.

Sausalito, California – warehouse district.

Roxy regarded Stormer's hand clasped tightly around her wrist. Stormer's attention seemed to be miles away. When they stopped at the next intersection, a man from the street approached the limousine and sprayed water on the windows. He then proceeded to clean the glass with his squeegee.

Stormer beat on the door from the inside to get his attention. "Hello? Can you hear me? Help us!"

"You're wasting your breath." Roxy said, massaging her wrist. "He can't help us."

"Why?"

She folded her arms and scowled. "Because he's homeless."

Stormer wiped the streaks of mascara that had dried on her cheeks. "You were homeless once."

Roxy curled her lip, but did not respond. Stormer continued to beat on the glass. The driver rolled down the window and threw some spare change out onto the pavement, which the vagrant eagerly collected. The light turned green, and they were off again. Roxy had been proven right, but when she saw Stormer crestfallen, she took her hand and put her arm around her bandmate's shoulder.

The driver turned off the main road and followed the side streets into a complex of abandoned warehouses. They reached a parking lot that had fallen into disrepair. Weeds had started to grow through the many cracks in the concrete. They drove to the center of the lot and parked in front of an unmarked van stationed next to three men on motorcycles. A fourth man, with mussed auburn hair, stepped out of the van, walked over to the limo, and opened the passenger door.

"Get out."

Roxy watched Pizzazz exit first, followed by Stormer and Jetta. She hung back to check for the switchblades she kept concealed in her boots. When she finally stepped out, the man with the mussed hair closed the door behind her and shoved her with the others. Roxy glared back at him but did not protest—being more concerned with reckoning her surroundings. At first glance, these men all seemed like a low rent motorcycle gang. However, there was nothing low rent about their gear. Their motorcycles were custom made and state of the art.

The driver exited the limousine. From behind he looked like Zipper, but when he took his wig off to reveal his orange hair underneath, it confirmed Roxy's suspicion that he was an imposter. He took off Zipper's familiar jacket and tossed it to the biker with black hair. Apparently he was the leader, as he started giving orders to the blond biker, whom he referred to as Buzzer. He gave the Misfits a short once over and retired to the back of the van.

Pizzazz had become visibly bored with the theatrics. "Okay, I'll bite. Who are you jokers supposed to be?"

"We're The Dreadnoks, and we will be your escorts this evening." Buzzer replied, bowing with false graces.

Jetta stood next to Pizzazz, her saxophone gripped firmly in her hands. "We're not going anywhere with you, Goldilocks."

"Now, that's not very nice. Someone outta teach you some manners."

Pizzazz rebuked Buzzer, saying, "Here's a tip, asstard: you'd get more respect if you didn't name your gang after a hairstyle. Now, run along before your rivals, The French Braids, stop by for a rumble."

Roxy clenched her jaw. Sheesh, Pizzaz, don't play with these guys!

Buzzer laughed. "No, luv, I didn't say, 'dreadlocks.' I said Dreadnoks."

"Like anyone gives a flip, bloke," Jetta said.

"What's with all this palaver, Buzzer?" said the red-haired biker.

"Quiet, Torch," Buzzer replied. "We're just having a nice conversation." He turned back to Jetta and said, "Do I detect an accent, luv?"

"Yeah, and I happen to be a close personal friend of the Queen Mum. So, you better watch yourself, wanker."

Buzzer snorted. "Didn't your mummy and daddy ever tell you what happens to little girls who tell lies?"

Stormer's focus remained on the jacket formerly worn by the limo driver, which was now sported by the black-haired biker. "Isn't that Zipper's jacket?"

"My name's Ripper, not Zipper, girlie," the biker donning the jacket replied.

Torch punched Ripper in the arm. "I think she's meanin' to inquire about the bloke who gave you that jacket."

"Oh, right." Ripper turned his attention to the mussed-hair Dreadnok and said, "The pretty girl wants an audience with Zipper. Why don't you bring him out for us, Monkeywrench?"

"Sure thing, Ripper." Monkeywrench opened the trunk to the limo and reached inside. "It was awfully nice o' him. But, then again, it's not like he needed it anymore." He closed the trunk and threw a bag onto the pavement. The bag struck the floor, the clasp loosened, and an object rolled out.

The Misfits all shrieked at once. Roxy and Stormer shuffled back when Zipper's head rolled across their toes. It wobbled back and forth to finally settle on its side—its rigid expression telling of how Zipper was very much alive at the time his head was sawed off.

Monkeywrench walked slowly toward the Misfits, stepping calmly over Zipper's remains. He made a grab for Jetta, but Roxy pushed him. He stumbled but regained his balance. With a snarl he back handed Roxy across her face. She fell to her knees, and banged her head on the side of the door.

"Bitch slap!" Ripper cheered, egging him on.

Roxy wiped a trickle of blood from her lip. She grabbed the disembodied head by the hair, stood up and swung as hard as she could, smashing the cranium against Monkeywrench's forehead.

The Dreadnok fell to the ground, and the other Misfits followed Roxy's lead in kicking him. Helpless, he covered up.

Torch leaned back in his chopper and laughed. "Oi, right brutal that is."

Buzzer smirked, content to let the spectacle go on for a little longer. "I s'pose we should help him, eh? After all, we are on the clock."

Buzzer, Ripper, and Torch dismounted. Pizzazz and Stormer were the first to go, being surprised from behind by Ripper and Buzzer. They took the women kicking and screaming behind the van.

Roxy and Jetta stood back-to-back to fight off Torch and Monkeywrench. Jetta swung blindly, using her signature saxophone as a weapon. Roxy drew the switchblade hidden in her boot and slashed at Torch.

Torch hopped back, but not before the blade cut his shirt open. "Oi, this one has some street in her."

The orange-haired driver came from behind the van, escorted by Ripper and Buzzer. He carried a silver oblong device with a lens on the end and tapped it impatiently against his leg as he approached. "Torch, what's taking so long?"

"We have things under control, Zandar," Torch said. He dodged another swipe.

"It doesn't look like it from where I stand." Zandar nodded to Ripper.

Ripper pushed Monkeywrench aside. He raised his rifle; the attached saber-bayonet cut through Jetta's saxophone as if it were tin foil. "That'll be enough of that, luv."

Jetta gasped, her instrument now in pieces. Monkeywrench and Ripper grabbed Jetta's arms. Roxy watched, helpless, as they held her while Zandar pointed the machine at Jetta. A blue light shot out of the device and enveloped the raven-haired Misfit in energy. After the energy dissipated, she feinted and slumped in their grasp. Monkeywrench slung her over his shoulder and carried her to the back of the van.

Roxy was distracted by the display which allowed Torch to slap the knife from her hand. He held her fast in a bear hug. Zandar pointed the device at Roxy, but nothing happened.

"What's wrong?" Torch asked.

Zandar silently skimmed the scanner readout. "There's an error scanning this one."

"Is the doohickey busted?"

"No." Zandar grabbed Roxy firmly by the chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Oculocutaneous amelanism."

Torch grimaced. "Ew! Is it contagious?"

Buzzer slapped Torch on the back of the head. "It means she's an albino, you moron."

Zandar released Roxy. "I'll have to recalibrate the scanner. In the meantime, I'll process the scans I've collected so far. " He headed back to the van.

Buzzer let out an exaggerated sigh. "How long is that gonna take? Zartan is not gonna be happy if we're late."

"It takes as long as it takes; I'm not making a pizza."

Before Buzzer could respond, Ripper cut him off saying, "No worries, Zandar. Take your time." He turned to Buzzer and said with a wink, "I've never had an albino before."

"Me neither." Buzzer returned Ripper's wink with a leer. "Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

Getting a sense of where this was going, Torch shook his head in disgust. "I don't know, mates, look at her eyes: they're red like blood. Them's the devil's eyes."

Buzzer promptly slapped Torch on the back of the head again. "It's cuz she's got no pigment, you numskull."

"Yeah, so quit yer whinin' and hold her down," Ripper added.

Torch obeyed and held Roxy on the ground with her hands above her head. Roxy kicked and bucked violently, until Buzzer grabbed her by the ankles. Her only recourse was to assault them verbally, spitting and cursing at the top of her voice. That is, until Ripper kneeled over her, drew his blade and held the point under her chin.

"Hey! Don't cut her till we've had our turn!"

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Buzzer. This is just to keep her still."

Oh God! I don't wanna be here! I can't do this again! Roxy resisted the urge to panic when Ripper slid his hand up through her midriff and under her bra. A wave of nausea swept over her with every squeeze and pinch of his fingers .

Buzzer's hands were rough and chaffed the skin of her inner thigh. Fighting against her instincts, she allowed her legs to part, giving him easier access. Her hands, held fast between Torch's legs, probed until she found his bulge. With her fingertips, she began to caress it lightly. She couldn't stop her jaw from trembling, but she did her best to make the whimpers that came out of her mouth sound like moans.

"I think the slut likes it," Torch said.

"Yeah, just like that whore in Vegas," Ripper replied.

Roxy swallowed the lump in her throat so she could speak. She leaned in to whisper in Ripper's ear, "A-are you h-hard?"

"Oh, yeah, baby."

"I-I wanna s-see it."

Ripper stood over her and started to unbuckle his trousers. "Luv, you're gonna feel it in about two seconds—"

"Good!" She violently slipped her legs out of Buzzer's relaxed grip. She coiled under Ripper and kicked with both feet into his exposed groin.

Ripper screamed and instinctively grabbed his crotch as he fell backwards onto Buzzer. At the same time, her fingers clasped around Torch's bulge. The thick denim of his pants kept her from digging her nails in, but it was enough to make him let go. Roxy scrambled to her feet. She lost her bearings, so she ran without regard for direction. If she could make it to one of the abandoned buildings, then she could disappear; they would never find her. Unfortunately, she forgot about Monkeywrench. He caught up to her, grabbed her by the hair and spun her around. She swung blindly and managed to knock the glasses off his face. He punched her in the stomach. She hugged her belly and eased herself to the ground. Her diaphragm spasmed as she gasped for air. Her teeth clenched to stop the whimpers, but there was nothing she could do to stop the tears.

The noise had attracted Zandar's attention. "What in the hell are you idiots doing? Stop screwing around and set her up for a rescan." After reprimanding them, he returned to the van to finish his calibrations.

Ripper, who was still doubled over in pain, said, "I'm gonna cut you for that, bitch!" He forced himself to his feet, one hand remaining cupped over his groin. He managed to stand, although he remained half-bent.

Buzzer shook his head. "No, if you kill her now, Zartan'll 'ave your head."

"But, I wanna see her bleed. She'll look so pretty in red. What's the difference if we scan a corpse?"

"Back off, bloke," Torch said, putting himself between her and Ripper. "You're not ruining my bonus because you took one in the jewels. You only 'ave yourself to blame."

"Yeah, Ripper. Where's your sense of professionalism?" Monkeywrench added.

The round table discussion was interrupted by the sound of lumbering footsteps in the darkness. The transient, dressed in green rags, stepped out of the shadows. He kicked back his head to finish off the last of his booze. With a belch, he discarded the bottle; it shattered loudly against pavement.

"You bucks got any spare change?" he said, struggling to maintain his balance.

"No, we don't have any change," Monkeywrench said. "Get a job, you bum. I can smell the rotgut on you from here!"

The bum approached closer, eyeing the half-conscious Roxy. "That's a nice piece of tail you guys have there. Can I watch?"

Torch, resolved to keep Ripper restrained, spat on the ground, saying, "Someone else get him out of here! And put 'im down, quiet-like."

Buzzer approached the transient and grabbed him tightly by the shoulder. "Sorry, bloke, this is a private train: no looksies."

The transient stumbled and held onto Buzzer's wrist, as if for support. When Buzzer raised his Billy club, a hint of a smile escaped the transient's lips. Before Buzzer could react, a pain shot down to his shoulder as his arm was hypersupinated in a joint lock. He was then spun off his feet and fell hard on his back. A follow-up stomp to the side of his head made sure he stayed down.

Maintaining the element of surprise, the transient rushed the nearest Dreadnok with a spinning backfist. Monkeywrench took the shot easily enough, but before he realized it was merely a distraction, a size thirteen-delta army boot lodged into the side of his ribs.

Roxy was half conscious when Torch's roar roused her back to awareness. She bolted upright to see the burly Dreadnok rush the bum who stopped to clean their windshield: the same bum that she now remembered passing in the hallway with Stormer. The 'bum' threw off his raggedy poncho, and he gracefully sidestepped Torch's charge—like a skilled toreador—to reveal the military grade combat fatigues that he wore underneath.

Roxy heard a sound and turned to see Ripper reach for his gun. Without regard as to whether this new stranger was friend or foe, she called out to warn him. However, it was unnecessary; he spun in midair and released an object at the height of his inertia. Ripper slumped to the ground, grabbing his forehead as well as his groin. The squeegee clacked loudly on the concrete as it fell next to him after bouncing off his skull.

Torch was back on his feet. He and the stranger squared off, but Torch was more careful this time, and he drew his knife. The stranger held his ground, keeping his fists up en garde. He waited patiently, tracking Torch with his lead hand as he attempted to maneuver in at an angle. When Torch feinted, the stranger made his move. Pushing off with his back leg, he brought his lead arm down to parry the knife thrust before planting his back fist dead center into Torch's nose. The Dreadnok's head snapped back violently; he staggered and collapsed on his side. The stranger remained vigilant, making sure that there were no more enemies lurking about.

In the space of barely a minute, this man had taken out four armed professionals. The action had been so furious that Roxy never got a clear look at the stranger's face. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a balaclava which he put over his head. She wasn't sure if this was a rescue or if she was merely trading one set of kidnappers for another. The fact that he was now wearing a ski mask did nothing to inspire her confidence as to his intentions. As a result, she deemed it prudent to err in her favor, so when he approached her, she forced herself to her feet and reared back.

"Get away from me!"

He caught her punch and grabbed her firmly by the arms. "We don't have time for this. I'm here to help you. My name is Beach Head. I'm an agent for G.I. Joe."

G.I. Joe. The name sprouted images in Roxy's head; images that she remembered seeing on the news: men in green shooting at men in blue, a funny man in a mask that talked with a lisp, stories that she dismissed as propaganda—until she found herself living one. "You have to help my friends."

"I know. Stay behind me."

She obeyed and stood at a comfortable distance as she watched the soldier draw his pistol and advance to the back of the vehicle where the rest of the Misfits were taken. He held his position when Zandar stepped out from behind the van.

"Don't move, Zandar."

Zandar stopped in his tracks; his expression was one of surprise. "G.I. Joe?"

"You're under arrest. Release your prisoners. Now!"

Zandar's expression hardened, and he raised his hands in surrender. "Your wish is my command."

A figure dressed in cerulean stepped out from behind Zandar. Roxy's eyes widened, and she ran past Beach Head to meet her.

"Stormer!"

"Roxy?" The woman in blue held out her hand. "I'm scared. Please..."

"It's okay, Stormer, you're safe now. I have you."

Roxy reached back to take her hand. Their fingers were about to touch when Beach Head pushed Roxy aside. He leveled his pistol at the woman in cerulean.

BLAM!

Roxy looked on in horror at the hole left in her bandmate's head. Stormer's eyes rolled up in their sockets; her eyelids fluttered, and her head snapped back, as if it had been detached from her neck. She fell straight onto her back as stiff as a board.

Roxy drew her backup switchblade; the spring's action was inaudible, but the familiar flick of the handle informed her that the weapon was ready. She rushed the soldier, and stabbed him in his shoulder. Caught off guard, Beach Head tripped and fell backwards, the knife held fast in his Kevlar vest. Roxy straddled him. In her grief, and retroactive rage, she flailed her fists upon him furiously.

The tears in her eyes clouded her vision, so she swung blind as she cursed him. "I'LL KILL YOU! SHE WAS MY FRIEND!"

Beach Head struggled to pull the knife out of his shoulder while he fended off Roxy's punches. Through clenched teeth he replied, "That's not your friend!"

Roxy paused from sheer exhaustion. She wiped the tears from her eyes when she caught a glimpse of movement on her left: Stormer was sitting up. Roxy looked on, mouth agape, as twisting flesh worked the now deformed bullet out of the entry hole it had made in Stormer's forehead to fall harmlessly to the pavement.

The hole began to seal itself, and the woman in cerulean looked back at Roxy with lifeless eyes. She cocked her head to one side as she crouched on all fours. "That wasn't very nice."

Roxy blinked. "What the fu—"

'Stormer' pounced, tackling Roxy, and they rolled for several feet onto the hard concrete, ending with Stormer sitting astride her. Roxy whimpered from the pain as Stormer pinned her down. They were nose to nose, allowing Roxy to see even more closely into her captor's inhuman eyes. She didn't understand how, but she now believed that this thing was not Stormer. What was even more bone chilling was to hear it speak in her bandmate's familiar voice:

"Datum: Roxanne Pellegrini. Mission parameters: capture and retrieval. Conclusion: administer a non-lethal dose of trichloromethane to ensure compliance."

This thing that looked like Stormer opened its mouth. Roxy gasped as a large metallic nozzle protruded slowly out of its orifice. Roxy turned her head aside to avoid the thick green gas that shot out of the nozzle. It splashed against her cheek. In a panic, she screamed for help—and help came.

Beach Head jumped onto the thing's back. With a flick of his wrist, a baton extended from his hand. He brought it under the automaton's neck and squeezed hard enough to break the neck of a normal human. However, the best he could manage was to pinch off the gas that shot out of the nozzle. He rolled backwards, leveraging all of his 180 pounds to peel it off of Roxy. With it now positioned over him, he kicked it off with both legs and sent it flying for several feet.

The malevolent machine landed on all fours like a cat. Its arms lengthened, becoming as long as its legs, and it crab walked left and right, trying to get a bead on the Misfit. Beach Head kept himself between it and Roxy. He drew his weapon and fired, but it scurried with frightening speed to dodge the bullets. He stopped firing, but he kept his weapon at the ready—best to save his ammo for now. Keeping one eye wary, he tried to assist Roxy, but she was still groggy from the effects of the chloroform, so he let her rest.

"Wh-what is that thing?" she said, coughing to clear her lungs.

"It's called a synthoid. I'll hold it off for as long as I can."

When the synthoid leapt, Beach Head dropped and rolled backwards, and it sailed over him. He vaulted to his feet when the synthoid landed behind him and greeted it with a jumping-spinning crescent kick that connected with the side of its skull. Its head spun 180 degrees from the force of the kick. In a macabre display, it charged again, its dislocated head bobbing back and forth. Beach Head sidestepped it and planted a knee into its midsection. He then twisted in the opposite direction and struck the base of its neck with his baton.

The synthoid retreated. With a sickening crack it twisted its head back into alignment. "Implementing countermeasures for Okinawan Uechi-Ryu Karate."

Synthoid-Stormer pushed off the ground with its arms and cartwheeled behind him. Beach Head ducked a jumping-spinning crescent kick aimed to take his head off. On the return, it punched him dead center in the chest. Beach Head dropped his baton; the force of the punch sent him stumbling backward. He recovered his balance just as the synthoid assailed him. He parried its punch, hooked his arm behind its neck, and flipped it to the ground. He maintained a hold of its arm, supinating the appendage at the elbow as hard as he could.

"Implementing countermeasures for Korean Hapkido."

It spun out of the joint lock and turned to reverse the grip on its wrist. Beach Head rolled with the reverse and slipped under its arm to flip it over his shoulder. The synthoid rolled with the flip, rotated its shoulder an inhuman 270 degrees, and slipped under his arm to attempt the same shoulder throw.

It's using my own tactics against me!

Jerked off his feet, Beach Head rolled across the synthoid's back, each hand taking a handful of hair. Its head held fast, he spun it around, jammed his knee between its shoulder blades and brought all of his weight to bear upon its spine. But, it did not break: the synthoid was able to bend backwards to an impossible degree. It somersaulted sideways, losing a couple of clumps of hair in the process, and slipped its hand around the human's neck.

With one hand, it hoisted Beach Head above the ground as he struggled to breathe. Its other hand started to morph; the fingers melded together and lengthened to a razor thin edge.

"Datum: unknown G.I. Joe operative. Mission parameters: extirpation. Conclusion: manual evisceration of the thoracic cavity."

Seizing upon the opportunity of close quarters, Beach Head jammed his pistol into the synthoid's mouth. "Let's see you implement countermeasures for this!"

BLAM!

The synthoid dropped him. Sparks shot out of its ears and nose, and it fell to the ground—its limbs twitching.

Beach Head managed to catch his breath, but his reprieve was short lived. Looking back to the van, he saw that the rest of Zandar's "prisoners" were approaching: one dressed in emerald, and the other dressed in obsidian. Beach Head checked the ammo in his magazine and prepared to fire. His eyes narrowed when he noticed that the emerald Pizzazz-Synthoid stopped its advance. The skin on its arm bubbled, as if it were being superheated. The Pizzaz-Synthoid was forced to back away. The Jetta-Synthoid got a similar treatment and it likewise retreated from the invisible heat source. They stood there scanning the area, apparently searching for a way to safely pass to no avail.

Beach Head heaved a sigh of relief, thinking aloud, "It's about time, Sci-Fi." He made his way back toward Roxy and helped her to her feet. "Coffee break's over. Can you run?"

Roxy shrugged him off. "Can you keep up?"

They ran in a path parallel to their new found safety zone to a large building that led them in an alleyway, at the end of which was a broken fence. After they climbed over, they came upon an empty lot bordered by an abandoned stretch of road. There was nothing beyond that but darkness.

Beach Head drew his pistol. "They'll be coming!" He pointed to the right. "Head for the RV!"

Roxy continued to run toward the darkness—anything to get away from their pursuers. A mechanical clicking sound stopped her in her tracks. She felt heat emanating from the dark: there was something nearby. She yelped when a floodlight blinded her. She stepped outside of the glare to see the outline of a large hulking machine. Most of its features were hidden in shadow. Its outer 'skin' protruded and fanned out like scales on a pinecone. She approached it cautiously, the air surrounding it smelled like ozone. When she reached out to touch it, a jet of steam shot out of from under its tires. The behemoth lowered, and its metallic skin started to open. A ramp ejected from the portal and the figure of a man stepped out. He was clad in green and silver. A headpiece, resembling an astronaut's helmet, covered his face. He was carrying a weapon that looked like a ray gun straight out of a bad science fiction movie. He walked toward her, and she instinctively backed away, tripping on some loose gravel and landing on her backside.

He extended his hand to her saying, "Come with me if you want to live."

Beach Head caught up to them, firing the last of his ammo at the fast approaching synthoids. "Sci-Fi, cut that out, and get her inside the VAMP!"

Sci-Fi took Roxy by the arm and escorted her inside. With a hiss the door closed behind them. Roxy looked around in amazement as Sci-Fi strapped her into a nearby seat. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought she was inside of a spaceship. It was brightly lit in sterile, white colors. The cramped insides belied its massive exterior with every inch of usable space made available for various electronics. However, it was still roomy enough to walk around in. Sci-Fi took the station next to Roxy. A flat panel display above him showed an enhanced view of the grounds outside. Across from her sat another soldier dressed in gold fatigues and wearing a green helmet, whom Sci-Fi referred to as Airtight. Beach Head briskly walked by, nursing his shoulder from her stab wound. Her eyes followed him to the front of the vehicle. One of the two drivers turned in her seat to face him: a rather attractive woman with green eyes and auburn hair.

"You should've waited for us to get into position," she said to Beach Head.

"There was no time, Cover Girl." He turned to her co-driver, saying, "What's our status, Cross-Country?"

"All systems are green, but we're about to be overrun with synthoids."

"Magnetize the chassis."

A hum followed by a series of clicks was heard outside.

"Magnets on," Cross-Country said.

"Confirmed," Airtight replied. "Power levels are at 100 percent."

Beach Head pushed a button in the ceiling and a periscope descended. He peered into the eyepiece. "Prepare the synthoid countermeasures."

"Hypersonics are online," Airtight said, not taking his eyes off his monitor. "Standing by on your mark."

"Mark!"

A faint hum of electronics broke the silence as everyone in the cab waited with quiet apprehension. Roxy eyed the viewscreen above Sci-Fi's station. To her dismay, the synthoids continued their advance, showing no obvious signs of distress.

After several seconds, Beach Head cursed and discontinued the hypersonics. "The synthoid countermeasures aren't working. Can you remodulate the emitter?"

For the first time, Airtight looked up from his monitor and turned to face Beach Head. "I ran that pulse across the entire spectrum. It appears that they've overcome that design flaw."

"I hate upgrades!" Beach Head slapped the periscope back into the ceiling. "Cover Girl, get us out of here!"

Cover Girl pulled down the goggles that were propped above her forehead. When she touched the steering wheel, the dashboard lit up. She primed the accelerator and the engine roared. She was about to engage the transmission, when Cross-Country got a perimeter alert.

"Cover Girl! Bogey on our three o'clock!"

"I see him, Cross-Country."

Roxy's monitor, auto-synched to the alert, caught a glimpse of what tripped the alarm. She gasped. This thing that bored down on them easily outsized the Joe's VAMP.

Cover Girl popped the clutch and geared the stick just in time. Everyone jerked forward as the engine screamed in reverse. The display blurred when she cut the wheel and spun the VAMP in a one-quarter turn as she slammed on the brakes. Their attacker missed them by mere feet. When the dust settled, the two vehicles were situated catty-corner with respect to the drivers. Cover Girl lowered her goggles and looked out her port window; she was face to face with the dreadnok Thrasher.

Thrasher rolled down his window and regarded Cover Girl. He eyed her with a wicked sneer, but bowed to her respectfully. Cover Girl smiled and graciously nodded back behind the glass. Without standing on further ceremony, Thrasher took out his pistol and aimed it point blank at her.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

Cover Girl blew the dreadnok a kiss as his bullets bounced harmlessly off the VAMP's penteplastic windows. She tauntingly used her middle finger to push her goggles back up over her eyes before speeding off.

—oOo—

Thrasher holstered his weapon and gave chase. "Zandar, I think I'm in love. Such flawless beauty—and the driver's not bad lookin' either."

"Move this bucket of bolts, Thrasher!" Zandar said from the gunner's station.

"No worries, boss. I got a HISS engine under the hood of this Roadhog. They're not gonna get away!"

"Then why is the distance between us increasing?" Zandar said, impatiently.

"Good point." Thrasher flipped a switch on his control panel. "I'm gonna hit the nitrous."

A burst of speed brought them within range. Zandar swung the turret forward and squeezed the trigger.

—oOo—

The sound of high caliber rounds bouncing off the hull was deafening inside the VAMP.

"Grrr. They're cheating," Cover Girl said.

"Damage report," Beach Head ordered.

"Negligible," Sci-Fi replied. "The new armor is holding."

When the hail of bullets suddenly stopped, Roxy removed her fingers from her ears. "Anyone else wondering why they've stopped shooting?"

"They must've run out of nitrous," Cross-Country answered.

"Maybe, but they've still managed to leave behind some guests," said Sci-FI.

The other passengers watched the monitor above. The two remaining synthoids were crawling along the surface. One of them dug in its fingers and ripped out a piece of the hull.

"What are they doing?" Roxy asked.

"They appear to be ripping the armor plating off piece by piece," Airtight replied.

"And without it, we won't last long against that chain gun," Beach Head added. He turned to CoverGirl, saying, "What kind of firepower do we have on this thing?"

Cover Girl bit her lip. "We're riding unarmed."

"WHAT?!"

"Lt. Jenkins didn't approve outfitting us with heavy ammo going into an urban area. I didn't object because this was supposed to be a shakedown cruise anyway. I wasn't expecting to take us into battle."

"Me and the Lieutenant are going to have a conversation after this is over. Ok, I'm open to suggestions, people."

Sci-Fi made a grab for his laser rifle. "Let me burn 'em off, Beach."

"Negative. It is too early in the mission for martyrs."

"Think of something quick," Cover Girl said. "I can't shake them off; they're dug in like ticks!"

"If I plug the auxiliary communications conduit into the backup generator, then I can electrify the outer hull," Airtight offered.

"Won't that fry us too?" Beach Head asked.

"I doubt it," Cross-Country interjected. "I think it has something to do with the fact that we're rolling on rubber tires—"

Airtight scoffed. "Nooo. Actually, it has more to do with Coulomb's Law, which states—"

Beach Head cut them off. "Less jawjackin' and more action!"

Airtight crouched under his station and removed a panel. After cross connecting some of the wiring, he made his way to the back of the vehicle, stumbling from the violent movements of Cover Girl's driving. He braced himself against the wall and pulled down a lever. Sparks shot out from the switch; the lights flickered, then dimmed.

Roxy kept her eyes glued to the monitor. An arc of electricity ripped through the synthoids. They were paralyzed. "It's working!"

"But the feedback is wreaking havoc on our subsystems. We have to slow down," said Cross-Country.

"We've lost telemetry… power levels are down to eighty percent," Sci-Fi said.

Airtight turned off the generator and went back to his station. "I'll reroute what I can."

"Are they gone?" Roxy asked. Her monitor, having been disabled by the power spike, showed only static.

"Yes!" Cross-Country said with restrained enthusiasm. However, his jubilation was cut short when another hail of bullets filled the cabin with noise. "Brace for impact!"

Cross-Country's warning was barely audible through the din. Everyone was jerked forward when Thrasher's Roadhog struck the VAMP from behind.

SCHOOM!

The cabin filled with vapor. The emergency exhaust fans kicked in, sucking out the gasses. When the air cleared, the station where Roxy was seated was gone.

Beach Head got up from his station and bolted over to the empty space. He struggled to keep his balance in the moving car. "What the hell happened just now?"

Cover Girl cursed as she cut the wheel and turned into a side street. "That last hit must've triggered the emergency eject function for her seat. But don't worry, in theory the parachute should open and land her safely to ground."

"Theory?" Beach Head scoffed. "I thought this thing that you built was state of the art!"

"Hey, I'm not the one who gave the order to short out the electrical system!"

Beach Head went back to his station, strapped himself in and slapped the red button on the side of his seat. "I'm going after her—"

SCHOOM!

Airtight went to the gun cabinet. He grabbed a shotgun and a bandoleer strap full of ammo and returned to his station. "Hold down the fort, guys."

"Where are you going?" said Sci-Fi.

Airtight hit the red button on the side of his seat. "He's going to need backup."

SCHOOM!

—oOo—

Zandar lowered his binoculars and chuckled under his breath.

"What is it Guv'nor?"

"They're splitting up, Thrasher. These Joe's are either very clever, or very stupid."

"So, which one do we go after?"

"Maintain pursuit of the RV." Zandar took out his walkie-talkie and pressed the button. "Buzzer, sound off."

"Buzzer here, chief."

How are the assets?

"They are secured in the van. Monkeywrench is driving them to our fallback location as we speak."

Where are you?

"Me, Ripper and Torch are two miles down your six."

"Do you see the parachutes above you at your nine o'clock?"

"Yeah, I see 'em."

"Break off and engage."

"With pleasure."