Slippage, Chapter One

Flashslip, already hot and bothered after the gym lesson he was coming from, chanced to glance above him and was made more so by the white stretchy-silk ones descending his way.

Next second these were out of sight as their wearer rounded the corner of the stairs, and with a bump and a bounce was all at once face-to-face with him. Stuffy and beige she stood as one stymied, brown eyes darting, lips parted wordlessly.

Because it was really awkward.

“How are we going to sort this out if you won’t talk to me, Flashslip?” 4-H-N implored him.

But Flashslip didn’t talk to her. He still wouldn’t. With nose high he merely continued on his way, furious that this meant 4-H-N would be able to see his in turn.

How could he have been so wrong about that girl, railed Flashslip to himself as he proceeded at a flounce along the upstairs corridor?

She and Mini-Flash Meteor falling back on their old delinquent ways wasn’t any of his business. That was for Auntie Green to sort out. What Flashslip couldn’t forgive was the pair of them attempting to coerce Presh. Ever since hearing about it from her, Flashslip had churned at his hormonal weakness in letting 4-H-N’s pretty face blind him to what a nasty piece of work she was. Because the clues had been there all along. How many times had he sighed, and put it down to girls the galaxy over just being a bit of a pain in the pants sometimes? How many times had he had to bite back on the urge to tell her straight, that he didn’t like it when she giggled at the power he couldn’t yet control?

That little hurt figured in it more than Flashslip knew.

Because he’d been led astray by a pretty face alright. His only mistake had to do with which girl it belonged to.

And Presh, whose agendas were on built a scale far exceeding Flashslip’s slight boy-frame, hadn’t apprehended the slow poison in him which waited only for her tiny phial of catalyst.

Now that fermenting cocktail abounded with flavours stinging and sour.

Some of these owed themselves to ingredients Flashbee had shared with Flashslip, just before they’d battled the mutant Mini-Flash a while ago.

Flashslip hoped his friend was wrong. He truly and earnestly did.

Delinquency was one thing, but if Flashbee was right…

Well, it would be precisely what the galaxy feared. The Special Program in the thrall of an anti-Alliance female affiliated with The Four Heroes.

Flashbee was usually right.

That girl 4-H-N claimed was an Earthling named Sue had boasted phenomenal powers.

Boys like Flashslip were the ones who belonged. They’d populated this galaxy for eons. They hadn’t asked 4-H-N and her people to make the trek. They hadn’t asked 4-H-N’s gender to suddenly proliferate. Yet here they were, she keeping potentially catastrophic secrets, bounding down Headquarters stairwells so everyone could take a good look at where she’d tucked –

Oh. Flashslip knew this feeling.

It always started when he was choking in the back of his mouth like this.

Instantaneously for Flashslip, and for the rest of the universe several silent seconds on, he stumbled unclothed the next several paces trampling with bare soles his tunic and boots. Fitfully he struggled to kick away his pants, which had become entangled about his toes. Succeeding at last Flashslip pulled up sharp in the corridor’s sudden chill.

He drew a huge breath, and let it out just as heavily.

Still couldn’t control it. No wonder 4-H-N giggled.

Retracing his steps to gather up his garb, Flashslip was pettish but mindful of the mercy that at least nobody had been around to see –

“I’ve found him!” a voice rang out.

Flashslip whirled, to gaze on the girl who was gazing back at every last little bit of him.

An Earthling would have ventured that her dress was made of Bacofoil, and there hadn’t been a great deal of it left on the roll. What shimmery silver there was strained against the swells of a torso which jostled to escape through the vertical vent which made up the bulk of the bodice, and if the same shopping-list had also included milk-bottles, those would have been the thighs and calves whose gleaming white circumferences quivered below the skimming skirt. Glossy red lips, a snub nose and artfully dotted freckles were set below huge eyes with eight-inch lashes, while the whole arrangement was topped by an architectural pièce de résistance crafted from masses of auburn hair.

Mini-Flash senses didn’t function in quite the way human ones did. This girl assailed Flashslip’s after the local fashion, entering via the nostrils to take root deep in his abdomen and hips. Thence the clenching bole sapped every erg of Flashslip’s energy-based constitution, redirecting his essence to a single concerted thrust which left him delirious.

The girl meanwhile, taking as much notice of her effect on Flashslip as a pealing brass bell might have done, continued:

“It’s him! He’s taken his clothes off but it’s the same boy! Over here! This way!”

Two men appeared at the end of the corridor. One was a Robon, cybernetic, with a thing like half a Flashball doing duty for the upper portion of his head. The other man had to be from somewhere in the Catmeow Cluster, for he was feline to a fault, sleek and tapered and he moved with panache.

The Robon strode straight past the girl, and as he did so it looked like he dug her hard in the small of the back. Her eyelids dropped like roller-blinds and she swooned picturesquely. As if on cue the Meowman stepped up and caught her in his cushioned paws.

“Ravishing, dearest, merely ravishing,” he purred to the recumbent one. “Oh, we did choose splendidly from the manufacturer’s catalogue. You’re never lovelier than when you sleep.”

“Yes, it’s nice when that shrill little voice stops,” agreed the Robon, turning to Flashslip. “Greetings, Mini-Flash. We’re in advertising.”

“Oh,” said Flashslip, trying to be polite.

“Baumgaarterns?” the Robon hinted further.

“I remember my first pair,” Flashslip told him, wishing he had them now.

“Yes, well, we’re not about to ask you to model those,” declared the Robon with a laugh. There was something in his tone Flashslip didn’t understand, and which he would return to later.

“Boys’ underwear was the obvious application for rubber when Mr. Baumgaartern drove in his spike so many millennia ago,” explained the other man, still supporting the dead weight of his beautiful burden. “But I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve been exploring alternative avenues of late. What does the galaxy want from our signature resource in these changing times? That’s a question Baumgaarterns has had to ask. And what have we come up with? Among numerous other possibilities – sports paraphernalia!”

“Grothbuckets here is one of our best directors,” the Robon informed Flashslip. “We were watching your lesson just now, and he feels you’re just what he’s after to shoot a commercial alongside that unit.” He gestured. “Standard fee plus expenses, if such a contract would interest you?”

Flashslip for a fraction of a second surveyed again his potential costar.

“It would,” the expert on hormonal weakness then replied.

TO BE CONTINUED