Inspiration: Chapter 10 (Part I) of Gehayi and Ket’s sporking of 50 Shades of Grey, which compares Christian Grey to the Spokane Serial Killer, Robert Lee Yates. The similarities are so disturbing, I had to give myself a spitefic detox immediately. Features L.E. and Chaz — two characters from an original novel I’m working on. Written for the Das_Sporking and Twispitefic communities on LJ.
L.E. and Chaz are my characters for an original novel I’m currently working on. They belong to me. Try to steal them, and it won’t be pretty.
L.E. sighed as they pulled up to the gate at Christian Grey’s home, eying the massive wrought iron bars with an austere gaze. Chaz gripped the steering wheel in his thin, spidery hands.
“This is the place,” Chaz told her, his light voice carrying that slightly nasal quality she’d become so used to. Her nerd-boy and personal hacker was as necessary to her as her left arm, and as dear to her as family. They had become a formidable team in the past few months; he being the brains, and she the brawn.
They had both been in the same government testing facility, a major base of operations for the innocuously named Domestic Medical Health Advancement Agency. However, they had been experimented on for different reasons. L.E. had made the mistake of signing her life over to a group of powerful men in suits, out of fear of an untimely death from the terminal illness that had been ravaging her insides. They had caught her in a weak moment, and anyone would have made the same choice. But she did not have to be their puppet…
Chaz had been there too as a “subject.” The doctors at the DMHAA had messed around with the already intelligent young man’s brainpower – putting his I.Q. on steroids, as it were. The agency had wanted both the perfect soldiers and the perfect infiltrators. They had failed… and, simultaneously, succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.
“So, tell me more about this Christian Grey asshole,” L.E. said.
“Fifteen girls missing; four known to have worked with him, six known to frequent the building, and three known to have had a personal relationship with the guy.” Chaz gave a hitch of his bony shoulders, his bright red hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back. “Doesn’t cover his tracks very well, does he?”
L.E. snorted. “Think he’s got a new girl in his clutches now?”
Chaz gave her a grim smile. “Is the sky blue?”
That was all the answer she needed. She knew Chaz’s fact-checking was beyond reproach, and no longer felt the need to ask him how sure he was about his sources. The guy could break into the Pentagon’s computers without anyone ever knowing he was there; the information located in the databanks of Grey Enterprises would have been as easy to glean as L.E. kicking down the ancient, warped door of her old apartment.
She opened the passenger door of their stolen Honda Civic. Time to get down to business.
“Go forth, Lady of the Asskickery. And bring back a t-shirt for me.”
* * *
L.E. examined the gate and the front yard beyond it. She listened closely for the sounds of dogs or any kind of security. No dogs, but she could hear someone breathing out here.
Crouching, her muscles contracted like she were a cat preparing to pounce onto a high shelf. L.E. launched herself over the gate and went into freefall. She landed neatly on all fours on the other side, the grass cushioning her landing and muffling the sound of impact.
She grinned in spite of herself. The things her once frail body could do now never failed to bring her pleasure. Being able to run fast, and to jump as high as she could now – it was still exciting. She hoped she’d never have a chance to become too used to her new physical advantages. She wanted to enjoy every minute of her freedom, even as her conscience demanded she help others who were as unfortunate as she had been.
This above all: to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day. Thou canst not then be false to any man. The wise words of Polonius to Laertes had become both L.E.’s motto and method, even though she understood the context was quite different in Shakespeare’s play, and that Polonius had a strange way of following his own advice.
L.E.’s truth was she had been poor, sick and friendless once. No truly kind soul had reached out for her in her hour of need. How could she, in turn, stand by and let those who were in need of an angel of mercy be victimized or pushed aside? Her conscience wouldn’t let her; she remembered the lessons of history too well.
Grey’s house was dark, except for the basement level. L.E. crept in the shadows of the yard, concealing herself from prying eyes. Then she heard it: the sound of a girl’s voice, reed-thin and willowy. L.E. couldn’t make out the words… but there was a man’s voice as well, deep and menacing.
Why, hello there, Mr. Grey, L.E.’s thoughts sneered. I do hope you’re prepared for an uninvited guest.
* * *
Ana trembled, even as she remained still. He had ordered her to remain still. She had to be a good girl for him. But she had been tied up here uncomfortably long. “Please, Christian. Untie me. I have to go to the bathroom.”
“No, sweetheart. Not yet. I’ve got a new idea for our playtime.” He brandished a scalpel.
Ana quivered, but it wasn’t in desire. “I thought you said ‘no medical instruments’…” she began.
Though his expression didn’t change, his eyes held a glint of the cold, calculating brand of madness. “I lied.”
* * *
L.E. slunk into the house through the open third-story window – via a convenient branch and a well-timed jump – and made her way down toward the ground floor. Unfortunately, the third person she’d sensed earlier was now in the kitchen. She waited, held her breath.
She could hear this person – Grey’s waste manager, she assumed – gathering what sounded like plastic bags. Garbage bags? A cold fury roiled in the pit of her stomach at the unwanted mental image that provided.
Her steps were quiet as she made it to the pit where another stairwell, and the basement door beyond it, was waiting. There was a creak as she placed her foot on the first step. Damnit!
Bag Boy halted his current task and began to approach. L.E. immediately got back up the step and pressed herself against the nearest wall; not hiding, but lying in wait.
As Bag Boy rounded the corner, she grabbed him and slammed him into the floor. She timed the blow so he was knocked unconscious with minimal noise. According to Chaz, Grey’s playroom was soundproofed, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
She crept down the stairs, her steps faster now yet still light. L.E. pressed her ear to the door, and was both gratified – and devestated – to hear the poor girl sobbing.
Not knowing how badly the girl might have been injured, L.E. did not hesitate. She wrenched the lock off the door with her bare hand, the rusty lock crumpling like paper in her strength-enhanced grip. The heavy iron door flew off its equally aged hinges with a well-placed kick.
The girl – a tiny brunette tied to a bondage table – gasped and stared up at her unexpected cavalry of one. Christian whirled, his eyes blazing as he glared at L.E.
“Sorry to break up the party,” L.E. said. “But it’s past your bedtime.”
With an odd snarl, Grey launched himself at L.E. She simply caught him by the arm, bending it back at a painful angle, the bones beginning to fracture under her grip. Then, as if he were no more than a rag doll, shoved him into the stony wall. He collided face-first with the wall and slid to the floor, whimpering in pain.
L.E. snorted. “Not so tough now, huh, Mr. Grey?” Then she turned away from him and headed for the frightened young woman. “Don’t worry,” L.E. told her. “I’m here to help you. What’s your name, kid?”
“Ana. Anastacia Steele. Who… who are you?” Her blue eyes were wide and frightened. L.E. had the bizarre sensation that she was staring into a mirror image; Ana seemed so much like her younger self. A younger self that had been similarly strapped down in an equally soundproofed room.
“Come on, Ana,” L.E. said. “Let’s get you on home. Kate’s worried sick about you.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, Seattle police found Christian Grey tied to the bondage table, his assistant Taylor strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross, and a crateful of incriminating evidence lovingly placed in the middle of the playroom floor.