---

Janice/Mel Story

Lisben, 1940

The gun trembled ever so slightly in her hand, but Janice ground her teeth together painfully, and locked her elbow to keep her arm steady. Not that it mattered at this range--it would be hard for even a wild shot to miss the man seated in the chair opposite her.

"I'm gonna kill you now," she said between clenched teeth. As if to emphasize her words, she shifted her thumb and pulled the hammer back. "I'm gonna blow your head off, you Nazi bastard!"

Kramer shifted casually in his seat, then leaned back and crossed his legs. Looking up at her expectantly, he waved his hand. "Then get on with with it, Dr. Covington. I'm sure you don't have all day."

Janice drew a deep breath. She was going to enjoy wiping that smug expression off his face with a bullet. *Then what are you waiting for?"* a voice chided inside her head. "You killed Serena," she said bitterly, wanting him to know why she was going to blow his head off.

He frowned. "Who?"

Her finger tightened on the trigger as a strangled growl escaped her lips. Serena, beautiful Serena... Janice tried to blink away the image of her dead lover, beaten and violated as it swam in front of her eyes. "You raped her," she said harshly, the words tearing her throat. "You put out her eyes."

"Oh yes, the...'hostess,'" he said after making a show of trying to recall. "At least that's how she referred to herself. We call them something else in Berlin," he added with a sickly smile.

"Shut up!" Janice shouted, the gun wavering uncontrollably now. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" he asked sarcastically.

The air stirred behind her, bringing with it the scent of perfume. Janice heard the door click softly closed and imagined Mel resting against it, hands clasped on the doorknob behind her. "Janice?" Mel asked softly.

She didn't want Mel here, just now.

"Get out of here!" Janice yelled. "Just get out."

There was silence behind her, but the other woman made no move to leave. "Don't do this," Mel said instead.

"I have to." It was a simple sentence, yet it conveyed so much. She had to do this, she had to avenge Serena. Poor Serena, who had taught her so much, who never asked to be involved in any of this. "I have to," she repeated. Janice couldn't begin to tell Mel all the reasons why she had to kill Kramer. Mel didn't even know about Serena. She wouldn't understand.

"Why? What will killing him accomplish?" Mel demanded. Janice felt her take a step toward her, and she stiffened involuntarily. Mel stopped.

"What will it accomplish?" Janice breathed. "For one thing, there'll be one less Nazi in the world." With those words, the gun stopped shaking and became rock steady in her hand. "One less Nazi."

"And one more murderer," Mel added softly. Janice stood rigid, willing the words away. "You're a lot of things, Janice Convington," Mel continued. "Obnoxious, foul-moutheed, unladylike. But you are *not* a murderer."

For a moment Janice held her breath wanted Mel's words to remain the truth, wanted to just let go. Forgive and forget, the choice was hers. The gun momentarily wavered along with her resolve as she weighed the decision in her mind. She had tracked Kramer here, tossed his whore out into the hallway, pointed a gun at him and threatened to kill him. Shouldn't that be enough, Janice asked herself. She had the power of life and death; the wise woman would walk away, recognizing that true power lay in not giving into darkness and violence.

Xena had been a wise woman, Janice thought.

She, unfortunately, was not. At least not yet.

"Get out, now," she said over her shoulder to the woman standing at the door. "Unless you want to watch." Janice noted that the gun was once again steady in her grip.

She waited for the sound of Mel's retreat. When it didn't come, Janice shrugged and said, "Have it your way, sweetheeart."

Then she pulled the trigger.

Mel's gasp was lost in the sound of the round going off and the strain of muscles and tendons as the gun kicked her arm up wildly. Janice's aim was true, and the bullet caught Kramer square in the right eye, spraying the wall behind him with blood and gore as it exited. Some of it splattered onto Janice's shirt and pants, but she ignored it. His body slid to the floor, the remaining eye staring, shocked, up at her. *He didn't think you'd do it. <You> didn't think you'd do it*, she thought giddily.

"I didn't think you'd really do it," Mel whispered behind her.

At that Janice turned. "Now you know," she said, glaring into Mel's eyes and shoving the pistol into the waistband of her trousers. She had seen to it that all of Mel's misconceptions about Dr. Janice Covington were as shattered as the back of Kramer's skull. The truth of that was there in Mel's stunned expression, the trembling of her bloodless lips. Any respect, any...affection that Mel might have felt for her was dead, killed by the same hand that had avenged Serena's murder. And at the moment, that was just fine with her.

"Go back to South Carolina, Melinda," she said coldly. "You don't belong in my world." Then she pushed past the other woman and walked out the door.

Down the short hallway, down the steps, past the front desk. The hotel owner was shouting something at her, blocking her way. Without a second thought Janice rammed the heel of her palm into his flabby face, knocking him flat on his back. Blood gushed from his nose. Stepping over him, she moved to the door absently shaking the pain out of her hand.

The night was chilly and moonless, but Janice barely noticed as she scanned the street for a way to get out of here fast. She was glad that Mel hadn't followed her. She didn't want to think about Mel anymore.

Kramer's motorcycle was parked at an angle in front of the inn, one wheel pulled up onto the sidewalk. Throwing one leg over it, Janice settled herself onto the seat, then leaned over and quickly hot-wired it. The engine sputtered to life. She slipped her hat into the rear compartment, careful not to crumple it, then put the bike into gear and roared off down the street without a backward glance.

It was already past midnight, and though she drove more or less aimlessly, Janice did take care to avoid the more central areas of the city where patrols might stop her for being out after curfew. But that was more a subsconscious act of self-preservation than any conscious decision. The truth was that she stuck to side streets because she wanted to be alone. Undoubtedly people were there behind the blackout curtains, peeking out at her, but she didn't care.

"Let them watch," she muttered to herself, enjoying the cold wind on her face. If anyone bothered her, she'd shoot them too, she decided. She shifted slightly, feeling the reassuring press of the gun against her abdomen. She'd taken that rat bastard down with one shot. She still had enough to deal with seven more just like him if necessary.

Better make that six, she amended. Because she always made sure to keep one bullet in her gun for Jack _________, the rat bastard who'd stolen the Xena Scrolls from her. He might as well have stolen the breath from her lungs, she thought bitterly. She opened the throttle a little further, pushing the bike to dangerous speeds. "You're a dead man," she threatened, letting the wind take her words all the way to whatever hole he'd crawled into.

For nearly an hour she drove, until she was on the outskirts of town. Here, the homes were larger, the lawns neater and more elaborate. The hardships of the war, the rationing, the poverty were less obvious. But Janice knew the oppulance was only on the surface, that sordid squalor could be found here, if only one knew where to find it.

Not far, she thought, just as the engine sputtered again, then died. Janice allowed the bike to coast down a small hill, while she checked the gas guage. "Empty," she said in disgust upon inspecting it. "Figures, you cheap bastard."

Rolling to a stop, Janice climbed off the bike and simply let it fall in the ditch with a crash after retrieving her hat and settling it firmly on her head. She stood staring at it impassively for a moment or two, then turned and starated walking. It was close enough now, that she could get there on foot.

Just ahead back toward a small line of trees Janice saw a light that was quickly extinguished. A departing guest, perhaps, she thought to herself, and picked up her pace. Soon enough she stood outside a two-story house smaller than those around it. This was probably a gatehouse, or servants quarters at some point, she thought. Given what was going on here she thought it was appropriate. Like all the surrounding homes its windows were covered with blackout curtains so that not even a sliver of light escaped. Straining her ears Janice could just barely make out the sound of music and laughter, so muffled as to be undetectable by the unsuspecting passerby.

Knowing it was here was one thing; admission was another thing entirely. Janice knew about this place through a local vendor she'd tried to shake down for some information when she'd arrived in the city. But the ticket in was easy enough. Janice patted her pockets until she found the thick envelope Mel had given her two days ago.

God, had it only been two days, she thought, her hands trembling. Trying to force that thought from her head Janice pulled out a half dozen bills with shaking fingers. She should feel bad, using her friend's money this way, but somehow she didn't manage to convince herself. Mel had given it to her to pay for supplies and equipment, as incentive for hiring workers and getting information.

None of that mattered anymore, of course. There wasn't going to be any covert expedition to Tunisia. Nothing mattered, and Janice figured she might as well be her father's daughter one more time and steal her friend's money. It would be the final insult.

Tucking the envelope back into the breast pocket of her leather jacket, she reached down and picked up several pebbles which she launched at the darkened second floor windows. Soon enough she saw one of the curtains draw back and a ghostly shape peer down at her. She glared defiantly back up, though she doubted they could tell in the dark.

Soon enough the door scraped open an inch. Janice couldn't see, but she didn't need to. She held the roll of bills up and said "Otto said you might be able to help me.". A hand snaked out to snatch the bills but Janice was faster and moved it just out of reach.

Almost reluctantly the door opened wider, and Janice slipped insided. It closed immediately behind her, and she found herself in a pitch black hall. *Stupid, Covington,* she thought to herself as large meaty hands groped her for several moments. Janice bore it well for the first thirty seconds, then jammed an elbow into a nearby ribcage when the hands began to roam a bit. She was rewarded with a soft grunt, then a small laugh. At least he had a sense of humor, whoever he was, Janice thought.

Her gun was quickly discovered and confiscated, then she was guided deeper into the house and lead down a flight of stairs.

This was what she'd been looking for she thought with satisfaction as she examined the dark, filthy cavern. The owners had converted the basement into a small dance hall. A gaudy transvestite stood in one corner softly crooning a love song as couples of all combinations shuffled together on a makeshift dancefloor. Janice glanced around the dim room, and turned her head quickly from the Gestapo officer with the large German Shepherd crouched between his legs, his face glistening with sweat. There were some things that revolted even her, though she'd seen and done things that would have shocked her innocent friend Melinda.

Involuntarily her lip curled in disgust at the thought of Melinda. "A bottle of whiskey," she snarled at the boy behind the stack of milk crates that served as the bar. She tossed him another bill, then snatched the bottle from his outstretched fingers. Leaving the shot glass behind, Janice moved to one of the corners (far away from the man and his dog), dropped her hat on the table and twisted the cap off the bottle. It was rot gut whiskey, cheap and foul, and it was exactly what she wanted as she tilted the bottle back and took a deep swallow.

It nearly made her wretch as it burned its way into her gut, but Janice ignored the pain and took another swallow, then another and another. Breathing deeply, she put the bottle back onto the table and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, eyeing the whores working the floor. There were several children, some painted to look like the prostitues that worked the club strips in the city, and others that looked like they should be up doing their homework.

Then her eye caught one of the girls. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, but she was dressed like an even younger schoolgirl. Taking several more swallows Janice watched her move around the room, admiring her long black hair. Serena had had long black hair....

The transvestite launched into another song, and couples broke apart and came together. The schoolgirl danced with another older woman, then the two disappeared together into the warren of rooms that undoubtedly occupied the space around the "club."

"Sh'll be back," Janice muttered to herself, and continued to work on her bottle, allowing the alcohol to wash away what little feeling remained. She could feel the whiskey stripping away the lining of her stomach, poisoning her, and she welcomed it. *You're punishing yourself,* some voice inside her, probably the one that belonged to Melinda, observed.

"Shut up!" Janice said a little too loudly, but no one paid any attention to her. Scanning the room again she saw no sign of the girl who'd caught her eye earlier. "Patience," she muttered to herself, pulling out her half-smoked cigar and lighting it.

The whiskey was working its magic on her quickly. Maybe too quickly, she thought, habitual suspicion flaring up inside her. Then she shrugged; it was hardly surprising. She hadn't eaten or slept in two days, not since she'd found Serena...

There she was again. Janice wondered what it would take, how much of the whiskey it would take to make her forget, as she took several more mouthfuls. The room seemed to swim now. Janice observed it with fascination as she leaned back in her chair, taking a deep drag from the cigar. The music was louder, the candlelight brighter, the dances wilder.

Somewhere in there, somehow, she was there. The schoolgirl appeared at her table looking so clean and beautiful, so much like Serena that the sight of her made Janice want to cry. Instead, Janice pulled her down onto her lap and slipped a hand beneath her skirt reveling in the smoothness of her skin. She giggled when Janice told her she was pretty and asked her what her name was.

"You know who I am," she whispered, leaning close and brushing her lips across Janice's.

Janice blinked up at her, unsure for a moment, but allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, to be led stumbling past the makeshift bar and into a filthy room with a cot. She pressed the girl to her, running her hands up and down the firm back and round buttocks, tugging at her skirt.

"What's yer name," she asked again, her face buried against sweet smelling flesh and hair.

"You know," she said again, and Janice pulled back abruptly, placing one hand on either side of her face, squinting at her.

"You look like her," Janice said after a moment, feeling tears sting her eyes again. "Can't be, though. Sh's dead..." The face in her hands moved slowly from side to side.

"I'm here," she said reaching up to slip her hands into Janice's, tugging Janice with her toward onto the bed. "I'm not dead."

Still Janice hesitated, trying to clear the self-induced fog from her brain, knowing deep inside her that this wasn't right.

Maybe if she'd started to question before coming back here, before this little girl had pushed the leather jacket off her shoulders and unbuttoned her shirt. Now it was too late. Now she wanted her so bad it hurt.

"Serena?" she whispered, giving in. "Serena?"

"Yes, lover. It's me." Soft lips on hers, parting. So willing...so willing. And after a moment of struggle Janice gave in to it, gave in to her.

This was what it would take to forget, if only for a moment.

 

 

Something cold and wet and foul smelling was soaking through her trousers. It was Janice's first coherent thought in hours, and she willed it away, wanting to go back to that warm cocoon of oblivion.

But then other sensations were beginning to register as well as the wetness. She was lying on her side and something hard was digging painfully into her hip. Her feet were cold. And there was a horrible dryness in her mouth that served as a perfect compliment to the nausea boiling up in her stomach. The whiskey that had worked so quickly and effectively last night was now going to exact a heavy price, Janice thought, rolling onto her stomach just as dry heaves started to wrack her body.

It was daylight, and she was lying in the middle of the street with no idea how she'd gotten here. Lifting her head, Janice immediately regretted the action as she was overcome with another wave of nausea. When that passed, she was able to look around.

It looked as though someone had hastily dressed her. Her trousers were pulled onto her, but not fastened, and her shirt was untucked and buttoned crookedly. Her boots, jacket and hat were missing.

The loss of the hat finally registered, and Janice fell back against the pavement in defeat. She'd been robbed, probably by the owners of the establishment she'd visited last night.

"That's right, Covington," she said, filled with self-loathing. "You've *finally* ended up right where you belong. In the gutter."

Rolling over onto her stomach, Janice ignored the wetness seeping into her shirt. She'd just lie here until she died, she thought. What else was there to do? Besides, she felt too sick to move, and judging from the aches and pains that were starting to seep into the fog that shrouded her mind, they hadn't exactly been gentle with her when they'd dumped her here.

There were children playing nearby she realized. She could hear their shrill cries from somewhere over on her left. "Shut up!" she mumbled. "Can't you see I'm trying to die here..."

A shadow fell over her but Janice ignored it, hoping whoever it was would just go away. If it was a robber he was welcome to whatever else she had left, which, at the moment wasn't much. She wasn't even particularly keen on keeping her life at the moment, so he was welcome to that too. Janice wouldn't fight him.

Rough hands grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. Protesting feebly, Janice tried to push them away. Her head swam, and nausea was sapping what little strength she had. She didn't want to be vertical--they could take whatever they wanted just as easily from her prone body.

Janice allowed her knees to buckle, and fell limply against a large male body. Her mind registered that he was wearing a uniform, as the buttons and buckle of his hoslster dug into her back. She heard him swear in German just before she was uncremoniously pushed into a car.

Another curse. "She stinks!" a cultured male voice exclaimed. "Put her in the trunk. I don't want her getting sick back here."

She was roughly dragged again and dumped into the trunk. The lid slammed down on her, and Jance found herself in blissfully cool darkness.

"Get her cleaned up," she heard a muffled voice say from somewhere near her head. "And make sure she's sober."

There was more, but Janice was past caring. The car lurched forward, and with it, her stomach. Janice almost wished there was something in it as her mouth flooded with saliva and her abdomen cramped painfully. They must be travelling over every pothole and bump in the city, she thought in misery as they took another curve fast enough to cause her to crack her head on the spare tire. In frustration she kicked against the hood and succeeded only in bruising her bare foot.

But at least it gave her something to think about besides the throbbing in her head and the agony in her stomach, she thought ruefully as she rubbed her aching toes.

Janice had no idea where they were taking her. Her mind was too clouded to try and track the turns. After a rather feeble attempt, she laid back and tried to keep the dry heaves at bay as best she could. Her head hurt too much to even try to pick apart the puzzle of who she might be with, but she assumped it had something to do with the shooting last night.

It never occurred to her to be worried. She simply didn't care anymore.

 

 

Janice breathed a small sigh of relief when the car finally came to a halt and the engine died. When the trunk abruptly opened, Janice groaned and threw her arm up to cover her eyes from the painfully bright sunlight. But they were giving her no reprieve as she was hauled from the vehicle and practically dragged into a large brick building. Janice was too busy being miserable to pay attention to where in the city she might be, and winced when the door slammed shut behind her with a bang.

"Take her down to the guest quarters. See that she's bathed," a voice barked as she was lead further into the building. "I'll have clean clothes sent over."

It was a blur after that. A lot of grim faces and rough hands lead her through the house, pulled off her clothes, pushed her into a steaming hot bath, and scrubbed the filth and grime from her body. Janice didn't bother examining the bruises that marred her body except to note that aside from the ones she'd gotten when she'd been dumped she'd obviously had a good time with that schoolgirl prostitute. Judging from the scratches, though, it had been more than a little rough. Idly, Janice wondered if she was alright. Despite everything, she hadn't wanted to hurt her.

Finally, she was lead into a darkened room with a large bed. Gratefully, Janice sank into the soft, clean sheets and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

Except that it wasn't entirely dreamless, though Janice had never had a dream with this much stunning clarity.

She was standing on a hillside, a battle raging around her, one opponent on either side of her, and she knew, in the instinctive way you knew things in dreams, that both sides were racing toward the ancient ruins sprawling below her.. Heat radiated through the dusky air in waves, and Janice felt uncomfortable in her dig attire. She could smell the dust, and the acrid odor of gunpowder, feel the soft breeze ruffling her clothing and hair.

"You've got to find the mosaic, Janice," a voice said. She looked around, but saw no one. "It's very important."

"Who are you?" Janice called out, taking a step toward the city. Then a sharp arrow of hope and excitement thrilled through her. "Xena?" she shouted?

"The mosaic is the key," the voice whispered again, echoing softly around her, yet strangely drowning out the sounds of nearby gunfire and cannon. "Look..."

And as Janice watched, she saw the dim outline of a distant building begin to bleed, pouring red blood across the foundation until it pooled in and around the ancient dwelling, spreading, drowning. Small tufts of fire exploded randomly throughout, only to be extinguished into a whisp of smoke almost as quickly as they came.

With another flash of insight, Janice knew that if she did not find the mosaic the blood tainting the horizon would spread out to engulf this archeological treasure, the modern city that had sprung up nearby, the surrounding region. It would devoure people, places and things without conscienc.

It would devour the world.

Janice awoke from the strange dream with a jerk, several things registering on her senses all at once. The cool of the sheets, the dark of the room, the sterile smells.

And a dark figure seated next to her in a chair.

Instantly alert, instantly suspicious, Janice strained her eyes to make out the features of her watcher, and waited for something to happen.

The figure shifted, then stretched out one long arm to snap on the lamp sitting on the marble stand near her head. Janice winced, and turned her head.

"So sorry, chum," a familiar voice drawled culturally as the sheets were wrenched back from her body. "But there's work to be done. Get up."

At the sound of the voice Janice's eyes snapped open, and she turned her head to gape at the person seated beside her. "Reggie?" she asked, sitting up, instantly wishing she hadn't. Janice had no idea how long she'd slept, but it obviously wasn't long enough for the stuff she'd poisoned herself with to work its way through her system. Still, she felt somewhat better than she had when she'd awakened on the street.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked gruffly, pulling the covers back over her, and dropping her head back down on the pillow. She had no intention of getting up ever again.

"Janice," Reggie said patiently, "there are several large men outside who are quite impatient about seeing you up and dressed. I suggest you do so under your own power, since I suspect they'd enjoy doing the task for you a little too much, if you catch my meaning. Look, I've brought you something pretty to wear." Janice heard Reggie rise from the chair and move around her bed, heard the soft whisper of cloth.

Janice opened one eye to glare balefully at Reggie, who stood at the foot of the bed holding a light green frock with enough lace around the low cut front to outfit an entire company for a production of Voltaire.

Janice threw the covers over her head.

"Now, now," Reggie said with a chuckle. The covers were once again uncerimoniously pulled away, and a hand grabbed her ankle and began pulling. She kicked out hard with her foot, but despite her best efforts, Janice was dragged from the bed.

"Oh, all right!" Janice yelled as she was dumped to the cold floor. "But I am not wearing that!" she said, stabbing her finger at the dress draped over Reggie's arm.

"There isn't anything else," Reggie replied.

"Oh yes there is," Janice said, rising unsteadily to her feet. "Strip." She eyed Reggie's tweed blazer, and tan dress trousers. "You can keep the tie on, though<' she added.

Reggie grinned. "Not a chance, Covington. You're not my type."

Janice was just debating whether or not she could take Reggie when the door burst open and two Gestapo footsoldiers strode into the room.

"Dr. Covington was just getting ready," Reggie said with a grin, tossing the frock on the bed. "Perhaps we should wait outside, and allow the lady to dress."

One of them unsnapped the strap from his holster and withdrew his gun. Pointing it directly at Janice's chest he said, "Five minutes, Doctor Covington. Otherwise I have orders to take you out back and shoot you."

That wiped the grin off Reggie's face. "Do it, chum. You're going to want to hear what they have to say."

With that, the trio withdrew. "Can't even leave a girl to die in peace," Janice grumbled, swinging her feet over the side of the bed. She wasn't wearing much, and had no idea where her other clothes were, so she expediantly pulled the green dress over her head, and ran her fingers through her hair. A pair of black pumps were sitting on a chair, and Janice slipped them on as she pulled the door open.

"Satisfied?" she growled, striding past Reggie and the two goons.

"Very nice, Covington," Reggie side, giving her a long, appraising look.

"Enough," the guard barked. "This way."

They'd brought her to one of the fancy, oppulant homes in the center of the city. The corridor they walked down now was wood paneled, and filled with various artifacts. Janice counted three suits of armor, and considered grabbing one of the battle axes and just fighting her way out of here. Reggie's fingers tightened on her arm, however, and Janice sighed. There were times when Janice was certain Reggie could read her mind. She hated it.

"What's this about?" Janice asked, figuring Reggie would answer.

"No talking!" the guard behind her said sharply.

"Blow it out your ear!" Janice yelled. "You wanna shoot me, go right ahead." Then she turned and glared expectantly at Reggie.

"Unlike you, Covington, I'm not in any particular hurry to have my head blown off," Reggie said nervously.

"So, you're their prisoner, too?" she asked suspiciously. Like her father, Reggie had a reputation for working for whoever would pay. Political disputes meant nothing to her friend when expedition funding was concerned.

"Not...exactly," Reggie said, confirming her suspicions. "However, it is my policy to never bite the hand that feeds me."

"At least not when your employer can bite you back a lot harder."

"Now you understand."

"Not one bit," Janice said bitterly. "You've sunk pretty low in your day, Reggie, but I never thought I'd find you working for..."

Reggie hed up one well-manicured hand. "Spare me the lecture, Covington. It's rich, coming from you of all people."

"Look," Reggie said, drawing closer as they moved down the hallway. "Trust me."

"About as far as I can throw you," Janice said, tugging at the front of her dress, a motion that earned a smile from her companion.

"We'll talk later," Reggie assured her, patting her arm. "Do try not to lose your temper in there. These chaps are very twitchy."

"I don't know what this is about, Reggie, but I'm retired."

Reggie snorted rudely. "Is that what they're calling the drunken debauchery you engaged in last night? Looked more like attempted suicide to me."

Thought Janice did not respond, Reggie's uncanny insightfulness struck a chord. Why it should do so was a mystery to Janice, but she suddenly felt a pang of shame. Mel must be worried sick. And Reggie didn't even know the worst of it, didn't know about Kramer, his brains splattered all over the cheap hotel room's wall, didn't even know about Serena.

"It's all right," Reggie said kindly as they turned a corner. "I don't know what set you off Covington, but you're in a lot of trouble. While you were sleeping they spent the day asking me all sorts of questions about you."

 

More to come....