It was way too early for this kind of nonsense.

"So, then," he sighed as stared into the empty cup, "You say you left Mr. Glass encased in some kind of cement, as a squad car was approaching."

"Yessir. I was telling the sergeant -"

"Odd, then," he said, shaking a sheaf of papers in his outstretched hand, "that we have no such reports from any of our units."

Americana blinked.

But… the squad car had pulled… up?

Chambers slapped the papers on his desk and folded his hands. "You'd think they'd mention such a prominent citizen glopped up in cement."

"Wa-well, yeah, you would …"

"You calling my men liars, lady?"

"No. No, of course not…"

"Well, then," the detective smirked as he leaned back in his chair. "How else do you explain this little discrepancy? Somebody's lying here -"

Americana's eyes snapped wide.

"Mister Chambers!"

Americana drew herself up to full height.

"As. I. Explained.

"I saw the police approach. I didn't actually see them get out of the car."

"What, so somehow they missed a guy standing by the street covered in concrete? Look, missy, I don't know what you're -"

"Check the overnights," Americana said quickly.

Chambers stopped. "What?"

"The dispatch tapes. You should have run a backup last night - the call's either in your system or the South Counties' nine-eleven system."

The detective blinked, two thoughts running simultaneously through the narrow passages of his early-morning mind. One, he would have thought of that were it not only six-ten in the morning, and two, it just might be possible the babe in the bicentennial bodysuit was a bit brighter than he had assumed.

Chambers rapped his pencil on the desk.

"All right. We can check that."

Americana nodded and stepped back, the tension melting from her muscles.

"Thank you."

The detective flipped the telephone receiver to his ear and absently punched a trio of numbers on the keys.

"Yeah. Petrie. When you get in, I need the dispatch tapes from last night. Thanks."

"O-kayyy, then," Chambers said, hanging up. "He'll have 'em up here after eight. I'll have him look at those disk things of yours, too."

Americana nodded gratefully, and glanced at the clock. "If it's okay, I have to get going."

She started moving to the door.

"I do appreciate your being so gracious as to involve the mere Highlands Police Department, even if you did wait until the next morning."

"The police were already there," the heroine said testily. "I assumed that qualified as 'involving' you."

"Hnn." Chambers leaned back in his chair, and Americana reached for the doorknob.

"You sure," the detective asked, "it wasn’t… something else?”

The heroine paused.

"What are you getting at?" she asked carefully.

“Like maybe you’re afraid of her.”

“What?!”

“I heard how she decked you in the bank. You’re pretty hot stuff against normal punks - maybe you didn’t wanna face someone who could mess up your lipstick, y’know?”

Americana felt her face warm rapidly.

Steady, Astie, she warned herself.

“Maybe that’s why you weren’t in any hurry to chase her,” he said smugly. "That's what I think."

Astrea stiffened.

Easy, girl, don't let him bait you.

"That's what you 'think'." she said firmly, making quotes in the air with her fingers. "You always create theories before getting the evidence, detective?"

Chambers' brow furrowed as he pulled himself up in his seat. "Now you wait one minute, missy -"

"I've been afraid, I admit it," Americana said. "I've fought mass murderers, maniacs out to kill me and a couple hundred others. I've looked the shadow of Hell in the eye."

She placed her fists on his desk and, leaning across it, glared at the detective.

"And you think I'd run from a walking statue."

Chambers looked up at her and slowly lifted his cup to his lips. He took a long sip, his wide eyes never leaving the woman's face.

"I'll check the tapes," he said at last.

Americana stood up straight. "Thank you, detective," she said pleasantly.

"Then, I, uh, guess we'll see about finding this… Medusa babe."

Americana withdrew a small slip of paper from her glove and smiled.

"I've got the name if you've got the address."

"Damn, this must be the place, all right."

Detective Chambers sounded at once mildly impressed and mildly disappointed. How the gal in the flag suit had figured out that statue-freak's real name so fast, he'd never know.

He stepped gingerly over a broken lamp, shards of blown glass crunching under his freshly polished shoes. God, would ya look at this joint.

The broken remains of furniture, lamps, and easels lay scattered around the small apartment.

Several shattered sculptures were strewn about the room amid small piles of white dust. The thinning tan carpet had been ripped up in several places, and a closet door hung loosely from a single hinge.

"Why the hell," he wondered aloud, "would she tear apart her own place?"

Americana looked up from the torn painting in her hands, wishing he would at least try to go two minutes without cursing.

“She didn’t,” the heroine said firmly.

The detective turned and raised an eyebrow.

“She referred to herself as an artist,” she answered his question before he could ask. “It's one thing to smash up furniture, but I can’t believe an artist would destroy her own work like this.”

“People do funny things,” the detective mused as he examined a quiet seaside scene; it had been broken in two, frame and all. He gently pulled back the lacquered frame to reveal a signature. “Hmph. Hers. Not bad.”

Chambers placed the painting on the overturned couch.

He paused - another canvas lay at his feet. Broad strokes depicted a maiden, draped in a classic Greek toga, reclining languidly in a peaceful forest glen. Kind of reminded him of that Maxfield Parrish guy's stuff.

"Sure looks like she busted up the joint."

"If you're referring to this dust," Americana said, holding a pinch near her nose. "It's not her. Funny as it sounds, the smell's wraw, wra wrong-choo!"

"Gesundheit," Chambers said, handing her a tissue.

"Thanks," Astrea said, dabbing at her nose. "This stuff's way too coarse, too. I bet it's just sculptor's dust."

The detective peered over a shattered bookcase. "If not her, who?"

Americana picked sadly at the shattered pieces of a woman’s life. Furniture, paintings, CDs, dishes…

“Glass,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, there is a lot of – now hold on! You can’t just jump to – “

The heroine whirled. “Of course I can! Nobody’s even heard of Medusa before last night, yet just hours after threatening Glass her apartment gets trashed?! Please!”

“That’s hardly proof,” the detective offered.

“I know, I know,” she sighed. “Isn’t this the part where we go out and get proof?”

Chambers took a long drink from his fourth cup of coffee.

"This is the point we investigate. Remember that business about forming theories before getting the evidence?"

Americana sighed and nodded. "Right."

"Still," the detective said, "Somebody had a mad on or was lookin' for something - or both. I'll get a crew in here."

"Well, we know one thing that's missing," the heroine said, folding her arms.

"What's that?"

"Her."

"That's her," Astrea said quietly as a grainy figure darted across the television screen.

The bank camera shot only in black and white, and had evidently been knocked askew in the fight, but those few seconds of film clearly showed a woman in a short toga running out of the bank.

"Medusa, huh?"

Beth Sullivan brushed a stray strand of hair from in front of her glasses and looked at her friend.

She didn't know the black woman's real name, but she did know her greatest secret - that this ordinary-looking girl could somehow transform herself into one of the most powerful people on earth, the star-spangled superheroine Americana.

A heroine, Beth thought, who seemed to be taking this one particularly hard.

"She's really made of stone, huh?"

"Near as I can tell," Astrea said quietly, her chin resting on her drawn-up knees. She stared at the screen as Sam Waters dutifully reported that the maid of marble was still at large.

"That wasn't so bad," Beth offered. "The interview with that bank clerk made you come out looking pretty good."

"Hmm. Wasn't thinking about that…"

Beth picked up another slice of pizza. "Hey, it isn't like you haven't gotten clobbered before."

Astrea smiled wanly. "Thanks heaps."

Her smile vanished as she turned back toward the TV.

"This time it was different," she said somberly. "She drugged me, Beth - some kind of… powdered anesthetic. Knockout gas. Whatever.

"I must be resistant to it or something - it didn't knock me out, but what it did do was make everything go all blurry and slow motion.

"I tried to raise my arms, to defend myself… but I couldn't. I was too slow.

"She kept hitting me and hitting me and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

"Ohhh. I'm sorry," Beth put a hand on her shoulder. "That must have been awful. No wonder you're so tensed up."

"Beth," Astrea sighed, gently shaking her head. "That's what I do to other people."

The blonde woman blinked. "What?"

"I think I felt, for the first time, what it must be like for the people I fight. I'm so much faster than they are, so much stronger. They must feel like they're moving in slow motion. Just waiting for my punch to hit them.

"I hurt people, Beth. When it comes right down to it, when I hit someone, it hurts."

Beth exhaled slowly and sat back against the sofa.

"But… you haven't really injured anyone," she offered. "I mean, you can punch through steel, but you haven't taken anyone's head off."

"Well, no," Astrea said. "I pull my punches, and I never hit anyone hard until I'm sure they can take it.

"Probably why I end up getting my clock cleaned half the time," she said ruefully.

Both women sat in silence for a moment.

"Oh, listen to me," Astrea sighed. "You must think I'm a real w- "

"No!" Beth said emphatically. "No, I don't.

"I think it's… good you think of stuff like this. But… when villains or terrorists or whatever don't just surrender when you show up, what else are you supposed to do?"

"I don't know." Astrea sighed. "I've certainly given it some thought before, but… last night's dance with Medusa really brought it home.

"My powers give me such an advantage. It's almost like I'm a bully sometimes."

"Aht aht ah!" Beth exclaimed, her index finger raised skyward. "Okay, maybe, yes, you do have an advantage. But once the bad guys start using powers or weapons, don't they have their own advantages?

"Even the normal crooks have strength in numbers. Street gangs, the Steel Nation. They aren't going to wait and fight you one at a time like in some bad karate movie!"

"There are good karate movies?" Astrea smiled.

"Ha. Ha. The point remains."

"It's taken," Astrea said quietly. "I guess I've… got a lot to think about before I… go… out…"

Her words trailed off as she noticed a graphic of Medusa was displayed behind Sam Waters' head.

"Wh-what is this?" she said, annoyed. "They're still talking about her?"

She rapidly punched the volume button on the remote.

"…live to the scene."

The picture now showed a narrow man in a black trenchcoat, whom the display lettering helpfully identified as Dane Browne, standing in front of a darkened office building.

Astrea ran a finger behind her ear; she was usually pretty good at placing buildings around the District, but this rather bland box of concrete and glass she didn't recognize.

She inhaled sharply as the camera panned to the gilded sign by the entrance.

The letters "J. T. Glass Development Companies" could be clearly seen.

"Sam, Eyewitness News has received word that the alleged super-criminal known as Medusa has entered the offices of this commercial real estate company," the young reporter said with all the gravity he could muster. "We hope to have video of the alleged statue-woman momentarily. As of now, her motives remain… unknown."

"To you, maybe," Astrea muttered as she got to her feet.

"What are you going to do?"

"You mean… about hitting her?"

Beth nodded.

"I don't know. I won't if I don't have to…"

Astrea thrust her arms out to her side, standing with her legs shoulder width apart. She had learned months ago that this stance - "taking the form of a star", the old text had read - was somehow a requirement for summoning her powers.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

As Astrea concentrated, a tiny five-pointed star of blazing silvery-white appeared in the middle of her chest. The star flashed outward, expanding until the argent light enveloped her entire body.

Then, with a dull boom and a brilliant flash the star shrank back in on itself.

Astrea Starr was gone. In her place stood a tall, powerfully-built woman in shining red, white and blue.

Even having seen the transformation a dozen times, Beth still marveled that the two women were one and the same - a secret that Americana had entrusted only to her.

If she took pride in that, or in the costume she had created for the heroine, it was more than balanced by a sense of uneasiness.

Knowing the perils Americana had already faced, she couldn't help but worry about whatever mess her friend would find herself in this time.

“Heavens,” Americana breathed. “What a mess.”

Remnants of computers, desks and cabinets were strewn about as if a tornado had roared through the office.

“You’re telling me?” a stocky police officer said as he slowly looked around. “I can’t believe one person could do this!”

“You haven’t met that ‘one person’,” Americana said as she examined a hole in the front wall.

"That's the alarm system," the cop said helpfully. "It looks like she just reached in and…"

"Crushed the equipment," Americana mused.

"One hole. She'd have to know exactly where it was," the officer said.

Big surprise, Americana thought. Medusa could have easily noted the alarm location when she was dating -

Julian Glass stormed through the door.

He jerked his head around, looking at the destruction, then focused on Americana.

“What the hell is she doing here?” he exploded.

The officer looked up from his notepad. “She’s – this place was busted up by a power perp. Americana’s – "

“How do you know she didn’t do it?”

Americana felt her blood pressure rise, but bit her tongue.

“We have witnesses, sir,” the officer said evenly. “A woman of stone. She calls herself Medusa.”

“Big surprise,” Americana said with a touch of sarcasm.

“Damn that witch! Damn her!”

The policeman looked questioningly at Americana.

She shrugged. “He's upset.”

Dane Browne appeared at the doorway. "Hey, I thought you said no one could enter the crime scene."

Glass whirled, invective on his tongue - which he swallowed immediately on sight of the cameraman at Dane's shoulder.

He paused, allowing at least some of the purple to flow from his face.

"I own this company," he said in measured tones.

"Oh. Care to comment?"

You really don't want to hear his comments, Americana thought as she took another look around the once-luxurious office.

As she picked walked toward the center of the room, her attention wandered to a large soda cup, lying on the carpet in a dark brown pool.

Something about this wasn't quite right.

Americana knelt by the spilled soda and jabbed a finger at the caramel-colored carpet. She frowned as she rubbed the congealing cola between her fingertips.

This had been knocked over quite some time ago - the sugary liquid was tacky and in some places, almost dry. But this was some fancy real estate developer's office; they wouldn't leave a Coke spilled in the middle of the floor like that.

And if Medusa had been sighted, where were the other stations? Not to mention the ever-present eyewitnesses eager for their five minutes of fame?

And - why would she demolish a simple eight-person office? She had to know Glass had dozens of larger holdings?

Americana's her mind drifted back to this morning, how the sculptures and paintings that Medusa had created had been destroyed.

Astrea's hobby was photography; she wouldn’t feel comfortable calling herself an artist, but she had some empathy for the work and the creative process, for how much of oneself an artist put into a piece.

She ran her finger behind her ear for a moment.

The heroine stood and turned to the reporter. "Excuse me, Dane, right?"

The young man bolted erect, his face alight.

She knew who he was!

"Yeah - I mean, yes!"

"The alarm was deactivated, yet you got here before the police?"

"Um, yeah," he said a bit nervously. "W-we received a tip. Why?"

"From a female voice."

"Yeah."

Americana turned to Glass and the police. "We've been had."

"What?"

"That Coke was knocked over hours ago. It's in the middle of the floor - if this office was open somebody would have cleaned that up. With no-one in the office past five, once the alarm's deactivated…"

"They could have done all this damage earlier, then called the station," Dane said.

"Exactly. Our attention was drawn here, away from…"

Americana's eyes bolted wide.

"Glass! What do you love most?"

"That's none of your goddamn business."

"Listen to me," she said, striding right up to and towering over the fuming executive. "I know you heard what happened to her apartment this morning. It might not have occurred to you but whatever she cherished was ruined. Right now, while we're here, she's destroying something you love somewhere else! Something she knows will hurt! Think! What is it you love the most?"

Julian Glass stared at her blankly - then jerked as if he had been shot.

"My cars!"

The guard ran for cover as a 1913 Pierce-Arrow 66-A-1 touring car hurtled through the air, shattering two light fixtures before falling onto a gleaming Studebaker Big Six sedan.

In the four years he had worked at the Automotive Museum of America, he had never seen anything like this!

Holding his pistol with both hands, he nervously stepped out from behind a 1930 Ford panel truck and fired twice at the woman hoisting a Corvette convertible over her head.

The woman's granite-like appearance was evidently not just for show, as the bullets simply ricocheted off her body.

"You've… hunff… done your duty. Now sit down! Hraaaagh!" she grimaced as she tossed the convertible through the roof of a 1931 Bugatti Cabriolet.

"Before," she puffed, "I really lose my temper."

The guard hesitated.

Medusa grabbed the frame of a Franklin Roadster and jerked it off the floor.

The guard dropped his gun and backpedaled to the far wall, to which his partner was securely fastened with blobs of white stone at the wrists and ankles. He quickly took a seat on the floor.

The marble woman smirked. "Smart… uff… fellow," she said as she dropped the century-old machine onto a Willys Aero Coupe.

She paused to catch her breath. Those things were heavy, even those spindly Model-T types.

Medusa looked around her. It had taken Julian twenty years and millions of dollars to assemble and house his precious collection. It had taken her only twenty minutes to destroy nearly half of it.

She hurled a 1913 Peugeot Bebe Torpedo through the window of a faux-1960's Ford showroom, damaging all three Mustangs and decapitating a mannequin.

"Damn you, Julian," she hissed.

The maid of marble grabbed hold of the rear of a Ford Triple Combination Pumper. With a cry of rage, she pumped her legs furiously, ramming the fire truck through Packards, Plymouths and Pontiacs until the crumpled cars beneath the undercarriage slowed the massive truck to a halt.

Medusa collapsed against the rear of the truck, panting. She never had been one to exercise much, despite Julian's insistence she wear those little spandex things he bought her.

That… disgusting… selfish… pig!

She slammed her fist through the side of Lana Turner's 1941 Chrysler Newport.

A sly smile spread across her face. That one was his absolute favorite. No matter its rarity, Julian had bought that car solely because of his infatuation with that classic actress - a woman to whom he was forever comparing her unfavorably.

"All right you rotten scheming sunnova… ouuhf," Medusa grunted as she hoisted the car above her head. "This… is… for… you!"

With every iota of her strength she hurled the sedan across the cavernous museum. The car tipped forward in flight and plunged into a gold-plated deLorean.

Now there were only five Newports in existence, she smirked.

"That's enough, Medusa."

The stone woman whirled.

Standing in midair, arms folded, was the Capitol City's superheroine.

Medusa's jaw dropped. "A-Americana?! B-but you're - "

"Supposed to be in Washington, I know," the heroine said sternly as she floated downward.

"Took me a bit, but I figured out what you were up to. And I can fly very fast when I need to."

Astrea could understand Medusa's surprise - rocketing across the skyline wasn't something she did very often. Flying, more than any of her abilities, seemed to drain her power the fastest - and she had had to do a lot of flying today.

It didn't help that she didn't know exactly how much… whatever it was that powered her, she had, nor precisely how much everything she did - leaping, punching, flying - took out of her. It was like driving an auto with an unknown quantity of fuel and no gauge.

Medusa hesitated, took two steps back - and turned and ran!

She bobbed between rows of crumpled classic cars and dashed through the dioramas of Depression-era delivery trucks!

Americana leapt skyward with casual grace, grabbed hold of a support beam, and flipped herself across the cavernous showroom. She somersaulted lazily once, twice, three times – then dropped not twenty feet in front of the fleeing felon.

The marble maiden yelped and screeched to a halt.

“Going somewhere, Rocky?” the heroine asked pleasantly.

Medusa jerked to her left and ran bolted toward the racing car wing.

Americana shook her head as she arced above the brightly-painted beams. Medusa didn’t have a chance – you could see the entire museum from up here.

The stone woman slowed to a light jog, panting as she held her side. She hadn’t run like this since she was in grade school.

“You know, ” Americana said casually as she stepped from behind a display, "you should probably stretch out a little before you run."

“A-all right,” Medusa said, backing away slowly. “We both know I can’t outrun you…”

The heroine tensed slightly, watching her foe’s fingers warily. “Don’t even try that little drug-me trick,” she warned.

"I don’t want to fight you –"

“Then don’t. Be original and surrender for once.”

Medusa hesitated… then sadly shook her head. "No.

“No, I can't do that. I'm not going to jail."

She furtively glanced to her left and to her right; there was nowhere to go except through the walls, and Americana would surely have her before she could break through.

"Why are you bothering me?" Medusa said as she took a few nervous steps backward. "He did deserve this. You know he did."

Americana followed cautiously, matching her step for step.

"I may have spared his life,” the stone woman said unpleasantly, “but I will make it miserable."

The heroine sighed inwardly.

“You’ve gone too far already, Medusa. Before, you might have had a shot at some public sympathy. But after this,” Americana gestured at the destruction around them. “Who do you think they’re going to side with, you or Glass?”

“Do you know what he did to my apartment? To me?!”

"I kn- " Americana hesitated. Glass may not have denied transforming Penelope Fenn into Medusa, but he hadn't admitted it either. It was possible that jerk was just trying to talk his fourth wife out of killing him.

Not at all likely, she admitted, but possible.

Medusa exhaled slowly and shook her head.

“You don’t understand," she said patiently, as if explaining nature to a child. "You can go home, take off the costume, and have something of a normal life.

"You can fit in. I can't."

Her tone darkened. "Thanks to him."

"Glass will get his," Americana said. "But not if you insist on getting revenge."

Medusa paused.

"Oh, I forgot. Ever the heroine," she said, arcing her right eyebrow. "You honestly believe that?

"You saw how very wealthy dear Julian is. He can easily hire armies of lawyers to hide behind. He’ll never do time - and you know it.

"You were there. You heard what he’s done! Why should I go to jail while he remains free?”

Americana exhaled forcefully. Good question.

"Because heaven knows what other havoc you're going to cause going after 'dear Julian'," she said calmly. "Because no matter what he's done, it doesn't give you free rein to smash up offices and museums.

"Look," Americana said, stepping forward as her fingers curled loosely into fists. "I might be able to help you. Maybe there's a way to change you back. But you're going to have to meet me halfway and give yourself up."

The older woman smiled sadly and raised her arms defensively.

"Sorry, dear. I can't do that. That would be the good and noble course, but then, I'm not like you."

Americana assumed a classic fighter’s stance. “Medusa. I don’t want to hurt you.”

"Yes, I believe you don't," the stone woman said.

She paused.

“You could just let me go.”

The heroine raised an eyebrow.

“You can say you got here too late," Medusa said hurriedly, "or I gave you the slip…”

Astrea sighed.

“I can’t do that.”

The older woman smiled wanly. "I thought as much.

"Then each of us must do what she has to do. I - am going to leave.

"You - are going to have to either stop me… or let me go."

For a moment the two women stood motionless, ten feet apart, each watching the other.

Then, the statue-woman turned elegantly on her heel and strode toward the exit.

She had gone only two steps before white-gloved fingers snapped around her wrist.

"Looks like I choose Door Number One - whooogh!"

Without a word Medusa rammed her free elbow straight back, catching the taller woman in the pit of her stomach!

As Americana pitched forward she released her grip on the statue woman’s arm. Medusa grabbed the heroine by the hair and by her arm and hurled her headfirst through the side of a Studebaker!

Medusa didn’t wait to see how hurt the heroine was – she turned and ran for the exit!

Americana hurriedly pulled herself out of the crumpled car. She lightly touched the top of her head as if to see if it were still attached; surprisingly, that little bit of auto wrecking hadn’t really hurt her much at all.

I am really getting tired of you, Medusa, she thought as she dashed after the concrete criminal.

Astrea was a trained runner; even without her stellar-imbued speed she could easily have overtaken Medusa in a minute or two. But with her powers – she closed the gap in seconds.

Fast, yes. Stealthy, no.

Medusa heard the pounding of the heroine’s boots over the pounding of her own heart.

Panicking, knowing she could never outrun the onrushing Americana, she whirled and drew back her fist – but it was too late.

By the time Medusa had turned around Americana had already launched herself in a strangely-graceful flying tackle. By the time Medusa’s mind had registered that her punch would sail over the now-horizontal heroine’s head, Americana had slammed into her and was carrying her through the wall of a display.

Astrea pushed herself up off Medusa and hopped a bit unsteadily to her feet. Heavens, she hadn’t intended that tackle to be quite that violent.

Gosh, good thing you didn't sock her, Americana said to herself sarcastically.

She crouched next to the fallen villainess. Medusa looked out of it.

In fact, Astrea thought as she stifled a smile, she had a real glazed expression.

Stop that, she scolded herself.

She stood, looking about for anything that she could use to wrap up Medusa. A lamp post would be nice - or one of these steel rods from the wrecked cars…

She was not taking pleasure in Medusa's getting hurt, Astrea remonstrated with herself. It was just that she had finally made a good stone pun and there was no one around to hear –

Americana yelped as a marble hand grabbed hold of her ankle.

Before she realized what had happened, a viscous layer of cold, white stone had spread across her foot and up her calf.

Astrea immediately tried to yank her leg from Medusa’s grip – and was shocked to find her foot was firmly affixed to the floor.

“Ooonf! What in -?”

“Surprised, dear?” the marble maiden smirked.

Medusa’s fingers caressed the heroine’s leg, gliding over her skin as if she were smoothing pottery. Where the stone fingers danced, the cold flowing stone appeared, hardening almost instantly into a thick shell of stone.

“Another gift from dear Julian,” she purred as she coaxed the stone past Americana’s knee.

Shaking off her initial shock, Americana grabbed awkwardly at Medusa’s hands - but with her leg locked solidly in position she couldn’t bend far enough to even touch the stone woman, despite her longer reach.

Ohh, if only she were as flexible as Beth!

Medusa ducked Astrea’s flailing fist and brushed her fingers over the heroine's free leg; the wave of stone followed and instantly solidified.

"Hurk!"

Oh, great move, Astie, she scolded herself. Now both her legs were cemented to the floor - and were splayed so awkwardly that she had to fight to keep her balance!

No, it wasn't just her ungainly stance - where the cold stone touched her bare legs… was going numb?

Americana's brown eyes widened. This stone stuff on her leg - it was like that knockout powder Medusa had used on her last night!

Panicking, Astrea pounded her fist on the cold white stone once, twice, three times! It cracked, chipped, noisily, slowly, like the cast she had worn on her arm in fourth grade.

No, no, too slow! At this rate she wouldn't break free until Opening Day!

Americana took a deep breath. Easy… easy… think.

Her cast had chipped the easiest at the ends - this stone coating might be weaker at the ends as well! She jammed two gloved fingers between her leg and the stone, almost tipping over in the process.

Then she drove her fingers down her leg like an ice pick, shattering the marble coating like ribbon candy!

Her knee was free! She twisted around and began peeling the cold substance off the back of her leg. "This won't hold me for long!"

"Oh, really now?"

Astrea paused and looked up - just as Medusa blew a spray of dust from her palm.

"Oh no," Americana gasped softly.

The powder was so fine that it felt almost like a mist as it settled on her face; she wheezed as the cool, dry dust clogged her throat and lungs.

Her vision blurred, and the walls began to sway like willows in the breeze.

She swung awkwardly at Medusa - all three of her - and was rewarded with another puff of cool white dust.

Americana's head lolled as Medusa's fingers guided her strange stone up to the heroine's chest.

She still retained enough presence of mind to know that her legs had gone almost completely numb; only the statue coating was holding her upright.

Her surroundings rippled slowly as if seen through a pool of clear molasses. She could offer no resistance as the viscous marble solidified in seconds.

"Now you'll really have chiseled abs, dear," the marble maiden chuckled as she smoothed the stone substance over the heroine's body.

To Astrea, Medusa's words sounded garbled, but the intent was clear enough.

A spark of fear ignited in her heart as Medusa drew the cold white stone up over her chest and down her left arm. She wasn't stopping! She was going to seal her up in stone - forever!

That fear, now a blaze, burned through the drug-induced fog in her mind.

Americana dimly realized that, trapped as she was, only her legs had gone numb; the stone Medusa sculpted must have to touch bare skin for its anesthetic to work.

Medusa had yet to reach her face.

She still had a chance.

The statue-woman's fingers were smoothing stiffening stone up Astrea's left arm. Her right arm was still free… it was beginning to feel less like a sack of wet cement by the moment… if only it wasn't so hard to think straight!

Medusa was working her way back up Astrea's arm. If she was going to do something she had to act now!

She concentrated as best she could, willing her right hand to close into a fist. She could feel strength flowing back into her muscles as her dangling arm tensed, once again under her control.

Mustering all the power she could, she swung her fist toward Medusa's head!

And missed.

Off-balance, unable to turn her body with her swing, she'd failed. Miserably.

Astrea felt the strength melt from her limbs as despair clutched at her heart.

"Ooh, still have a little spark left in you, hmm?"

A brittle, crumbling, cracking sound came from Medusa's fist, as she crushed another dose of her anesthetic dust.

Medusa gently lifted Americana's chin off her chest

"Time you go nitey nite, dear!"

The marble woman unfurled her hand, palm upward, and took a deep breath.

And Astrea blew with every bit of strength she could muster.

"Aaahghk!" Medusa cried as the potent dream dust blew back into her face!

Knees of stone buckled, and she sank awkwardly to the floor, coughing and wheezing as she reached out in vain for something to hold on to while the world spun away.

Americana shuddered as she sighed in relief. Thank heaven that, statue or not, Medusa still needed to breathe!

You're not out of the woods yet, she warned herself as she frantically chipped away at the stone on her leg. Who knew how long Medusa would be out of it?

Fifteen seconds seemed like an eternity, but at last one leg was free!

She glanced over at the prone stone woman - who was rubbing the powder from her eyes.

Ohhh, nuts! Astrea rapidly picked at the cold white stone on her left arm. Come onnnnnn!

Americana glanced up - Medusa was struggling to her feet!

And Astrea's left leg was still stuck fast!

She pulled against the substance cementing her to the floor - at least now she had some leverage.

Her face grew warm. It galled her to admit it, even if only to herself, but right now Americana was concerned less about the granite gal getting away than Medusa beating on her while she couldn't move.

Again.

She glanced once more at Medusa. The woman of stone stood up on her toes, hands poised in front of her as if she were clutching two dead fish. Her body was turned as if a moment from running, but her head was turned so she could watch Americana carefully.

Heavens, Astrea realized, Medusa was weighing those same options - to flee or to fight.

Americana watched her foe with a mixture of wariness and curiosity - what would the statue woman choose to do?

She had often heard Reverend Green preach about reaching a "crossroads event" - a point in life where a decision made one way or another revealed the path a person truly followed. This certainly seemed to qualify - for Medusa.

After all, with her stuck to the floor, the marble maiden had the perfect opportunity to run away. If Medusa chose instead to attack her, well…

The marble maiden stood stock still - if Astrea didn't know otherwise she would swear she was staring at a statue.

That made it all the more disconcerting when Medusa suddenly turned and charged.

Well, Americana sighed inwardly, that answers that.

The heroine shifted her position, as best she could with one leg still cemented to the floor, so that her legs were planted a bit less than shoulder-width apart. Her left leg was still bent at an awkward angle, but at least she was on more solid footing now.

Unfortunately, she was now turned away from the onrushing Medusa at an angle not particularly conducive to defending herself - not that her fighting skills were all that impressive to begin with.

Oh, right, Astrea brightened as she blocked Medusa's punch with her forearm - neither are hers.

She cocked her own fist - Americana had no intention of letting the marble maiden use her as a punching bag again.

Astrea hesitated - she could catch her fists, maybe grab her?

Oh, and that worked so well last night, she thought ruefully.

Medusa followed up with a right toward the heroine's stomach; Americana stumbled as she knocked the stone woman's fist away.

Oof - that was awkward. She was faster than her stone foe, but she could only turn so far - heaven help her once Medusa figured that out.

Americana tensed as Medusa began to turn back toward her, her granite fist pulled back and almost down to her waist. She didn't need any of that fancy black belt training to see that that fist was headed straight for her face.

Images and conversations flashed through Astrea's mind - her father, her sister, both police officers - talk them down, use the baton - the gun was a last resort - neither eager to pull the trigger - but if it came down to between themselves and a perp they would fire until the gunman dropped.

She wasn't about to kill anyone; the worst she would do is maybe leave Medusa with a concussion.

I gave you every chance, Americana thought as Medusa swung. But if you think I'm just going to stand here…

Astrea knew her opponent was not an experienced fighter. She was betting that once Medusa had committed herself to her punch, the stone woman would be carried along by her own momentum, unable to change direction in mid-blow.

And since Medusa had been so kind as to telegraph where she was aiming, Americana simply made sure she was no longer there.

As the marble maiden lunged past her, Astrea brought her fist around like a softball pitcher, and slammed Medusa in the stomach!

The stone woman grunted as the force of the blow lifted her off her feet!

Medusa's sandals hadn't even touched the floor yet when Americana's left hook crashed into her jaw!

For a moment, the statue woman stood as if suspended in air, barely touching the floor.

It may have been a trick of the light, or perhaps a leftover trace of the drug she had inhaled… but Americana could swear that, in the instant before her foe collapsed to the floor…

Medusa smiled.

"About damn time."

Americana whirled to see the security guard running toward her, backed by two police officers.

"Thought you were gonna talk her to death," the guard said.

"It works sometimes," the heroine said, her voice touched with annoyance.

She looked back at her fallen foe.

"Not always."