Victoria Valentine sat at her desk, the end of a pencil rubbing up against her lip.

Eric Crane, her cameraman and confidante, waited patiently. He knew better than to interrupt Victoria when she was thinking. And, contrary to the lyrics in Camelot, she did do it often.

I just. Don't. Get it."

Eric remained quiet.

"How can no one know who she is?

"Look," she said, holding up a domino mask. "This wouldn't fool anyone but the most clueless.

"This," she held up a tinted motorcycle helmet, "just makes your face appear in monochrome. Ooh, big secret keeper there.

"The only mask with a good chance of preserving your identity is this one, one that covers the full head," she said, pulling on a cowl. "Still leaves your mouth and eyes, which can be traced, but it's the full face mask that protects the identity - which is why bank robbers use 'em, I suppose.

"Of course, the only problem is - she doesn't wear a mask!"

She gestured with her hands. "I mean, if it's so freaking hard to be disguised in a mask, how can she be so hard to find when she doesn't wear one?"

Eric chewed thoughtfully.

"Maybe she wears a mask in her secret identity," he offered, then took a bit of his sandwich.

Victoria stared at him.

He paused in mid-chomp. "What?"

"That's actually... not bad, Eric," she said, slowly rising. "Yes, like an Elvis or Nixon mask, only better!"

Eric smiled and shook his head, slowly. "So, what, she wears the mask all day and takes it off to become Americana? Nuh uh. Too hard. Know what I really think?

"I bet she uses a disguise - as her normal self, not Americana. It'd have to be something she could doff really fast, maybe facial inserts to change the shape of her face, subtly. Maybe colored contact lenses, they make 'em without a prescription. She could wear a hat most of the time... "

"Huh," Victoria said thoughtfully. "You seem... pretty certain that it's not Americana that's disguised."

"Are you kidding? All the hits she takes? No disguise is gonna stand up to that."

Victoria slowly sat down again.

"After all," Eric continued, "the most effective disguise isn't a Halloween mask - it's never letting on that you're disguised in the first place."

Victoria watched him finish off his sandwich.

Eric noticed her look of wonder.

He smiled. "Eric Crane. Secret agent, cameraman. Remember?"

The two left the office (Victoria's being a star counted for something) and walked down the corridor.

After a few moments, the door to the office next to Victoria's opened, and a man in a janitor's uniform slipped out.

Oh, yes, the man was clever - but not as clever as he.

Those dumb cops would never figure out how the bombings were done - but Americana would.

And that would lead her right into his trap. Then Sean Strickland, Son of Sonic Man, would have his revenge!

Vengeance - how sweet it was!

"Um, excuse me - there's some coffee spilled in the cafeteria?"

"Whut?"

He looked up to see a man in a spotted necktie.

"Oh."

He sighed. "Sure. I'll get right on it."

The Woodrow Wilson Bridge was conspicuously empty, save for a few police officers standing, frustrated, behind their patrol cars.

"Damn it, I can get at least two," an officer gestured wildly.

"And get killed by the other five," his sergeant said simply. "Hell, no, I'm not risking a man. What we really need now is - "

"Americana!" someone shouted.

Cheers went up along the riverside, where the populace and tourists had come to watch - either a bridge get saved or a bridge blown up. It didn't really matter which, to many of them.

Americana floated down toward the police officers.

"Americana - bombs on the bridge," the sergeant called up to her, gesturing toward the span. "Set to go off in minutes!"

The heroine nodded and looped toward the bridge. How could he know that they were set to -

Oh.

The explosives, hanging from the trusses, had very handy countdown timers on them, with numbers big enough to see from shore.

And those numbers were nearing two minutes.

Who - never mind, thought Americana as she closed in on the first bomb. Concentrate on getting the bombs off the bridge.

Gingerly she plucked the first black bag off the bridge - the countdown immediately stopped.

Huh. Good.

She moved to the second bag, and it, too, came off rather easily - duct tape was no match for Americana's strength.

She noted with satisfaction that the timer had also stopped. Smiling with satisfaction, she disarmed the third bomb and hurried on to the fourth.

This was what her powers were for, she thought as she went after the fifth - this was like a walk in the park for her, where normal people would have risked their lives. Good trade.

She took care of the sixth bomb, and calmly flew over to where the seventh bomb hung. She still had over a minute left.

Americana carefully lifted the seventh bomb from its perch, to the cheers of the crowd. She couldn't wave or anything, since her arms were full of explosives, but she did nod and smile.

Then she heard an odd sound - like a whistle, only softer.

And the bombs' counters, which had been off, suddenly sprang to life again!

7... 6... 5...

Americana stared - then took her only option. She had to fly these bombs up and away from the crowd!

She rocketed upward, higher, higher! When the timers hit one she'd throw the bombs ahead of her and -

The countdown reached two.

Whoooooooom!

The people below gasped as the heroine tumbled out of the explosion toward the waters of the Potomac below.

Then, just twenty feet above the water, Americana suddenly swooped up and glided over to the policemen at the bridge entrance.

"Show-off," grinned one of the officers.

"Wish I was," the heroine said as she landed. "Those bombs had a little extra packed into them."

"'Extra'?"

"They looked as if they were disarmed - but they all sprang to life again just after I grabbed the last one," Americana said, looking back out over the bridge. "No one saw them get placed?"

"In broad daylight, yet," the sergeant shook his head. "Looks like we're dealin' with a new criminal mastermind, huh?"

A man stepped away from the crowd and walked casually toward his car. He put a small device in the glovebox, next to his neatly-folded janitor's uniform.

Not a new criminal mastermind, he smirked.

The original.

Astrea Starr glanced at her watch - just forty-five more minutes and the library would close.

She sighed - even librarians have to sleep sometime, she supposed.

If only she didn't have a class tonight, she could have come earlier.

She turned her attention back to the computer.

The bombs had started at seven, then gone off at two. But if the bomber had attached any significance to that she wasn't finding it. Seven days, seven sins. Two, twice. An address, perhaps? Weren't many 72s, nothing looked too promising...

Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute.

There were seven bombs. That had to be significant, because that didn't match up with the number of spans in the bridge. Searching for 772 - wow, lots of them. How to narrow it down?

What was that sound she had heard before the bombs reset? Maybe it was the trigger? Maybe a sonic trigger? Sound, sonic...

Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

Within a minute she had narrowed her choices from thousands... down to one.

Sonic Industrial Innovations.

A simple, one-page website, evidently inaccessible to search engines and not linked to any other pages.

Curious.

Well, Astrea smiled as she left Founder's Library, she had a way to assuage that curiosity.

Or, maybe she didn't.

Americana stood in the parking lot of Sonic Industrial Innovations. The building was standard business-park brick, and it was dark.

It was dark because it was almost two in the morning.

She couldn't just break in to the building - could she?

Yeah, she had researched it, but if working for the Smithsonian had taught her anything, it was that it was easy to guide research in the direction you wanted. The whole seven seven two code could be the bomber's area code, or an access number, or even Abdomino's Pizza's 7-7-2 Deal.

Hardly the sort of thing one wanted to admit to an angry business owner.

On the other hand, the numbers had all reset at once to seven, and that had to be some sort of sonic signal. How could they have all chosen that moment to reset, if they had been set on a timer?

Well, actually, someone could probably figure it out. But she had heard that odd musical tone...

Suddenly blue flame spiralled out of the roof and rose one hundred meters up into the night sky, before falling, again in a spiral, downward.

Okay, now, that bears investigating, Americana thought, as she flew to the roof. You don't see too many blue spirals of fire these days.

There was a hole, about three feet wide, but much to Americana's surprise it was lined with what appeared to be mirrors. Someone had built it this way; the fire hadn't just burned through the roof.

Cautiously, she peered inside.

Two stories below, the flame still burned, but at much less intensity than she had seen just moments before. It reminded her of the gas jets she had seen in Dr. Archer's laboratories.

The flame barely illuminated the small room, reflecting off of the metal walls. The walls weren't straight; it was hard to tell but they almost appeared concave, bending slightly outward.

Well, Americana thought as she descended through the hole, she did have 'probable cause'. She'd just be careful not to break anything.

"Hello?" she called.

Strange... the room was only about ten feet across...

She bent down to examine the flickering gas flame.

"Now what the heck," she asked quietly, "is a gas flame doing in a sonic lab?"

"Attracting your attention," a voice said.

Americana was instantly hit, from all four sides, by a series of pulsing waves - waves that caused the very air to screech as if being torn apart!

"Gaaaahhhh!"

Americana held her ears and shook, her knees quaking. Oh, God, the noise... hurt!

She tried to turn, then to bend over, use her back for protection - but she couldn't move! The pulses... were so strong... they held her as they pounded her insides!

The walls.. the walls were.... focussing.... uhhhh.... they were... Screech Owl guns...

Stupid, Astie, stupid!

It was all she could manage... to curl up on the floor... as the sonic waves battered her to the brink of insensibility. The pain... her ears... she thought they would burst!

No... no... she couldn't give in... ohh, couldn't even think... she was going to die here, alone on a cold stone -

Floor?

Suddenly she was gone! Dirt and debris hung like a cloud, suspended in the weapon's waves!

In the control center, a thin man with even thinner hair frantically shut down the weird weapons.

"What happened?" he muttered. "Sean Strickland, Son of Sonic Man, must have his revenge!

"She's... gone? Where did she - "

Boommmm! The door flew off of its hinges and landed scant feet from where he stood.

"Oh."

Americana stood in the doorway, breathing hard. she still had her full strength, thank heaven, although she was still hurting from the beating she had taken.

"You. You... "

She took a step forward, then had to grab the door frame as the world rotated around her. "Wh- wha - "

"Sonic disruption to your inner ear," the man pointed to his own ear, smiling. "Upsets your balance."

"Yeah? Well I got an upset - whooooop!" Americana crashed sideways into a control panel.

"Ha ha! The great Americana - helpless at last before Sean Strickland, Son of Sonic Man!"

Americana struggled to stand. "Son of - who?"

"Son of Sonic Man!" he said as he swung at her, his fist surrounded by a nimbus of sonic energy.

"Uuugh!" Americana grunted as the punch exploded into her jaw! She crashed into the control panel and lay there, her eyes flickering.

"Uhhhhhhh..."

H-holy... get... up, girl...

"'Sonic Man' was the code name of a Cyberus agent... the agent whose genius invented the Screech Owls," Strickland said, casually strolling toward her.

"'Genius'?" Americana muttered as she struggled to stand. "Nuts was more - "

Pow! Strickland's sonic-powered punch sent her across the room. She hit another control panel and slowly slid to the floor.

Owwwww... Americana desperately tried to clear her head.

"Please... don't interrupt."

Whoooooom! A solid blow to her chest, and she lay still, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"But you...

"You destroyed his life."

The heroine shakily rose to one knee. "N-no... never killed anyone... "

"Oh, no no no. He's in prison, remember?"

Americana tried to dodge, but her limbs failed to answer her mind's frantic oommands.

Whammmm! Her jaw pointed to the sky, then she crumbled like a rag doll.

"You put him there!

"If you had been taken out by Screech Owl technology, any number of companies would have bid for that tech. But you survived. His sonic gear instantly became just another failed attempt. You buried him in disgrace.

"I sought to prove that it was only the idiocy of the Nighthawks that caused you to win - "

Th-thanks a lot, she thought.

" - and lured you to my secret chamber, where the very walls were the barrels of Screech Owl guns! And now, I, Sean Strickland, Son of Sonic Man - will destroy you!"

"Not if I... get you first..."

"Oh, puhlease!" SSSOSM crossed his arms and stood haughtily. "And how do you propose to do that? You're still battered from the Owls, you're off balance so much you can't stand, and I practically knocked you out already even though I haven't turned up the power on my Sonic Force Gloves to maximum."

He grinned. "You're finished, Americana. Sean Strickland, Son of Sonic Man - "

"Is standing," she hissed, "on a wooden floor."

Whaaaammmm - she lifted her legs and brought them down as hard as she could, smashing through the floor and causing the floor to buckle in several places - including directly under SSSOSM!

"Eeeyaaah!" he cried as he tumbled into the machinery. He tried to stop himself, but his gloves - still charged with that odd energy - had precisely the same effect on the control panel as they had on Americana.

Kaboooommm!

He violently hit his head on the control panel, and sank to the floor, groaning.

Americana's eyes widened - she hoped he had some sort of defensive abilities!

She stood, without thinking - and only when she was halfway across the floor noted that that explosion seemed to have eliminated whatever device it was that had affected her balance.

"You've... killed... Sean Strickland... Son - "

"You're not dying," Americana said. "Not on my watch."

Gently she lifted the injured man out of the rubble.

She turned, and sniffed.

Was that - ?

Gas! The lines must have been broken during the fight...

Her eyes widened as they focussed on the sparking remnants of the control panels.

Quickly she flew straight up, with her body curled to protect the man she was carrying. She hoped that the ceiling was just what it looked like - that it held no surprises like armor plating or -

Bawhooooom! The gas ignited into a fireball - but Americana and Sean Strickland, Son of Sonic Man, were scant feet ahead!

Americana gulped the cool night air as she hung a few hundred feet above the now-burning building.

"That twice you were... saved by the floors," SSSOSM choked. "But next time, next time, Sean - "

"Ordinarily I hate to do this," she said. "But you really are beginning to annoy me."

She clocked him in the jaw, knocking him unconscious.

"You know, just once I wish you'd catch a crook in the daytime," Norman Roswell yawned.

"I'll try to work on that," Americana smiled softly.

"Funny how those sonic cannons were all busted up," he remarked. "All four of them, I mean."

"Yeah, well, I was the one getting shot with them, you know."

And there was no way she was going to let weapons that devastating fall into government hands. Let them build their own weapons.

"That gas-jet thing? They sold them to amusement parks, of all things. An update to the old fountains-with-music gig," Roswell said.

"Really?" Americana looked back toward the building. "Huh. I'd almost pay to see that."

"Well, they had some up at Holiday Pier," he said, tucking his notebook into his jacket. "But that's closed, now."

"Closed for the season," the heroine said.

"Maybe for good," Roswell shrugged. "I understand they keep trying to sell it, but the sales always fall through."

Americana's nose wrinkled. "Oh? How come?"

"I think they just want too much money for it," Roswell straightened his tie.

"But a lot of folks say it's haunted."