Los Angeles - one month later

It was a gala event. The Misfit's limousine approached the red carpet entrance, next in line. Roxy looked out the window, regarding the revelry of the spectators outside. She used to love the attention. However, things were different now; she could feel it in herself and see it in her bandmates. That one big party that was the Eighties was played out. It was time to grow up.

The only thing that hadn't changed was Eric and Pizzazz's bickering:

"We don't need your father's goons getting in the way, Pizzazz; we have enough security."

Pizzazz scowled. "We better, Eric. The security at the Sausalito gig was unacceptable."

"And, yet, you still won't tell me what happened in Sausalito..." Eric frowned as every time he had broached the subject, he was met with silence, and now was no exception. "Look, we outsourced with the best in the biz; you'll be safe."

The limousine came to a stop. Pizzazz was first to get out. The crowd cheered her name, and she played up to it, taking her time as she visited with the fans lined up behind the barriers, and she signed autographs.

On her cue Jetta exited the car to similar fanfare.

Roxy opened her compact, as it was her turn next, and she did a last minute check of her makeup. She sensed Eric's gaze and eyed him over the rim of her mirror—it was more than a casual regard. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. "Take a picture, Eric; it'll last longer."

He leered. "Try to look happy: it's a party."

When it was Roxy's turn, the attendant opened her door, and she stepped outside, sure to keep her sunglasses on for the wave bright camera lights that assailed her.

She strode out onto the carpet, and when they chanted her name, she smiled. Her hand brushed her long bangs aside: gone was her larger than life snow-fro, opting instead to allow her wavy Italian locks to settle naturally around her delicate shoulders. She posed for the cameras, showing off her cherry blossom print dress: the flowers ran down one side of the dress, printed on top of a pale turquoise satin fabric background that stretched accommodatingly around her body. The peplum at the waist served to flatter her plump bum.

After the paparazzi had their fill, she proceeded further down the carpet, following the velvet ropes. Stormer got a similar treatment when it was her turn. Pizzazz and Jetta had already entered the gala, but Roxy waited near the entrance, signing a few autographs, as she didn't want to lose sight of her cerulean-haired bandmate.

Stormer found Roxy in the lobby. They entered the elevator going to the floor above. The doors came to a close, providing a brief respite from all the pomp. Roxy felt Stormer's gaze.

"What are you looking at, Mary?"

"You." Stormer twirled her finger saying, "Turn around." And Roxy grudgingly obeyed. "How long did it take you to diet for that dress?"

"Italians don't diet," Roxy replied. "But, If you must know, I've been doing lots of squats."

"Do you realize that half the paparazzi are abuzz about your new look?"

"Meh."

Annoyed, Stormer hip-bumped Roxy out of her reticence. "What gives?"

Unperturbed, Roxy replied, "I don't know what you're talking about. I was in the mood for something different, that's all."

The elevator let them out on the third floor. The security guards allowed them entry into the main hall, and they mixed with the crowd. The Misfit's latest hit played over the loudspeakers.

Roxy grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. "I remember when these parties used to be fun."

"This is fun," Stormer said.

"This is boring."

"I don't know about you, but I've had enough excitement for ten years, thank you very much." Stormer looked to the sea of faces, comprised of musicians, actors and the fashion elite who went about, secure in the knowledge that they alone were the pulse of proper society. "Look at them…. People are so clueless as to what's really going on in the world, aren't they?"

Roxy sipped her champagne. "That used to be us."

Jetta approached, the ice in her ginger ale rattled as she upturned the glass. "Pizzazz certainly has no problem rubbing elbows, yeah? Who's arm is she gonna be on this week, I wonder?"

"As long as people care, that's the game," Roxy said, accepting of their lot. "We still gotta eat."

Stormer stilled when she saw an unlikely figure pass in front of them. "Why is Jem here?"

Jetta sighed. "Because Riot is bankrolling most of this, and she talked him into dovetailing it into a charity event."

"Do you think they're doing it?"

Stormer frowned. "In the old days, we wouldn't've tolerated such an intrusion."

Roxy shrugged. "It's a free country. Besides, more publicity equals more money."

Stormer grinned and she bumped Roxy playfully. "Sounds like you're growing up."

Roxy smirked. "Never."

The three of them quieted as Rio joined them. "Good evening, ladies. I didn't want to leave before giving congratulations." Although he addressed all of them, his gaze lingered on Roxy the longest. "I'm sure your new album will be a great success."

"With you at the helm success was guaranteed," Stormer said. "So, are you grateful for having survived us?"

"Survival was never in doubt. It was actually a pleasure working with you ladies, for the most part." Rio's gaze lowered to Roxy's legs. "Maybe we'll collaborate again in the future?"

Roxy rolled her eyes. "Baby steps, Rio."

"I don't want to appear to be a stick in the mud, so may I have at least one dance before I leave?"

Stormer accepted his proffered arm. "You may."

A waiter passed, and Jetta traded her ginger ale for a glass of wine. "Funny how he asked Stormer to dance, all the while checking you out."

"I didn't notice."

"You are almost shaggable," Jetta said with a grin. "Did you come up with that look yourself?"

"Courtney gave me some pointers."

"Who's Courtney?"

"The Army chick who helped to rescue us… she used to be a fashion model."

"Right." Jetta remembered the woman. "On second thought, who else is Rio gonna ask? You can get a lil' stabby."

"And you like to bash people over the head with your saxophone."

"Damn right…" Jetta finished her wine. "At least I can't think of anyone else who I'd rather 'ave at me back in a pagga against a bunch of Dreadnoks."

"Me neither." Roxy smiled. "Pagga means fight, right?"

Jetta snorted. "Yep."

A man came upon the two women. "I don't mean to intrude on you ladies, but would you mind signing my album?"

"Sure thing, mate, anything for a fan." Jetta took the man's album "Who do I make it out to?"

"Wayne." The man regarded Roxy.

Roxy saw his eyes and was stilled by their familiarity. She made her mark on the album after Jetta, and she gave it back to him. "What did you think of the music, Wayne?"

"It was… loud," He said plainly, and he left.

Jetta took notice of Roxy's sudden introspection. "What's wrong, yank?"

Roxy ignored the question. "Who's running this show?"

Jetta took Roxy by the arm, and they found the person managing the event. She stood out as she dressed conservatively relative to the other attendees.

"Do you have a 'Wayne' on your list?" Roxy asked of her.

"A couple," the lady replied adjusting her glasses. "Which one?"

Roxy pointed with her finger. "That one with the muscles…."

"Hmph." The lady regarded him approvingly, and she referred to her clipboard. "According to this, he's a guest of the Gabor Family, being a distributor for Piebald Records."

Jetta narrowed her eyes. "I've never heard of that label."

Roxy smiled. "I have."

When a reporter for Cool Trash magazine stopped them for an interview, Roxy handed the man her glass, as if he were a waiter, and she left, leaving Jetta on the hook.

Roxy found the man named Wayne in a remote corner a few paces from the bar where it wasn't so crowded. Being behind the cover of a large potted fern, she eyed him speaking into his wrist. She casually approached him from behind.

"Hello, Wayne," She greeted. "If that's your real name?"

The man straightened, then he turned to face her. "It is."

She regarded his inimitable eyes. It's him… "I like it. It fits you." She stepped closer, and he allowed her to take his hand; she brought it to her lips, and she spoke into the special cufflink. "Hi, Airtight."

Beach Head sighed as he touched the receiver in his ear and listened. "Airtight says, hello."

She grinned. "I didn't think this would be your scene."

"It's just a follow up surveillance operation." He blushed when she reminded him of the album, and he answered with, "I was trying to blend in."

She furrowed her brow. "Are we still in danger?"

"Well, you can never be too careful, but since there'd be no profit in it, it's highly unlikely you'll ever see the likes of Zartan again."

"That's good to hear. So, why would the Brass spin your team up, then?"

"They didn't. I asked for volunteers."

"You asked?" She folded her arms and circled him, checking out the lines of his suit. "So, this isn't an official operation?"

"Not exactly. I figured it wouldn't hurt to take the VAMP out on another shakedown since repairs were made from its first… excursion."

"Oh… is that the only reason you stopped by?"

He loosened his collar. "Er, this operation is strictly professional."

"What if I were to tell you that I think you are full of it, soldier boy?"

Beach Head looked about, wary for any curious onlookers to her outburst. "Can we talk somewhere more private?" He took her by the small of her back, and they found an empty conference room. He locked the door.

Roxy pouted. "Aww, did I bweak your little mission again?"

"Yes, you did." Beach Head spoke into his cufflink. "All units stand down; we've been compromised. Pack it up and go home." He paused and rolled his eyes before removing his earpiece. "Airtight says goodnight."

Roxy grabbed the soldier's wrist. "Goodnight, Airtight!"

"Are you always so mischievous, Pellegrini?"

"You have no idea," Roxy said as she teasingly poked his chest. "Does this mean that you're gonna take me to jail now?"

She quieted as Beach Head backed her into a wall. The vase next to them wobbled.

He regarded how her pink lips stood out against her fair fresh face—a stark contrast from the Rocker makeup she sported the first time they met. She closed her eyes as the tip of his index finger traced the dimple of her upper lip.

He moved to her cheek. "Look at you… hiding all that sass behind the face of an angel."

Smiling, she averted her eyes, and she blushed. "I... just... t-tried to imagine what you'd like…."

His finger moved to her chin, directing her gaze back to him. "I like you, angel."

Emboldened, she reached out, and for the first time her fingers explored his naked face. "You're so handsome," she whispered.

"I missed you," he whispered.

"What took you so long to come back to me?"

"It's classified."

Her teeth tugged on her lower lip. She felt her heart beating. "We're actually going to do this, aren't we? Even though we're so different?"

"I know... I messed up… unprofessional." He lowered his head. "Now you're all that I can see when I close my eyes."

"No, we messed up." She placed her hands on either side of his face and lifted his eyes into hers. "It's like I told you before… once I let somebody in, they're in." She felt his hands glide around her waist, then they lowered to her roundness.

...

He raised her up by her supple hips
And to his level, she met his lips

Supported by his strong embrace
Shapely legs wrapped around his waist

She melted into him; she felt safe with this man
He whispered his heart
Her mascara ran.

For, when they fell off that catwalk together…

They fell forever.

...

He agonized at their lips' inevitable parting, though their eyes never left.

"Oh, Wayne…." Her hot breath mixed with his as he set her down, more gentle than a feather.

"You wanna get out of here?"

She nodded, but made him wait while she fixed her lipstick.

When she was ready, he proffered his arm, and he led her out, past the party and into the lobby. They found the elevator.

"What did you have in mind?" She then smiled, saying, "Another round of Dead Man's Hang?"

He grinned knowingly. "We're better dressed for dancing, if you don't mind a venue that's… low impact?"

The doors opened, and the couple entered.

Roxy held onto Beach Head's arm, and she nuzzled up against him. "I wanna be your prisoner."

The elevator doors closed.

~The End~

This novella is a love letter to Christy Marx from a fan.

A/N: Thanks for reading guys; I'm sorry this one was on the back burner for so long, but I wanted to do it right because I love both of these fandoms so much. Don't worry, though, the fun isn't over yet: check out the Extended Epilogue in the Jem section.

Also, be on the lookout this Cinco de Mayo for episode 3.25 for the Mainframe/Zarana shippers out there. If you get any enjoyment out of it, give me some love; it gives me confirmation that I'm doing it right.

See you for Episode 4 later this year.

-W.E.