The Enquirer’s first in a series of Tomba photos displayed Molecularly-Adjustable Woman and Dura-Damsel in their stiffened sandy and clear-coated predicaments (although a NE newspaper censor had blurred their nipples and crotches, Julia could nevertheless discern and chuckle at the duo’s amphibian and Lady Godiva imitating poses). Frame two showed the imminent demise of the sand-sculpted Maw, as a towering shoreline wave rose threateningly behind her. Yet Ingeno-Lady (true to her character name) had saved her friend from being blasted to bits and scattered across the Pacific Ocean floor.
 

Tomba’s third photo- a brilliant action shot- captured a crouching IL firing her thermodynamic freeze ray gauntlet weapon into the crashing surf directly behind the mid-hopping Maw. A glimmering crystalline wall of frozen salt water instantly formed as a solid protective barrier around the helpless heroine.

Following a few minute’s discussion between Inga and Empath Girl, it was decided to clear-coat the naked frog-like warrior, so as to allow her safe transport (without crumbling into a pile of sand) back to Professor Johannson’s biogenetic laboratory.A final image illustrated Chronos’ two stock-still victims being carried awkwardly towards the Ionospheric Clipper aircraft- parked beyond grassy dunes in the distance.

“Having taken it on the chin, the QQ team limps home with tails between their legs”, captioned the newspaper.

Soberly frowning at this apparent victory of the bad-guys over the good-gals, Julia finishes her latte and pays her bill.As she stands to leave the cafe, we see the leggyponytailed lovely is dressed in a flattering skintight bicycle-riding shirt: mostly sky blue, but decorated with a swirling abstract stars and stripes design.

Reaching her orange-yellow mountain bike, Julia dons an American flag-painted safety helmet and pedals off toward the waiting up-and-down paths among the nearby sand dunes.

Her bright green eyes survey the group of ‘beautiful people’ she had talked her way through across the beach some hour-and-a-half before.Ongoing filming of a Baywatch episode had almost brought her morning exercise ride to an abrupt halt; but when Julia explained to them that she was one of the Miss USA Contestants, in-town for Saturday night’s pageant, both of the handsome muscular security guards at the shoot perimeter let her pass by (after she batted her eyelashes and offered them each her autograph as the reigning Miss Florida).

She hoped Stan and Mike would let her go by once again. Mountain trail cycling had become Julia’s secret weapon. No other form of exercise kept her thighs and calves so well defined and toned, and as for her butt... well perfect wasn’t nearly good enough a description! Even now her sculpted heart-shaped glutes left a wake of befuddled ogling males, as she glided back off the pavement onto dune trails in black bike shorts leaving next-to-nothing to the imagination. Julia smiled. Her previous career as ergonomic exercise therapist and masseuse in St. Augustine, FL had provided ample opportunity to bring her athletic body to its peak of near-perfection.

Inheriting her Mom’s big breasts and striking facial features gave her all the tools she now needed to go toe-to-toe with the country’s sexiest young women. But she wasn’t taking any chances... three bike rides per day after her arrival in LA over these sand dunes would keep her legs and bottom in tip-top shape right up until Rob Parker crowned her as winner!

“Now, what the @#!&! is this”?

As Julia pedals determinedly uphill between crests of two grassy dunes, she looks ahead to see Stan the security guard standing very still amid a bluish haze while looking back over his shoulder towards the filming area. As she struggles to comprehend his statue imitation, a pretty female dressed in a skintight silver head-to-toe body suit emerges from behind Stan and runs her gloved fingers up underneath his Hawaiian print shirt. Tossing his firearm aside, she next reaches around to yank his denim shorts and briefs down to just above his knees, then languidly runs her hand down through his chest hair into more personal hairy regions.

Alarm bells and whistles sound in our leggy beauty contestant’s head at sight of this nearly-unbelievable scene, and memory of the newspaper article just read comes flooding back. However, simple physics seals her fate. Julia’s curvaceous-but-powerful legs have propelled her just a little bit too far up the sand dune trail, and before she can turn about, momentum coasts her leaning-forward head and shoulders (along with half the bike) inside the shadowy periphery of the tinkling blue-white Melkosian chrono-cradle.

For an instant, the victim’s midriff, backside and legs continue to struggle instinctively for freedom; but her time-stopped brain soon ceases sending signals to the rest of its body, and the girl then hangs motionless amid an uphill pedal stroke.

Professor Helen Troy is distracted momentarily from her fondling of the hunk security guard by the arrival of ‘Julia 26F’ (so nicknamed by other Miss USA contestants, since there are no less than six women with that first name in the competition, and she is entrant #26 from the state of Florida); and so now summons Dwight Weasel’ Wioseywlski over from his collection of Pamela Anderson, Kelly Monaco and Marliece Andrade (among others).

Laughing at Julia’s half-in-half-out balancing act, as well as the partially-formed classic ‘OH NO!’ facial protest frozen across pink lips, the Colonel’s technical wizard approaches this windfall acquisition for a closer examination. Uncurling her perfectly manicured ruby nails from around both handlebars, Weasel rolls the cycle back down toward the bottom of the dune, and pushes a nearly-weightless floating Julia slightly uphill until only her sneakers and perched protruding buttocks remain outside the alien field.

Energizing his Pulchri-Meter invention (which measures beauty-bioresonant energy potential within a victim’s body), he deftly glides Julia’s patriotic biking shirt upwards to bunch beneath her armpits, bisecting her sports bra to expose two large-but-very-squashed boobs. For about sixty seconds, he tries hard to revitalize huge chocolate crushed nipples, but without effect. Dwight saunters beyond the chrono-cradle, peeling down black biking shorts. Taut pumping legs and straining buttocks present themselves for CCS estimation (.9334!).

Positioning astride her (now long-gone) bicycle seat has left Julia delightfully posed with legs slightly spread, her moist pink crack pushed somewhat open for Dwight’s entertainment. “WowYou’re even better than the UCLA Cheerleaders”, he exclaims, as his penchant for rear view gets the better of his judgement. Sneaking a glance at Helen (who is currently engrossed in attempting to stiffen up Stan in his one area not already stiff), he is overcome with lust: planting feverish kisses over her bent-round backside, and working slowly-but-surely toward the center of her parted cheeks until finally providing lavish attentions to labia and clit from behind....

So it is in just such a situation(slurping away between Julia’s legs, with both hands wrapped up and around her sides to twiddle frozen nipples between his silver-gloved fingertips) that Colonel Chronos finds his third-in-command some moments later.“You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself”, he begins, but receives only a grunting assent in return from the ecstatic computer nerd.“ATTENTION!!”

Dwight snaps out of his sexual fantasy-come-true and faces his superior officer with chagrin (among other things) on his face.

“We haven’t got time for this sort of thing! Those Baywatch babes put us ‘over the top’ with respect to aggregate CCS stockpiles. This gal -although quite alluring, I must admit- is expendable. I suggest you use her as the first field test for ‘Operation Goldmine.’ After all, our electricity bills have to be paid soon.”

Weasel nods in assent to his commander’s orders, and links his TRAMP (temporal reduction & amplification via modulation of phase) radiation-frequency governance device with Cray supercomputers back in their secret North Dakota installation. “The Crays have identified twenty-seven possible frequency modulation algorithms which might produce our desired molecular recombinations. I shall employ the first one now onto our lovely cyclist here.”

Walking painfully (given the tremendous erection bulging in his trousers) around to see Julia’s panicked facial pose, Dwight kisses the only woman he ever got past first base with upon her other parted lips. “Ciao, baby”.

As a result of well-inputted FORTRAN commands through his reconfigured TRAMP, a distinct and separate sphere of blue-white radiation envelops Miss Florida. A kaleidoscope of colors whirl madly inside the time-manipulating bubble as theta-wave radiation frequencies oscillate with breakneck speed and infinitesimal precision. The usual chrono-cradle tingling noise gives way to a whirring whine, which then turns into a loud howl. Julia’s skin, hair and clothing glow ever shinier and brighter: becoming red-silver-white-hot in radiance after about ninety seconds. Then, with an eye-shutting flash of brilliant light and a loud CLANG!!, this weird process comes to an abrupt halt.

Colonel Chronos, Professor Troyand Dwight closely consider the end result. Julia Fredrickson hasn’t moved a millimeter. She arches fully-forward with arms outstretched grabbing now-absent handlebars, bare legs and bottom a textbook illustration of coiled potential energy as they pedal uphill.

Only her coloring has changed. Gone are the bright stars and stripes and sky blue of her cyclist’s racing shirt.

Her safety helmet too has taken on a gray -almost leaden- hue, its patriotic insignia vanished. Even ponytailed auburn locks have been altered: somehow dull and too-heavily clumped together. Only Julia’s deeper folds and recesses (her open mouth, belly button, ass crack, and eye pupils, for example) hold a deep charcoal coloration.

The rest of her body the TRAMP turned into chrome!! Drastic career changes occurred within a span of a few minutes. Our hapless hopeful beauty contestant moonlighted briefly as a nerd’s frozen sex toy, only to end up as a shiny metallic erotic work of art. Julia 26F needn’t worry about keeping her legs and butt toned anymore.

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-ONE:   As the NASA press room TV camera lights blare to life in the faces of the soon-to-be-interviewed Space Shuttle crew, White House Chief of Staff Tom Stepalloverus and NASA Chief James Perigee remain on the raised dais in heated disagreement. On their either side are Mission Commander Sally Glide and former US President Donald Raygun (like John Glen before him, a symbol of heroic patriotism among famous senior citizens who helped in their country’s conquest of space).

Eavesdropping nearby next to a luncheon table still littered with a variety of delicious snacks and refreshments are President Alan Bore and his pretty-but-slightly-overweight wife Tupper Ware Bore. Like Hillary Rodham Clampett before her, Tupper relishes in the high profile role of First Lady, and so journeyed to Cape Canaveral with her husband to attend this gala send-off party. Besides, Chief of Staff Stepalloverus insisted that her presence beside a beloved-but-boring husband would bolster his weak position in the polls, with only eight days before the crucial California Democratic primary!

However, things aren’t running smoothly just now, and so Tupper takes a moment while all eyes are upon a loud discussion above to juggle her titanic boobs to a slightly more comfortable orientation inside their oversized heavy-duty brassiere; and tug upwards on overworked control-top pantyhose. She again sneaks a big nacho chip piled high in guacamole from a nearby condiment bowl, refocusing onto conversation.

Commander Glide’s reputation among astronauts was top-notch: having become the first female Shuttle pilot nearly a decade earlier, Sally had risen through NASA’s internal political and administrative ranks to gather a tremendous amount of clout and influence about ongoing missions. Her opinion had been consulted and respected countless times already in critical decisions about the development and construction of the new International Space Station- but not today!

“Mr. Perigee”, she argues, “I know we have some serious political time constraints for a Discovery lift-off next week, but I’m telling you, sir, that I’m NOT moving that bird one inch off the ground until you explain to me the purpose of that instrument package waiting to be loaded into the Shuttle cargo bay. Based on the electronic schematics, it looks like a Federation deflector array dish straight out of Star Trek! You better tell me what the hell in going on, or I’ll squash the green light on this mission on my own authority”.

This brings an immediate response from the White House Chief:  “Now, Mr. Perigee, you know that both President Bore and former President Raygun are highly motivated to advance this mission ahead according to schedule. So perhaps you’d be wise to explain to us all what that non-inventoried device is supposed to do? This press conference would be a perfect time and place to enlighten us. We simply cannot brook any further delays. I think we should keep Ms. Ride here ‘in the loop’ and as happy as possible”.

Stepalloverus lustily eyes Sally’s pert athletic frame and cute facial features as the NASA Chief steps to the press microphones. Nearby, Donald Raygun also examines Sally’s orange pressure flight suit- but instead for its size and potential fit on another well-known lady. The press corps snaps to attention as cameras whirr...

For several weeks now, James Perigee has been between a rock and a hard place- thanks to the strange series of blackmail threats and impossible photos which have been delivered inexplicably to his office desk. He had already allowed Cape perimeter security to become compromised, and looked the other way when more than two dozen ISS supply modules had been blasted into orbit with mysterious radioactive cargo aboard. But this SUV-sized instrument package that materialized yesterday in the Shuttle hangar bay was the last straw!

The administrator knew revealing secrets about the device would be the right move, yet he was in the dark too.

Retaliation via publication of several bizarre sexual photos (how had they taken them against his knowledge or will!!??) would surely mean an end to his marriage and aeronautical engineering career; yet he’s sure of what he must now do! With heroic determination, he opens his mouth to begin his confession (and save NASA).

However, at this very moment, Donald Raygun frowns and quickly nods toward one of the lady press corps members.A tall pretty frosted-hair blonde from the Los Angeles Times unfastens an ankle-length trench coat to reveal a skintight reflective silver suit. Pulling the protective hooded cowl over her wavy tresses, she yanks ski-goggle-like eyewear into position and energizes its temporally-transparent fabric (faintly glowing green).

As Dawn Fall rises to her feet, she depresses a plunger on a one-foot-cubed black box hidden among the array of camera accessories in her duffel bag.A blue-white tingling energy wave engulfs the room in less than two seconds, rendering everyone and everything at the press briefing imperceptive and absolutely motionless!

In less than five minutes (only a guess by Dawn, of course, since all chronometers are also stilled by time-dilation) she has created the necessary artistic statue scene between James Perigee and a nearby female volunteer. Using one of Weasel’s ingenious reverse-TRAMP’s to generate a small time pocket within which Perigee’s penis could be quickly stiffened (Dawn was impressed with its size and thickness on this, her third occasion of its posing) and Polaroid shots taken, she speedily floated her unwitting subjects back into position quicker than a wink!

As Dawn gathers her long tan disguise back over her shoulders, she grins wickedly while pulling upward the red plunger of the alien theta-wave radiation power source. Back at the podium, NASA Chief Perigee is about to speak when he notices a startling new photograph appear directly on top of his press briefing notes.

From a side view of about five feet away, this picture displays Tupper Bore ass-deep in a bowl of guacamole dip, both large-boned legs stuck straight out into mid-air in a moderately-wide V-shape, her pudgy arms outstretched to grasp backs of thick calves in her palms. Tupper’s pretty flower-print designer dress has been rolled down from her shoulders and torso -as well as yanked upwards from her hips- to become nothing more than a decorative belt around her tummy. Her generous breasts and nipples are slathered with green avocado dip from the bowl, and Perigee himself is photographed leaning forward licking furiously at this guacamole appetizer upon its novel serving tray.

But that isn’t the worst of it... the poor NASA Chief’s stiff red dick is partially visible plunging into the guacamole bowl, where it skewers the First Lady’s spicy tamale!. Her frozen expression of sexual glee suggests he has hit the mark.

President Al Bore stands stiffly in the background, smiling stupidly at this wild scene.As the raw shock of the Polaroid washes over him, Perigee realizes not only his own career is at risk; but also honor and dignity of the Office of President of the United States hangs in balance of his next words.

Grabbing up the photograph and placing it into his coat pocket, he mumbles something about stomach cramps and stumbles dazed out a press room door. Sally Glide watches him go in amazement. A flushed Tupper alsoexcuses herself, walking awkwardly from bizarre sticky green stuff in her pantyhose. Raygun chuckles softly.

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-TWO:Ingeno-Lady strides confidently into the radiation-insulated antechamber of Nils Johannson’s experimental materials storage locker. Much of the usual equipment and items contained in this precisely-controlled environmental area have been relocated to make room for temporary storage of two exotic statues. Balancing side-saddle on a high stool is our clear-coated Dura-Damsel, still helplessly stiffened by the super-strength acrylic resin polymer sprayed across her nude caramel frame almost twenty hours earlier.

Deedee remains exactly as originally posed by Chronos’ gang: captured in mid-ride as a perfect Lady Godiva. Even her ankle-length platinum blonde wig remains in place- the sticky polymer reluctant to give up even this small hold on its immobilized superheroine. Only DD’s darting green eyes provide evidence of her awareness.

The green-and-yellow spandex-clad leader of the Quintessential Quintet places a gloved hand onto the shiny bare shoulder of her newest team member, addressing her in a soft, consoling tone as she tries to make eye contact, “Hang in there, babe. The Professor has been monitoring and adjusting the temperature and humidity of this storage room to accelerate the evaporative process of the acrylic spray on your body. According to his calculations, you should be able to crack this plastic prison open at almost any time now”.

These words instill little change within Diedre’s desperate, humiliated stare. A tear escapes Inga’s steel-blue left eye as she now considers the second victim teetering on an adjacent steel examination table. Biomedical sensors on spindly robotic arms trace Maw’s sandy curves from mere inches away. Accidentally rendered as a sand sculpture by a command while under Weasel’s radiation-induced mind control effect, the eldest Quint-Quint poises amid the beginnings of a transition from crouch to frog-leap, arms akimbo and every buttocks muscle tensed rigid.

In contrast to Deedee’s full consciousness and deep emotional distress, Maw shows absolutely no sign of life.

This continued inanimation brings a scowl to Ingeno-Lady’s face, and she turns to address Nils and Scotty at their control panel on the other side of leaded glass some ten feet away.“I just don’t understand this. Twice before she’s been transformed against her will (into solid stone and crystal), and in each case the molecular adjustment was neutralized in less than four hours-due to instability from her proto-matter crystalline matrix. This time though- almost an entire day later- she hasn’t shown even the slightest sign of coming out of it??!!”

Reading results from the latest electron microscopic analysis carefully, a now-octogenarian technical assistant confers with the Professor, conversing in hushed whispers that IL cannot discern over the mike system. With a look of deep concern spreading over his face, Nils replies in a thick Swedish accent, “Yaaah, Inga, Scotty has discovered a clue which may explain Maw’s continuing stasis.Yet we must undertake several more... WAIT!! LOOK BESIDE YOU!!”.

A pretty girl-next-door brunette whirls to her right in the direction of multiple loud crackling sounds.

Sluggishly, an exhausted Diedre finally breaks free of her polymer encasement to hop down off her perch. Rubbing aching muscles held stifflly in place for nearly an entire day, DD widens her stance in yellow thigh-high boots, improving an uncertain balance.

Spitting clear-coat remnants away from her lips, she curses “Dammit! We were SO CLOSE to capturing Chronos and those other two hoodlums.That little nerdy guy is really quite resourceful- and dangerous! Sorry we let everybody down, boss”.

Inga responds by hugging the taller athletic Quint-Quint tightly about her shoulders. “Welcome back to the world of the moving, babe”.

Nils grins widely.

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-THREE:  Evil dreams are coming true.Colonel Chronos stares excitedly at video monitors on the command console of his secret laboratory-base. One screen shows tireless mechanical robot arms carefully loading glimmering six-foot-radius spheres onto a curved transport track connected to a ground level loading dock area. Automatic sensors placed according to the late-1980's START II agreement flash what would usually be terrifying news across an overhead LED bulletin board: SILOS 1- 9 VACANT.

But under the circumstances, this is cause for CC’s jubilation. 150 final time-stopped bioresonant females who’ve spent the past 3-4 weeks inside these gigantic 150-foot-deep underground cylinders are now almost ready for shipping to their final destination (viewed on another monitor screen).

Out in the bleak Nevada desert, a tired-looking Weasel (he’s not slept since the Catalina Island adventure of two days ago) is shown swinging gently in the breeze inside a safety harness atop a 200-foot-tall testing tower of steel girders. Crowning the huge gray erector set, we observe an instrument package which looks nearly identical to the device causing disagreement back at Cape Canaveral. One principle difference is obvious, however. This particular large bundle of wires and cables is clearly more ready for action: its parabolic mirrored projector fully extended and aimed directly at a bristling neon city some ten miles distant.

The cruel Marine Colonel taps an open comm channel mike to address an industrious MIT graduate in very thick horn-rimmed spectacles some 800 miles distant: “Give me your latest progress report now, please”.

Without looking away from his work, Dwight responds into his wrist radio, “I’ve connected the power supply coupling and rechecked transmission circuitry.All we need is to add a black box emitter and adequate quantities of temporal fuel, and our Project ’Sodom and Gomorrah’ will be underway at your say-so, SIR”

Oliver South pumps his fist in triumph at this news, returning his gaze to the other monitor and repositioning its camera to watch a procession of half-nude gorgeous frozen females roll up into the back of seven midnight blue Martin-Marietta mega-trailer vehicles. A big smile on his handlebar-mustached face, he replies, “Good Job, Dwight! Your hard work is keeping us on schedule. Fuel ETA is in approximately 36 hours. Will your radiation sensors be fully calibrated by then?”

The evil electronic genius confirms, “No doubt about it. In three days time, the Cray supercomputers will have analyzed results and determined our Big-Bang frequency and power requirements”.

CC concludes, “With also a suitably-Biblical end to that den of iniquity!” Closing the voice comm link, the Colonel picks up a thick dossier he recently received from his mole planted inside Quintessential Quintet headquarters.

Though eventually victorious in the first QQ battle, Ollie realizes he and his gang escaped capture from three of the superheroines by only a hairs-breadth. He would not make the mistake of underestimating these adversaries again. Yet our Marine finds himself in the unusual position of being ‘home alone’ at this time (with Mommy back in California, Dawn and the Chief in Florida, Professor Troy lecturing at USC and Weasel outside Las Vegas), and so decides to utilize his privacy.

Flipping casually past preliminary typed pages of secret documents in his hands, he locates five photos and personality profiles while inputting secret access security codes onto a keypad adjacent to a large steel door market NO ADMITTANCE. Ignoring a spread-eagled nude ballerina on her low pedestal, as well as bookend beauties UCLA cheerleaders June Metcalf and Maggie Mitchell who are bent motionless into delightful full moons, the villain walks over directly to a newer addition to his static collection.

Looker stands obediently frozen in the wide stance of her stereotypical superheroine pose, elbows pointed out from her sides and clenched fists resting upon curvaceous full hips. Like the four other occupants of CC’s private gallery of love dolls, a quarter-sized electronic disc is fastened bya thin silver headband across the center of her forehead; yet this micro-TRAMP is adjusted to a different radiation oscillation frequency than that of her neighbors.

Unable to induce the usual immobilizing time-dilation effect onto any of our superheroines, Weasel instead generated an energy field which halted their ability to exercise any inhibitions, judgement or free will.So the loveliest of the Quint-Quints is now poised as helpless testament to a nerd’s engineering genius. Forced to use her appearance-altering super powers to imprison her own body, she’s assumed the artificial plastic stiffness and glazed expression of a department store dummy!

The Colonel looks up briefly from reading notes to fondle Looker’s dangling pink placticized 40D cleavage. Both perfectly-proportioned boobs hang ready for his attentions, but their total rigidity and absence of aureole and nipple coloration bring a slight frown to Ollie’s face. He hopes Dwight can figure out how to time-stop these superheroines soon, so the real fun can begin.

Staring directly into lifeless glassy hazel eyes from point- blank range, the cruel Marine addresses our mannequinized good-gal, “Hmm.... it says here that your name is Looker- how appropriate! Your approximate age is twenty-five... height 5' 10"... weight- ah! a gentleman never discusses such things. Muta-cloning parent donors are Fabio and Kathy Ireland: no wonder you’ve got sex-appeal. Super-powers founded upon feminine beauty ... can alter outward appearance at will- or against your will in this case, gorgeous? Hah! Seduction skills are said to be one of your strengths; but you’re also considered slightly too vain for the QQ team’s own good, my dear. Well, I guess that means you’re definitely enjoying your sexy curves being put on display”!

Groping the paralyzed hard-shiny-sexless smoothness between her exposed world-class legs, he continues, “You might be able to see out the corner of your eye some empty pedestals to your left? Two of these places of honor are reserved for your friends. Those QQ’s on the Catalina beach just aren’t my type- too muscular and athletic- Yeaachh!!. I prefer more feminine toys. Your leader, for example. According to Hercules, her name’s Inga??.... cloned aging about twenty-eight years, 5'5" brunette weighing 118 pounds... 36-25-35: now THAT’S one girl-next-door I’d like to live nearby! Proto-matter-enhanced super intelligence... Wow!! Ingeno-Lady’s gonna look just GREAT sitting up straight on a that high-chair-like dais, engrossed by a slide-rule in her hands.Of course, the bottom half of her spandex costume will be around her boots, knees bent out sideways...”

Through a foggy pink haze, a semi-conscious Looker hears the sound of CC’s zipper.
 

COMIC PAGE THIRTY FOUR:  "Well... since our NASA Chief seems to be a little under the weather, I suppose it’s best for me to go ahead and make my speech. First of all, I’d like to thank President Bore and the American people for giving me this last opportunity to write myself into the history books. With christening of the International Space Station comes a dawning of a new exploration era. It will likely be from this platform that future missions to Mars -and then the other planets in the Solar System- will be launched. I probably won’t be around to see them…”

(the press corps in attendance exchange glances among themselves... they still haven’t figured out how former President Raygun- age ninety-four- looks and acts not one day over fifty!).

“But I take great pride that my arms buildup initiatives (while almost bankrupting the US economy, raising interest rates and contributing to the stock market crash of 1987) and Star Wars programs encouraged many of the amazing technological breakthroughs necessary to make the ISS a reality! So it is with humility and a sense of great accomplishment that I look forward to arrival at my ‘home away from home’ in six day’s time!”

“However, I’m afraid the high-tech lifestyle will be more than a little bit intimidating. After all, you’re looking at an original old-fashioned person- straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Yessirreee Bob. Nothing would please me more than to turn back the clock to the good-old-days of the 1940's....Tommy Dorsey, Studebakers, national pride and zeal at its peak while struggling against evil empires in ‘The Big One’...that was America’s heyday! Moving now into the twenty-first century, it is my wish that we’ll carry those happier, simpler times with us!”

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-FIVE:   Prof. Nils Johannson, Scott McGillicutty, Ingeno-Lady and Empath Girl sit soberly about a large sandalwood conference table inside their base’s high-tech briefing room. Batteries of video monitors take up almost the entire 10'x15' far wall: several of these screens showing various network coverage of the aftermath from Colonel Chronos’ latest temporal fuel acquisition run.

Stoic news anchormen stand next to sliced-up rust colored Baywatch bathing suits upon the Malibu sands. The QQ superheroine team tries desperately to ignore the near-panicked tone of reporters coming from the monitors behind them, and instead focus intently upon the life-sized sculpted frog-lady perched in the middle of their tabletop. The detailed analysis of her sandy circumstances completed, USAF security guards had moved Maw back into more cheery and comfortable surroundings just before her clear-coating fully evaporated. She now teeters stiffly (wooden wedges have been placed beneath upraised soles of her tan fuzzy feet to improve balance) as a delicate nude tribute to the danger and ingenuity of the QQ’s latest adversaries.

Through an open conference room doorway we see Dura-Damsel clothed in a blue tank-top and tiny aqua running shorts (revealing the ‘R’ and ‘T’ of the red permanent ink reject label stamped by Chronos in large type across her frozen ass) sitting at a desk with back turned in a workroom across the hall. Dressed in full costumes, IL and EG listen intently to a sad update about their companion’s current condition.

Inga cuts in, “ZONKED??!!?What in the world does that mean?”

“Yaaah, my friend, I am afraid Maw has fallen victim to one potential pitfall from our muta-cloning process”. Scotty continues. “ ZONK... standing for ‘Zenith-Onset-Nadir Kinesity’... is a theoretical over-reaction by her super powers, brought on by feedback effects from proto-matter exposure to theta-wave radiation. I fear that all five of you may have suffered dangerous levels and frequencies during your battle with Chronos two days ago”.

In her perfect Oxford-English accent, Emma breaks in to ask, “Professor, does the name suggest she’s now fallen into some kind of stupor”? The bioengineering genius confirms, “Yaaah, Empath Girl, your strong intuition is on track here. Let me explain. Chronos’ mind-controlling energywaves not only short-circuited signals between Maw’s hippocampus and brain stem; but also triggered an overloading-backlash effect once her molecular adjustment into a sand sculpture began. For a brief moment, our brave young friend’s super-abilities reached a degree and height never before accomplished. Her transformation -involuntary as it was- turned out to be absolutely flawless! Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen: gone...her entire atomic structure left virtually no trace of ever having been organic. Maw is 99.9997% desiccated silica!! She IS sand. Und now comes the bad news:

Once this proto-matter utilization reached its peak, it abruptly reversed! Zo, in Maw’s case, any ability to mutate back into flesh and blood -even through her usual ‘failsafe’ neutralizing matrix instability- is lost.She will remain stuck in her current state until we can determine the exact pattern and frequency of her theta-wave overdose, then reverse its oscillation. Our need to capture Colonel Chronos’ technology is now even greater”!

Across the hall, DD grimaces at overhead news and returns to her lightning-fast review of electric utility bills.
 

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-SIX:  A witch’s peal of heartless glee escapes Mommy’s slightly-wrinkled lips as she gloats over a newly-completed fourth private cinematic display in the West Wing of her California home. Scene landscaping and stage construction had been timed perfectly to coincide with Academy Awards night, and it had been the simplest of tasks to pluck Pretty Woman star Roberta Julies from the back seat of her limo as she stepped out onto the red carpet at Mann’s Chinese Theater- thanks to a handy time-stopping black box.

Neither the girlish beauty or her fiancee (what was his name?... Ben somebody starring on a TV police show?- all our cruel sex-crazed villainess now remembered about him was his fuzzy cute butt as she stripped away an Armani tuxedo from his Latin muscular frame during his costume change an hour ago) had made objection to a sudden unscheduled Oscar departure inside glowing blue spheres.

Their motionless portrayal of roles in a classic movie scene on the other side of thick leaded glass is flawless... if somewhat static! Ben hangs from a pole three feet above the ground with arms outstretched sideways. He now sports a weather-worn red-and-white checkerboard shirt beneath a brown canvas vest and ragged jacket. Sticking out his shirt collar, sleeves and trouser cuffs are dozens of strands of gold straw. A stupid smile is plastered over his handsome face as he gazes blankly across the ten rows of plastic cornstalks separating him from a girlfriend-turned-display-piece. A striking brunette is frozen in mid-stride, merrily skipping down a yellow brick road in ruby slippers.

Roberta models “Dorothy’s” stereotypical blue pinstripe dress (hemline quite a bit higher than in the original 1939 flick, so as to showcase lovely olive-skinned gams) and an overlaying lacy white apron. There is even Toto too- hitchhiking inside a picnic basket deposited in the crook of her left elbow. But scenery and costumes are about where similarity to The Wizard of Oz comes to an end.

Except for the expression of innocent bliss (her brown eyes beaming!) now deposited onto our youthful starlet’s face, the remainder of this cinematic reproduction holds a darker, more erotic overtone.

Glancing downward from Ben-the-scarecrow’s silly straw hat (and other accouterments to his brainless role), we note his trousers crotch is unbuttoned, exposing very ample adobe-skinned equipment. Ms. Julies’ predicament, however, is even more illuminating to future gallery visitors. Inside, weightless from the Melkosian chrono-cradle, Roberta’s dress hemline has been arranged into a high upward bounce, whereby a full frontal beaver shot of her neatly-shaven pussy is presented to the audience. An intricate slightly-spread pink delight joins modest unfettered cleavage bounding out the top of Dorothy’s too-low-cut dress as center- pieces to this evil tableaux vivant behind a radiation-proof window.

Mommy next saunters over to her right…

The fifth display is as yet unfinished.A forever-famous From Here to Eternity beach love scene now stands partly completed, yet still awaiting arrival of its Burt Lancaster stand-in. The Deborah Kerr substitute, however, already lies perfectly posed and still upon Hawaiian sands. Coiled within an impassioned embrace (for a male star yet to be delivered) while being deluged by a powerful breaking shoreline wave, Carol ‘Halt’ has made the transition between her Catalina beach pose and this one with seeming effortlessness.

Inside her time-dilated thought processes, the chestnut-haired supermodel still (a full day after the fact) struggles with the shocking realization she’s been kidnaped and immobilized nude as entertainment for an unseen gallery. Somebody...... help...me..........can’t mov..... Carol mentally cries, her view of a leering former First Lady mostly obscured by gallons of foaming seawater suspended while cresting across impressive curvatures. Both arms outstretched and curled about an as-yet-absent lover, she props upon her right side with posture straight and slender back slightly arched.

Giggling at her captive’s once perfect-hairdo now plastered randomly against her face and shoulders (providing a nice framing contrast above to her soaked dangling tan-lined breasts), Mommy now appreciates the perfection with which she has posed a supermodel’s full pouty lips into a smouldering kiss.

“Don’t fret, my pretty”, the villainess consoles the helpless beauty from the West Wing visitor’s corridor, “I’ve got company planned for you. He just hasn’t outlived his usefulness quite yet.Perhaps in a few more days?

And when he does arrive, I think we’ll have to spin you around to highlight that world-famous ass of yours!

Your brain -what little there was to start with- will be too far gone into the time-stop by then to care anyway”!

Natalie Raygun momentarily loses herself in sexual anticipation. Almost without any deliberate thought, this (rejuvenated) seeming-mid-forties bitch slips a hand down inside her slacks and panties, fingering a rapidly-moistening crotch while fantasizing about how she will fondle and play with a certain frozen muscular Marine Colonel for the half-hour before she poses him next to Carol. Closing her eyes, she moans softly in pleasure.

Ten paces directly behind her, within exhibit #3, a windswept Genesis Donor stands stiffly with luscious legs widespread. Now lapsed fully into time-dilation storage mode, Kathy England struggles vs. a mind-numbing sense of warm contentment threatening to erase consciousness itself and render her totally inanimate.

Mommy worries she must soon part with all her display pieces, exchanging their beauty for Time Bomb temporal fuel.
 

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-SEVEN: US Army Major Roger Bannister was already bored stiff with the drive. .It’s been more than ten hours since this convoy of five military contractor mega-haulers had departed North Dakota for its destination out west. The 37-year-old Desert Storm veteran didn’t understand what could be so precious and secret a cargo that their usual enlisted personnel weren’t permitted to perform this transport run. His commanding officer wasn’t talking, and all the trailer bays were triple-locked up tight as drums. However, radiation badges (with a micro-transmitter for monitoring, no less!) he and his fellow drivers were issued had already registered well up into the theta-band!

Oh well... just another sixteen hours and he’d be through with this cloak-and-dagger stuff, and enjoying some much-needed down-time. Roger smiled at the $2000 of in-house meal and casino credits laying nearby on the truck cab’s bench seat. These coupons were redeemable at any of the big-name fun spots: Harrah’s, Trunp Palace, The Grand Facade. “Place all your bets like there’s gonna be no tomorrow!”, a mysterious jar-head Colonel had told Roger as he handed him this surprise bonus.

Recalling these words causes a foreboding ache in the pit of his stomach, as the trucks speed on into Montana.
 

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-EIGHT:   Next day, three stunning superheroines stand at rigid military attention in bright costumes atop a rocky desert knoll adjacent to their top-secret lab headquarters. Observing the trio and their rather high-strung instructor from a slight distance are familiar characters. Area 57 SecurityChief Captain Katherine Wilkens adjusts regulation-length light blonde locks beneath her tight Air Force pup cap in response to a warm New Mexico desert breeze. The expression found upon her pretty blue-eyed face mixes disapproval with mild amusement. FBI agent John Straightarrow (standing next to her while surreptitiously evaluating the taut curves punctuating Katie’s uniform folds and creases) is more obvious in his unhappiness about the boot-camp training tactics now being employed some fifteen feet away.

US Navy Seal Commander David Nicholson rants and raves into Deedee’s elegant caramel countenance from a distance of twelve inches. “DAMMIT, Long-legs!! You’ve had a chance to face the enemy in combat, but let victory slip right through those purple-manicured fingers. What the HELL were you thinking??!! I’ve read your debriefing report from the encounter in California... it says that you used flashing muta-powers to rescue frozen supermodels before coming to Maw’s assistance in a three-against-one battle.NOW EXPLAIN YOURSELF, YOU BRAINLESS BIMBO!!”

Slightly panic-stricken at the vociferousness of this grilling by head of their base’s elite anti-terrorist hunter-killer military squad, Diedre’s emerald eyes avert downward- refusing to meet the Commander’s intense inquiring stare. Dozens of droplets of nervous perspiration slowly roll across her high forehead and cheeks as she finally stammers in her South African accent, “I.....I...was just....well I wasn’t sure....I was only doing what...”.

The combat-hardened veteran of Vietnam, Nicaragua and Desert Storm pounces onto the QQ’s uncertainty: “Come on, Legs... admit it.You didn’t have a CLUE about combat tactics on that beach. Let me give you some advice, sweetie. Don’t think, just ATTACK!! Ever heard the expression, ‘She who hesitates is lost’? Under fire, you must take out your enemy FIRST, THEN tend to wounded afterwards. GOT IT??”

DD nods sadly, thinking of a permanently sandy Maw.

Stepping over in front of the saffron-sari-clad teenager to Diedre’s left, Nicholson continues his barrage. Rather than making eye contact with a 5'2" superheroine (who he strongly dislikes), the Seal instead addresses the shorter Asian-Indian female by focusing on a Hindu bindhi dot centered between long straight jet-black hairs framing her delicate features. Emma remains calm and passive, despite her attention posture and the verbal storm about to be unleashed across her slender frame.

“And YOU, peace-lover......the Professor has given me strict instructions to make you learn how to defend yourself. Or would you rather end up stiff as a statue just like your friends Kathy and Looker? You could join them real soon as Colonel Chronos’ temporal fuel... or WORSE!!”

Misinterpreting the naval officer’s momentary pause as an invitation to reply to his query, Empath Girl states, “Sir, my genetic muta-coding has pre-programmed my disposition towards forms of passive resistance to all types of hostility. My role among the Quintessential Quintet is that of a healer and counselor, not a warrior”.

This unwanted reply to his drill-sergeant’s routine pushes Nicholson’s temper over the edge. Taking one step backwards, the Seal slaps EG hard across her cheek- an action which brings looks of astonishment from Katie and John, as well as eliciting a stern protective scowl upon the face of Ingeno-Lady standing beside them.

“IF I’d wanted you to speak, Ms. Dove, you can be sure I would ORDER you to do so. Until then, just SHUT UP and listen. You had better figure out some kind of defensive strategy soon, babe, or that cute li’l olive-brown ass is gonna get kicked from here to Albuquerque!”

Emma shows no sign of pain or displeasure to give him any wicked satisfaction; but rather smirks while focusing her mental super-powers into a state of preparedness.

“As for your Head-Honcho here”, the trained assassin continues, “We have her to thank for some new surprises to be tested today on the combat practice range.But all your mutated-enhanced gray matter won’t mean a damned thing if you can’t learn to ANTICIPATE actions and reactions from your adversaries better, honey”.

Our courageous Inga tightens the ramrod-straight posture of her military stance even further, fixing her steel-blue flickering eyes into a menacing gaze opposing a rude verbal sparring partner. Ingeno-Lady also feels her right forearm and hand twitch slightly, as she briefly considers using her gauntlet weapon to cool this jerk down a bit- inside an inch-thick sheet of ice.

IL had agreed to Nils Johannson’s suggestion that her QQ’s hone their combat tactics and coordination under the tutelage of the Navy Commander, but his approach was almost too much to bear. The ever-observant sailor, however, notices Inga’s slight hand movement, guessing her train of thought.

“Sorry, Bright Eyes, but I can’t allow you to lean on those crutches of yours today.” He removes one (of several) ‘accessories’ for their training session from a large USN blue canvas duffel bag set down three paces behind him. Pressing the first among a row of several buttons upon this TV remote-control-sized device, Nicholson points its emitter directly at the green-and-yellow spandex-clad superheroine. A faint high-pitched whine is discernable as a special encrypted short-range radio signal springs forth. Several clicks, ominous thunks, and warning buzzers immediately sound among the high-tech gadgetry adorning IL’s outfit. Inga quickly grasps the circumstances, and returns the Seal’s triumphant sneer with her own look of disgust.

The harsh officer grins while remarking, “Scott McGillicutty whipped up this little controller for our combat sessions. Button #1 puts everybody onto a level playing field. The Professor’s own secret disarming code was just transmitted to all those nasty little toys you carry around. They’re inoperative for a period of two hours.

Ladies, if you don’t mind, you’ll now please make your way down to the range starting box below? MOVE your pretty little ASSES!!”

As our three beauties descend a steep switch-back trail to the boulder-strewn desert valley some fifteen feet down, Inga mutters to her companions, “Look sharp, gals. Let’s show this Nazi bozo what QQ’s can dish out!”

Nicholson marches proudly over to the observing duo and announces, “Well people, you’re gonna see some fireworks this morning. Experience is a good teacher, and that trio of super-do-gooders is about to get a serious dose of combat. Wonder if their skills are up to the task”.

Katie Wilkens inquires, “I didn’t understand what you were talking about with Ingeno-Lady a moment ago, Herc. What surprises has she invented for us this time? And how can she demonstrate new technology if you’ve temporarily crippled her gauntlet gadgets?”

Moving over to the jagged edge of the knoll overlook, the Seal coaxes his fellow security professionals along with, “Patience, my darling young Captain. All will be revealed in good time as the training exercise unfolds”.

FBI Agent Straightarrow (the only one on the range seemingly unaffected by intense 112-degree New Mexico desert heat, perhaps due to his Apache blood) whispers to his perky 33-year-old USAF comrade, “WHAT did you just call him, Katie?”

The bleach-blonde replies, “Oh, that’s just his nickname. Something about the near-super-human strength he displayed back during the Tet offensive. Rumor has it that he carried three wounded Marines out of danger off the firing line all at once...including that notorious guy who got mixed up in the 80's Iran-Contra scandal, and ended up testifying defiantly before Congress. What was his name? Oliver......?”

Her hushed chatter is now halted by a bellowing Navy Commander instructing three QQ’s on the valley floor.

Depressing a second button on his target-range radio controller, a life-sized inch-thick cardboard cutout of a silver-suited criminal springs out from its previously-concealed flattened position atop a scraggly cactus-strewn hillside some fifty yards distant. ‘Colonel Chronos’ holds bikini-clad cardboard female victims firmly in the grasp of each clenched fist: their well-toned tanned bodies contorted into attitudes of terrified struggle!

“THERE’s your objective, ladies!”, shouts a strict Seal, “Take down that target and your training is complete.

But I warn you, there may be some hidden hazards along the way. Remember, this crook never works alone”!

Cautiously surveying an intervening landscape of tumbleweeds, sandy moguls, large boulders and a long-gone dry riverbed, Inga’s wholesome girl-next-door countenance darkens into a frown. Glancing briefly at the trio of observers watching from twenty feet above their 5 x 5 ‘safe zone’ course starting position, the brilliant QQ leader barks out her first commands to her fellow team members: “Deedee- you take the point. Emma- have your recuperative powers ready to go. I’ve a feeling we’re distinctly outnumbered down here in this dustbowl”!

Slowly and deliberately, our three knockout superheroines advance across the harsh terrain- keen powers of observation at their height- searching for the slightest movement as clue to the direction and nature of their first attackers. As a prairie dog peeks out of his burrow from off to the left, it narrowly escapes decapitation by

During a two-second whirlwind of DD’s eye-blurring pre-emptive strike, these trained killers find themselves rolling among the dusty gravel- hopelessly entangled within the super-speed heroine’s (replacement) lariat. As our tall lithe caramel-skinned scout squeezes the end handle of her new-and-improved restraint weapon, both members of Commander Nicholson’s squad immediately begin to feel effects from a truth serum (released from a core reservoir running the interior length of the yellow rope). As the drug rapidly absorbs through exposed skin, they are at the mercy of a deadly-serious brown-ringlet-framed face staring them down with sharp green eyes.

“What OTHER ambushes are waiting for us out here?? TALK!!”, Diedre demands. Resistance is futile.

The would-be knife-thrower involuntarily begins,“We’re fighting in three independent rogue pairs... I don’t know about any of the others. All....All I can say is watch out for our backup supervillain spring-trap over...”.

As the downed adversary points to his left, DD immediately dives into a shoulder roll. She is just in time. A cardboard likeness of a familiar platinum blonde wearing a skintight pink-and-purple minidress whirls about from behind a Saguaro to attack the lanky athlete. Before its targeting mechanism can lock onto an intended red-blue-and-yellow spandex victim, Diedre’s boomerang has crashed into ‘Mademoiselle Mensa’:  fracturing the top half of the figurine backwards, and launching its dangerous projectile skyward- off the mark. A tiny feather-tailed dart whooshes several feet overhead of the observing FBI agent, eventually falling harmlessly one hundred yards away onto the Area 57 airstrip concrete in a hail of colorful green sparks.

“NICE GOING, Legs!! You’re smarter in battle than I thought. Definitely smarter than if that villainess had ‘stupefied’ you!”, screams the Seal Commander from above.

John Straightarrow asks him, “What the @#$*! WAS that thing?”

With an annoyed back-glance, the instructor states briefly, “One of IL’s upgraded taser darts- SDT level 2, to be exact- but I’ll explain more when the combat exercises are over. I’m kinda busy at the moment, G-man!”

Nicholson turns back towards the action below, his radio controller poised to send additional cruel commands.

The Quint-Quints advance. Inga employs her still-functional hydro-fusion jet pack to spring some 20 yards ahead over the rock-littered riverbed. Landing upon the steep base incline of the hillside crowned by a Chronos-facsimile, she encourages her companions forward with a wide sweeping hand wave, then scrambles up the slippery sand-gravel slope. Meanwhile, the now-more-confident Dura-Damsel has encountered uneven and treacherous footing while crossing the arid river which prevents further use of her high-speed ‘flashing’.

Emma (her nose high in the air and head swiveling side-to-side in an attempt to maximize empathic reception) is now almost caught up to her newest colleague, trailing her by only 5-6 paces. “Careful, Deedee”, she warns, "my super-senses have a very bad feeling about this”. With good reason; as the superheroine duo approach the steep embankment on the far side of the riverbed, volleys of red paint balls commence from a cluster of boulders ten feet above and off to their left.

Hercules taunts, “You gals were too expensive an investment for ‘live-fire’ training, but if one of those blobs hits you- you’re out of the game.... not to mention all your messy laundry work getting out those nasty stains.”

Katie grimaces, shaking her head at this blatant sexist remark. The taller QQ rushes ahead to take cover among the large rocks scattered on the ancient shoreline slope (alas! following exactly the enemy’s plans in laying down their directional-cover fire in the first place), while young Emma sprints to shielding of a large cactus almost directly below the Navy Seal rifleman. As this third silver-suited adversary rises again from a crouching position to take aim at EG from almost slam-dunk range, the sari-clad female lifts her hand into the air- flicking her wrist - while closing her eyes in deep concentration. Amazingly, the shooter above is violently hurled backwards through the air- as if he’s just collided with a big Mack truck

His exclamations of profanity are cut short as he impacts with a THUD against a boulder some fifteen feet behind his original firing line. The goon slumps to the desert sands in a crumpled heap- out cold. This turn of events brings a second attacker out of hiding, as he leaps down into the ravine and charges Emma in a headlong frontal assault. The telepathic muta-clone is more than ready for him. Raising her hand into an outward-palm STOP gesture of an urban traffic cop, the lovely teen projects another mental imperative. The Seal is immediately arrested in mid-charge: arms outstretched with a look of violent hatred stuck on his face!

Back on the promontory overlook, the Navy Commander kicks the sand in frustration. “DAMMIT! I didn’t know her super-powers had advanced to the level of telekinesis. When did she gain the ability to do all this?”

Agent Straightarrow replies, “Empath Girl’s mental prowess has grown ten-fold over the past few days... ever since she returned from Catalina Island. I’ve been working closely with her recently (this comment brings outjealous sideways glances from Captain Wilkens in John’s general direction) to witness her empathic skills and telepathic range blossom to near-maturity.Emma’s been developing stronger, more effective Mind-Blow and Mind-Halt projections to impressive levels. She’s truly an amazing young woman”

Nicholson states, “Well, she caught my second squad by surprise, but she’s out of position to save her partner. WATCH THIS!!” The cruel instructor depresses another button on the radio controller, a wide grin spreading over his face.

From a distance of fifty feet, Emma senses fully the sailor’s evil intent, and she spins to exclaim, “Deedee..DUCK!”

Just as she is scrambling up-over the final ridge of the dryriverbed, a second cardboard spring-trap emerges on rolling wheels immediately to DD’s right. Likeness of a scrawny purple-jump-suited supervillain slides into point-blank position before the unsure-footed good-gal. Beneath armor-padded shoulders and head-gear, we discern the evil countenance of Plaster-Master! 2 Twin metal tanks mounted on his back connect to a phallic elongated tube raised and ready to fire. Before a stunned Dura-Damsel can recover her balance enough to dodge the attack, we hear a gentle WHHOOOSH, as the compressed-air gun mounted behind this facsimile activates, sending another tiny feathered dart forward into the heroine’s ample left breast.

Amid a torrent of green sparks which momentarily wash across her tall athletic frame, Deedee has only opportunity to mutter, “WHAaa??”, before collapsing forward down onto all fours atop a large flat rock cresting the riverbank. Her bright green eyes are saucer-wide as she helplessly gazes upon her cardboard captor. And gazes....and gazes... and gazes.......

The warm New Mexico breeze suddenly freshens, stirring her frilly chocolate ringlets across her open-jawed shocked expression, and (rather embarassingly) hoisting her royal blue miniskirt and short yellow cape upwards over arched back and shoulders. The caramel-skinned beauty makes no attempt to correct these aesthetic errors- much though she may like to. She cannot budge…DD is totally paralyzed by PM’s taser dart!

Perched like an exotic wildcat about to pounce upon prey, her frilly-white-pantied derriere juts out on display. Empath Girl has witnessed this bizarre entrapment from the riverbed below, and rushes to her friend’s aid...

Embroiled in her own difficulties on the hilltop above the two companions, Inga has no idea as to the static peril unleashed by a heartless combat instructor twenty yards behind her. Two nunchukus-wielding Seals have popped up out of foxholes on her left and right to defend nearby Colonel Chronos & beach babe figurines!

Closing from both flanks simultaneously upon our spandex-clad brunette, the silver-costumed sailors emit loud blood-curdling battle cries as they gain positions within ten feet of the QQ leader. Inga’s brilliant mind races to identify a legitimate combat tactic for her weaponless and outnumbered circumstances upon a modest sandy slope. Then she has it!!

Taking a page directly from her friend Looker’s play book, the physically-fit young superheroine pivots sideways to face the attacker on her left. Flashing a most alluring bright white smile (that almost matches the intensity of her steel-blue eyes), IL bends down to clutch her (downhill) left ankle inside dexterous hands.A form-fitting green-and-yellow costume stretches and strains at critical spots in response to this seemingly-untimely posing.

In front, the good-gal’s sturdy-but-shapely gams are well highlighted from the top of her ankle-high boots to slightly above the knees. From that level higher, wavy raven tresses fall over powerful athletic shoulders to frame dangled generous breasts challenging front confines of IL’s costume. An undulating QQ insignia and lightning bolt atop her chest provide contrast to the delightful size-36 hills and valleys cascading forward-outwards under the coaxing of gravity. This unexpected seductive maneuvering on the part of our heroine causes an instant of indecision within the assault-charge of the frontal-advancing Seal.

Winking playfully at him, the resourceful female turns attention over her lowered left shoulder back towards the other opponent. He is stopped in his tracks. Who could blame him? Deliciously presented for rear-view inspection is Ingeno-Lady’s well-proportioned bent backside. Tightly-stretched green spandex leaves little to the sailor’s imagination regarding her apple-round curvatures. Within this striking center attraction a reverse-C-shaped dark crevice flows languidly down, bisecting taut dimpled cheeks before curling out left and right into slightly-spread sinewy-but-shapely straightened legs. What a show!

Fixing eye contact with her rearwards (and-nearly-stupefied) threat using her best come-hither facial expression, Inga now announces coquettishly, “Peek-a-Boo... I moon you!!”On the far riverbed hilltop, David Nicholson exclaims, “WHAT THE HELL!!?”

Our Quint-Quint’s ingenious feminine delaying strategy is completely successful. Adjusting her pivot angle between the two attackers while maintaining her cheeky pose, IL addresses both Seals while surreptitiously slipping her index finger atop the hydro-fusion ignition button on her left forearm, “GOTCHA!!”

The world’s only miniaturized cold fusion reactor springs to life, taking in the surrounding air as fuel to immediately expel it back out as powerful jet pack exhaust....and her thrusters are aimed directly at an ogling adversary less than five feet away! The forceful blast sends the unwitting recipient tumbling rearwards some sixty feet back down the hillside, where impact from a touch-down atop rocks and tumbleweeds steals all consciousness from him. Yet, thanks to the action-reaction laws of physics, two silver opponents are downed in one maneuver. Raising both yellow-gloved arms in front of her and forming clenched fists, the QQ leader is propelled by her jet pack into the hesitating forward attacker’s breadbasket- knocking the wind out of him with a loud ‘OOoommpphh’ as the entangling duo crash to the gravel. One stiff uppercut to his pronounced jawline places him out of the action also. Wiping the grit and dust of her encounter back off from her shiny costume, the victorious girl-next door stands to regain her balance and march determinedly uphill towards the waiting training exercise prizes.

FBI agent Straightarrow and Captain Wilkens overhear Hercules’ oaths turn into the challenge: “Take THIS!”

Once again, Empath Girl intercepts the hostile thought emanations from this cruel never-say-die Navy Commander. Urgency from the QQ’s dire circumstances forces Emma’s mental powers into unexpected full bloom in the heat of the moment. All four still-fully-conscious individuals (not counting Deedee, who has now fallen into a foggy stupor at the mercy of her taser dart-induced immobility) accompanying EG on the target practice range experience a desperate telepathic warning plea radiating outward across the arid desert sands: INGA!! They’re using spring-loaded booby-traps armed with paralyzing darts... WATCH OUT!!

The thought transmission from her Asian-Indian colleague reaches IL just in the nick of time. As she continues her climb to the exercise-ending 2-dimensional goal, movement is detected among the underbrush about ten feet directly in front of the Colonel Chronos cutout. Our advancing heroine doesn’t waste a millisecond in response.

Again activating the hydro-fusion thrusters in a controlled two-second burst, Ingeno-Lady shoots fifteen feet forward and upward, executing a practiced-perfect double-somersault with a half-twist, landing right behind a female cardboard cutout adversary- just as she swings into a vertical firing position! This gaunt supermodel-framed villainess sports a shocking blue Chignon atop her too-perfect-to-be-true severe facial features. A slightly artificial sheen is evident across the flawless skin encased inside a trademark clear vinyl catsuit. Brandishing an infamous Plazti mannequinizing invention, ‘Plastica’² glares evilly downhill while her computer targeting mechanism whirs futilely- searching for a taser dart target. The device’s hunt persists only one second more, as Inga regains balance upon the slope after her short flight, and unleashes a savage karate high-snap-kick between flat shoulder blades.

The Plastica figurine absorbs the blow poorly, disengaging from its glide-rack and breaking free from control wires and cables connecting it to an infuriated Seal atop the distant overlook. Never getting any chance to fire its incapacitating weaponry against a too-quick QQ, the facsimile flies two dozen feet through the air to impale itself atop a squat cluster of prickly-pear cacti halfway down the slanting hilltop. IL permits herself a warm smile of triumphant relief as she acknowledges cheers from Emma below.

Yet the Quint-Quints leader has let her guard down too soon! Almost reflexively-without an instant of potentially-betraying thought to warn Empath Girl- Commander Nicholson presses another radio controller button, sending forth his last-ditch target range defense. From immediately behind the spot where ‘Plastica’ met her untimely demise, a fourth cardboard booby-trap slides quietly upwards out of its slender mechanical slot hidden among the sagebrush. Attired within his life-sustaining ice-blue and purple cryo-thermal suit, we now recognize Gotham City’s Mr. Freeze. Inside his clear acrylic bubble-helmet, cold red-goggled eyes train intently onto the strong back of a green-and-yellow-spandexed brunette wiping sweat away from her brow.

So Inga is absolutely astonished when she recognizes a weird WHOOSHING noise erupting behind her, and then experiences an overwhelming electrical shocking sensation which locks her muscles rigid! A small time delay between taser dart impact (into the perky half-globe of her right buttock) and the full paralyzing effect from a wave of green sparks washing head-to-toe across her brave frame allows our superheroine only the slightest of reaction against her solidifying fate. Rising up onto booted tip-toes and arching her back, the QQ desperately flails her arms upward in terror- palms outspread and fingers wide. Hands reach almost shoulder height before they become stuck in mid-air. Inga involuntarily assumes the posture of a victim from the classic high-school prank: her back spasms and cranes fully forward, as if somebody has just shoved ice cubes down the neck (or drop-seat) of her costume. A totally-aghast expression contorts her usually-attractive facial features. And so she now teeters: a hapless stiffened testament to her own engineering genius.

Hercules pumps his fist skyward.

Turning to his two observer colleagues, the Navy Seal produces a small case from within his duffel bag. Gingerly opening the black plastic container, he extracts two tiny darts, handing them over by tail feathers to the inquisitive duo.

John and Katie examine IL’s upgraded weaponry from point-blank range, while the pretty USAF Captain inquires, “How do these work?”

Our Seal states, “The Professor gave me a note so I could now provide technical explanation. According to this, ‘precise amperage oscillation from varied electrical impulses discharged by SDT’s- Synaptically-Disruptive Tasers- is sufficient to magnetically polarize electrostatic ions contained in protective myelin which coats the synapses: gaps of ganglia and nerve-endings associated with voluntary muscle activity’”

Katie rolls her eyes and replies, “Yeah, that certainly does sound like our egghead leader. I think he’s trying to tell us that these things short-circuit motion-oriented commands from the brain”.

The Commander continues with, “All I know is that these little jewels can freeze anybody right in their tracks. SDT level 1 -we’re not using any today- creates only a momentary ‘blip’ among human thought and mobility-- providing a few seconds of seeming-invisibility to move past a target before he/she can notice any elapsed time change. Level ones would be just about perfect for slipping past sentry posts and security guard checkpoints. The only downside is that victims can be roused from their stasis with only the slightest stimulation: a nudge or even a loud noise. That’s why Inga and the Prof designed more powerful darts as well. Level 2- what’s keeping our gals occupied out there right now- emits a stronger, more long-lasting effect. Victims remain stationary for as much as a half-hour, and can even be posed and repositioned inside a semi-pliable, semi-rigid freeze.

Consciousness is affected, however, and test subjects report lapsing into a fuzzy, dream-like state. But speech and actions of outside parties can still be felt and recognized. Then there’s SDT level 3- what you two have in your hands right now. These contain very strong electrical impulses, capable of incapacitating targets for periods of several hours. Once struck by one of those babies, you’ll instantly snap totally rigid: stiff as a board and completely unconscious. SDT-3 preliminary testing shows this type of shock impairs the brain’s recollection function, effectively wiping clean short-term memory of 2-3 hours both before and after capture.

That’s especially nice in my line of work, where witnesses tend to become liabilities”. The FBI agent’s fierce gray eyes narrow as he considers a strange dart held between his fingers. “But, David, how effective can these things really be against military targets, where Kevlar and body armor are standard issue?”

Our Seal smiles wryly as he responds, “Check it out G-man. All taser darts are titanium tipped, with substantial penetration capability”. This imagery elicits the desired response. Scientifically tapping the SDT dart point with his index finger (testing its sharpness), the ruggedly-handsome law enforcement officer realizes his mistake... too late! A familiar fireball of green sparkling electricity bursts forth from the missile, engulfing him in synaptically-disrupted imprisonment. John does not have time to react to this high-amperage discharge, becoming rooted to the spot while still focusing intently onto his means of entrapment.

Katie, however, emits a squeal of shock and fear while shifting into a classic back-stepping recoil. Yet our pretty blonde Security Chief also becomes abruptly arrested, as grasp upon her own dart loosens in a moment of confused recognition to their peril. The tiny perfectly-balanced projectile slips through twitching fingertips to fall directly into the Air force Captain’s right thigh muscle. Mouth agape- stuck expelling her horrified shout- Katie halts slightly cross-eyed amid a stereotypical pose that veritably screams ‘damsel in distress’.

Although he knows that sensory perceptiveness likely has already been disconnected for the cute frozen couple, USN Commander David ‘Hercules’ Nicholson proceeds to tease them anyway with, “OH!! I’m SO sorry, guys... guess I forgot to warn you two. My SDT-3’s were fully charged!”

He then begins to loosen hooks and the zipper atop Katie’s knee-length uniform skirt.
 

COMIC PAGE THIRTY-NINE:  At almost the exact same moment when the lower half of Captain Wilkens’ wardrobe hits the desert sands, second-in-command to Colonel Chronos, Dawn Fall, strides through a control room outer door of her gang’s secret North Dakota laboratory-base. Striding purposefully past a trio of Cray supercomputers, the tall frosted blonde (who looks not a day over twenty five, despite an actual chronology nearly twice that age) approaches the far corner of their base nerve center. There contained inside a floor-to-ceiling tube of icy bubbling argon-ammonia floats Phaethon mission commander Kel-Bar Sasha. Dawn takes advantage of her solitary representation from members of CC’s little club to near completion of a pet project.

Raising the 35mm digital camera from its tether atop her white tube top, the informally-clad villainess snaps several evidence shots in close succession before moving to the wide-screen video console at the other side of the room. Transferring the just-taken photos in jpeg compressed file format into a hidden subdirectory she has appropriately named ‘big bucks’, the mischievous woman then transfers these pictures- along with dozens of other damning files from research and temporal fuel collecting activities- onto a 100MB Zip disc. Slipping the fat black square down past the back waistband of her tight maroon running shorts, she heads for the control room door with precious cargo safely stowed in a spot where none of the military security personnel upstairs would ever dare to look.

Punching in her door access keypad code, Dawn thinks, just one more courier trip, and I’ll have all the proof that National Enquirer editor demands...then I can retire rich and happy to Tahiti!

Regarding five blinking red dots slowly approaching a Montana-Wyoming border on a nearby electronic map, she further realizes, And I better make it quick before Project Sodom and Gomorrah is completed. That’s the very last calibration before the Big Bang itself!!

Suddenly, the compressed-air-driven mechanical door to her immediate right swings open, and Weasel emerges while tucking back in his shirt and re-zipping up his fly... Both evil-doers gasp in astonishment at the other’s presence, and it’s so hard to tell which one of them looks more guilty -caught-red-handed- than the other.

Based on his flushed and sweaty appearance, Dwight has very likely just spent some quality time with one(or more) of the time-stopped lovelies populating the Colonel’s own life-sized trophy collection.Dawn had caught our brilliant-but-lonely computer nerd enviously eyeing Tyra ‘Blanks’ as she was wheeled into the room marked NO ADMITTANCE atop her new pedestal-home two days ago.

Now on the defensive, CC’s sex-crazed third-in-command starts to panic, until his gaze falls to appraise Dawn’s athletically-toned backside. “You seem to be showing just a bit more cheek than usual today, darling.I’d say your troubles are all behind you now!”Stalemate.

Both traitors regard each other warily in silence.
 

COMIC PAGE FORTY:  An overbearing Navy Seal leers menacingly into Ingeno-Lady’s shocked stare from mere inches away. Having already investigated and explored heretofore-unknown regions upon a trio of other statuesque females decorating the Area 57 combat practice range (Katie’s distinctly non-regulation garter-hose combination without panties being Nicholson’s biggest surprise- he couldn’t know that our lady Captain had planned to spring these seductive hot-pink undergarments on John Straightarrow later), this secret ally of the treacherous Colonel Chronos gloats over his newest prized possession: a brave-but-helpless Quint-Quints boss.

“I TOLD you to anticipate actions and reactions of your opponents better, Bright Eyes”, he begins, “Looks like you’ve paid a steep price for NOT following my instructions. Now, imagine that‘Mr. Freeze’ has encased you in a half-foot-thick block of solid ice. Then he takes you home to use as a centerpiece at his next supervillain’s cocktail party! Let me help you get a better idea of just what it would feel like to be displayed in the middle of their hors d’oeuvres table, appreciated by criminals munching on canapes...”

Reaching into his USN duffel bag, he produces a silver insulated pouch. Carefully maneuvering up-and-under the shoulder strap supports to IL’s instrument back pack, Hercules unfastens & lowers the top of our stiffened superheroine’s costume zipper.

Pulling at the yellow mock-turtle-high neckline, he then dumps full contents from the pouch down the front of her body suit.As a quart of ice cubes tumbles south to rest upon and between Inga’s busty superstructure, the only immediate physiological response visible to the sadistic Commander is her involuntary widening of fixed eye pupils.Yet, as the Seal continues his speech to a captive audience, he notes the sudden chill begin to puff and harden the young woman’s nipples: more-and-more visible behind and through tight spandex material. A response of his own to Inga’s most recent changes occurs in the crotch of his desert fatigues.

“Well, at least you’re getting some relief from this unbearable heat, cutie!”, he continues, while repositioning mid-convulsed arms straight down against her sides.Lost deep within a semi-conscious dream state, the pretty brunette hears and feels surrounding events and circumstances as if from a great distance. There’s nothing she can do to stop the Seal’s unwanted advances.

Rudely yanking the top of her skintight costume down and forward, Nicholson succeeds in revealing the immobilized good-gal’s bare torso from her shoulders to her belly button. Ice cubes scatter across the gravel-sand slope, as the top third of a green-and-yellow spandex suit (including its built-in underwire bra) flutters between rigid elbow masts in the New Mexico breeze.The sailor grins at full sight of softball-sized breasts protruding to freedom into bright mid-morning sunshine. Huge half-dollar-sized faint pink aureoles circle darker thimble-shaped erect nubs that bounce-jiggle as gravity takes full hold upon IL’s buxom frame.

Seconds later, this unlikely ‘couple’ is engulfed in a swirling haze of passion, as never-before-adored breasts are worshiped for their pleasing shape, texture and softness. The always-too-busy-for-fun QQ leader and technical expert quickly succumbs (mixed-up between delight and shame) for the very first time to sudden dual thrills from skilled carnal attention, and her masochistic-like bondage due to synaptic disruption.Were she able to react to the man suckling and fondling her chest at this moment, she would either deck him with a right cross, or rip his uniform to shreds and jump his muscular bones. She honestly can’t decide which.

Several minutes later, a calculating hunter-killer coasts back down the hillside slope to reach two more stock-still prisoners of Inga’s taser darts. Empath Girl’s strong compassion had been her own undoing.

Herc chuckles softly as he approaches the teenager’s bending-forward position: a delicate olive-skinned handstill resting gently onto her fallen comrade’s right shoulder, and her eyes closed amid deep empathic effort.

Trying to free Diedre from her paralyzed predicament by using a muta-clone-enhanced super-healing ability, Emma found herself instead captured inside her own motionless body. Initially successful in making mental contact with DD, she had begun a practiced injury-absorption-then-expulsion process granted to her by proto-matter laced inside her own DNA.Yet once polarization of myelin commenced within her own cells, EG found she could neither control its progression- nor ultimately resist it. And so she too became a static superheroine statistic.

The Seal Commander walks brusquely past the sari-clad female, noting ironically, “Tsk...tsk...tsk, Ms. Dove. Haven’t you heard the expression, ‘Nice Gals Finish Last’? I guess you’re learning your lesson the hard way...

But first, I think Long-Legs here will be meeting her fate at the hands of ‘Plaster-Master’. I haven’t got his Erotica Ray handy, baby, but I think you’re gonna like my close substitute”. Dura-Damsel’s perched pose atop the riverbank rock is only slightly changed from earlier: the frilly white panties have been tugged down to her spread bent knees, presenting her slim elongated runner’s ass for the sailor’s amusement. A brisk desert windnow stirs the dense chocolate crinkles of her rearward-open bush, proffering glimpses of moist pink treasures.

Producing an oversized Sheik-II double-pronged dildo, the cruel instructor unceremoniously slips its vibrating width deep inside Deedee’s recesses. Inability to react externally to an immediate explosion of pleasure below the waist only heightens an ecstasy her libido has craved ever since her muta-cloning was completed. As DD’s first orgasm builds within her, far corners of her lips crinkle ever-so-slightly into the smallest hint of a smile.

Chronos’ man-on-the-inside leaves a delight-dizzied super-athlete frozen on all-fours, moving back to Emma.

Taking full advantage of the poseability feature of SDT-2's, Nicholson straightens the jet-black long-haired EG into a moderately-widespread stance, next lifting her delicate arms over her head. He then matter-of-factly commences the process of stripping Emma nude. As a saffron sari, spandex tank top, lacy brassiere, skintight biking shorts and yellow thong panties fall to desert sands one-by-one, our telepathic superheroine attempts to halt the Seal’s sexual advances with defensive mental commands, only to discover them ineffectual under her nerve-disconnected condition. Thus all that is left to the youngest of the QQ’s is an ability to mentally protest, STOP! You musn’t do this to me! No man has ever been allowed to...WAIT!! NOooooooo....

Hercules does not heed her empathic cries, instead guiding the striking petite Hindi into an exaggerated baseball catcher’s crouch. Pivoting her sandaled (only accessories left adorning her naked frame) toes outward and spreading both knees, he bends the olive-skinned Barbie’s elbows around to cup each hand across curvaceous thighs. EG wobbles momentarily amid this involuntary sexual squat, her eyes still closed and trimmed pussy some twelve inches above the rocky shoreline.

Turning to retrieve the very last prop from his blue duffel bag, this cruel Colonel Chronos crony unrolls an inch-thick foam mattress pad- positioning its long rectangle through a gap on the ground between the rigid young superheroine’s dainty feet and calves. Internal sobs well up inside her breast as Emma realizes what is coming.

As Hercules removes the lower half of his uniform, he mocks his powerless puppet with, “You probably already know this, Dove, but I have selected a variant from the Vishni Position- #139 of the Kama Sutra- in your honor. Hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I will. Don’t worry, though.I’ve got level-three taser darts in my bag of tricks to help you super-foxes forget all about me.We can’t have you gals getting all mushy on me now, can we?

Of course, Empath Girl cannot reply, instead remaining just as motionless as one of the graphic illustrations from the ancient publication referenced by the Commander. In a few moments, the bawdy sailor delights at sight of Emma’s teenage conical breasts swaying back-and-forth in rhythm with his animated upward thrusts.

Nicholson can hear his partner’s intermittent telepathic screams.