Chapter 1

Note: Inspired by Wanderer’s “Slumber Party”

2nd Note: If you’re waiting for the transformations, they’ll start in the next chapter. This is a introductions to our storyline and main character.

“Our responsibility is much greater than we might have supposed, because it involves all mankind.” – Papa Sartre

It was a quiet afternoon in the end of summer when I pulled into the street, listening to The Gospel of Mark for the 10th time this month. (It was either that or listen to the N’SYNC and Backstreet Boys CDs that was put into the back of my car for some reason, and I think it would try even His patience.)

It looked the suburb you would find in the beginning of a Blue Velvet knock off: about 40 minutes from Boston, trees planted all over the place, people watering their plants or mowing their lawns, visible signs of generations of WASP-ish inbreeding and redlining (excluding the one family that the Home Owners’ Association wonders how they got in).

Finally, I found the address that I was being sent to and stopped on the curb. As I got out of my car, a group of young children on bicycles waved to me as they passed by and I waved back to them. There was something about children that just warmed my heart, their young souls still trying to find themselves.

I walked up to the door and rang the bell, the chime resounding throughout the house. I could hear the doorsteps of one of the inhabitants approaching the door. It opened, revealing a woman in her late 40s with a cloth bandanna around her head, as if she was working on something.

“Can I help you?” she said in that New England accent.

“Actually, I’m here to help you. I’m Christian, from the detective agency you contacted.”

She looked shocked for a moment, though it wasn’t any surprise to me. They always expect to be middle-aged, with something of a beer gut, week-old facial hair, and a look that is more likely to tell you to piss off than to buy you a drink. They don’t expect me, looking barely out of my teen years, wearing a cassock and a tab color black shirt, and carrying a satchel with the tools of my trade inside.

“I- I see. Well, come inside.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dalton.” The inside of their house was typical of your decent priced suburban home, although it looked a bit disorganized. She took me to her living room, where I placed myself carefully into one of the wooden chairs they had.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Just some water, please.” She went off to the kitchen, which I couldn’t see from the living room. I looked over at the fireplace, which had some pictures on it. I decided to go over and look; I don’t feel comfortable looking at people’s belongings like this, but it is part of my job.

There were three of them, all placed in frames with gold-colored trimming. The first appeared to be Mrs. Dalton and her husband from a few years ago, their smiles bright, and their clothing very nice, as if they were attending some kind of high-society party. The second had more people and appeared to be a family shot: the Daltons, another couple around the same age, and three young adults, two of them teenage girls and a young man who looked like he could be in college. The third was of the two teenage girls, a candid shot of them doing what appeared to be a cheerleading routine.

I heard Mrs. Dalton walking back. “Is this Candace and Sandra?”

“Yes.” Even without seeing her face, I could hear them smile. “Although Sandra would probably punch you in the arm if she heard you calling her that; she likes Sandy more.” She handed me the glass of water, which I responded to with a polite “Thank you” and we both sat down in the living room, me in the chair I was in and her on the sofa.

“So, I understand you’re worried about your younger sister? Is she the other woman in the family photo?”

Mrs. Dalton looked over, then back to me. “Yes, that’s Lauren and Tom.”

“Who’s the young man?”

“That’s their oldest, Danny.”

“I see.” I took out my notebook and began to write down what she was saying while taking a sip of water. “So, tell me how you began to become worried about Lauren.”

A silence lasted for a moment. “Well, I should say that the reason I took me so long to report this was… I haven’t always had the strongest relationship with my sister. We weren’t that close as children, and we went our separate ways as adults, so we don’t see each other that often or even talk, considering we’re both so busy.”

“I understand. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” At least you can talk to them… no, “jealousy is cruel as the grave”. So, when was the last time you had contact with your sister?”

“It would’ve been a few days before last Christmas. She and Tom were getting ready to go on a romantic getaway to Mexico for two weeks and Danny was home from college to watch the girls. I didn’t hear anything from them after that, which wasn’t that unusual. Then…”

I placed my hand on top of Mrs. Dalton’s. “It’s OK; this place is safe.”

She took a breath in, one that seemed to have some element of relief. “I got a call from a friend of mine who lived in Chicago. She told me that her husband sometimes… sometimes frequented ‘gentlemen’s clubs,” the distaste on her tongue was noticeable “and he had seen Lauren there. As… one of the girls.

“He didn’t know at first, since she looked different. She had… huge breasts, bigger than I’d ever heard of her having, but when he saw her face, he knew it was her.”

I took down further notes. “And what makes you think this is odd?”

“Because Lauren would never do something like this! She hated those places!” She composed herself. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s understandable.” So, this may be nothing, just a housewife who got plastic surgery and decided to go reverse-gender American Beauty. But the woman in the photo didn’t seem like the kind to do this, the kind to make this choice. She didn’t look the kind to have weight, but she seemed the kind to know her choices. “I’ll get to Chicago as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you so much.” As I stood up from my chair, she grabbed my hand into hers and shook it. “I was worried at first when they mentioned the prices. My husband and I… he hasn’t had a job in 4 months and we’re…”

“It’s OK. Here.” I gave her a card. “In lieu of payment, your husband could find a job with us. What does he do exactly?”

“IT. Computer repairs, things like that.”

I smiled. “Well, we’re always in need of them.” I took my things and walked to the door, ready to get the first plane to Chicago.

“Mr. Christian.” I turned to look around. “They said you handled… well, cases involving…” She walked forward, as if the old widow Primrose would hear her from four houses down. “Sex slaves. Do you think that’s what’s going on with Lauren?”

I gave her a soft, elven smile. “Sex slavery’s a lie, Mrs. Dalton. If we told normal people what we really dealt with… well, it probably wouldn’t go well. Take care, Mrs. Dalton.”

With her stunned disposition, she could only give a slight nod as I went to my car and began to drive to the nearest airport. I turned on the radio.

“… the market is still dealing with the collapse of Lehmann Brothers as people are wondering what is going to happen to their savings and properties. This collapse, along with the ongoing mortgage crisis, has left the financial industry scrambling for answers in the face of increasing public scrutiny. Here with us now is Richard Williams, a professor of macroeconomics from Harvard and…”

In the midst of the worst financial crisis I’d ever seen in my lifetime (OK, second worst), I was one of my God-given missions, ready to tackle what evils and depravities we’re thrown at me. As per my tradition, as I do every time before I begin, I got out my laminated card of Pieta and prayed.

“God in Heaven,
His Son to His Right,
And the Holy Ghost with all,
I pray that You will give me the strength to help me
Heal those who have been infected and corrupted
By the curse of he who resides below
And his wretched, vile followers
I ask that You give them strength
To find and recover their own being afterwards
And to allow them the freedom to make their own choices
Right or wrong, good or evil, without undue influence
I ask this in Your name
In the name of Your son, Jesus Christ
In the name of the Holy Spirit
Of Joseph and Mary and all the saints
Of all of Your angels
I ask You, Lord, of this

“Amen.”
I put the picture away and performed the last part of my mass: I focused on every single choice that I had made in my life.

They were my treasures; my freedom, my cross to bear and to hold.

With that done, it was time for some tunes, the news still droning about yet another time people with gilded weight were forgetting their impact.

Hmm, should I do The Flies or Dirty Hands?