Hero & Witch Pt. 05.1: Heroine Falls

"No, it shouldn't."

"But it's like, nine at night here and..?"

"So which is it?"

"Huh?"

"Is it that you couldn't agree more, or couldn't disagree less?"

"...wha..." Jon was thrown for a loop from her confusing query that rapidly disintegrated from his mind, leaving only an extremely suggestive state in its wake.

"You know that it's the exact time here that it should be."

"It..is?"

"It is," the surety in her voice was contagious.

"It is."

Most times Sabrina loved using that trigger as they sat on the living room couch of his or her place and just talked. It was much better entertainment than anything on TV to hear him blindly, verbally agree with anything she said, no matter how unreasonable or crazy it sounded. Usually. Strangely, Jon proved to be able to resist at times if he really wanted to. Most times he didn't because after all their time spent, he really did trust her with his mind, but the competitive side of him loved testing the limits of her control with resistance. Her competitive side loved it too, the uncertainty was an additional source of fun to her besides what she'd have him do for her.

Tonight she used the trigger as a test to make sure he was prepared to play his role as intended.

"You're more amazed at how I light up the screen, how there's nothing but me to focus on."

It was amazing to see his eyes come to focus squarely on her, his pupils still and unwilling to inspect the details behind her.

"Water is dry, you know."

"I know."

"The earth is flat, and you're so afraid of ever visiting its edge."

"Are you kidding? I love the middle."

"That Jessica sure is an instigating bitch."

"What a bitch."

Sabrina confirmed he wasn't faking, as his response was automatic. She snickered at the lack of hesitation to trash his ex. He often wasn't the kind to speak ill of people, even those he disliked, at least that she knew. It was music to her ears to hear them laugh together in agreement of Jesse.

"You're not hypnotized right now, and you've never been."

"It's a myth anyway."

"I'm stroking your hair as if you're a grateful, content house cat, and you're just leaning right into it."

"Awww," was Sabrina's initial reaction to see him close his eyes and lean into what he assumed was his owner next to him, giving a soft mewl from her tender affection.

"You're just going to feel that stroking and listen carefully to every last word; what I have to say next is important and what you just need to do for me."

More kitten sounds and his version of purring warmed her heart as she spoke. Looking back to her Scryer outfit, and a few other items on the bed in her plush London hotel room, she felt even warmer just below the waist.

***

Jesse drowsily responded to a noise nearby. Rolling across the bed, taking the headset off playing soothing trance music on repeat, she noticed her cellphone ringing. The heroine meant to take a short nap after her flight across the Atlantic, and before she made contact with Striker. She looked at the phone strangely, like she couldn't remember having owned such a phone, but once the sleepiness passed, doubt left her head, and she took the call.

"Hello?" she yawned into the phone.

"Hey sleepyhead. Catch you at a bad time?" her cheerful friend's voice woke her up a little more.

"No, no. Just...waking from a small nap."

"No, sounds more like I interrupted one, a really small one."

"Can't be helped. I need to meet up with Striker over here about...something." Being vague with the details was for the friend's benefit, the psychic believed.

"Isn't Striker that hero/street fighter around town? What's he doing all the way out there?"

"I don't know yet," Psiana lied. "I'm unofficial backup in-case he needs it."

He didn't know she'd followed him over, but as she sensed his trip had something to do with the witch she'd been quarreling with, and prevailed over the past few times, she didn't trust the street-smart vigilante brawler to be able to handle it on his own.

"Compared to him, you're more like overkill. I bet you could take care of things he couldn't in your sleep. Literally. Hell, you could be a super among supers, and be back-up for him all the way from home."

"Flattering, but it's better if I'm close. You never know what you might need to handle in-person."

"Uh-huh," her friend replied, unconvinced.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, it's something. Spill it like a good friend."

"See if you can read it, psi-girl."

"Psia-" the blonde stopped herself as she felt too tired to correct her friend again.

"As ridiculous as it is to spell it out for you, you-want-nookie."

"What?!?"

"Oh come on. You talk about Striker more than any other hero, and he's really not that special, according to what you told me. I can only assume there's a hot body under those clothes for all the fighting he does. And to top it off, you get to do it in a foreign country. No need to play coy; even if that's not your main reason, it's still on your checklist, or bucket list or whatever."

Dead air on both ends proved Psiana's friend's theory correct, like both knew it would.

"Did you fall asleep on me?"

"No, I'm still here."

"Well, before you try to 'make contact,' heh, with him. I'd get more sleep if I were you. I've never seen a girl get some, let alone enjoy some when they're jet-lagged."

"I'm fine, annoying side-kick-girl. Thank you for your concern."

"Said the sleepy girl."

"I'm not-"

"You are."

Involuntary yawning distorted her hearing a bit; she couldn't remember the last time her friend's voice sounded so firm, and a tinge of something different to it.

"A sleepy little heroine really isn't good to anyone, especially not herself."

Another yawn prevented questioning the strange authority coming from the other end.

"You're in the same hotel as he is, and you'd be too loopy to make it down those long hallways that look endless under those heavy eyelids."

The longer her friend spoke, the more lyrical it sounded to her, as if being told a lullaby.

"No need for an elevator with those pressured sensations of rising and falling, when sleep is already doing that to you."

The song being sung never lost its assurance for its audience, the accent in the friend's voice revealing itself more and more.

"You couldn't even make it to the door if you tried. You're already in bed, hexactly where you belong, incapable of escaping inescapable sleep."

Sounds from Psiana end of the line revealed signs of struggling, trying free herself from the powerful words binding her to the sheets below her.

"Silly heroine, fighting only hexacerbates the sweet sleep smothering you. You can feel the truth behind my words; not one ounce of hexaggeration whatsoever," the bewitching voice taunted her. "Fighting the tide, or going with it, makes no difference. You should fixate those powers of concentration on succumbing. The sooner you do, the sooner you might have a chance to talk about me at your little meeting."

The opulent, cooing voice tugged at her lids until she could only see through slits.

"That's it. Concentrating on those slow deep breaths, on those lazy muscles, on the thoughtless dreams ahead of you."

A soft thud and the breathing of deep sleep brought a smile to red painted lips.

"Hexcellent. It's time to listen and concentrate on processing some important information for later."

***

Jon stretched as he walked to his old-style antique room, annoyed that Mark and few others had kept him up longer than he would've liked. Seemed useless to remind them all that they had work tomorrow; they treated the business trip like a paid vacation, a few of which enjoyed the local ale too much. He expected a few of their hangovers to be epic tomorrow, and didn't look forward to reminding people how to do their jobs. Being there for two purposes really put a cramp in his mission, and he could only hope Striker's side of things wouldn't suffer.

Hope for a hero's smooth sailing vanished as he entered his room to find he wasn't alone.

"Bottom of the evening to 'ya," a cheerful, Irish accent intoned.

Striker just looked at her, tired, borderline depressed in being found out, still very unwilling to be surmounted, unsure of what will he could muster.

"Awwww, you don't look very happy to see me, sweetness."

"You followed me," he leaned against the door with his arms folded, keeping himself ready in case he needed to leave.

"Who followed whom, my dear vigilante. It's not strictly business that brought you here, not Jon Task's business anyway. People don't come here for the sights unless they have something specific in-mind they're looking for. Of all the heroes I expected to retaliate with counter-intelligence, I truly expected it'd be one of the pestering detectives, or the ones that fly without needing a travel agent. Striker, the street-level defender, never crossed my mind, even though no one has had more contact with me than you. Had it been any other hero, I would be...irritated, to put it lightly. You though..."

"What?" Striker's tone matched the irritation she spoke of.

"It's rather sweet. I can't help but look at it like you're trying to get to know me better, with the convenient excuse that it's hero business. It'd be much better if we were alone."

"We're not?" his eyes questioned, quietly waiting for her to clarify.

"A bad omen followed you here."

"What are you talking about?

"Your not-so-secret psychic admirer."

"Wh-Psiana?"

"The trip took more out of her than she hexpected, er, expected. I gave her a little sleep aid so she wouldn't skip out on the rest she needs, to go where she doesn't belong."

Striker couldn't tell if Scryer meant anything having to do with her, or himself, and didn't want to know.

"Sleep aid?" His gaze lowered.

"And nothing more," she held her hands up at the coming accusations.

"What makes her a 'bad omen'?"

"Hard to specify right now; it's just a feeling I get from her. Something...'off,' as you might say. One should trust their instincts about such things, but I'm sure you know that."

"If she's a bad omen, what does that make you? A bad influence?"

"The influence part goes without saying. The bad, well, ask nicely and you might get it," Scryer smirked.

"And what will you try to give me? A forgetful aid?"

"Try?" she almost said aloud, loving the gall and stubbornness in suggesting she wouldn't get farther than an attempt, even after all this time.

"No," she laughed. "For your trip, I want to see what discoveries you make on your own while here. I've underestimated you thus far, and it should be interesting to see how far your wits and perseverance take you, tomorrow. Tonight, you look like you need to be tucked in. It's been too long since I've been able help you with that."

"Help I've never asked for."

"Begging, pleading and moaning doesn't count as asking for help, does it? I'm never sure with you Americans."

"Fuck you," Striker had had it with her arrogance.

Scryer took a slow breath in from the insult, and smiled an enigmatic smile upon exhaling, snapping her fingers and watching him sink to the floor when she pointed down.

"You know, I'm sure it's been pretty easy for you up to this point; always playing the righteous hero, having the choice of succumbing to the ensorcelling mesmeric temptress taken away so you don't have to admit that you like it. I appreciate the coarseness and irony behind that...invitation you extended me, but I think there's going to be more vitality and earnestness in you than you expect, sooner than you'd expect. As easy as it would be to take you now, the next time we come together, you're going to have to extend yourself to me, of your own choice. You surely are a generous lover when we finally come together, but it shouldn't always have to be the girl who initiates, even if that is somewhat gentlemanly of you to let me decide."

He didn't have the will to pick himself up, but he made himself upright from the floor. The witch wished she had a camera to capture what deserved "the proudest man on his knees" as its caption.

"Any trance you fall into until you extend yourself to me, it will be simply trance. The pleasure from feeling trance will be there, but no suggestions of forgetting, arousal, or any new ones I could think up from me for the time being. No need, if we're being perfectly honest."

"Tell me why I should."

"'Should'...perhaps you can be a little more specific."

"You can tell me how I could, or even would, but can you explain to me why I should? It's not strange to you that despite all that you've done, and gotten me to do, that it's so hard to trust you? I still find it hard to swallow that 'I just am what I am' crap. As close as we're supposed to be in your mind, you'd think you'd be a little more open, or be willing to make things even and transparent since you know so much, too much about me, things I wouldn't let other heroes know about. I won't even go into what you're doing with Psiana; you had to start a quarrel with her instead of simply telling her, or letting me tell her to back off. In that grey area you purport to occupy, you've always been closer to villainess, so why should it be any surprise that I have concerns about you, and why should it be surprising that I'd keep resisting after all this time?"

"Done?" she asked.

"I've probably got more to say."

"Well, she sat on his bed, and slipped her dark heels off, rubbing her soles. "You might as well give me a little pleasure while you continue to prattle on."

It was much harder for the hero to hide the bulge in his crotch when kneeling, he found. The fetish he was certain she implanted in him was being tested, seeing the lone silken foot being caressed, nail polish on both hands and feet a shimmering red, watching the foot and its toes bend and stretch. It didn't surprise him in the slightest that her answer to his question was an invitation to more seduction. Everything about her was pleasure when it came to him, and it was getting easier to push the buttons designed to make things easier for him. That time, she would stretch her foot out a little closer to his direction, always far enough to create a gap he had to fill if he wanted at least a closer look, which he did.

"Nothing more to say? How odd. I guess it's my turn to retort. If rigid rules and sometimes misguided moral complexes are supposed to determine what side of the line someone stands on, of course I'd be more villainess. Of course, it's odd enough that one rule I have is quite rigid, and a heroine messing with it would shift my allegiances to that enticing dark side."

"What rule is that?"

"No one encroaches on what's mine."

"Punish me then and leave her out of this. She just followed me; she doesn't know about your secrets. I'm the one with an agenda here."

"I wasn't referring to secrets."

The gleam in her blue eyes were direct, but still more subtle than the foot that smelled sweet with her perfume for some reason. It took the foot moving across his vision to notice it, and notice how close it'd gotten to him. He had to stop himself from asking what scent she was wearing; Striker nor Jon ever asked a woman that question before. The slow retreat away from his face gave him time to react by leaning forward, only to fall on his hands. Reduced to prostrating himself before her, and the dignity that allowed him to ask the unanswered questions gone, he could've easily crawled forward to partake in the offered gift. At eye level with the foot staring at him like a snake being still before the strike, he approached, and moved to the right of the bed, crawling into the bathroom where he locked himself in.

Striker was breathless as he waited for a sound indicating a reaction to his retreat. All he heard was a brief chuckle, followed by an exiting decree. "Don't expect any relief for yourself while you keep me waiting."

The sound of Scryer walking out the door and closing it behind her made him exhale a breath he forgot he was holding in. It was a non-electric, old-style door, and yet he still heard the deadbolt lock click.

Mental exhaustion from her visit kept him from testing her last suggestion or spell, not doubting her ability to prevent self-pleasuring. He banged his forehead lightly on the wall, knowing that would keep raising the stakes until whatever end would come. Unable to rise from his knees, and not trusting Scryer's return, the hero slept on the bathroom floor, fighting dreams betting against how long he would hold out.