Cruising down Algren Avenue in a custom-designed black Corvette coup Dr. Sax had built for her last year (“You can’t be a superhero without a tough ride,” he’d said, unveiling the noir car), Sage was dressed in pink vinyl boots with stiletto heels and matching maxi-length raincoat. Her oval eyes had lush lashes and her lids were smudged with a golden shadow. There was evidence of an old scar near her left eye. Underneath the shiny coat, she styled a skintight black and red leather jumpsuit and various weapons.

  Sage wore a stylish natural Afro that would have made Angela Davis proud. Flashing a bit of luscious brown flesh, a beautiful multicolored butterfly was tattooed on her left breast in memory of her dead mother, Papillon. Surprised to see an open parking space, Sage pulled up directly in front of the Terminal Bar.

  “Got that Zo, got that Zo,” chatted a teenaged drug cowboy hustling whoever slunk down the streets. Carrying a giant boombox blasting the latest ghetto superstar rapper, the husky boy wore sagging jeans and a T-shirt that read ZO WORLD ORDER.

  Apparently, the boy had thought Sage might be interested in his poison. “I got that Zo, pretty lady.”

  “You have the wrong one, kid,” Sage replied. “If I were you, I’d find a sandbox to play in before I forget that you’re a minor.”

  Terminal Bar was a few blocks away from her former home, the Bristol Hotel. Many a night, young Sage had pulled her drunken mother from the tattered leatherette booths in the back of the dump. Certainly that was years before the new owners transformed the once-upon-a-time dive bar into the premier music venue. Many affluent Onyx City kids from other sectors were often inside the spot, slumming and digging the underground sounds while searching for their own thrills.

  Stepping from her car, Sage slammed the door as the Zo-dealing boy sneered at her and threw a Coke bottle. The glass shattered against the splintered front of the club.

  “Fuck you bitch, you ain’t goin’ to do shit,” yelled the dealer, who was sixteen going on dead. Putting his oversized radio down, he reached behind his back and pulled out a platinum-plated nine-millimeter.

  “Don’t forget,” he said, swaggering towards her, waving the piece in her pretty face. “This turf belongs to Kidd Babylon, we just allow you freaks to borrow it. You don’t want to get on our bad side.”

  “Didn’t your mother teach you about waving dangerous things in strangers’ faces?” Sage muttered, leaning in close.

  “Bitch, you can play pussy if you want to, but keep it up and you gonna get fucked.”

  “Wrong answer,” Sage said, head butting the teenager with the force of a black tornado, throwing him off balance. The boy teetered like a rusty fence and dropped the piece. Club patrons scattered like roaches as a nameless bullet dislodged from the chamber.

  Swooping down like a beautiful bird, Sage kicked the gun into the gutter, bringing her foot around in a swift motion that connected with the boy’s jaw.

  “Bitch!” he screamed, spitting blood and teeth onto the ground. “You dead.” Reaching down to his thick sweat socks, the boy exposed a black switchblade. Before he had a chance to grab the knife, Sage chopped him on the back of the neck with a thunderous blow. Electric circuits of pain shot down his vertebrae.

  Seconds later, Sage planted her right foot in the sensitive softness of his scrotum. Walking over to the gutter, she picked up the platinum pistol as the punk ass dealer lay on the ground and groaned. Strutting over to the boy, she held the gun to his temple with her right hand, while digging out his Zo stash with her left.

  In a flick of the wrist, she tossed the stuffed baggie, which held about two hundred hits of Zo, in the sewer grate a few feet away. This was the tenth Zo dealer she had jacked in the last few weeks; word was bound to get to Kidd Babylon soon that some chick was messing with his drug business.

  “The only things getting zooted tonight will be the alligators living in the sewer,” Sage blurted.

  “You’re going to pay,” the dealer managed to moan.

  Sage smiled and snapped the gun’s safety off. Pressing the nine against the boy’s bleeding forehead, she screamed, “BANG!” Certainly, she had heard stories of scared men simultaneously shitting and pissing on themselves, but that night was the first time she had seen it for herself.

  Standing up, Sage tucked his gun inside one of the deep pockets of her vinyl coat. Grabbing him tightly by the shirt collar, Sage told him the same thing she had told the other nine dealers. “You make sure you tell Kidd Babylon that you got took by Sage Steele.”

  Kidd Babylon (aka Desmond Headley) was a Bob Marley-looking yardie straight from the rude bwoy dirt streets of Kingston in ’78. With long locks and a lanky body, he was a motherless child who had moved to Onyx City with his car mechanic father and a box full of Motown records that had once belonged to his mama. From the time he was a boy, “Love Child” was his favorite song.

  Smart but mischievous, the thick-accented boy soon fell in with a group of aerosol artists who viewed themselves as urban outlaws, graffiti spray-painting their multicolored tags throughout the urban jungle of Sector 7. Naming his serial bombing crew after a shoot-’em-up cowboy flick he had seen when he was still a Trench Town boy, Kidd Babylon convinced the guys to call themselves the Wild Bunch.

  As a sign of their loyalty, each gang member tattooed the word “wild” above the knuckles of his right hand. In a matter of months, everyone in Onyx City knew the name Kidd Babylon and the Wild Bunch posse. Yet, art crimes didn’t generate the same kind of buzz or Benjamins as dealing Zo or pimping whores.

  In his early days as the main Zo supplier in the hood, the blunt-smoking, bloodshot-eyed Kidd Babylon quietly crept through the broken streets of Sector 7 at various hours, making sure his money and honey flowed steadily. “Trust no one except eye and I,” he mumbled, swaggering through the hood like a knight in his flashy clothes and ruby-hued pinkie ring. Usually clad in superfly suits and black Pro-Ked sneakers. Babylon channeled seventies style like he was the Mack.

  Clouds of cigarette smoke hovered over the chattering patrons inside the Terminal Bar. Leaning against the bar inside, Carmen Santiago glanced at her watch. A childhood friend from the Bristol Hotel days of Sage’s youth, Carmen was one of the few, besides herself, who had made it out of the hood. Since graduating from college, she had become a reporter at the Onyx Observer. Currently, she was part of the team tracking the Valentine Killer.

  Sneaking up behind her buxom buddy, who was clad in tight jeans, a vintage Bad Brains T-shirt and Doc Martens boots, Sage kissed Carmen on the back of her fuzzy neck.

  “My best and oldest friend, finally shows her pretty face,” Carmen said.

  Standing face to face, the two women grimaced at one another. “It’s not like I meant to be late. Started a tango with some clown outside and we just finished dancing.”

  “You’ve been a little bit of a stranger,” Carmen said, kissing her on the cheek. “Now that you’re all about truth and justice, you don’t have time for your friends anymore.”

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “Not right this second,” Carmen said. “I’ve been chasing clues and following leads all day. Let’s have a beer and watch the band for a minute. I’m kind of digging the lead singer, poor girl.” Beckoning the bartender, Carmen ordered two pints of Guinness. “Her name is Hope.”

  “Were Faith and Charity busy?” Sage said.

  On the small stage across the room, a trio of space-suited girls who called themselves Bitches Brew filed out and picked up their instruments. Bending in front of a mic, the singer bellowed, “I’d like to dedicate this song to the children of the revolution.”

  Watching as the beautiful lead singer frantically strummed the cobalt-colored ax, Sage and Carmen both smiled when the group savagely spit out neon-hued lyrics of an Onyx City punk rock anthem “Jungle Madness.”

  This is not the jungle, this is the zoo,“ read the graffiti on the wall across the street from the basement room where Sage studied Azr, the martial arts that her guardian Dr. Sax taught each morning when she was still a kid. An ancient Asian art form that combined Chinese kickboxing, Vietnamese Vovinam Vit Võ Dao and Japanese Karate, she soon learned to do wondrous feats with swords, stilettos and small handguns.

  A quick learner, Sage’s skills with blades and blasters was like watching a young dancer blossom from a bumbling amateur to a graceful Baryshnikov. Sage trained rigorously, religiously, developing the skills of a soulful warrior driven by a singular mission.

  Even if she lived to be a thousand, nothing would change Sage Steele’s life more than witnessing those nocturnal creatures kill her mother. With every waking hour of every day, Sage was driven by the fact that one day she would have her revenge on the Wild Bunch posse, but most important, Kidd Babylon.

  In addition to physical workouts and regular schoolwork, Sage also developed her mental skills with daily games of chess. “Chess is a thinking game,” Dr. Sax said. “It’s not about who can be the fastest but who can be the smartest. When I was a prisoner of war in Vietnam, I was held at Hoa Lo, which everybody called Hanoi Hilton. I stayed sane by playing chess in my head.”

  “How long were you in there?”

  “Four years. Four years of foul food, vile conditions and complex chess moves in my mind,” he laughed. “After that experience, I was expected to return to America, but I just couldn’t leave. I felt that I had lost my soul in that country, and I refused to leave without it.

  “Walking around Vietnam I learned many things from the people there. I even married a beautiful woman named Kyon Moon, whose father was an Azr master. For the years I lived there, Master Moon taught me all the knowledge of Azr that I now pass on to you.”

  “What happened to Kyon? Did you guys ever have any children?”

  “No. Kyon was killed a few years later by an American landmine. They had buried them all along the countryside. I’m not angry. I feel blessed just having her in my life for as long as I did. I stayed on with Master Moon until 1979, but after he died, it was time to move on. That’s how I wound up in Onyx City a few years before the rebellion.”

  “Why didn’t you leave when the war began?”

  “I felt like I was sent here for a reason,” Dr. Sax said, touching her cheek tenderly. The road to salvation was paved with broken glass. Dr. Sax knew that Sage’s wounded soul would never be properly healed until she had rid Onyx City of evil, and it was his spiritual mission to make sure she was prepared for that fight. “And now, I guess I was right.”

  Years later, on the day (which also happened to be her seventeenth birthday) Sage was to be assigned her black belt in Azr, she sauntered into the training room. On the left wall, a beautifully designed display case held six handcrafted swords. Looking up, Sage was shocked to see a stranger crouched in the corner. Wearing a hoodie, the person’s face was covered. “Excuse me,” Sage said, “but what are you …”

  Before she could utter another word, the stranger jumped up and growled like a wild cat. Wearing a yellow and black Lucha Libre mask that resembled some kind of crazed cat ready to attack, he was dressed completely in black.

  Catching Sage off guard, the stranger’s screams echoed in her ear as he kicked her in the chest. Falling to the floor, Sage looked up and saw the creature’s cat claws were sharp as small sabers. As the lithe cat-man leapt into the air, Sage frantically rolled towards the display case.

  Swiftly selecting her favorite sword, Sage swung her weapon with the power of a quiet storm. For seven years she had trained with Dr. Sax, but this was the first time Sage had ever felt she was in danger. Adrenaline fueled her body as sweat trickled down her pained face. The only sound in the room was the clang of metal hitting metal for what seemed like forever.

  Releasing an unearthly growl, the cat-man got close enough to scratch the side of Sage’s face. Thin as a paper cut. There was no blood, but the pain near her left eye was intense. Holding the sword tightly in her right hand, Sage fell back on her left arm and balanced herself with her palm. Quickly, she windmilled her right leg and swept her opponent off his feet.

  Before the body slammed on the floor, Sage swung the sharp blade and speedily chopped off the cat-man’s head. Instead of blood spouting from his neck, there was nothing but colorful wires. It took Sage a minute to realize the fiend trying to kill her was just one of Dr. Sax’s robots, though he had never made one so big and dangerous.

  “I had to make sure you were really ready,” Dr. Sax said, walking into the room.

  For a brief moment, Sage thought about raising the sword on her master, but quickly changed her mind. “And?” she muttered, holding in her anger.

  “Well, you do have that cut on your face to remind you that one can always be better. But, yes, I think you’re ready.”

  Sage and Carmen frantically nodded their heads to the beat as Bitches Brew finished their final song; furiously sweating, the two old friends sat down at a splintered table in the rear of the club. “You said on the phone you might have a lead about this sick puppy the Valentine Killer,” Sage said.

  “You’re not going to believe this shit,” answered Carmen, picking her slender briefcase up from the floor. “His last victim was still alive when the police finally showed up. That poor woman, that beast carved a valentine into her chest but she somehow survived. One of the cops I’m cool with questioned her, even got her to give a detailed description of this nut job.”

  Opening her briefcase, Carmen pulled out a manila envelope and slid it across the table. Staring at the police sketch for a few moments, Sage’s heart skipped a beat. “I know this face.”

  “We both do,” Carmen replied.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sage gasped, dropping the picture on the table. “That’s Haze Williams, that strange kid who grew up with us in the Bristol. God, his mother treated him terrible. You remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Carmen said. “And apparently, so does he.”

  “Was kind of surprised when I heard he was down with Kidd Babylon’s crew.

  “Seems your old friend Haze was too crazy even for the Wild Bunch. I don’t know exactly what went down, but they bounced his ass from the gang over a year ago. I spoke to a stooge who used to know Haze, and he claims the murders might be his way of getting back at Kidd Babylon. You know, the less whores on the street, the less money Babylon makes.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “It’s true all the victims have been from Babylon’s stable, but personally I think this shit might be quicksand. I mean, he’s carving valentines into these women’s skin. Who does shit like that? Our survivor said he tortured her over a few days, and then dumped her body in an alley. This fool might have more on his mind than simple revenge.”

  “Has anybody else seen this sketch?”

  “Naw, my boy down at the police station asked that the Observer not print it yet. They don’t want Haze to know that his last vic lived.” Finishing the rest of her beer, Carmen slammed the glass on the table. “You can take this one, I left a few copies in my desk.”

  Absorbed by rage, in her mind, Sage traveled ten years into the past, her mother’s frightened face clear as a picture. Sage pushed the table violently. Flinging her right arm, a jewel-encrusted stiletto knife slid down her jacket sleeve and into her hand. Swiftly opening the sharp blade, Sage jammed the sharp point through the illustration of Haze’s face.

  ACT III: PARTY’S OVER

  After leaving the bar, Sage climbed the rusted fire escape in the rear of the Bristol Hotel. A few years ago, a disgruntled customer had tossed a Molotov cocktail onto the rooftop, destroying the top five floors, leaving the building a shell of its former self. The only remaining residents were a few nomads who squatted in the basement.

  Walking through the burnt rumble to the fourth-floor apartment she once shared with her mother, Sage remembered the many years she had spent there. Born in the “ho house,” she lived alongside other whore kids, many conceived within the walls of the broke-down brothel. The children made the most of their dim life of strife as their mothers worked most of the day and all of the night.

  Jumping rope in the moldering hallways, playing hide-and-seek in the musty closets, and getting into trouble throughout the building, the kids played ghetto games in the Bristol while their mamas did what they had to do. In addition to Sage and Carmen, the other whore kids included Mary Gordon, Paul Pope, Luis Rodriguez, Jana Wilder, Shelia Taylor and Haze Williams.

  No matter how fucked everybody’s life was, his was still the worst. A scrawny kid, he barely talked. His mother beat him badly when she was drunk. Sometimes she dressed him like a girl and passed him off to her more freakish customers.

  Sage first met Haze shortly after he moved into the Bristol and had taken a special liking to the strange boy. Sitting on the staircase bleeding from his head, where his wacked-out mama had hit him with a broom handle, he was as dazed and confused as an old Led Zeppelin record.

  Eyes closed, Haze moaned loudly as blood trickled down his face. Grown beyond her eight years, Sage cleaned his wound and befriended the outcast boy.

  “How can you even bear talking to that freak?” Carmen asked her one day.

  “Haze is all right,” Sage replied. “He just needs a friend.”

  Looking like a pair of ragamuffins, they took long walks through various alleys and sidestreets of the city. Haze introduced Sage to parts of Sector 7 she never even knew existed.

  “I’m going to show you something I’ve never showed anyone,” Haze explained as they crisscrossed subway tracks and broken boulevards in search of his sanctuary. “There it is,” he said, pointing at a dingy building that looked like a combination of after-hours nightclub and storefront church. Outside, the words Temple of Boom were spray-painted in crimson directly on the building.