Growing into the Job, Post 479: Sharpening the Weapons: Stephanie, p2

<Trigger warning: fried pickles, gunfire, and female-on-male violence>

At the door to the bar, In the chill of the November night, the two young women stood alone. Voices of people enjoying their drunken Saturday rolled from inside.  

"I don’t know if I can do this, Marisela..." the tall, fit, busty blonde nervously repeated. Her hand was already on the knob of the bar’s front door. Now that the moment was upon her, she was having misgivings again.

"You’ve already decided, Stephanie,” the darker, tattooed girl said, voice steadying her friend and coworker, “You made it here. That’s the first step. The hardest part is over."

Stephanie, looking back over her shoulder, met Marisela’s eyes. "And what’s the next part?"

Marisela chuckled, then replied with her normal cold, stygian wit. "The fun part."

Stephanie felt some dark light flicker to life inside herself, and she smiled as memories of the past with Kurt came back to her. Learning, earlier this evening, that she was able to lift small cars overhead was astounding, but feeling their frames bend under her unfathomable strength and imagining they were his bones was even better. She loved her body’s new possibilities, even if she still did not understand them. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to break him in two. Stephanie had never been what she would call aggressive before, but knowing what she was now capable of had apparently awakened something inside her. And Marisela was here to help her take the next step. 

As the two had walked towards the bar, Stephanie’s mindset had changed.  She’d begun to quiet her nerves and feel a growing, simmering purpose. Marisela’s quiet confidence has started rubbing off on her, sparking a sense of empowerment as she got closer to a moment she’d pictured in her mind’s darkest corners for years.

Marisrla seemed able to read her friend’s thoughts. “You’ve been thinking about him ever since he and his friends assaulted you. Maybe you didn’t realize it along the way, but you’ve been making yourself stronger at the gym to prepare yourself for this very night. How many times have you imagined this? You want to punish him, make him feel the way you did.”

Stephanie turned back to the door of the bar, looking through it as if she could already see him inside. “I...I want him to understand...

”“Oh, he’ll understand. Trust me,” Marisrla replied, reaching into the inner pocket of her cropped leather jacket to pull out a small, black device. She switched it on. “But this isn’t about understanding. This is about power. Taking it back from them. Demonstrating it. Expanding it.”

“Oh, god, Marisela.” Stephanie’s voice was shaky with anticipation. 

“They walked away from that night at the party, Stephanie,” Marisrla reminded her, turning a small dial on the device and bringing it to a low, throbbing hum, “While you carried it, they went on with their lives. No guilt, no shame. And now, while they’ve gone off and done this to countless other girls, they don’t even think about you. Not once.”

“You’re right, I know, but...”

The voice of the pale, black-haired girl with the black-lined eyes became darker, firmer, “Yes, you can. You need to.” She knew this was an important step for Stephanie and for the hive of girls at Far Horizons. Stephanie needed to learn how to use her body’s new abilities for their intended purpose, for all their sakes. But she also knew how this was a difficult moment for her unlikely friend. Marisela, herself, had murdered dozens of men by now, midnight bloodlettings like piggish sacrifices to some dark goddess. Stephanie, though, had never hurt a fly. “They’re all here, all five of them. They’ve been doing this for years. Coming here. Finding college girls. Doing to them what they did to you. When you’re ready, I’ll block the exit. None of them leaves without my say-so.” From the back of the black device, she pulled off a strip of paper, exposing a sticky band of tape. 

Stephanie understood the plan, but her tone was still tense, hesitant. “What if...what if I can’t do it? What if I freeze?”

“You won’t. The moment you see his face, you’ll know what to do. Just remember - this is about you, not him.” With that, Marisela stuck the black box to the side of the building, just outside the door. 

“What’s that?” Stephanie asked. 

“Cell signal jammer. No one will be calling for help.”

Marisela quietly looked at her own phone, put it back in her pocket. The first phase of control was set. Then she waited, watching the moment where Stephanie went from struggling with her emotions to a new, final resolve. Marisrla allowed herself a thin, dark smile, and felt her eye teeth beginning to sharpen. 

“Let’s do this,” Stephanie breathed, and opened the door to Red Dog’s. 

The place was not big but busy with college students and some locals, men and women. Perhaps fifty people, total. Marisela surveyed the scene. While Stephanie had been here before, back when she was a college student at Fairpoint U, this was Marisela’s first time. 

The first thing she noticed was how the low hum of conversation and laughter scraped across her heightened senses. The air was heavy with the clashing aromas of cheap beer, stale smoke, and the tang of student sweat. Dim, flickering neon signs advertising brands of beer cast jagged pools of light that painted the faces of the mostly college-aged patrons in washed-out blues and reds, lending the scene a distorted, surreal quality. The wooden walls, scuffed and stained with years of carelessness, likely held memories in their deep grooves - memories of raucous nights, whispered secrets, and maybe even violent tempers. It took Marisela these couple moments, but now she remembered how much she hated places like this.

The bar’s layout was simple but - especially with the crowd - suffocating, with narrow aisles between clusters of old, chipped tables and mismatched chairs that spoke of the owner’s indifference to decor. A jukebox in the corner warbled an old rock tune that Marisela recognized as Blue Öyster Cult. Dr. J would love it, she mused. Strings of lights, their glow uneven and sickly yellow, hung low over the booths that lined the walls, where college students sat laughing too loudly over pitchers and cheap well drinks in plastic cups, their eyes glazed with intoxication. Older locals, rough around the edges with hardened eyes, claimed the bar stools like thrones, observing newcomers with the casual suspicion of those who’d seen too much bad behavior out of the Fairpoint students. Over the bar hovered an old flat-screen TV, whose signal had apparently failed. The cell jammer’s working, and there’s no hardwiring here, Marisela thought, so no TV, no internet, and their security system won’t be broadcasting anywhere.

Marisela’s analytic gaze moved to the bar itself, calculating not just the strength of the stretch of weathered mahogany dulled by years of spilled drinks, but also the man standing behind it. The bartender, a large man with a flannel shirt stretched tight over his gut, had given up messing with the TV remote and was wiping down a glass with a rag that was probably dirtier than the glass itself. With a sniff, she could smell it, and him. This was who she’d been expecting to be tending bar tonight: “Red Dog” himself. Small-time drug dealer, two counts of domestic abuse and he voted wrong in the last election; Marisela was, if nothing else, diligent in her research and uncompromising in her ethics. He would be expendable, possibly even a target. She saw his eyes flicker toward them for just a moment, registering their presence but showing no reaction.

Marisela’s hypersensitive ears noted how the sound of clinking glasses and raucous laughter had waned for a breath as more patrons took notice of her and her friend. Eyes were on her and Stephanie - many admiring, some curious, others laced with the slight edge of suspicion. It was to be expected; she and Stephanie stood out, both tall, both well-built, both striking - and both with a certain edge that suggested they weren’t there for a casual drink. “Look at the tits on Vampirella,” came one furtive whisper from the other side of the room, caught by Marisela’s hearing.

“Dibs on the blonde.” “Ooo they come in two flavors.” “Fuck I want to fucking fuck the fuck out of them.”

Okay maybe more than just the bartender is expendable.

Marisela also heard that Stephanie’s breathing had quickened beside her, as well as the subtle creak of wood under her friend’s shifting stance. She knew this was the moment when Stephanie would confront years of emotional pain and turmoil. Fingers tightened into fists, and Marisela felt the pulse of tension crackle between them like a live wire as Stephanie spotted…them.

At the back of the room, around a long table lit by the glow of a neon sign and about ten feet from a dartboard, sat Kurt. An ex-athlete, he’d let himself go but still looked tall enough to impose himself, physically. He was slouched in the corner, a smug smile twisting his lips as he leaned back, surrounded by a handful of equally cocky friends and several girls who looked younger, probably college-aged, maybe even freshman. The girls shouldn’t be hurt but the sight of the boys sent a shiver of dark satisfaction through Marisela. The predator in her had recognized prey that had yet to realize it was cornered.

She noted the side exit - a door half-concealed by an old, dusty Galaga arcade machine with peeling paint and a cracked screen. It would be the males’ first attempt at freedom if they were stupid enough to run. But with the cell signal cut and the crowd about to turn chaotic - Marisela had a few ideas on how she could make that happen, incite a little riot - there would be no escape for them. The rest of the normies? They could stay if they wanted to watch, or leave; it really didn’t matter much. These pigs around the table, though, were trapped. She would make sure of that as she let Stephanie attend to business.

Marisela looked at her friend and smiled. Though no outward change had happened in her physical form yet, she saw that Stephanie had resolved herself inwardly. She was primed, Marisela could see it already, she was steel. The power in her body, fueled by her anger upon seeing her assailants again for the first time in years, was bristling, ready to burst forth. Marisela leaned in close to her, just enough for her voice to slide into Stephanie’s ear like a whisper. “There you go…let it out,” she urged, her tone laced with anticipation. This crowd was about to witness a reckoning, Marisela knew, and whether they realized it or not, Red Dog’s was about to become ground zero for a night no one would forget. “Take back what they stole from you,” she urged her friend, “and make them pay.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie agreed, finding her final strength inside herself, “I’m gonna do it.” She had known that she wanted to confront her assaulters, even if she knew she was actually being manipulated by her new friend. Now that she finally was in the situation she had sought, though, she did not know exactly what she would do. She had a feeling that it could be something horrible.

Both young women began to step through the crowd, Marisela letting her friend lead the way by a step. She saw it already: the blonde beginning to grow. In her chunky black boots Marisela herself was over 5’10”, the result of the “Melisssy Effect” and countless Blisses. She normally had an inch or so on Stephanie. Now, though, Stephanie was already the same height, even in her sneakers - which had probably started to grow tight.

Stephanie, passing the bar, cast a glance at herself in the dusky mirror behind the fat bartender and caught the gazes of the barflys looking at her. Already she could feel her musculature growing in her legs and upper body, though hidden under her leggings and loose jacket. So it wasn’t her muscles they were looking at…yet. Even in the cheap mirror with the beer logo she could see why she’d attract so much attention  among these little people. Her complexion, for one, was simply stunning. The muted barroom lights brought out the highlights in her blonde ponytail, which in turn seemed to highlight the new flecks of gold in her blue eyes. As their eyes wandered down, they might appreciate the thin cords of muscle in her neck hinting at the athletic body underneath. Further down still, though, was the most noticeable change so far and what drew the lion's share of attention - her bust size. In the reflection looking back at her in the mirror, jutting out from inside her denim jacket was a chest already straining against containment, bulging and bubbled over the neckline of her orange, ¾ length tank-style workout top. As if casually, Stephanie slowly lowered the short zipper at the top’s bodice - the only way her already copious and growing bust line could continue to fit into her shirt. She pulled back her jacket, now filling the eyes of her admirers with breathtaking cleavage, even through the limited opening in the neckline. The elasticity of the top, cinching tightly around her midriff, accentuated the Barbie Doll curves of her figure.

“These two are the hottest broads I’ve ever seen walk into this dump,” a gap-toothed gray-hair whispered to the bartender, leaning over towards him.

“The goth one I don’t recognize,” Red Dog replied, putting an empty, half-cleaned glass under the bar, “But the blonde? I’ve seen her before.”

“Oh yeah? A customer?”

“Maybe, yeah. The body’s different,” the bartender noted, “but I never forget a face.”

Noting the conversation with her sensitive hearing, Marisela continued to urge Stephanie on as people really started to notice her. “Get bigger, Stephanie,” she hissed, “Get so big that nothing can stand in your way.” She knew soon that Stephanie’s appearance would start to scare some people away. Others would want to watch. 

Men behind Stephanie glanced down. Her gray jogger leggings were not remarkable, but their contents certainly were. Shapely hips and a big, extremely pert ass literally rounded out the rear view of her, and her gym-toned legs were simply bulging inside the pant leggings.

Stephanie flashed a winning smile at a group of rather cute, kinda nerdy guys that had already taken a moment of silence from their conversation to admire her. They smiled nervously back and she grabbed a fried pickle from the paper plate one of them held.

Game on, she thought, popping the pickle slice into her mouth and winking in thanks at the boys. She recognized the now-familiar awe and submissiveness that so many men carried with them these days, strong in these three. Good. You’re in for a show.

Stephanie noticed that Marisela had stepped to the side and taken a seat at one of the bar’s empty stools, between an older woman with frizzy, bright red hair and a man who looked to be passed out. From there, Marisela could see both doors. “What’s happening…to your friend?” the redhead asked her, sounding honestly intrigued, “Is she getting…bigger?”

“Just watch.”

As Stephanie slowly made her way through the crowd towards the back of the bar, she was able to identify the pattern of the conversations around her. They oscillated from those that were wondering about what this slowly-more-towering blonde was planning, to remarks about her figure. Though none of them yet knew what it was capable of, for the first time in her life Stephanie enjoyed the comments of strangers that referred to her anatomy with praise. She had always been the opposite of a show off, but feeling gradually more inebriated by the situation, she tilted her chin up and allowed the surrounding crowd to admire her. 

Stephanie was so secretly and unexpectedly enjoying the situation and the attention, that when she reached the edge of the crowd and had arrived at the end of Kurt’s table, she placed her hands on her hips in a commanding pose and started scanning the group seated down below her. She was likely six and a half feet tall at this point, and still slowly growing. The hem of her leggings had begun to ride up her shins, and a flex of her feet caused her trainers to rip down the seams. Everyone, now, was looking at her. Including the five men and three girls seated around a pitcher of what she knew were probably “Red Dog’s Special” margaritas and bottles of cheap beer at the table. 

“Hi, Kurt,” she said. Already her voice was deeper.

Stephanie doubted she had ever felt so good as in the moment when her eyes locked with his and she could feel his surprise, his shock, and his fear. He, at first, looked confused, like he didn’t know what he was looking at. Then, her smile began to grow as she saw him realize that this wasn’t just some towering blonde Amazon with boobs the size of volleyballs. It was…her. The woman he’d hurt. For an instant, it felt as if her gaze alone would melt him where he sat, into man-pudding. But no, Kurty-poo, she thought, I’m not going to make it that easy on you.

“H-holy shit…” he stammered, “S-S-Stephanie?? Stephanie…Woh…chiski? Is that you???”

“Yeah, Kurt,” she replied dryly, looking past the murdering of her last name, “Surprised to see me?”

She had been in the bar for not much more than a minute, but already there seemed to be some sort of strange stalemate where no one in the crowd knew too well what to do. They had backed away, as if on instinct, from where Stephanie stood over the table, their partying abruptly stopped. The last notes of “Go Go Godzilla” had faded from the jukebox, and no one had thought to start another song. 

Stephanie’s bright blue eyes had already scanned and pierced the five seated men below her: Kurt and his friends, her assailants from six years ago. Sitting there in their cheap dive-bar chairs with three (probably innocent) young college girls, they all still oozed that old-school “frat bro” vibe, guys who had been popular and cocky college athletes back in the day. Now, though, they came across as a bit seedy, still slumming it at a college bar in their mid-twenties, and more rough around the edges. In the past six years, Stephanie couldn’t help but think, she’d worked hard - in the gym and otherwise - to make herself better, stronger. These guys had regressed. They looked out of shape, they looked pathetic. 

She’d realized by now what she was going to do. She knew she was about to cross some final line - but the promise of retribution felt too good to have second thoughts about it. From her lofty vantage and down over the swell of her impressive bustline, Stephanie addressed each boy in turn with a smile, a greeting, and a flash of her brilliant blue eyes. 

“Ryan…”  Cocky and loud, Ryan had always prided himself on pushing boundaries and encouraging reckless behavior. Now, Stephanie could see it already: his arrogance had only grown more toxic, the type who thought nothing could touch him. His shiteating grin made her want to punch his face.

“Troy…” The biggest of the group and star of the lacrosse team back then, Troy was the most physically intimidating but intellectually shallow of the group. He'd filled out even more with a beer gut and looked just as dumb as ever - and blatantly eyeing her tits. On the night of her assault, six years ago, he had been obviously fixated on her DD’s. As big as he was, she had him pegged right away for a common trope these days: an infantile tit-man.

“Blake…” Known for his charm and fake sweetness in years past, Blake had always been the “smooth talker,” the kind who disarmed people with his boyish smile before revealing a mean streak. Now, Stephanie could see that his charm had faded into a sleazy edge. “Hey Steph,” he nodded.

“Jace…” Always the “yes man” of the group, Jason maybe more followed the others’ lead, wanting to fit in to this group of assholes more than anything else. But still, he had been the one that slapped her the hardest that night and he’d be paying for it soon. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, and was staring down into his empty beer glass as if looking for a way out.

Aside from Jace, the other four men looked up at her with jaws hanging, as did their three female guests. The guys, though - Jace included - looked ready to crap their pants. What could they be thinking, Stephanie mused, seeing this girl they’d gang-raped here now, tonight? Looking like this? Guys these days did get particularly speechless when confronted with big tits, or with tall women. Stephanie, though, also had other weapons in her arsenal. She felt her lats and her delts and her arms swelling inside her previously loose jacket. It was now growing tighter, and obviously overmatched. The boys saw the height, they saw the knockers, but they had no idea what was really burgeoning to life under this jacket.

“So, Kurt,” Stephanie began again, “long time no see…”

Stephanie watched as Kurt Hendricks, the toxic, manipulative ex-boyfriend who let his friends harm her and did nothing to stop them, tried to pick his jaw up off the table. He, like the other four here tonight, had been a lacrosse player and the quintessential “golden boy” during his college years - a tall, athletic guy with an effortless charm. With his chiseled looks, sandy-blond hair, and confident swagger, Kurt always drew attention, and he knew exactly how to play the part. He was the kind of guy who could charm professors into extending deadlines, and he never struggled to get attention from women. Stephanie had been shocked, in fact, that he’d found a skinny little thing like her at all interesting and the two had coupled off for that month or so back early in her sophomore year. Kurt Hendricks could have anything, anyone, or anybody he wanted, and she’d been thrilled that he wanted her. She now knew, though, what his intentions had been from the beginning, and how they materialized. In his world, things came easily, and he’d never faced real consequences. He would tonight. 

Kurt had never been one to be at a loss for words - nor, really, had any of them -  but Stephanie saw how speechless he and his buddies now were. That was fine; she was more than happy to direct conversation. “I’m glad I recognized you,” she said plainly, observing how, though no longer the pinnacle of athleticism, he seemed to be refusing to let go of his glory days. He slumped there dressed in a loose-fitting “Fairpoint Lacrosse” tee shirt and cargo shorts. “You look different, though…”

“Y-yeah…” he managed. 

Stephanie’s smile curled; she had cute dimples that she knew could be disarming. ”You used to be in such good shape,” she offered with a half-pout, unabashedly judging his physique with a critical eye, “You look…skinny.”

“Y-yeah…” he managed again.

“You know, I must admit I probably look different too, huh? There's been a couple of changes in me tool…” she started.

“Oh, uh, really? That’s, um…”

He was - what? - trying to make some small talk. As if maybe that could make her forget?

“Yeah, you haven’t noticed? Go ahead, you can say it. Maybe I´ve put on a few pounds…”

Predictably, the eyes of all five guys dropped down to her bosom. Marisela’s chuckle behind her made Stephanie feel good. 

“And, no…” she scolded teasingly, as she took the hem of her denim jacket and slowly began to peel it further back, to finally reveal her body in front of Kurt and his friends. It had started getting pretty tight in the arms, short at the sleeves anyway. “…not just in my bust. Though that’s what you boys liked most about me back then, didn’t you?” 

Jace, from his seat underneath her at her left and aside Ryan, found the bravery not to meet her eyes but to snidely chuckle and look back down at his beer. That almost made Stephanie lose it right there, but she was able to continue. She made a mental note, though: Jace had it coming. 

“So, girls,” Stephanie said, turning her attention to the three freshman girls who sat huddled side-by-side on the same side of the table, also to Stephanie’s left, aside Jace. They were pretty. She also took note of the pitcher of margaritas and the surrounding three glasses. Luckily, no one had filled them yet.  “Are these guys trying to get you to go home with them?”

As if shocked to be suddenly addressed, the co-eds glanced at each other, looking a little confused. Kurt, Stephanie noticed, leaned back a bit further in his chair, and avoided their gazes when they looked at him. 

“Well, Kurt Hendricks over there was my boyfriend when I was at Fairpoint. I thought he was great,” Stephanie said, “until he organized a gang-rape and let his four buddies here take turns with me.”

“Hey Stephanie c’mon-“ Kurt implored, speaking up and leaning forward, “that was a long time ag-“

“Their plans are to hurt you, too,” Stephanie continued, not mincing words as she cut him off, “That pitcher of margaritas? It’s full of Rohypnol. Roofies.”

“Wait, Steph-” shot Kurt, speaking up.

The girls gazes all shot to the pitcher, still full of “Red Dog’s Special”, an off-menu item here at the bar for select customers. Their eyes narrowed.

“Don’t drink it,” Stephanie said, “They’ve been doing this for years, now, Kurt and his buddies, picking up college girls, buying them margaritas and-”

Suddenly, Ryan - sitting at the head of the table, a bit to her left - stood to confront her. “Okay that’s en- urk!!“

He had no chance to finish his sentence as Stephanie, in one quick motion had him grabbed by the collar of his Vineyard Vines polo, the shirt curled into her left fist and pulled him towards herself, and lifted. He was held up, by her single arm, suddenly above her head but his eyes didn’t have the chance to goggle in surprise for even a second before -

<<SLAM!!>>

She slammed him onto his back on the wooden table, making it creak and groan, crushing plastic cups under him and knocking beer bottles into laps with the explosive vibration. Ryan’s breath was driven from him and she watched his face contort into a mask of pain as she broke his collarbone, his sternum, and a couple upper ribs with the force of her powerful fist driving into his chest. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in excitement - this was the first she had ever hurt another person, and it felt good. She wanted more. 

And so, apparently, did some of the crowd. Onlookers were frozen but fascinated. Slowly backing away, some of them, mostly the guys, with audible gasps, whispers, and the scrape of chairs moving. But some of them moved closer. Mostly the girls. 

From her spot at the bar, Marisela leaned back casually onto one elbow. She didn’t need to intervene. This was Stephanie’s moment, and so far she was being magnificent. Marisela allowed herself a small smile as she watched the male’s body crumbling beneath Stephanie’s strength. There was a bottle of Jameson’s on the bar, and an empty tumbler. Ignoring the bartender that was now ignoring her, she shrugged and poured herself a shot. She was usually a vodka drinker but she figured what the hell.

Ten feet away and pinning Ryan down onto the table with her left hand, Stephanie raised her other fist high but hadn’t the chance to use it before immediately - <Crack!!> - something shattered on the right side of her head, snapping it reflexively to the side. Blake, seeing his friend just lifted and tossed like a rag doll - had stood and slammed a beer bottle against the blonde’s  skull. 

At the bar, that made Marisela sit up straight, whiskey temporarily forgotten. But she decided not to move - yet. She saw how Stephanie’s head had snapped to the side from the force of Blake’s bottle strike, but rather than fall, rather than collapse unconscious from the blow, Stephanie just…remained standing, in fact barely flinching. She’d closed her eyes with the impact, and her neck muscles rippled with tension. Her breath came out as a slow exhale, and then her eyes opened - sharp, blue, and glowing with something new. She turned her head to meet her current assailant. She was shivering in pleasure, and soaking in the shock and growing panic she saw blossoming in his face as he tried to comprehend how his hardest blow hadn’t made her fall.

“Oooo…Blake. You shouldn’t have done that…” Stephanie purred.

And then, suddenly, she began to grow. 

Not slowly, like she’d been doing over the past several minutes. Now, after the impact from the bottle, her body expanded in one large, fast burst. Visibly several inches of height, and below her jacket a swelling eruption of muscle. Her body surged upward, tendons thickening, muscles swelling under her clothes. It was like a tidal wave of raw strength coursing through her veins, and the crackling energy she felt in her bones was near orgasmic.

OH GOD YES.

“What the fuck?!?” ejaculated Blake as exclamations came from the crowd, rippling through it like wind rustling dry leaves. Some patrons edged toward the doors, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear as the blonde neared seven feet tall, while others remained rooted in place, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before them.

 “How the hell??” “She just fucking…grew!” “Hit her again!!”

“Yeah, Blake…” Stephanie growled, “…hit me again.”

Blake's face twisted into a mix of fear and fury. His breath came out in ragged gasps as he clenched his jaw, stepping closer to Stephanie, who loomed above him, her eyes bright and mocking. For a moment, he hesitated, as if grappling with the absurdity of it all - how the skinny girl from Fairpoint could have become this...force. But then anger won out over reason. With a grunt, he balled up his fist and lashed out, driving it hard into her now-exposed midriff.

Stephanie didn’t move. She felt the blow - a dull thud against the rippling wall of her abs - but it barely registered beyond that. Her muscles tensed reflexively, the skin stretched taut over them as they flexed in response. Blake, however, wasn’t so lucky. The impact reverberated up his arm, and a crack echoed through the air. His knuckles crumpled against the unyielding firmness of her stomach.

“OWW!” he yelped, jerking his hand back and cradling it against his chest, his face contorted in pain. The sound of his anguish cut through the tense silence of the bar.

Stephanie tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow smile. Then, it began again - a deep warmth radiating from her core, spreading outward. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation as another surge of growth tore through her. Her body expanded in a powerful spurt. Inches of height were added in a matter of moments, her limbs elongating, and every muscle swelling with greater definition and mass.

The seams of her workout top groaned in protest, stretching and straining as her lats and shoulders broadened. Her exposed midriff tightened further, the lines of her abdominal muscles becoming even more pronounced. The waistband of her jogger leggings had already dug into her hips, and now a low, muffled tearing sound whispered as fabric along her thighs began to fray. Stephanie’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else, and for a brief, exhilarating second, her vision sharpened - colors more vivid, the scent of sweat and spilled beer more intense, and the faintest vibrations of movement around her registering with startling clarity. She felt...alive.

“Huh. That's new.” From over at the bar, Marisela observed clinically: Their attacks make her grow.

From above Blake’s cowering, even smaller looking frame, Stephanie marveled: oh god yes their attacks make me grow.

The crowd stepped back again, gasping in awe and disbelief. Some stared with wide-eyed wonder; others turned away, as if witnessing something both majestic and terrifying.

Stephanie refocused her eyes, her gaze burning into Blake as Ryan still moaned in pain on the table below her, the other guys around the table frozen in place. Blake was stumbling backward, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His terror was evident, but stupidity - or perhaps desperation - drove him to wind up for another strike, this time aiming upwards for her chin.

His punch brought his body forward and she let him get close. Just close enough. Then, with a speed that belied her size, Stephanie’s hand shot out, catching his wrist mid-swing. Her fingers clamped down like a vise, and Blake’s eyes went wide as he quickly realized what he’d just done. 

“Really?” she murmured, amusement flickering in her voice as he saw how utterly trapped he was. Then, with a deliberate twist of her wrist, she turned his arm outward. The bones and tendons strained, and Blake’s face drained of color. She could feel his every ligament tightening, every muscle fighting against her grip. But it was no use. With one more precise motion, she applied a sudden burst of force and a sickening snap rang out.

Blake’s scream was immediate and raw, reverberating through the room. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, clutching his broken arm. Stephanie watched him, a mix of fascination and exhilaration lighting up her features. She tilted her head again, her gaze cold but curious, as if studying a specimen pinned under glass.

“Does it hurt, Blake?” she asked softly, her voice low and dangerous. She leaned down closer, a wild glimmer in her eyes. She reflected, just briefly, on how it felt to unleash her power not on weights at the gym, or cars in a junkyard, but on a man. A man that, back when he had the power, had used it to hurt her. Now she had hurt him, and she had done it so easily. What else could she do?? To him, to Kurt? To all of them?? She felt exhilarated at the possibilities. She could grow stronger, stronger, and stronger still, bigger, she could crush every last one of them. She felt her blood rushing in a river to her head, imagining the possibilities. But, then, she reflected - shouldn’t she be horrified at herself, at her capacity for violence? 

Maybe, but nah. He has it coming. They all do. 

She looked up, now, at Kurt and his friends, as Blake sobbed in a crumpled mess at her feet. They were staring at her, and for a beat no one moved. The smell of beer, fried food and the fear in their sweat filled her nostrils. In a moment, though, they became suddenly unfrozen and began scrambling, standing, trying to reason with her. 

“S-S-Steph…please…back away…they’re hurt…” 

The fear and desperation in Kurt’s voice as he was realizing what she could do to him was more satisfying than anything Stephanie had ever heard. After six years living with the memories of his torture she had finally gained the upper hand and was not going to let it g-

<click>

Feet still solidly in place, Stephanie turned, at the hips, at the sound.

“Get out of my bar, right now…bitch.”

Behind the bar, the fat, bearded, middle-aged roofie-slinger and owner of Red Dog’s, Red Dog himself, had pulled a .357 Magnum Revolver. He was aiming it at Stephanie’s large chest, barely fifteen feet away. Between them, the crowd had dropped away in fear. 

Her eyes went wide, not at the barrel of the gun but at the sudden, dark flash that moved from one side of the bar to the other. In an instant, Red Dog had grunted, something snapped and Marisela was now standing aside him with a sneer and his Smith & Wesson 686 now in her hand and held right to his jaw. 

“What did you just call my friend?” Marisela asked him, dryly. 

Stephanie saw how Red Dog’s face was now contorted in pain and he cradled a hand of broken fingers to his chest. Marisela had snapped them while grabbing the gun from his hand, somehow having moved at an unbelievable speed in vaulting the bar to disarm him. The sudden display of Marisela’s own deadly abilities were at first shocking to Stephanie, but her smile now returned. She and her friend were each exerting their dominance over all the little people in this bar, and it was empowering. 

In the danger-filled moment and otherwise not moving a millimeter, Red Dog allowed his eyes to turn to his new captor. Though how she’d just done what she’d done baffled him, he realized that the tall, dark-haired hottie goth who had walked in not five minutes ago now held his life in her pale, delicate hand. He’d been at gunpoint before, and was not a stranger to violence or tense situations. His pulse was even. But his anger was up. 

“You heard what I called her. And I told her to get out of my bar,” he growled, looking Marisela dead in her big, shockingly bright blue eyes, “And I meant you too, bitch.”

“You should know better than to talk to a lady like that.”

The sound of the gunshot split the air with a deafening roar, a concussive blast that shook the windows and very walls of Red Dog's bar. For a split second, time hung suspended, as if the entire room had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. The harsh crack of the .357 Magnum reverberated, louder than any music that had ever blared through the old, weathered jukebox, louder even than the shouting, drunken crowd that had filled the space only minutes before.

Red Dog's head snapped to the side, the force of the bullet obliterating his lower jaw in a grotesque explosion of bone, blood, and teeth. Shards of shattered molars sprayed outward, catching the light of the bar's neon signs like macabre glitter, while a spray of deep crimson painted the shelves of dusty liquor bottles behind him. His eyes went wide, a mix of shock and pain flashing across them, and for a brief, awful moment, his tongue lolled uselessly in the shredded remains of his mouth. Blood poured freely, a torrent that drenched the collar of his plaid shirt and ran in thick rivulets down his chest that would soon pool on the sticky floor beneath him.

“Looks like you won’t be calling anyone anything any time soon, slimeball,” Marisela said, as Red Dog’s eyes rolled up into his head. 

The bar fell silent, the only sounds the soft gurgling of Red Dog's strangled attempts to breathe through the blood and the faint tinkle of glass shards settling. The crowd, momentarily paralyzed by the brutal sight, collectively gasped as he collapsed, disappearing behind the bar and at Marisela’s feet. And then, all at once, chaos erupted.

Screams pierced the air as people scrambled over chairs, tables, and each other in a blind rush for the doors. Bodies collided, drinks were knocked over, and the sound of glass shattering mixed with the thud of panicked footsteps. Some patrons slipped on the beer- and now blood-soaked floor, while others pushed past them in a desperate bid to escape. Some women, though, remained, standing frozen, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination, unable to tear their gazes away from the scene unfolding before them. Some of them were smiling. 

Marisela remained unfazed by the pandemonium around her. With a calm that was almost chilling, she finished the drink she’d poured for herself and then leapt in one smooth motion up onto the bar, her boots finding immediate purchase on the sticky surface. Her darkly painted but steely blue eyes glinted with a predatory light, and she spread her arms wide. For an instant, she was statuesque, the embodiment of dark justice standing tall amidst the chaos. And then, with a movement that seemed both fluid and terrifyingly swift, her back arched, and two enormous black wings erupted from her shoulders.

The wings unfurled with a rush of air and a sound like the rustling of thousands of crows taking flight at once. Feathered and impossibly dark, they stretched out to their full span, nearly brushing the ceiling and casting long, ominous shadows over the room. The glossy black feathers gleamed, catching the neon lights and making her appear otherworldly, something born from both nightmare and legend.

The sudden sight of her transformation silenced even the most hysterical of screams. Those who had been rushing toward the exit halted in their tracks, their faces pale and stricken. For a heartbeat, there was only the first, oppressive flap of her wings and the low, rhythmic hum of air currents as she beat them again once, twice, slowly, ominously. She loomed over the room, her presence commanding, inescapable.

Marisela's lips curved into a dark smile that revealed her fangs, and she gazed down at the trembling patrons with a predatory intensity that sent shivers down their spines. She lifted the still-smoking revolver and casually tossed it aside, its metallic clatter lost amidst the pounding heartbeats of those who remained.

"Anyone else have a problem?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft, yet carrying an unmistakable threat. The silence stretched, broken only by the terrified whimpering of Red Dog, still alive but ruined in a pile behind the bar. 

The panic in the room returned, tenfold. People screamed and scattered, like rats. 

In her full, dark-winged glory standing over the chaos, Marisela flicked her eyes back to Stephanie, whose own transformation was still far from complete. "Now, Steph," she said, her tone both commanding and encouraging, "why don’t you show your old friends what happens when women take back the power?"

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