"A coward dies a thousand deaths; a hero dies but once." Bernice Summerfield supposed that there had to be some sort of happy medium between the two; perhaps an average score was somewhere in the five hundreds? In any event, she'd already fallen short of perfect heroism. She'd already died twice, and it was still early days yet. The thought oddly depressed her; she'd made a lot of effort to avoid death, and yet on a celestial scale, someone was marking points off just for insignificant little things like being shot...

 The last moments played through her mind, as she drifted in the red fog. The dull, gun-metal interior of the submarine, the soldiers training their guns upon her, her final defiant shout and--

 Wait. Wrong moments of being shot. What was it this time again? That was the trouble with leading an eventful life, she mused. Eventually, one couldn't...

 Eventually. Eventful. Those two words were a lot alike. Perhaps they shared a common root. After many events. Filled with events. So if you lead an eventful life, eventually must come sooner. Or perhaps eventually had moved away as a word from its root origins, so eventually was the same spot no matter how much happened to you.

 It occurred to Benny at this point that she wasn't concentrating very well. And that her right shoulder hurt. Very professional job, that, the way she tilted to anticipate the shot and keep vital organs clear of unnecessary high-velocity surgery. Of course, that still meant there was a hole in her body. Another hole, to be precise. Or not exactly, she supposed. At this point, the holes no longer existed, except in her memory. The only wounds were in her spirit; her body was perfect. Except for this new hole. This only hole.

 I get to trade in my body for a new model, she mentally complained, and it's already been dented before the warranty's expired.

 She was...staggeringly gorgeous. Auburn hair that spilled down her shoulders to perfectly frame her face, which was left in a slight shadow by the way the trees caught the light. The effect was to highlight the sheen of her lipstick, and her large, slightly luminous eyes as she stared at him with a slightly amused smile on her face. Her irises were the color of storm clouds in April.

 She wore a strapless red dress, the color of wine, that clung to her body like oil, yet managed to conceal as it revealed. In short, she was the most beautiful woman David had ever seen, and it was a true shame that he was so startled that he wound up spilling urine across his shoes from the shock of seeing her.

 He recovered admirably (or so he prayed) and spun around while he zipped up. Then he turned around. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't think that anyone else would--"

 She laughed lightly, and stepped closer to him. The scent of her perfume, like sandalwood, drifted in. "I know. For some, this is a quiet place. Others meet people here. It is the way of things." She had an accent that spoke of somewhere else, but David couldn't place where.

 "Um, I'm...my name is Chisholm." He wasn't sure an introduction was called for, but her statement didn't seem to mandate a response. "Doctor David Chisholm. And you are...?"

 She merely continued to smile. "Give me a name."

 David frowned in mild confusion. "Charlotte," he finally picked from the froth of his subconscious.

 'Charlotte' shivered sensuously. "Mmmmm," she purred. "I haven't been a 'Charlotte' in ages. I'd forgotten how wonderful it felt."

 David's frown deepened. "Do...I know you?"

 'Charlotte' smiled. "Yes and no." She touched him lightly on the chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken. "We've never met--in fact, that's rather the point--but in here, you know me." Her fingers slid down to gently touch his new adornment, and he could feel a tingle of pleasure and pain as the nipple ring tugged slightly. "I'm your mystery woman."

 "Sorry," David said, bewildered. "You lost me."

 She laughed again. "Everyone has a mystery woman. Someone they meet once; perhaps it is a night of passion at a party, or a glimpse across a crowd that is never forgotten. A secret love that they carry in their heart forever, a glimpse of the rare and strange beauty of the world that they daren't explain to their mundane, steadfast, dependable lovers." She moved closer, so close that her lips were almost touching his. "Tonight...I'm yours."

 "But why now?"

 "Because you came down this alley tonight...and when you go back the way you came, you'll stumble into a strange man in need of medical help. His name is Li Duc, and he cannot go to a hospital. You will help him, and you will be drawn into an adventure. And every adventure must begin with an encounter with a mystery woman..."

 The woman sitting in the hard, uncomfortable chair across from Benny's bed looked at her with a peculiarly sarcastic expression reserved for the delirious by those more fortunate. Benny shook her head slightly. "Sorry," she responded to the unasked question. "I think I was hallucinating. I was in the garden again..." she looked around. "And now I'm in a hospital. Oh dear. Did I get drunk and save someone's life again?"

 The woman frowned. "You make it sound like it's a pain in the neck or something."

 "Shoulder," Bernice responded tartly. "Right shoulder, and it feels like it went straight through. And speaking of straight, if you're planning to feed me lines like that, I at least would like to know your name. Something to put on the marquee when we begin our double act."

 "Doyle," the woman said, her frown changing to a crooked grin. "And I have to say, you're a pretty quick act for someone who just came out of the sedatives."

 Benny sighed. "Legacy of an eventful life. I've gotten so used to this sort of thing happening that I have to have a glass of warm milk and a minor gunshot trauma just to get any sleep these days." She sat up slightly. "I'm guessing you're here to tell me something unpleasant?"

 "What makes you think that?"

 "Because you're here, and I'm here. That's usually enough."

 "Well, as long as you're asking, yeah. That guy whose life you saved--he kinda vanished."

 "I love a man who's not afraid to express his gratitude."

 "No, you don't understand. He wasn't supposed to get shot up on stage tonight."

 "That was reserved for the limo ride later, I suppose?"

 Doyle's face did a momentary double-take. Then she nodded. "We were going to fake his death to get him away from here. It was all planned out. Someone else decided to shoot him first. For real. And now I don't know where he is."

 Benny blinked blearily. "And this is where I get to chime in with, 'Oh, let me help! I'm just a great sodding idiot with nothing better to do than to risk life and limb to help a complete and total stranger look for another complete and total stranger in the middle of a big, complex mess that I haven't a hope in hell of understanding!' Right?"

 Doyle said, "I know it sounds pretty--"

 Benny put her head into her left hand gently--not in a smacking motion, as the inexperienced adventurer did, but with a practiced, easy grace that made her fully aware of her own stupidity without risking concussion. "Unfortunately, I am just a great sodding idiot with nothing better to do than risk life and limb. Where are some clothes? These hospital gowns make you look a right prat."

 The shoes are expensive ones. In fact, the entire outfit is expensive. It is very precisely tailored, and it is designed to produce a singular effect on the mind of anyone it comes in contact with. The impression this suit gives off is, I am important. To put it very precisely, I am far more important than you. I am as far above you as you are above an ant, and I can squash you just as readily.

 Most of Mister Parris' analogies involve insects. From a very early age, he has been fascinated by them. They are such industrious creatures; they are capable of building and forming highly organized, dedicated societies and performing feats that would be impossible for a human reduced to such a size. And yet, despite the vast scale of their achievements, Mister Parris has always, from early childhood, been able to crush their achievements whenever he so desires it. And, much like the vast mass of humanity, he expects them to keep out of his sight so as not to inspire revulsion and disgust. Industry is to be admired, but from a distance.

 Mister Parris now walks into a very specific building. He walks up to the man at the desk, and straightens his tie. The tie does not need straightening; the effort is put into motion merely to emphasize his existence for the benefit of the man at the desk. Mister Parris then stands there, watching him.

 The man looks up, to see a singularly non-descript personage in front of him, wearing a fabulously expensive suit of clothes. His hair is oiled and slicked back, and his moustache is neatly groomed. The effect is, overall, of a prissy, arrogant young man who has more money than sense. The man at the desk grunts his acknowledgement of Mister Parris' existence.

 "You had a customer here," Mister Parris says, in a plummy accent. "An Asian man. He came here with a woman to discuss something. I want to know what."

 The man gave a half-chuckle. "Pal, even we don't know what--" His words are cut off by the feel of fingers, encased in white gloves, touching his throat with a light pressure. There was no motion, he will later swear; not even a blur. It is as if the man has always been gently grasping his throat, and he only now noticed it.

 "Perhaps," Mister Parris says, "I have not made myself sufficiently clear in this particular instance. I wish to know, in detail, what those two people were saying. I am aware of the system they used; I am aware of the shortcomings of that system. I am also aware, precisely, of the amount of force required to crush your windpipe." He pauses for effect. "It is not a large amount of force." Again, without any visible sign of the motion, the fingers are withdrawn. "Produce for me the girl. Now."

 Bernice Summerfield is not nearby. And she didn't even get a mystery man, either. Such is the lot of heroes in stories like these.

 TO BE CONTINUED...