, Winslow hadn't known that little factoid, but he put it out of his mind for fear of getting side-tracked from what he wanted to say.

"Far out. Yes," her father replied. "Now, please explain to me why you felt you needed to disrupt my board meeting the other day? If you were upset that you weren't called to it, I apologize. I would've had you come, as well, but you were in school, and I didn't have time to reschedule it for the weekend."

Marcie slowly turned to face Winslow, her demeanor pleasantly enigmatic.

"See, Daddy? That's why I crashed your scene the other day. You're too wound up in schedules and meetings. You're like a worker bee. You should just let things *be. You'd *be much happier." She then chuckled at her joke of repetition.

Solemnly, Winslow thought back and took a deeper look at Marcie's recent behavior, the part of it that he did know about. It didn't feel like an innocent fad, now. It felt wrong, somehow. It felt too sudden, as though he was caught off guard and didn't have time to determine if it was safe for Marcie, and it bothered him.

"Hmm...Maybe it's you who need to take it easy once and a while," he said worryingly, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't think I haven't noticed you working so hard in school. But Marcie, dear, the lab will always be there. You're only young once. You can still be the best you always wanted to be, but it starts with you having a good time, once and a while, too, you know?"

Inwardly, Winslow worried that she would lash out, tell him that he didn't know what he was talking about and that he should mind his own business. But Marcie just turned to him with a clearly grateful expression.

"Wow, Daddy, you really blew my mind. And I thought you were so plastic! The other girls in school wouldn't hang out with me, but let's have a good time now. Come watch these lava lamps with me! I promise the globs are never the same shape or size!"

'And I lost her again,' Winslow thought glumly.

Quietly, he began to back out of the lab. As dearly as he loved his daughter, he could think of a thousand things he could be doing than staring at lava lamps until the cows came home.

"I, uh, have to go and, uh, watch the flowers grow in the yard," he evaded diplomatically, hoping that he didn't hurt her feelings. "I'll tell you how that goes when I'm done, okay?"

He made it past the threshold but didn't close the door. He leaned inside one more time, telling her quietly, "I'll leave the door open, okay?" And then he left.

Marcie hadn't even noticed his departure, so mesmerized was she, by the lava lamps.

"Groovy..." she said distantly.


He didn't call...

Marcie tossed and turned in her bedsheets, a sheen of sweat making her face glisten in her moonlit bedroom. It would have been a moment of private beauty to see if not for the agony in her eyes.

She silently prayed that her cell phone would vibrate, giving her the signal to serve her master once more, and more importantly, to succeed so she could get her fix of Vitamin V. But, the phone on her dresser sat quietly, and Marcie just fidgeted some more, as a result.

She couldn't understand what was happening. Was she sick? Was it hot flashes? At her age?

She shook her head, dismissing the fear as unsubstantiated, hypochondriacal conjecture. If there was a plausible cause, Ringleader would surely know it.

But she couldn't go to him, not now. He had given her strict instructions that while she was serving him at night, she could not contact him at that time. Communication had to be one-way for security's sake, and she could not disobey.

Which was why she begged him from within to call her with something to do. Thievery, vandalism, even kidnapping would suit her if he so wished, but he had to wish it!

For the twentieth time, she turned and looked at the cell phone and shivered. Her body was not her own tonight. It writhed and shook and flailed all its own, and she was just lucid enough to try to make any sense to it all.

Marcie clamped her eyes tight, trying to shut out the convulsions, and in the darkness of her thoughts, a phantasmal image floated up from its depths.

Velma.

Her stubborn, analytical mind tried to find portent in the vision, slamming it into the situation of her seizures, and twisted the meaning of the two, slowly, torturously slowly, until the answer glowed in her fevered mind like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

She grinned weakly at the simplicity of the connection and decided to have a mental chat with herself to confirm and even self-congratulate.

'Obviously, you're suffering from some type of withdrawal, brought about by your lack of missions tonight,' the analytical Marcie posited.

'But why this reaction?' cult member Marcie countered. 'Why not just restlessness?'

'Because, while serving Ringleader, you were rewarded by seeing your best friend in all the world, Velma, again. But somehow, this created some sort of psychological dependence over time. You know that she's not really here, but in your heart of hearts, you'd do anything to get that feeling again. Want to know why?'

'Why?' Marcie, the cultist, asked cautiously.

'Simple. Because being with Velma is more important to you than being with Ringleader.'

'Blasphemy!' she reflexively thought. But, she grudgingly admitted, she couldn't fool herself.

'Was it true?' she thought. 'Is my desire for being with Velma that strong?'

'So what if it is?' the analytical shrugged. 'Are you gonna sit here and suffer because the grand high muckety-muck doesn't have anything for you to do tonight?'

'Don't say that about him,' the cultist defended, then added, 'Wait. What are you saying?'

'I'm saying that you should take the bull by the horns and do something...proactive about it.'

'Like what? Stopping this obsession I'm having by going out into the night and stealing something that reminds me of V? A tad creepy, don't you think?'

'But I didn't think it. You did.'

'But you're me. I'm...myself.'

'Exactly, and in the end...'

"You can't fool yourself," she said to herself aloud.

She awoke, sitting up in her bed. The shakes had subsided for now, but they were replaced by a quiet, baleful chuckle and a feverish look in Marcie's eyes. Her heart danced in anticipation of what her twisted logic was compelling her to do.

The arrogance, she saw, the sheer, desperate gall of the act, gave her a satisfactory, if only temporary, way to end her compulsion and a terrifying thrill deep within her.

Yes. She would strike out without Ringleader knowing and combine both the mission and the reward into one sweet whole that would give her solace and contentment and the beginnings of a kick-ass secret shrine dedicated to a certain bookish girl.


The room was a pocket universe of loneliness, inactivity, and quiet darkness, with a large, four-poster bed dominating its center.

In the daylight, Velma Dinkley's empty bedroom was a time capsule, of sorts, marking the life of a somewhat typical teenaged daughter. It was no less a display than any of the others in her parents' town museum, but at night, it was as still and silent as a forgotten tomb.

Both parents, Dale and Angie, were as anxious to learn about their daughter's condition as any parent would. But the Dinkleys' attitudes and worldviews about parenting were not as typical as other parents regarding Velma.

Although they were mindful of her behavior and habits, they were also incredibly encouraging when it came to them. They rarely held things from her, allowing her to experience life, if only at a pace that they approved of.

This sudden "field trip" was just the latest of such experiences. Even Velma would admit that even though they could be parentally intrusive, to the point of prison warden-standards, they also respected her maturity and judgment and gave her more freedom and latitude than any other adults that she knew.

Despite the worry that would occasionally haunt their home life, Dale and Angie would trust in her again, and in the meantime, as a calming ritual, they would care for all of the personal effects in their daughter's life until her expected, oft-hoped for, return.

If, however, anyone was close enough to the bedroom window that night, they would have heard the soft bubbling and hiss of carefully applied acid, making short work of the single-pane glass closest to the locks, before flowing down to devour them, as well.

The window slowly slid up in careful increments, and Marcie slipped a bell-bottomed leg through the window.

Muscles taut and holding her body on the window sill in as quiet a manner as possible, she found herself grateful for those erstwhile gymnastics lessons as she cautiously brought her outstretched foot to the floor, putting pressure on it to test for the incriminating creak.

Satisfied that none were forthcoming, Marcie slipped into the interior of the bedroom.

She took out a small bag and was about to begin rooting around in the dresser drawers when something forced her to stop where she was. Not the warning sound of an approaching guardian or the errant sound of a misplaced step. Just the gentle power of nostalgia.

She looked around and almost forgot how much she loved coming here, and although the room was abandoned, she swore she could feel something, a vibration, a presence, in the room. The spirit of clever, teenaged energy given form, and the name, Velma.

As she carefully began to walk to the other side of the room, one of Marcie's hands brushed along one side of the soft bed, and she flinched from the sudden bittersweet touch, but it was too late. The memories came to her as a fast school of piranha, stripping away the questionable purpose of her visit just as quickly.

The friendly invitations to come over, from sleep-overs, as little girls, to just relaxing and delighting in the other's company, as teens. Marcie wrapped herself deep in the remembrance of that beautiful feeling of sitting, or even better, lying, under the private shelter of the bed's broad canopy.

And then, the regret came to her in waves, of taking things for granted, specifically.

She was lying on that same bed the last time she saw her, and thoughts of an imminent future without Velma never occurred to her. She had to correct that mistake tonight.

Marcie put down her bag and quietly slipped onto the made surface of the bed. Patiently, she extended every sense she possessed to silently tap into the magical echo that remained of her friend.

She crawled slowly so as not to disturb the blankets or sheeting and stretched herself across the length of the bed, like an indolent housecat, luxuriating in the soft, well-worn firmness that was so familiar to her young body.

She lay her head on the pillow, as she had on the last day Velma had left her room. She hadn't taken notice then, but now, she turned to her side and brought her face close to the pillowcase.

It was there, a mere ghost of a scent, now, but she could still breathe the faint perfume of Velma's bobbed and bowed hair in the linen.

It was just too much. The feelings were too deep. They were only moments of awakened memory, but they felt like her hallucinatory rewards, only a thousand times sharper. She felt like a junkie given a mainline of pure cocaine. It electrified her, but it electrocuted her, as well.

The desire for Velma to come home hit her like a physical blow that she could no longer endure. The loss flowed up from her guts, touched her broken heart, and transmuted it all into her curling up into a tortured ball and quietly weeping upon the pillow.

It was a fool errand, she realized. Nothing she could take from this room could ease the ache she felt at her friend's leaving or equal the love she felt for her all of those years.

The rewards didn't feel the same anymore. They felt hollow and manufactured, cheap and distracting. Somewhere in the back of Marcie's mind, she knew coming here would ultimately crush her, and she didn't care.

This was what she needed. Reality. The bracing, cleansing of pure emotional connection, and although part of her railed at the heretical thought, she solemnly came to the conclusion that Ringleader couldn't grant these falsehoods to her anymore.

So deep was Marcie in her thoughts and epiphany that she hadn't heard the bedroom door slowly open or see it, as her back was to it. Nor noticed a shocked and cautious Angie Dinkley standing in the doorway, an ice bucket in her hand and staring at the indistinct figure in her daughter's bed.

"Velma?" she whispered.

'Fool!' Marcie's mind screamed at herself. She twisted around and bolted off the bed, her standing orders clear. 'Don't let anyone capture you! Escape to collect for the church another day!'

"Marcie? What are you doing here?" Angie asked, confused but still on alert.

Marcie's adrenaline levels spiked, and her brainwashed mind went into automatic. She was recognized by an enemy of the church and would be reported on soon. This woman would threaten the stability and good works of the cult and, just as worrisome, would stop her from being with Velma in any capacity, and that simply would not do.

Instead of turning away and heading for the open window, Marcie slowly approached Angie, estimating the surprised woman's possible worth in a fight and finding it comically lacking. She could take on this interloper easily.

Fingers clawing for a terminal grasp, Marcie let her emotions ride the crest of the emotional wave, intoning robotically, "For every mission you finish for me, your friend, for a day, will spend with thee..."

"I don't know what that means, dear," Mrs. Dinkley warned in her steady, matronly voice. "but I'm afraid you're not leaving until I get some answers."

Marcie didn't hear any of it. She pivoted her feet and launched into a charge, hands reaching for Mrs. Dinkley's plump throat.

Mrs. Dinkley suddenly lifted the ice bucket, angled it accurately, for the few seconds she had, and splashed frigid water and half-melted ice full-onto Marcie, stopping the surprised girl in her wet, wide-eyed tracks.

The shocking, agonizing cold took her breath away. Her adrenaline levels jumped into overload, but instead of reacting more defensively to avoid the sensations, her body began to tense from the painful stimuli.

Before she could consciously form any kind of tactic to get her out of her situation, Marcie found the floor flying up to her face.

Then, merciful darkness.