Issue Three – Billionaire's Date
Chapter One
Starling Chase was rarely nervous, even this deep into one of the rougher parts of town. Today however, she could not shake a sense of apprehension.
Perhaps it was because Baker had refused to give her any information over the phone, insisting she come to see him personally. Something about the tone in his voice seemed off. After being lured into a trap by Tom Danvers in her superheroine alter ego, maybe she was just being paranoid. Baker was a two bit drug dealer, not a criminal mastermind.
Her cab arrived at the corner of Salt Lane and Addison a short time later. The young reporter fished two twenties out of her clutch, and gave them to the driver before exiting the vehicle. She waited for the cab to pull off, then walked a half block north, before turning down an alley. It was narrow, darker than it should have been even in the day time, and the closeness caused the thunk of her shoes to echo noisily.
She was wearing a pair of tan heeled sandals, which made her already gorgeous legs look about a mile long. The effect was further aided by a pair of white cutoff shorts hugging the curves of her delectably round booty. Above that she was wearing a fitted blue button up, with a few extra buttons undone to display her flawless cleavage. Her crimson mane was pulled back into a loose pony tail, which danced flirtatiously behind her as she walked.
Baker operated out of the back room of a diner on the end of the alley. Starling had always suspected he paid his rent in product. For some reason, he had always had her come down this alley to meet with him. She assumed it made he feel like a big shot, she on the other hand, hated this alley, hated coming to see Baker in person, but she needed a new lead on Danvers and he claimed to have one.
Apprehension continued to churn in her stomach, as Starling arrived at a rusted set of double doors which led into the storeroom where Baker "worked." She knocked, and an unfamiliar voice told her to enter. Cautiously the red haired reporter opened the door and stepped inside.
She saw Baker immediately, he was noticeably taller than her, but overly skinny with cropped dirty blond hair, and a scraggly goatee. He was wearing a dirty wife beater and ripped jeans, his usual uniform. His arms were covered in poorly done, uncoordinated tattoos making them look like the scribblings in a child's coloring book, and his eyes had a perpetual glaze, even though he claimed to "never get high on his own supply".
"The fuck have you gotten me into, Star?" he snapped right away.
Before she could even begin to reply, the door slammed shut and a very large figure stepped behind her.
"Shut up, Baker!" snarled a man she hadn't really noticed sitting at Baker's old metal desk.
He stood slowly, a pair of sunglasses and a black fedora obscuring his face, save for the thin black goatee outlining his chin. He was wearing a grey tweed jacket, like a college professor and khaki slacks.
"Baker, what the..." Starling began.
"You shut up too, sweet tits," the stranger snapped, cutting her off. "Take your clothes off."
"I will not!" Starling gasped bewildered to even be asked such.
The man reached into his jacket and produced a small pistol. The color drained from Starling's round cheeks. She had super human reflexes but she didn't think they were attuned quick enough to dodge bullets.
"You wanna talk to me, I'm gonna be damned sure you ain't wearing a wire," the man spoke quickly. "Now strip! And hand over your cell phone."
Starling glanced over at Baker, who crossed his boney arms and nodded solemnly. Starling handed the man her entire clutch, he fished out her phone and promptly smashed it on the ground.
"Hey!" the reporter squealed, lunging forward instinctively.
The man whipped the gun at her, and in this case her enhanced reflexed allowed her to avoid the blow. She stepped back a step, as he aimed the pistol at her again, thumbing back the hammer intentionally.
"Clothes! Off!"
Starling heaved a sigh, and began to unbutton her blouse reluctantly. Underneath she was wearing a purple demibra which barely seemed able to contain her voluptuous D-cups. She shrugged off the shirt, dropping it onto the floor. Then she unbuttoned her shorts, and slid them down her statuesque legs, revealing her sheer purple thong.
"No wire," she snorted. "Happy now?"
"Underwear too, pumpkin tits."
Starling started to protest but the man cut her off with a waggle of his gun. Heat rushed into her cheeks and her stomach twisted a bit. She scowled at the man but unclasped her bra, letting it fall into the pile of clothing. Then, hooking her thumbs into her thong she let it fall around her ankles.
"Shoes too," the man added.
Starling complied wordlessly, kicking her shoes and thong over with the rest of her discarded clothing. Standing before the man with a gun, completely naked, she blushed from cheeks to nipples. She awkwardly tried to cover her boobs with one arm, while the other hand concealed her primly shaven mound.
"Happy now, you old pervert?" the young woman grumbled.
The man grinned, looked her curvaceous form up and down, then motioned to the big man behind her. The brute stepped around, scooped up her stuff and carried it out the doors which led into the actual diner. As he passed Baker, he grabbed the wide eyed dealer by the arm and led him out as well. Then it was just the reporter and the man with the gun.
"Well, you're obviously not wearing a wire now," he said smugly, taking another pass over her nubile naked form.
Starling scowled. "You could have just frisked me."
"If I was worried you were with the cops," he replied, moving back to the desk and sitting. "The people I fear are much more clever, they'd've sown fiber optics into your clothing or..."
"...Or I could be an android, streaming live from my camera eye," the red head spat sarcastically. "Is your hat lined with tin foil too? I'd say it's a stylish update except, well, there's nothing stylish about a fedora."
The man chuckled, and removed his hat to show her there was no foil in the lining. He was balding, with a neat horseshoe of fading brown hair. He also pulled his glasses off, dropping them into the hat. He looked older without them, although it was due less to his actual aging than to a clear tiredness behind his eyes. He softened quite a bit almost immediately, laying the gun on the desk and slouching back in the chair.
"I'm not crazy," he said, that same tiredness seeping into his voice. "And I assure you that any paranoia is well justified."
"Who are you, old man?" Starling asked, her embarrassment beginning to turn to irritation.
"You can call me Mendeleev," he said, looking up at her. "That's how I'm known on the streets anyway."
Starling had heard the name before, only not in reference to a man. "I thought 'Mendeleev' was slang for meth?"
"Well yes, my meth, my formula," he replied.
