Author's Note:
The latest Genshin Impact expansion, 7.1, hyped me up so much!
For the characters we could obtain, I chose Jean and Clorinde.
I admit I was torn between Chiori and Clorinde, but I chose her [Clorinde] for two reasons: her outfit reminds me of the Good Hunter from Bloodborne, and I absolutely love the Clorivia ship!
I finished reading the book God Emperor of Dune, and I ordered Heretics of Dune; I will receive it in the next few days.
Finally, I started watching Star Trek: Starfleet Academy; I want to try new things.
XXX
Story Arc: Out-of-Town Visitors
Episode 3: A day full of dates and surprises (II)
Chapter 10: Motel & Manor
Plot: The female journalist and the photographer from the Daily Bugle prepare to explore Nightfall City. The male bookseller is resisting the energetic craziness of the female athlete, and a Femme Fatale is preparing her trap.
XXX
POV Narrator
Kingsrua was the commercial heart of the outskirts of Nightfall City. It was a gray district, perpetually congested with traffic, partly due to its strategic proximity to the Interstate 95 interchange, whose lanes constantly poured a trail of semi-trucks and commuters just a short distance away. Nearby stood North Point Plaza, the city's second shopping mall: an immense open-air retail park, a stretch of scorching concrete surrounded by endless parking lots, faded neon signs, and the usual, omnipresent fast-food chains smelling of industrial fried food. A bit further away towered the Stadium, a massive multi-purpose reinforced concrete structure that indifferently hosted fierce local high school football games, rock concerts, and the city's main events.
In that labyrinth of asphalt, attention narrowed around the Neptune Inn. Founded in the '80s by an old local fisherman who had lost his foot in a mysterious accident at sea—the man had always sworn he had been mutilated by a sea monster, earning the ridicule of the whole town—the motel had remained firmly in his family's hands for three generations.
Dominating the entrance was a large vintage sign with the name of the establishment, its bluish neons buzzing faintly. Directly below was the main reception building, a low structure with large windows showcasing the spartan interior where guests checked in. On the sun-weathered wooden facade hung a second, smaller, swaying sign. On the right side of the reception, a small covered bridge allowed narrow passage for cars toward the internal parking lot. The rooms developed in a horseshoe shape: they started from the back of the office and then turned sharply to the right, arranged on two levels, with eight rooms on the first floor and five on the second. Crowning the roof of the upper building stood a conspicuous wooden maritime decoration, a peeling ship's wheel defying the elements.
On the opposite side of the courtyard, separated from the cars by tall rough wooden fences decorated with ornamental torches, were the pool area and the hot tubs. A few stunted palm trees and a series of tiki statues with grotesque stares tried to give an exotic tone to the environment, right next to the large metal garbage dumpsters positioned in the corner of the lot.
It was in this setting that Laura Lane and Peter Parker had taken up residence for the duration of their journalistic report.
At the moment, Laura was standing inside the reception area. She had her back straight and her arms crossed over her chest; the room's wall clock beat a monotonous rhythm. The night before, she had agreed with Peter to meet there at exactly 8:00 AM to take stock of their assignment.
'Did he happen to not wake up?' Laura thought, narrowing her eyes as she stared at the clock hands. They read 8:15.
The Daily Bugle's newest recruit clenched her fists inside her pockets, already prepared to march toward her colleague's room and pound on the wooden door until she dragged him out of bed.
Fortunately for the motel owner—and the stability of the door frames—Peter appeared at that exact moment, walking down the iron steps of the external staircase with his hands in his pockets and his camera bag slung over his shoulder.
"Sorry I'm late, Laura," Peter said, quickening his pace to reach the woman. She was petite and graceful, waiting for him at the counter with an expression that was anything but enthusiastic.
"Morning, Peter," Laura replied, her voice a bit flat. She had neither the desire nor the necessary energy to whip her older colleague into shape over a fifteen-minute delay.
"Let me guess, you couldn't sleep well either," Laura continued, bringing a hand to her mouth to mask a small yawn that contorted her face.
"The mattress in the motel room didn't have bedbugs, but it's not the same as sleeping in your own bed at home," Peter replied, flashing a tight smile, though in reality, he didn't seem nearly as tired as she did.
To tell the truth, his night shift as Spider-Man had been a walk in the park compared to his New York standards. After escorting Charlotte Gagnepetit to her white taxi so she could leave the area safely, Peter had extended his patrol into the neighboring districts, but all he had run into were two kids spray-painting a wall. Nightfall City, after all, had barely 90.000 inhabitants—a trifle compared to the 8.300.000 of the Big Apple. The crime rate was proportionally minuscule, an almost relaxing break for his reflexes.
"I understand the feeling. I suggest we get something to eat and maybe a coffee, if I don't risk falling asleep on my feet," Laura commented, her shoulders slumping slightly as a second, unavoidable yawn cracked her voice.
"Great idea, but where do we find a decent place? We don't know anything about the city," Peter replied, spreading his arms. Unfortunately, swinging between rooftops in the dark gave you a good view from above, but it didn't teach you the urban geography of local spots or where they served the best breakfast.
"Davy, the receptionist, recommended a little place not far from here," explained Laura, who had used the waiting time to make conversation and gather useful information from the guy behind the counter.
Peter froze for a second, turning his head toward the office. "A maritime-themed motel has a receptionist named Davy, like Davy Jones?" he asked, raising an eyebrow with a half-amused smirk.
Laura shrugged, adjusting her bag on her shoulder with a quick gesture. "He told me his father is a Pirates of the Caribbean fan," she replied, heading toward the exit.
Without another word, the journalist and the photographer pushed the glass door, leaving the air conditioning of the reception behind them to step into the motel courtyard.
XXX
The Big Donut was a bizarre building with a perfectly circular floor plan, flattened and brown, decorated with such care that it looked like a gigantic, real donut covered in a glaze of shocking pink and colored sprinkles painted along the walls. On the flat roof stood the main sign: a huge plastic torus towering against the morning sky, with the words "The Big Donut" in bulky, rounded capital letters. The place did not offer indoor table service; instead, it had a takeout window protected by a sliding glass pane and a few metal outdoor tables arranged in a radial pattern around the structure.
Laura and Peter had settled around one of these tables. Between them were two steaming recyclable paper cups filled with American coffee and a flexible tray—also made of pressed cardboard—holding four conspicuous donuts.
"When we go back to the motel, I must thank Davy for telling us where we could find good coffee and something sweet!" Laura exclaimed. She was smiling, her eyes bright and a sudden jolt of energy illuminating her face; the caffeine from the first sip must have worked wonders on her sleepy metabolism.
"It's definitely better than what I usually get, and it costs less too," Peter commented, raising his cup. He studied the receipt on the table, genuinely surprised by how dirt cheap the prices of a small provincial town were compared to the prohibitive costs he was used to in New York.
"The coffee is good, but not the absolute best I've ever had, but these donuts are divine," Laura said. Without standing on ceremony, she sank her teeth into a donut covered in a thick layer of strawberry glaze, leaving a small pink trail on the corner of her lips.
'She's cute when she smiles,' Peter thought. The thought crossed his mind completely spontaneously, almost involuntarily, as he lingered with his gaze on Laura, who looked so genuinely happy with her pink donut in her hands.
An instant later, however, Peter darkened, knitting his brows and shifting his gaze toward his own reflection in the coffee. 'What am I thinking? I met her a day ago,' he reproached himself mentally. A stern frown shadowed his forehead. He had no intention of getting into a new relationship or looking for a girlfriend, especially with the wounds still fresh from the last, painful breakup he had gone through. As always, the looming shadow of Spider-Man ended up tearing Peter Parker's love life to shreds.
Before Laura or Peter could exchange another remark, the female journalist's bag twitched. Laura's phone began to vibrate violently on the metal table, emitting a dark and dramatic ringtone, an orchestral arrangement that sounded like a comic book supervillain's personal entrance music.
"Who's ringing you at this hour? It's 8:30 on a Sunday morning," Peter commented, rolling his eyes, certain that at that hour on a holiday, the vast majority of the population was still sleeping or enjoying their domestic privacy.
"It's Mr. Jameson," Laura explained with an apologetic smile, having customized the ringtone for incoming calls from J. Jonah Jameson just to prepare herself psychologically for his temperament.
"Doesn't he have a wife to look after and a son to get married off?" Peter commented in a clearly annoyed tone. He leaned back against the seat, crossing his arms; he would gladly have done without hearing his boss's voice before breakfast was even finished.
"The faster it starts, the faster it ends," Laura cut her colleague short with pragmatism. She slid her thumb across the screen to answer the call and, with a quick tap, activated the speakerphone, placing the phone in the middle of the table.
"Good morning, Boss! It's Laura, Peter is right here next to me," the Daily Bugle's new female reporter declared, putting on her best professional and cheerful tone.
"It's not a good morning for me," the speaker croaked immediately. Jameson's voice came through distorted but unmistakable: harsh, gruff, and perennely on the warpath.
'Not for us either now,' Peter thought. To swallow the bitter pill, he took a decisive bite of his chocolate donut, hoping the sugar would be enough to sweeten the sudden change in the morning's atmosphere.
"Did something happen?" Laura asked, tilting her head to the side. Her reporter's instinct immediately caught the nuance of genuine frustration behind their boss's usual grunt.
"Actually, yes. My wife and I were supposed to have a visit from my son and his fiancée," Jameson confessed, unusually open about his private details.
"Your son is introducing his fiancée to you? That's serious, maybe there will be a wedding soon and grandchildren in a few years," Laura chimed in, softening her voice in an attempt to breach the director's hardened heart, hoping that the evocation of a family idyll would soften him up a bit.
"I hope so too! The flight that was supposed to bring him here to us was canceled because of some lunatic in a costume who stole the plane," Jameson snapped, his voice rising an octave out of anger. And, for once, Peter had to admit the man had every reason in the world to be furious.
'Who on earth steals a passenger plane from an airport?' the photographer wondered, puzzled. Even by New York supervillain standards, such a theft seemed absurd and devoid of any real logistical utility.
"Bad news, Boss, but it happens nowadays. Your son will catch another plane and you'll meet your future daughter-in-law another day," Laura tried to reassure him, maintaining a calm and diplomatic tone.
"If it were only that, I could move past it, but I just saw Charlotte Gagnepetit's latest post, published half an hour ago," Jameson countered, and his tone suddenly grew harder, almost accusatory. "Parker, don't just sit there doing nothing, log on to the blog, The Steambird!" he ordered loudly, thundering through the phone capsule as if he were standing right in front of them.
"Right away, Mr. Jameson," Peter replied. He swallowed his bite of donut, pulled his old and slightly scratched smartphone out of his pockets, and quickly opened the page of Charlotte's blog.
Laura abruptly shifted in her chair, moving close to Peter's side and bending her head so she could look at the illuminated screen, curious to discover the latest scoop from Nightfall City's famous steampunk female journalist. A grainy but striking photo appeared on the screen.
"Is that Spider-Man alongside Black Warlock?!" Laura asked, her voice betraying genuine surprise as she widened her eyes at the image of the two vigilantes.
"Lane, Parker, what did you two do last night!" Jameson barked from the other end of the line, demanding answers as to why his correspondents hadn't intercepted such a story.
"We were sleeping in a motel, the trip from New York to Salem and then to Nightfall wasn't easy or short," Peter replied quickly, offering a half-truth to cover his tracks. Technically he had slept in that motel, omitting only the minor detail that for several hours of the night he had been hanging from building cornices, swinging on his webs.
Only a heavy silence came from the speaker. Jameson listened for a few moments, brooding.
"Maybe it's asking too much to find news the second you arrive in town after a long journey, but next time I want material!" the director finally declared, regaining a shred of flexibility and tacitly acknowledging that no one, not even his reporters, could work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
"I want to write a front-page article too; Peter and I were just about to talk about where to go to investigate. I think the Police Headquarters and the Museum were some of the first places to visit," Laura intervened, immediately taking the reins of the discussion. She had already focused on the hot spots: the Museum, theater of the recent clash between Black Warlock, Captain Cold, and Heat Wave, and the police precinct, the ideal place to cross paths with the officers who most often dealt with the hero dressed in black.
"I like your initiative, Lane. Parker, make sure you don't let the new blood do all the work," Jameson hissed.
"More likely I'll go take pictures alone and share the credit with Lane, rather than taking it all for myself," Peter replied, cracking a half-smile and throwing an ironic glance at his female colleague.
"No lone wolf stunts, we need to work together," Laura warned him immediately, pinning her eyes into his to make it clear that she had no intention of being left behind like a helpless little girl who needed protection.
Peter preferred not to counter the young woman's firmness; instead, he preferred to redirect the conversation toward their journalistic focus, addressing the phone directly: "What do you think of Charlotte's article?"
"That girl, Charlotte, is a bit naive: she talks about how Nightfall City's hero was helped by New York City's hero to stop a weapons smuggling operation," Jameson pronounced, using his usual critical and scathing tone to tear down the way the steampunk female reporter had put the wall-crawler in a good light.
'I did more than help,' Peter thought to himself, remembering perfectly that he had knocked out and webbed up far more goons at the harbor than Black Warlock had even touched.
"Calling Spider-Man the hero of New York and saying she is helping Black Warlock... It's obvious that Spider-Man was attacking his business rivals and deceived Nightfall's vigilante into helping him with his nefarious plans," Jameson continued, launching into his classic, frantic tirade to slander New York's masked figure at the first useful opportunity.
'Business rivals, right; let's add Spider-Man being a weapons trafficker to the list,' Peter reflected, by now sadly accustomed to receiving every kind of absurd accusation from the columns of the Bugle.
"Charlotte has talent; in her article she tells how she took a taxi and chased Black Warlock's flying figure all the way to the harbor, how she hid and climbed among the containers, how Spider-Man tried to put her out of the game by making her fall from the containers, but Black Warlock caught her mid-air," Jameson went on, acknowledging despite everything Gagnepetit's grit and determination.
'That was a minor mistake, and I would have caught her myself if Warlock hadn't moved before me,' Peter brooded, gritting his teeth at the memory of the millisecond of delay that had cost him his grip on the female journalist.
"Then, Charlotte refused to be sent away by Spider-Man and she insisted on the right to freedom of the press to stay and record the events for the public. I don't like how she paints Spider-Man as a hero, but the article itself and the photos she took are good. I want a result equal to or better than that from you two," Jameson concluded, catching his breath to issue a new series of suffocating directives.
Fortune, however, decided to turn in favor of the two Daily Bugle employees.
"Jameson! Stop working, I have good news! I found a plane that can take us to our son, pack your bags, we leave in four hours!" a shrill and commanding female voice exclaimed in the background, so loud that it reverberated clearly through Laura's smartphone.
"Do your job or I won't pay you, I'll hear from you tomorrow, right now I have to take care of family business," Jameson cut them short, his tone suddenly deflated and hurried. A second later, the line went dead with a sharp click.
Peter let out a long sigh of relief, leaning back against his chair and staring at the display that had gone black again. "Thank heaven Jameson is married, otherwise he would live at the Daily Bugle and be breathing down our necks 24 hours a day," he commented, savoring that unexpected domestic rescue.
"Our boss is truly obsessed with Spider-Man," Laura said, sliding her phone into her coat pocket with a swift motion and shaking her head slightly.
"He's obsessed with all masked superheroes, with Spider-Man at the top of his list, followed by Batman," Peter replied, shrugging. In his heart, he still didn't know whether to feel sad or happy about permanently occupying the number one spot on J. Jonah Jameson's "favorites" list.
"But I've read articles where he speaks well of Captain America and Superman," Laura commented, tilting her head slightly to the side, visibly confused by that disparity in treatment.
"Those two don't wear masks and everyone knows their story; Spider-Man, Batman, and the like are mysteries," Peter explained, tapping his fingers on the table. He knew Jameson's convoluted editorial and personal theories regarding urban vigilantes all too well.
"That's stupid, that spider and that bat have saved countless lives and God knows what else," Laura commented, crossing her arms on the table and speaking with sincere conviction. It was clear that, between the two sides, she openly aligned herself with Spider-Man.
At those words, Peter had to call upon all his superhuman willpower not to let a radiant smile escape. It was truly rare for him to hear someone, especially so close and without professional filters, spend good and genuine words on his alter ego.
"Jameson has many flaws, but he's the one who pays us," Peter cut the matter short with a hint of resigned irony. After all, as frustrating as it was, he was bound hand and foot to the Daily Bugle; that job remained his only financial certainty when he couldn't find employment more suited to his real scientific and intellectual abilities.
"So, shall we go to the museum and then to the police station?" Lane asked, leaning forward to hammer out the practical details of their investigative plan.
Peter hesitated for a second, his gaze wandering toward the skyline of the buildings. 'I didn't promise anything, but Black Warlock said he would like to meet Spider-Man around 12:00 on the museum roof,' he thought to himself. He fully intended to show up for the appointment to confront Nightfall City's hero again and, if luck was on his side, snap some exclusive photos to sell back in New York to squeeze out a well-deserved raise. He just had to find a way to break away from Laura before noon.
"I say we should start with a visit to the local university, that's where Black Warlock first appeared," Peter proposed, deliberately changing the cards on the table. "University students love to talk, especially if there's a camera around," he added, lifting his old reflex camera that hung around his neck by a few centimeters, as if to give weight to his argument as a seasoned photographer.
Laura nodded, convinced by the reasoning. "I have to agree with you, at university a female friend of mine did everything she could to stay at the center of a lens," she said, smiling at the memory of how certain people loved to be the center of attention for the benefit of a camera lens.
"Then, we should go to the harbor, where Black Warlock's latest appearance took place," Peter continued, letting his investigative instinct, honed by years of patrolling as Spider-Man, bleed through for a moment. "Charlotte has already written an article, but she was in a hurry and it was at night; she surely missed details that we might find."
"I like the way you think," Laura said, and her smile became more open and complicit, appreciating her colleague's thoroughness.
"After that, we'll take a short break to grab a bite and we'll split up: I'll go take pictures at the museum and you can go to the Police Headquarters to ask questions to the Chief Detective, Motoko Kusanagi. Women are more willing to talk to other women," Peter concluded, playing his trump card. It was the perfect excuse to get away from her without raising suspicions and have a clear field for the meeting on the roof.
"When you talk like that you sound like a professional, Peter!" Laura exclaimed, struck by the split-second precision of the schedule. With a spontaneous and friendly gesture, she gave a sharp pat on the photographer's shoulder.
"Thanks, but it's just experience, I've been doing this job for years," he replied, cracking a modest smile and taking the blow without flinching, even though his reflexes had warned him of the impact well before the girl's hand touched his jacket.
The two finished drinking the last sips of their by now lukewarm coffee, cleared the table of the remains of the donuts and, having gathered their bags, set off together toward the main street, ready to begin their hunt for the secrets of Nightfall City.
XXX
In the prestigious Broadview district, some of the city's most exclusive residences were concentrated: a parade of luxurious mansions protected by wrought-iron gates, enriched by English gardens and infinity pools. Yet, towering above all the others in grandeur and historical charm was the Robinson Manor. That monumental complex could easily be compared to Gotham City's Wayne Manor; a resemblance that was anything but coincidental, given that both residences had been designed by the very same, famous architect in 1875. Over nearly one hundred and fifty years of history, the estate had survived the passing of time unscathed, being handed down from hand to hand among several illustrious families.
For the past twenty-four years, the Manor had finally become the stronghold of the Robinson Family, composed of the head of the family Walter, his wife Patricia, and their only daughter, Lola. Under Walter's management—and to indulge Lola's whims and boundless athletic ambitions—the estate's grounds had further expanded, seeing the rise of several secondary structures. The main residence flaunted a classic and imposing style, characterized by walls in pastel shades of lavender and yellow, topped by a bright turquoise roof. Right above the majestic main entrance doors made of solid brown wood, an elegant decorated balcony extended outward. The property spanned a whopping 20,000 square feet and lacked absolutely nothing: an immense park manicured to the millimeter, an outdoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, a private tennis court, a helicopter landing pad, a gigantic garage housing a collection of luxury cars, and, finally, a detached building. The latter was a true state-of-the-art private gym, equipped with every technology and tool necessary to keep a multi-award-winning female champion in various sports disciplines in perfect shape.
The interior of Lola's gymnastics hall was immense. A regulation fighting ring dominated the center, surrounded by heavy boxing bags hanging from the ceiling, latest-generation fitness machines, racks overflowing with medicine balls and basketballs, and hoops fixed to the side walls. The floor was partially covered by a vast area of thick, impact-absorbing blue tatami mats.
There, in the middle of the mats, stood Lola and Welt. Both were wearing white martial arts kimonos, but the hierarchical difference was evident at first glance: Lola flaunted a worn and prestigious black belt, while Welt tied an immaculate white belt around his waist.
'It's almost nine,' Lola thought, her chest rising and falling rhythmically as she tried to regulate her heavy breathing. She glanced at the large digital clock hanging on the concrete wall. 'We've been in the hall for almost two hours and my Teddy Bear is still on his feet. He has enormous endurance.' A smile mirroring a slight, wild exhilaration stretched her lips.
The scenario recalled an alternative and decidedly more human version of Kung Fu Panda, where a tenacious Po (Welt) was being initiated into the harsh way of martial arts by a deadly Master Tigress (Lola).
The young woman had begun the session with due gradualness:
- The initial ritual (3 minutes): the formal greeting on the edge of the tatami, a mutual bow steeped in respect that sanctioned the beginning of the lesson.
- The warmup (15 minutes): a tight sequence of exercises for joint mobility, coordination, muscle strengthening and, above all, the preliminary practice of safe falls (ukemi) to avoid injuries.
- The technical study (30 minutes): the methodical repetition of entry movements for throwing techniques and the first concepts of ground control.
Then, the training had culminated in free sparring, the phase in which to apply the studied techniques with full contact. And that was where the situation had gotten out of hand.
The pace had changed radically. The dynamic had shifted in a flash from that of a playful female tiger who just wanted to test her adorable panda, to that of a black belt female master pushed to her limits by the unexpected obstinacy of the newcomer. Lola had thrown Welt to the mat about ten times, making him impact heavily on the foam of the mats, but he had always gotten back up. With every fall, seeing him return to his guard, Lola increased the intensity: her movements became more fluid and fast, her strikes heavier and more precise. Yet, Welt came back up. At the highest point of the clash, Lola had managed to put him on the mat a whopping four times in just one minute, taking ten seconds to complete the sweeps; Welt, on the other hand, had revived and stood up all four times in just five seconds flat.
That reaction triggered a rush of adrenaline-fueled excitement in Lola that she hadn't felt in years. In her high-level competitive career, she had reached the point where only the world elite could keep up with her pace; most of her opponents, both men and women, ended up on the ground and lost the will to fight. Some had even run away from the ring or refused to face her. There had been a period when Lola no longer had sparring partners willing to exchange blows with her, forcing her to hold back just to get some practice.
Seeing that Welt kept getting back up, that he didn't run away and showed no signs of giving in or crying, made her incredibly happy, feeding that deep feeling of love she felt for him. At the same time, her pride as an elite female athlete was stimulated and gratified by finally facing an opponent who didn't break at the first impact.
Her eagerness was such that Lola stopped limiting herself to only the techniques allowed in Judo, drawing from the full repertoire of her martial knowledge. Faced with this escalation, Welt had been forced to change his strategy, adopting a purely evasive style: he bobbed and weaved with his torso, dodging what he could and absorbing the unavoidable blows by tensing his muscles to cushion the impacts.
Completely forgetting that she was fighting an absolute beginner, Lola decided to unleash some of her best combinations. She abruptly lowered her center of gravity and executed a lightning-fast low spinning sweep, a side kick aimed at mowing down the boy's feet. Welt, anticipating the intention, took a small hop on the spot, letting Lola's leg whistle through the empty air beneath his soles.
Smiling at the reflex, Lola used the momentum to spring back up, loading a lightning-fast uppercase directed right under his jaw. Fortunately, Welt took a coordinated step back, feeling the displacement of air from the punch graze his chin by a whisker. Lola gave him no respite and launched a flurry of straight punches in rapid succession. Welt continued to back away on the tatami, moving his torso left and right with millimetric precision, just enough to make her strikes miss.
It was at that point that Lola played it smart. She executed a body feint; Welt dodged instinctively, falling right into the trap. Lola firmly grabbed his arm and the sleeve of his kimono, spun on her feet, and applied a lightning-fast lever. A textbook throw that slammed Welt onto the mat with a dull thud. But Lola didn't stop.
Caught in a competitive trance, the black belt catapulted herself to the ground on top of him. She locked his arm straight, extended her legs around his neck, and squeezed her muscles, locking Welt in a devastating joint submission hold.
"I want to finish it!" Welt exclaimed. The words came out scraped from his throat after nearly an hour of total silence, a deliberate choice to save every shred of breath and energy.
Gathering every ounce of strength left in his body into a single, explosive muscular burst, Welt planted his feet on the tatami and stood up using his weight, lifting Lola off the ground along with him. The young woman, caught completely by surprise by the fact that he could move and lift her specific weight in the middle of such a hold, squeezed her legs even tighter out of instinct.
Welt, however, did not try to break free: he suddenly let himself fall backward, shifting his weight so as to crash Lola down onto the mat. The violent impact of her back against the foam forced the young woman to let go of her grip due to the pain.
Taking advantage of that tenth of a second of freedom, Welt immediately lunged at her to consolidate his position. He placed his knees over Lola's thighs to completely nullify the movements of her legs, pressed his left forearm against her throat to restrict her strikes and, with his right hand, grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head and pressing them against the ground.
Lola found herself completely immobilized. Rather than a textbook martial arts maneuver, the final transition looked like a decidedly intimate, bedroom-style hold, but it proved incredibly effective for the purpose.
"Thirty-three defeats and one victory for me," Welt said, his breath broken and short after burning his very last reserves of energy for that final sequence.
"Normally I like being on top, but for you I'll make an exception, Teddy Bear," Lola replied. Despite the defeat, she flashed a mischievous and provocative smile, finding that specific submission decidedly... stimulating.
Too exhausted to even let himself succumb to embarrassment, Welt loosened his grip and moved aside to free her, collapsing immediately afterward supine on the tatami, his arms wide open as if he were half dead. For several minutes, the two remained lying next to each other on the blue mats, their gazes lost toward the gym ceiling, joined by the sweat, the fatigue, and the silence of the room.
'If training is this pleasant, I wonder what sex would be like?' Lola thought. She was dead tired physically, with her muscles beginning to stiffen from the exertion, but inside she felt like a dynamo packed with electrical energy and thoughts of all kinds, all rigidly focused on the boy lying by her side.
'I think I can say that Welt can only use a quarter of Warlock's physical capabilities and a tenth of his magical skills,' Welt reflected instead, staring at the lights on the ceiling. He felt his heart rate slowing down and his internal heat trying to soothe the muscular traumas. 'The healing factor works, just much slower. I think my subconscious desire to look normal keeps everything in check... I can't walk out of this training without bruises.' He made an internal grimace; he was sure he had collected, in those two wild hours, a lifetime's worth of bruises.
"Teddy Bear, you are incredible!" Lola suddenly exclaimed, her voice cracking with extreme happiness. She massaged one of her forearms, feeling her whole body sore; unleashing all those strikes in rapid succession had drained her energy reserves as well.
"I don't feel incredible; in fact, I feel like I'm a battered wife who married a boxer with anger management issues," Welt commented, his voice flat and lifeless, too tired to care about being polite or weighing his words.
"I'm sorry, Teddy Bear, I admit I might have gone overboard at certain points," Lola replied. A mix of genuine shame and embarrassment painted her face for letting herself get carried away by the heat of the moment, even though, deep down, a part of her was euphoric about how things had turned out.
With a fluid movement, the young woman rolled onto her belly, pressing her chest against the tatami, and crawled forward until she positioned her face just a few centimeters away from Welt's.
"I think we've done more than enough with this lesson and, if my apologies aren't enough, tell me what you need and I'll do it," she whispered. As she moved, the heavy fabric of the white kimono opened up at the front just enough to reveal her deep cleavage and the bright fabric of her yellow bikini. The black belt [Lola], to optimize time, had worn her swimsuit directly under her uniform.
"Number one, I'm sure what we did cannot be classified as a lesson or training," Welt replied, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, too drained of strength to let himself be distracted or influenced by Lola's cleavage. "Number two, I just want to lie here and maybe later receive a pitcher of lemonade with ice cubes."
Lola giggled, lifting herself up on her elbows. "I'll ask Belfast to make us some lemonade, but I must tell you, Teddy Bear, that you are incredible. You're like an onion full of layers, each one unique with its own talent." Curiosity burned in her eyes: she desperately wanted to discover what else that bizarre bookseller was hiding.
Welt painfully turned his head to the side, raising a single eyebrow. "Thanks for the Shrek reference, but what are you talking about?"
"In terms of Judo you're an absolute novice, but you have two formidable talents!" she exclaimed, gesturing emphatically.
"What would those be?" Welt asked, convinced that the young woman was exaggerating out of pure gallantry or in an attempt to cheer him up.
"You have a monstrous endurance, you're like a bear in human skin," Lola pronounced, starting from the most obvious and astonishing fact of the last two hours.
"I prefer Pandas to Grizzly bears or Polar bears, even though they make a funny comedy trio when put together," Welt countered with a half-smile, recalling the theme song of an old cartoon.
"A big, friendly, and cute Panda, capable of taking punches like no one else," Lola went along with him. She reached out and, with a calculated but firm pressure, she felt his sore shoulder—the very one she had locked and almost dislocated shortly before. Welt slightly twitched his lips but let her do it; after all, that manipulation gave him a modicum of relief and was even pleasant.
"Understood, I'm a good punching bag. Anything else?" he asked.
"Nerves of steel and a master's concentration," Lola continued, her gaze turning serious and filled with admiration for her Teddy Bear's mental qualities. "I'm a natural-born talent in physical matters, I had to struggle to work on the mental things... you are the exact opposite. You didn't lose concentration for a single second. No hesitation or sign of fear, your eyes fixed on the opponent and her movements, and nothing else."
Welt let out a small puff from his nose. "In high school, my math teacher was a communist who longed for the old days of the U.S.S.R.'s influence. He would throw chalk at your head and sometimes a few slaps if you showed inattention. I developed this trait to avoid trouble." He offered the pragmatic explanation, masking the fact that that absolute focus had actually been forged by the rigorous study of the arcane arts and the reflexes required by his life as a hero.
"In addition to these two talents, I observed that you are very good at dodging, as if you knew exactly where I was going to strike and how to avoid the blow... you have hawk eyes," she insisted, overlooking the fact that Welt wore glasses.
"I'm nearsighted, everything beyond seven meters becomes blurry," he corrected her with irony. "It's a simple matter of observing, learning, memorizing. A good medical knowledge of anatomy and how muscles work helps a lot." It was a demonstration of a logical intelligence applied to combat that was far above average.
"You use your big brain and your medical knowledge to win in the ring, now that is truly fantastic," Lola smiled, fascinated by the idea of having a sort of warrior-philosopher in front of her.
"I like martial arts movies; I've watched all the Karate Kid, Ip Man, Lee Pai-Long movies, and many others," Welt admitted, relaxing his facial muscles and enjoying that moment where he could talk freely about his passions. "I've also read several Chinese books on the subject, I can tell you the exact difference between Wuxia, Xianxia, and Xuanhuan."
"I don't know why, but I like hearing you pronounce foreign words," Lola murmured, the dreamy gaze of someone who is by now hopelessly in love. Then, shifting back into technical mode, she added: "You know, maybe Judo isn't for you; I think MMA or Kung Fu would be more suited to your style."
"Do you know Kung Fu?" Welt asked, surprised by this new detail.
"I'm better at Judo, Karate, and Boxing, but I know a decent number of moves," she explained with humility. "Chef Yu is the younger brother of Chongyue, the greatest martial master in China. That guy defeated me in less than a minute and, if he wanted to, he could become the champion of champions." There was a sincere deference in her voice toward a clearly superior martial artist.
Welt knitted his brows, digging into his memories as a cinephile. "I think I know him... Isn't Chongyue the protagonist and stuntman in some B-movie martial arts films?" He was sure he had come across that name in the end credits of some niche Asian film.
"Chef Yu told me that one of his sisters, Nian, is a sort of underground movie director and screenwriter who asks Chongyue to lend her a hand whenever he can," Lola clarified, smiling at the strange connections in the world.
"A Chef, a martial champion, and a movie director, an interesting family," Welt commented, imagining that such a kinship would be perfect for a sitcom or an anime series.
At that point, Lola roused herself. She sprang to her feet with a springy movement, towering over him. "I think we've lain on the mats long enough," she said, planting her hands on her hips and looking down at Welt. "We can go rest by the pool."
"You go on ahead as a scout, I'll stay here for another half hour, an hour at most," replied Welt, who had absolutely no intention of separating himself from the stable surface of the tatami.
Lola's smile tightened slightly. She crossed her arms beneath her bust, narrowing her lips; her entire plan for the morning involved enjoying Welt's company, and that wasn't feasible if the Teddy Bear remained nailed to the gym floor.
"Teddy Bear, don't you want to see me wearing my yellow bikini?" she asked, tilting her head with a playful and mischievous smirk, playing the card of her own charm to move him.
Welt, however, remained as unyielding as a stone statue. "Your strikes have driven any worldly desire or shyness out of me. Inside me, only fatigue, a cold mind, and an encyclopedia of knowledge remain."
"Am I not attractive enough to convince you to get up?" she asked, feigning offense and pouting.
"It's summer, there's a heatwave, we are in a coastal city, you have a private pool, and we are on excellent terms. I have a lifetime to see you wear every kind of outfit, I'm in no hurry," Welt rattled off, opposing a barrier of undeniable facts.
'A lifetime to see me wear every kind of outfit... I like how that sounds. But I don't have that much patience,' Lola thought.
Without adding another word, she moved swiftly along the tatami, positioning herself near Welt's feet. "Teddy Bear, you are intelligent and you think long-term, but I am a strong and impulsive woman," she declared. With a lightning-fast burst, she firmly grabbed his ankles and lifted them upward.
Welt didn't flinch, limiting himself to crossing his arms over his chest to protect himself from any sudden jolts. "Do as you wish, Lola, I don't have enough breath to put up resistance."
"Perfect! We are on the same wavelength," Lola exclaimed, beaming. And, gripping the boy's ankles, she began to walk backward, literally dragging him out of the gym along the floor, like a large and resigned cloth teddy bear.
XXX
Meanwhile, in the heart of the Blackwood District, a woman of a magnetic and unsettling beauty was walking along the sidewalks. Her true name remained shrouded in mystery, but in the underworld of her murky profession, everyone knew her simply as Lady V; on the passport and false documents she carefully kept in her wallet, however, there was a stage name printed that spoke volumes: Vanessa Vipère.
Vanessa was a decidedly tall woman, slender at her 173 centimeters of height. Her complexion was fair, almost ivory, a perfect contrast to the long and thick wavy black hair that caressed her back down to the lowest part. Her eyes, sharp and hypnotic, gleamed with an intense and deep green, identical to pure jade stone. Her build was a masterpiece of proportions: slender yet incredibly curvy, characterized by a very narrow waist and a rich, bountiful bust, defined by mind-boggling measurements: B94 / W58 / H89.
Establishing her biological age at first glance was an impossible feat; she showed the freshness of a twenty-five-year-old and the mature awareness of a twenty-eight-year-old, but her identity card remained an impenetrable enigma as much as her origins.
Her entire outfit was designed to capture gazes and disarm defenses. She wore a pair of towering black stiletto heels that punctuated her every step on the asphalt, a black pencil skirt that hugged her hips, tightening down to mid-knee, and an audacious red shirt that left her shoulders and the sinuous line of her navel completely bare. Her earlobes were adorned with precious gold earrings encrusted with rubies of the exact same color as her top. Between her fingers, she clutched a red snakeskin evening handbag, inside of which were packed a couple of very special tools, vials of a chemical complexity as high as it was lethal. Vanessa emanaded the untouchable and magnetic aura of a high-class female predator, a femme fatale capable of dismantling the heart and mind of any man or woman who crossed her path.
With feline movements, the woman crossed the threshold of a small and cozy neighborhood café. The place was a quiet spot, the air scented with roasted blend and homemade pastries. The choice of the location was anything but accidental: the owner of the business was the mother of a city police detective, a methodical man who stopped there almost every day in the early afternoon to have an espresso coffee and exchange a few words with his elderly mother.
Vanessa approached the counter with an enigmatic smile, ordered a cappuccino, and went to sit on a chair at the most sheltered table, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable while waiting for her victim to make his appearance. For the occasion, she had planned every detail to the millimeter: on the skin of her neck and wrists, she had sprayed a perfume of her own creation, a customized synthetic hormone fragrance capable of making herself biologically irresistible. And inside her reptile handbag rested the real highlight, a special little gift for a friend in serious trouble: a stylized pen made of crafted glass which, instead of common ink, held a thick, yellow, fluorescent substance in its reservoir.
XXX
Returning to the Robinson Manor.
When Lola had grabbed him by the ankles, kickstarting her forced deportation plan, it had immediately become clear that the young woman would stand by her word, ready to drag him without pause all the way to the pool area. Faced with that prospect, Welt had wisely announced that he had changed his mind. He vastly preferred getting back up on his own two feet, dropping by the changing rooms to change his clothes, grabbing his faithful shoulder bag, and walking civilly alongside her, rather than having his back scraped for hundreds of meters across the lawn grass and the burning asphalt of the walkways.
Once they arrived at their destination, Lola had stripped off the heavy white kimono and tossed it into the air with a theatrical gesture, making it land who-knows-where on the tiles. Then, without a second thought, she suddenly dove into the water, kicking up a spectacular splash of crystalline water.
Welt, remaining by the poolside, wore a pair of dark shoes, black trousers, and a white shirt left open at the collar, with the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. The young bookseller had preferred to settle on a high-quality beach lounger under the shade of an umbrella. From his bag, he had pulled out a hardcover sketchbook and a metal pencil case overflowing with professional pencils of varying lead hardness. While Lola regenerated and relaxed thanks to the cool water of the pool under the scorching summer sun, Welt sought his own personal recharge through art.
At first, his pencil had moved guided by a purely geometric and rational instinct. He had sketched a profile drawing of Spider-Man's suit, enriching it with several side sections dedicated to possible technological improvements to the fabric and detailed variations of the internal mechanism of his web-shooters. Everything was done strictly without notes or written formulas, so that in the eyes of a stranger it would look like a harmless sci-fi art sketch, a pure exercise in style.
However, the physical aftermath of Judo was still making its effects felt on Welt's muscles, and his more creative side demanded room, eager to do something more stimulating than simple engineering work. Thus, after two pages dense with pseudo-projects related to Spider-Tech, the bookseller had let himself be guided by pure aesthetic inspiration.
The graphite had begun to flow rapidly, giving shape to a dynamic Spider-Man swinging fluidly among the skyscrapers of New York City; that fluid motion imprinted on the paper had driven away the boy's remaining fatigue, rebooting his mental circuits. Although his eyes were totally focused on the white sheet and his hand held the pencil with precision, Welt possessed senses sharp enough to distinctly perceive Lola's presence a few meters away, immersed in an aura of bursting vitality.
Soon, within the pages of the sketchbook, the original Spider-Man was replaced by a sinuous Spider-Woman, enveloped in a suit of dark black and purple tones, with a bright touch of pink outlining her lines. The next illustration showed a composition neatly split in half: on the left side, immersed in the night, towered the mysterious Spider-Woman; on the right side, illuminated by daylight, stood Lola in all her dazzling reality.
Turning the page again, the pencil lead had sketched an ancient and proud version of Lola, dressed like a legendary amazon warrior against the backdrop of a classical Greek citadel.
Immediately after, the young woman appeared in an outfit heavily inspired by the iconic style of Chun-Li from the Street Fighter saga, immortalized right in the middle of a martial pose as she prepared to face a group of masked ninjas.
The last panel, the most elaborate one, showed Lola in the guise of a beautiful mermaid with floating hair, intent on swimming in a sumptuous reproduction of the Robinson Manor pool, which had been adapted in a pirate-like theme.
Welt was so absorbed by the nuances of the paper that he didn't notice at all that Lola, in the meantime, had re-emerged from the water and had silently approached his station, dripping onto the floor.
"What beautiful thing are you drawing, Teddy Bear?" Lola suddenly asked, leaning over his shoulder.
Welt froze instantly, his muscles tensing up with a jerk as he was snatched from his creative isolation to be catapulted back into the real world.
"Nothing important," he replied quickly, closing the sketchbook with a sharp snap and clutching it to himself.
"Teddy Bear, I was willing to drag you by the legs all the way here. Can you kindly show me what you drew, or shall I take it from your hands? But I risk ruining the paper, since I am all wet," Lola warned him with a sly smile, crossing her wet arms and letting it be known, without mincing words, that she would get what she wanted one way or another.
Welt let out a long sigh of surrender. For the sake of domestic peace and, above all, to safeguard the physical safety of his precious sheets of paper, he reopened the sketchbook and handed it to Lola, showing her the illustrations.
The first technical sketches of Spider-Man did not arouse any particular comments from the young woman; her attention sparked and remained literally thunderstruck as soon as the panels of the Spider-Lola appeared.
"By my father's boxing gloves hanging on the wall, that's me?!" Lola asked, widening her eyes and examining the close-up details of her own face skillfully transposed onto the heroine's body.
"Well, you are the only beautiful thing around here. As an artist, I draw inspiration from beauty and the events of my life to create," Welt murmured, feeling his cheeks instantly catch fire, with the secret dread that such a comment might make him pass for a bizarre guy or a fetishist.
"I am wonderful!" Lola exclaimed instead, absolutely enthusiastic and flattered to see her two-dimensional counterpart in that glorious superheroine guise. "Teddy Bear, show me what else you drew!" she asked right after, her eyes gleaming with impatience just like a little girl in front of the highest shelf of a toy store.
Welt, accommodating her eagerness, turned the pages to show her the versions of the Amazon, the Street Fighter combatant, and the Mermaid.
"I knew you were an artist, since you are a screenwriter for The Adventures of Black Warlock, but you are also a fantastic draftsman. Look how beautiful you made me!" Lola exclaimed, pointing her index finger just a few millimeters away from the paper, admiring her marine version in ecstasy.
'I did the right thing using my left hand while making the illustrations as Tesla Noceda, while I use my right hand as Welt Blight,' the bookseller thought to himself, mentally congratulating himself for adopting that strict security measure to differentiate the two artistic styles and prevent anyone from linking his different artistic identities.
"It's nothing special; I felt like drawing and you were right in front of me, nothing more, nothing less," Welt tried to downplay, looking away to the side out of embarrassment. Showing one's intimate art to someone was an experience he had shared with very few people in his life.
'He's back to being shy,' Lola thought, softened and amused by the way the boy tended to blush at every compliment.
"You are too modest, Teddy Bear. Will you be angry if I ask you to keep one of these drawings? I promise I will cherish it as if it were a treasure," the young woman proposed, joining her hands under her chin and pulling an irresistible puppy-dog expression that was impossible to say no to.
"As far as I'm concerned, you can take them all, since I can just redraw them whenever I feel like it," Welt replied, shrugging his shoulders. To him, those sketches were simply something replicable at any moment, certainly not unique and untouchable works of art.
"Thank you so much, Teddy Bear!" Lola exclaimed, beaming. She leaned forward and planted a loud, affectionate kiss on his cheek, eager to thank him properly.
At that contact, Welt's face abruptly shifted to a chili-pepper red hue.
"This, besides being a reward for your drawings, is also an apology," Lola continued, narrowing her lips into a suddenly more serious and caring expression. "If I had known you were so good at drawing, I would have been more careful during Judo training. It would have been a disaster if I had hurt you." She made a mental note for the future: from now on, she would protect and treat the precious hands of her Teddy Bear with velvet gloves.
At that exact moment, Lola's best female friend made her appearance—the very same woman who for a whopping fourteen years had held the impeccable position of official Maid of the Robinson Manor. Her name was Belfast. Despite being 34 years old, her height of 163 centimeters and her incredibly fresh features made her look like a perfect peer of Lola's. Belfast boasted a slender, supple, and exquisitely sinuous build, defined by a silhouette with breathtaking measurements: B95 / W59 / H93. Her skin was extremely fair, smooth, and almost ethereal—a truly milky complexion with the whiteness of porcelain.
Her hair fell fluidly down to her waist, flaunting a very rare silver-white color embellished with faint lilac and purple undertones; her hairstyle featured a neat side fringe and a characteristic French braid, elegantly gathered at the back of her head. Her eyes, large and intense, gleamed with a distinct purple shade that gave her gaze a vulnerable and magnetic look.
Her main outfit was a triumph of sartorial details: she wore a navy blue maid dress, sleeveless in cut, paired with a white crop top and a laced blue corset that shaped her waistline. Over the dress stood out an elegant white apron enriched with ruffles, tied at her hips, from which long garter straps finely decorated with anchor-themed motifs extended downward. Her legs were wrapped in white thigh-high stockings that rose above her knee, tucked into low-heeled black shoes adorned with small bows. Her hands were covered in pristine white gloves, while on her head she wore the classic maid headpiece. The absolute most distinctive and mysterious element of her look, however, was a metal collar that hugged her neck, completed by a broken chain that hung slightly.
"Belfast!" Lola exclaimed, breaking the hesitation and immediately running to the side of the beautiful Maid.
"Hello, Miss Lola," Belfast replied. Her voice was a distillate of calm and composed tones, the result of over a decade spent managing the exuberant temperament of the multi-award-winning Olympic female athlete.
"Belfast, let me introduce you to my Teddy Bear!" Lola announced with pride, grabbing the Maid by the arm and dragging her right in front of the bookseller's lounger.
"Good morning, Mr. Bear," Belfast said. She accompanied the greeting with a small, graceful formal bow, letting a subtle note of irony slip through, aimed at teasing that bizarre nickname and the new "boyfriend" who seemed to interest her Miss so much.
The Maid kept a mask of pure and flawless professionalism on her face, but in reality, her purple irises were scanning Welt from top to bottom. She immediately noticed that the young man was radically different from Lola's countless past flames. 'This guy is definitely not an athlete, a biker, or the heir of a CEO,' Belfast thought to herself. When it came to analyzing and x-raying the suitors that Lola brought home, the Maid transformed into a female private detective with an infallible nose.
Faced with that sight, Welt was left literally speechless. He opened his mouth to hint at a greeting, closed it immediately after, but could not make any sound, remaining there staring at her with wide eyes.
"Teddy Bear, are you okay?" Lola asked in a suddenly caring tone, reaching out a hand to touch his sore shoulder.
The bookseller roused himself. He raised his hands and slapped both his cheeks with his palms with two small, sharp slaps to sort out his thoughts and return to reality.
"I'm fine, just... I was left speechless. This is the first time in my life that I meet a true, authentic Maid, especially one so beautiful and dressed in such a fanciful way," Welt confessed, while his cheeks blushed visibly. He made a vague gesture with his hand in the woman's direction, his nerd-enthusiast eyes gleaming. "Lola, you are an Amazon princess with a maid who looks like a Fairy!" he exclaimed, while his nerd side, suddenly reinvigorated, radiated energy from every pore.
'Did Miss Lola happen to radically change her tastes in men?' Belfast wondered, struck. She had never received such a genuinely enthusiastic and disarming reaction from any of the villa's previous visitors.
"You don't know how happy I am that you like Belfast! She is my best friend, like an older sister to me," Lola confessed, lighting up. For her, it was fundamental that Welt felt accepted and welcome by all the important people living inside the Robinson Manor.
Belfast regained control of the situation, speaking with her customary formal grace: "Miss Lola, your father and your mother have arrived, wishing to meet your companion."
At that announcement, Welt fully recovered, remembering his good manners. "Lola, I must get the food I prepared; we left it in the back of your car," he said, adjusting his shoulder strap. He had absolutely no intention of appearing before the masters of the house empty-handed.
'He prepared food?' Belfast thought, imperceptibly raising an eyebrow. None of Lola's rich ex-boyfriends had ever dreamed of cooking something for the family.
"Belfast, Welt and I will be right back. Can you prepare a pitcher of lemonade with ice cubes? We need to fetch a Tiramisù and some spiral-shaped Salatini," Lola ordered, passing her tongue over her lips at the mere thought of being able to sink her teeth into another of the delicacies baked by Welt.
Without waiting for a reply, Lola firmly grabbed Welt by the hand and dragged him away from the pool area, heading at a marching pace toward the garage.
Belfast remained alone for a moment, watching the couple walk away. 'I think we will have a meeting that is well above my expectations,' she reflected with an enigmatic smile, before turning around and walking toward the kitchens to prepare the fresh lemonade requested.
To be continued...
XXX
Author's Note:
Hi everyone, I hope you liked this chapter.
Anyway, I'm thinking of creating a second story whose events take place in the same DC/Marvel world present in this story.
The MC's name would be White Knight, a sort of technological or sci-fi themed hero; he would be like the opposite of Black Warlock.
Would anyone be interested in the possible existence of this project?