Femme Fatale

I bring you a respite from the serious briefs you've come to expect of me. But this is still a mission ordinance and as such you are tasked with at least one objective. Listen to these five reports and decide which one holds important intelligence information and which four are cover stories. Continue.

Bathed in white silk, she couldn't sit still. It's not that she was anxious or distressed, but more so unable to sit down. The silk, so smooth in its tapestry, would caress her ass. Her cape would fold beneath her thighs like satin sheets. Touching her skin so softly, it would remind her of his touch. His breath on her skin. His fingers tracing sparks on her lower back. His warmth melting her frosty well-put-together exterior with the simplest glances and touches. She didn't want to remember him. It might be his pure irresistibility or his power over her or her instinctual love for him that changed her mind, but she couldn't stop remembering him. Or wanting to remember him. Her legs start to bend and she starts to sit down. Gravity takes her as a smile grows at her lips. She remembers him and she remembers why she's in love with him. Bargaining with herself, she says this is the last time she'll do this. One last time. But she knows it won't be the last time she remembers him. She doesn't want it to be the final time. A tear breaks ground at her eyes and steps over her cheek. She hopes and wishes and dreams he'll come back and warm her cold heart.

On the other side of the world, a man hears a woman's love for him and reciprocates in kind. He has no premeditated thought of doing so. He only knows that right now he needs to think of her. He hopes she knows how in love with her he is and wants her to know he'll be back soon. It won't take forever for him to.

[Picture by Paolo Rivera]

The stairs she's standing on go nowhere. In less clothes than she originally had on, she continues to look out onto the warscape. A sword in her right hand and a shield in her left. An unstoppable force and an immovable object. Attack and defense. She ponders what this battle would be about. Ponders what power would suit this hostile environment best. Her field scans bring her mental wealth. She sets down her arms knowing it's for the best. She would need no offense nor defense to win this battle. The wonderful woman she is would only need to trust in herself to succeed. Stepping down and moving forward, her muscles flex when she catapults into the fight. She's ready for this battle and this war.

[Picture by Frank Quitely]

The redhead, enjoying the wild ride in the passenger seat, slid into the turn. The blonde, driving mad with excitement and energy, turned sharply down an alley. This alley would be Assassin Street. Not known for its sympathy towards pedestrians, Assassin St. claimed over 123 lives monthly. The highest mortality rate in all of jolly ol' London. Death laced the asphalt here. It fed into the very air and cradled in every soul living here-- if you could call it living. From assault rifle traps to zebra themed missiles, if you're looking for a way to die, Assassin St. would have it. But this particular dame duo wasn't ready to die. They were looking for a challenge, a scare, some adrenaline inducing race, and this would be it.

They made the Assassin Street track in under four minutes leaving with fulfilled minds and beating hearts. They weren't racing from anything. They weren't going anywhere. They simply wanted to see what Death looked like, so that they learn not to fear it.

[Picture by Frank Quitely]

Shiranui wasn't in the mood for any lip. Or eyerolling. But that hippo in front of her was looking for a fight. It walked in here parading its place in line, mouth wide with glee, ass shaking as it waddled into place. And Shiranui had to stare at that obese jiggle-butt everyday, from 10 to 10. Everyday the animosity and hatred for that oblivious lard piece would grow and grow till it seeped from Shiranui's porcelain skin.

But today wasn't any other day. Today a girl got on Shiranui. A girl with a sword. A very big sword. Quickly, ideas popped into Shiranui's mind. Ideas about how to kill that hippopotamus. Plots to mete out her animosity using the girl as a puppet. Revenge fantasies. But how could Shiranui communicate with her rider. If only there was a way to tell the girl with the blade to hurt the hippo. The ride was almost over and Shiranui was pressed. She could see her revenge on the other side of a fast-closing window and could almost taste it. Its sweetness was almost palpable.

Shiranui didn't know what to do but wasn't giving up. Her hatred was too hungry, but there was simply no way to feed it. Then, with slow calculated movements, the girl held her blade fast. She was readying to draw it. But what would it sketch with its sharp steel? Shiranui couldn't wait any longer. The girl wasn't moving fast enough. Her body language not being clear enough. The ride ended. The girl held her sword to her, got off the horse, and whispered into its ear, "I know how you feel but we must understand our place in life and live with it."

[Picture by Little Thunder]

Skinny, tall, blonde, pretty: the makings of an amazing woman. For all the characteristics she had, the striped girl never felt fully completed. She felt like one half of a two part puzzle, like a lock to a key. I know what you're thinking. That this could be you, that she represents a realization everyone will face in their lifetime, that she is intricate symbolism for our hearts. Well, it's not and she isn't. She's a drawing. A nice drawing, but still just lines on a page and color in-between. She has a story to tell visually, but no text to communicate it. The striped girl is one half a comic. The art half. And this paragraph is her writing half. This caption is the other side of her puzzle piece, the key to her lock. This is simply a comic.

[Picture by Rob Laro]