Outside the condos, the wind chimes sing their little song. At times, it's a lonely one...even when there are pool parties happening elsewhere in the complex...
Throughout the complex, radios and TVs have been turned on. Most of them report the wars. On some of them, machine gun fire happens in the background; some of these machine guns are self-propelled.
From a few ledges, dreamcatchers hang. From some of them, fletching hang from short ropes that hang from them... On the upside, it's good to think that Qurac is the kind of country where this could potentially become a more common sight... On the other, Qurac could still do with fewer mosques...and not to mention fewer wars.
To take her mind off things, Rubahala takes a swim in one of the pools. For this, of course, she retires her sarong skirt; now she's just in a bikini. It's Persian blue. Normally, she'd wear yellow or green... But she'd more likely feel like doing that if she were her best self. At present, though, she's not; the man she loves is going to war, and she's not sure he's coming back. The vigs, after all, don't always come when they're needed. And even if they did, that still wouldn't guarantee that Manasseh wouldn't come back as a pair of ownerless cat tags. (They're called cat tags in Arabian countries, after all, because most Arabs are Islamic, and hence, biased against dogs.) A few Quracis have pharaoh hounds... But most of them are hardly the conservative champions of their neighborhoods. It would certainly make the news if one of them ever was. (And frankly, Rubahala would almost want to watch that news, if it was Ambush Bug who was going to report it...)
From up in an olive tree, a blue-cheeked bee-eater looks on. Much of his plumage is green; lime green, even... Hence, he might very well be an omen of sorts...if not one of the very hopes he seems to mean to herald...
An ortolan bunting, too, looks down on the pools... A desert finch does, too... A marsh warbler does, too... A great tit does, too...as does a somber tit. They all might not look it...but they're eyes for the Lime Lantern Corps. One of the Templar Stewards has a telepathic link with them...
This is the university library. It's not far from the condos. If not for the dorms, it'd be a long way from becoming a military fort. Alas, war has a way of taxing more than just money.
Nonetheless, the library is often a place of sorority...for some. Here, women often come to read and interact. There's also a coffeeshop within the complex, as well as a chess hall and a hookah garden. It's not a bad place to spend the day.
At a library table, Rubahala sits alone, and reads a magazine. Somehow, it doesn't tempt her as some similar literature has tempted her in the past. But then, she's often had relationships to distract her from such vices. Back in the day, this was often the case regardless of whether there was a war... But then, apparently there were still boys who she hadn't dated yet...or had sex with...
She soon finds herself in the hookah garden, burning shisha and blowing smoke. It's a great feeling...although it could often use some improvements. And yet, some people who make shisha often wonder why they've got to pay an excise tax on it...
In this garden, the wildlife often avoids her. But at least the plants won't die; as a matter of fact, plants are more likely to thrive on the legacy of hookahs than they are to die from it. Smoke, after all, has no shortage of CO2...hard though it is to believe that a little shisha couldn't cause a wildfire if one left their hookah unattended in the wrong place.
In a spot in this garden, a sculpture of a polecat sits atop a short pillar. Rubahala might not know it yet...but that sculpture is a bad omen. And there's a virtual school of hammerhead sharks, where that pilotfish is heralding.
Now, we're back at the condos. An evening has passed. Dawn has broken. Downstairs, kitchens are cooking breakfast. Everywhere else in the block, coffee makers are steaming...and making white noise while doing so.
Outside, the wind chimes still sing. They're soft-spoken, as always; often too soft-spoken, in fact, for the preferably social. At times, this'd include Rubahala...much though she also can't say that she absolutely hates how they sound. It's...just this creepy feeling that she has that...if she can hear them, then the next part of her life is going to be very hard to get through...if she does at all.
Nearby, a bittern sits in a tree. He's not too far from one of the garden pools; that was probably from where he fished for his last meal. Now, he's surely waiting for it to digest. Once it has, he'll probably go back to the same garden pond and fish out another eel.
Atop a wall, a cormorant sits perched. His wings are spread. His beak is open. It's clear that he's been for a swim of late. He must've done this in one of the pools; everywhere else is too dry to retain water.
Upstairs, Rubahala sits alone at her dresser mirror, atop a stool. She stares at herself in said mirror. She'd be in adoration of her own beauty...if only she thought there were more men out there who'd prefer it over a brand-new Bentley...or a hotel room somewhere in the UAE.
There's a name etched in the top of this mirror: SCUDDER. Good thing it's not a portal to Mirror World... But then, Scudder has been known to sell normal mirrors, as well... As a matter of fact, that's kind of how he established himself as a big-name company in the first place. It'll always be too bad, though, that most of the world will never know him like the Flash does. (And where that is, the Flash would sometimes love to team up with Katana, in a revenge party against Scudder... If only he thought Katana owed Scudder as much judgment as he did...hard though it would be for him to believe that that was true...if it was...)
Atop the dresser, a piece of literature sits. It's a flyer. Once more, Rubahala opens it, and reads it. It's advertising for a local gala. It'll happen tonight...at the Onslaught armory. Funny; in times like these, Rubahala would think that Onslaught, the national hero team of Qurac, would need all of the access to their weaponry that they could get...
Rubahala is not yet sure that she'll go. Nonetheless, if she does go, it'll take her way too long to get prepared. So, she starts taking small steps in that direction...all while subtly hoping that she'll make the right choice, no matter what. She might as well; she'll need to get inhumanly lucky to keep her mind off of she-knows-who...and not to mention ten thousand angels to reject the wrong men, if she meets them at the gala. That is to say, assuming that all of the other men aren't also reserve warriors who've been called up...
On the dresser, a ceramic canister sits. The flat lid is knob-topped; via this, Rubahala removes the lid. Inside, a powdered-up cloth lies...or rather, something that looks all too much like it... With her right hand (her weaker one), she takes it up, and starts patting her face, neck, bust, and upper body with it.
To her, the cloth feels so good, against her...even if the powder is relatively too potent... If she didn't know any better, she'd say that the cloth is sentient... But then, if she didn't know any better, she'd suppose that people like Paris Hilton have become delirious, wishing upon similar stars... She can't actually swear, though, that to that regard, that she does, in fact, know better...
There's...something wrong with her powder... It should smell like perfume, but instead...it reeks, a bit... In fact... Rubahala isn't sure, but she thinks that... That perhaps, it smells more like a... Like a polecat's musk... But that's just ridiculous; this she knows. She keeps powdering herself, hoping that the smell will...
Alas, it doesn't. In fact, it only gets worse. Now, she's tearing up. Now, she's on the verge of suffocation... Hence, she finally takes the fur away from her, and looks it over...
As she does, the fur becomes sentient, in her hands... Soon, a beady-eyed face appears. It bares its fangs, and shrieks. Soon, so does Rubahala...in terror.
Right on cue, the come-at-a-body lets loose with a huge, green cloud of musk-smelling gas. Rubahala, of course, has fallen off her stool. With a towel over her face, she attempts to crawl to safety...wherever that is.
Aloft, much of the come-at-a-body's gas has bypassed the room's smoke detector. Alas, mysteriously and magically, it hasn't set it off... Hence, it seems that Rubahala is in even more danger than she realizes...
Her balcony window is still open, though. Her silken drapes still dance in the wind...and now also dance in much of the come-at-a-body's escaping odor.
Within the space that makes up the window, a glowing firefly appears. Something's strange, though; this firefly, it seems, generates lime-green light... It...might not even be a firefly at all.
A closer look would confirm that this so-called "lime firefly" is really a tiny human; one that's trapped at a thousandth his normal size. It's Ystin Biebl, the human Lime Lantern. It seems he's still adapting to his...condition of late. He's made some progress, though. He thinks he's ready to take on this come-at-a-body. He...might not be as prepared to meet his new client, though...
Across the floor, Rubahala crawls. Over her, the green gas of the come-at-a-body hovers her, like a storm that enjoys its imposed welcome way too much. The gas certainly seems fire drill-savvy... But then, comers-at-a-body do know some spells... Seems more likely, though, that they'd be casting offensive spells, in a sitch like this... But then, the gas kind of is an offensive spell, in its own rite...
Her huge DDD boobs drag across the floor, as she does this. Good thing she's wearing a bikini top...as usual. Too bad most bikini tops are too small on her chest.
She crawls into a corner, butt to it, and looks around. She can't see anything... But then, her opponent is surely making sure of that. A prolonged tense moment follows. Rubahala doesn't know what to do. In moments like these, she wishes Manasseh wasn't a reserve warrior. In moments like this, she wishes that she could make new boyfriends just as quickly as she's lost a lot of old ones...
From out of the shadow, the come-at-a-body returns, and charges her. His fangs are bared. His eyes are beady, and on fire. With a petrified expression, poor Rubahala gapes, covers her face with her arm, and dreads the end...
From out of nowhere, a sarong, made entirely of lime-green energy, flies. It goes around the charging come-at-a-body once, ensnares it, and holds it. Against the energy-woven threads, the come-at-a-body thrashes, and tries to get loose, so he can finish the charge; one which he'd be doing more than perfectly, if not for the arrest cable that seems to be holding him back...
Like a tiny Hercules trying to wrangle a behemoth from behind, the tiny Lime Lantern struggles to keep the energy-improvised sarong anchored. This, he does; not only that, but as he crawls backwards, he drags the delirious come-at-a-body along with him; in this regard, the come-at-a-body is compelled to crawl backwards, while simultaneously failing to charge the giantess damsel-in-distress before him...
This doesn't last, of course. The come-at-a-body soon whirls and charges his latest worthy opponent. And the duel is on.
The come-at-a-body wears a dog tag, of sorts, from a little chain around his neck. It reads, NIMBUS... It might or might not make a difference, if it said the word KNIGHT instead... There have, after all, been more Knight Mists than Nimbus ones...
Covering her mouth with a cloth, Rubahala crawls and probes her way through the havoc that the come-at-a-body wreaks...both wreakingly and reekingly. She finally finds a flat couch and takes cover behind it. From here, she attempts to watch the nano-fight nearby...each time she dares expose her face. But then, as far as a lot of her conservative neighbors are concerned, she's already too exposed physically...
With the power of his ring, Ystin improvises a variety of toy tanks, toy cavalry fighting vehicles, and toy attack hovercraft. With them, he attempts to give his foe a volley. He also improvises self-propelled gas guns; ones that the villains Mist surely wouldn't mind making life-size...or larger. But then, to tiny Ystin, they might as well be life-size...if not larger.
Ystin isn't sure how this happens...but no less than three of the vigs who often come to Qurac to protect it arrive in this condo to help him. The three vigs are the Atom, the Bat-Mite, and the Nite-Mite. They all come to his aid and attempt to help Ystin find a way to nail that reeky come-at-a-body's tail to the floor. (And his tail, as one might expect, is more than comparable to that of a skunk's...if not a lot more whip-like than an actual skunk's...)
Alas, it turns out that the come-at-a-body has a reserve army of his own. Soon, no fewer than three other comers-at-a-body have come to join him. They're very ferocious, versus the four vigs. One would think they were wolverines in lieu of polecats... But then, to these four tiny vigs, they might as well all be mega-wolverines...
What's even worse, these comers-at-a-body have a trait that makes them akin to the mutants of the Wolverine family in Marvel Comics: very long and sharp retractile metal claws. The metal that they're made of looks like copper...although Ystin's pretty sure they're more high-tech than that. During the fight, the Atom reveals that he knows for a fact that the metal is higher-tech than copper.
With their claws, they slash, while snarling. Thankfully, all four vigs are more or less capable of dodging these slashing attempts. Alas, the comers-at-a-body also succeed in slashing parts of the flat couch that Rubahala's hiding behind. She might soon need better cover, if this fight gets any worse...
Adam Strange, too, ends up joining the fight. There's an issue, though; due to a fight with a local Intergang rogue that was armed with a Cray Tech shrink ray rifle...Strange, too, is now a thousandth his normal size. It's just as well; Strange had already been depowered long before his own mission in Qurac ever began. Nonetheless, the heroes welcome him to the fight...powerless though he still seems without his old effects...
Both of the mite-imps make themselves useful by magically conjuring gadgetry that's intended to trap, constrain, dampen, or otherwise bind the comers-at-a-body. Also, the Atom, unlike most of his allies, can become human-size anytime he'd like. Each time he does, he improvises another trap for the comers-at-a-body.
Soon, the four comers-at-a-body have all been caught. One is in a cage-trap in the gardens. Another has been trapped within the block's HVAC vents. Another's been trapped in a trap that's been improvised from a microwave oven; Strange has programmed it to dampen the come-at-a-body's powers. Another one has been hung, by the scruff of his neck, from rope-cords that hang from the drapes near the windows. All four of them wear collars of the Atom's making; these collars dampen their powers, and prevent them from using their gas or their claws. They also seem to prevent how much damage they'd cause by thrashing; they don't thrash as much, it seems, with the collars and the muzzles on...
The Atom grows to normal size, and starts preparing the comers-at-a-body for transport... Once this is done, the two imps leap atop the cages that the comers-at-a-body are in, and teleport them to wherever they're better off. To this end, they teleport one of the comers-at-a-body to the Dreaming, the second to the Delirious, the third to the Desiring, and the fourth and last to the Dying/Black/Rot. As soon as the third one is in the Desiring, he shrinks to the size of a stoat-mouse. The one who goes to the Dreaming shrinks, and becomes a millipede made of organic metal. The one who gets stuck in the Delirious becomes a calico; his claws become shorter and blunter, and his gas starts to smell like a variety of smells; with more than half of them being more perfume-like. And finally, the one that gets left in the Dying becomes half-opossum and grows a hog nose; maggots start infesting his fur, too.
Back in the condos, both Nite-Mite and the Atom offer to help Ystin become normal-sized again. He turns them down; he'd rather find that way on his own, if he ever does at all. They both give him a thumbs-up, and Nite-Mite teleports away. Via the Atom suit, Choi flies out the still-open window. Once out, he enlarges himself to normal size, so that he can cover more ground more often...and is gone before one can say "Floronic Man."
At long last, Rubahala's condo is secure. About half an hour passes, though, before she abandons the new couch she's hidden behind. One by one, though, she opens every window and activates every vent in the place; with luck, it won't take too long to purge the condo of the stinky signature that the comers-at-a-body left in their wake...
As Ystin rests on the floor, one of the block's many resident cats finds him. Mistaking him for a pest, she creeps forth, and starts preparing to mouse him... Ystin doesn't become wary of her, alas, until it's almost too late...
Alas, just in time, Rubahala sees this. She shouts, claps her hands, and signals for the cat to take her leave. She does so, via the kitty door within the front door. Once the cat is gone, Rubahala jury-rigs all of the kitty doors in the condo, thus ensuring that she and Ystin will be alone for what follows...
Onto the tip of her left still-polished index finger, she collects Ystin. She stands and holds her fingertip before her face. She giggles, as soon as she can feel the hardening of Ystin's cock against her fingertip; he crawls around a lot atop it, while seeking out his balance...
His attire is lime-green; her fingernail polish is mauve taupe. It's not the starkest color contrast in the world...but it's stark enough. Either way, it's obvious yin and yang. But then, that's surely what's going to make what will happen next all the more sacred...to both mega-damsel and tiny hero.
From atop her fingertip, Ystin has a spectacular view of Rubahala's huge boobs. They're only DDDs; and yet, to Ystin, they're bigger than mountains. Everything about her is extravagant...and extremely pleasant to take in... But then, being tiny seems to have that effect on those who aren't used to it...
They introduce themselves. Silence follows; she seems nervous... She soon offers to show him around the place. He accepts; the power of his ring make him more than capable of doing so. She smiles, wedges him between her two humongous boobs, adjusts her bikini top, and takes a slow, leisurely walk around the condo complex. Meanwhile, stuck between her boobs, little Ystin has a lot more than a good time...
Evening has come. Outside, the darker part of it has begun... Soon, the complex's curfew policy will be in-effect...if it isn't already.
On a limb outside, a pair of pallid scops-owls sit. Their eyes never roll. But then, they kind of can't; such is the manner of an owl's ocular physiology. That's why their heads turn instead; and much farther around than a human's can, at that...
In the foliage between shrubs in the block's landscaping, a nightjar nestles. He won't be drinking any goats' blood tonight. But then, he never has...and neither have any of his ancestors, nor any other nightjars in his generation...
Among shrubs, moths flutter. One would think they could find the complex's lampposts better... At least none of them are Killer Moth; he, by contrast, would surely have all of the lampposts smashed in no time...and all without a sole longbow, at that.
Atop another limb, a tree-toad sits. Every now and then, he inflates the gular sac within his neck...cat-calling all females in the area, while doing so. Unlike the Toad Prince, he'll never attract any of the human women who live here... But with luck, he'll find a toad female fertile enough for his own reproductive visions...if dreaming is even his MO.
In circles around a fallen branch, a centipede crawls. He's no omukade... But then, this complex would be better off if he never became one.
Against a tree trunk, a katydid sits, camouflaged. He, too, sings to attract mates; he's got huge leaf-like wings to do so with.
Inside, plugged into a wall outlet, a night-light hangs. It generates lime-green light...almost just like the energy that comes from Ystin's power-ring... There's a rune, of sorts, across its shade, too; it might actually be comparable, if not exactly the same, to the main rune of the Lime Lantern Corps...and hence the rune that all of its power rings are branded with... That's not unlikely, in fact; one of the Templar Stewards' older projects, though, did involve the mass proliferation of scented plug-ins...
Atop an end table, a framed photo leans on a prop in its back. In it, Manasseh and Rubahala stand, surrounded by a gazebo and many lush plants that grow from and around it. They've embraced one another; her bare arms are around his shoulders, and his are completely around her waist; his hands are grasped beneath her back and above her ass. He wears his dark blue military uniform; what she wears is revealing and yellow. He's still a junior officer...but hardly the shortest or ugliest one they've commissioned. She's got a white smile on her face; his is smaller and more lipped. They seem very happy together; more than happy, in fact...
Nearby, alas, a woman's mauve taupe-polished hand soon appears. She takes the photo, and turns it down, where it is, on its face. With the same hand, she folds its back-prop in, flattening it. Without a word or another gesture, she bypasses both it and the end table it's still on.
From outside the master bedroom of Rubahala's home, she can be heard moaning in ecstasy. Every now and then, faint lime-colored glows come from the shadows within her room. Hero and damsel, it seems, are having a union of sorts... It won't likely end...or start making less noise...anytime soon...
Rubahala might be doing it with a tiny guy in Manasseh's bed... But odds are, she's not even thinking about him right now. And ever since the last time he left her, that never felt better... With luck, her budding relationship with this tiny human-like Lime Lantern will make all of her memories with Manasseh seem last-rate...even if his job, like Manasseh's, is still military in nature...and reserve military, even, at that... But then, there's an old saying, where the wisest of folk come from; that the happiest of couples, no matter how busy they become, still find time to make love to one another no less than five times a week. And this, though mostly unseen, certainly seems to be a very promising initial investment... And what's even better, Rubahala seems happier now than she was the first time she and Manasseh did it... Ystin might never know... But at least for tonight, Ystin can rest assured...within many of Rubahala's 2,000 giantess parts, as a bar of Lever 2000 would never name them...that he's done no less than two things right...both by her, and by the universe's security.