Grace Westmore, Diesel City Tribune Reporter

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"The Heroes Return!" the headline read. Grace stared at the framed front page from the May 22, 1954 evening edition of the Diesel City Tribune that had won her paper a Pulitzer Prize. It was mounted in a tasteful stained oaken frame on the wall near her desk, the black and white photo of President McArthur saluting the men of the 10th Mountain Light Infantry Division aboard the USS Alvin York as they returned home from a grueling campaign to retake Sicily. The photographer had captured a single tear rolling down the usually stern but animated face of the former President as he beheld the disheveled mass of soldiers, some more mechanical than man, that stood wearily before him after a noble, but unsuccessful mission.

She sat in front of her Underwood Excelsior black typewriter with gold trim and accents, her fingers ready to type. She sighed as she looked around the newsroom full of people working on "real" stories. Ollie Patterson was typing away at the foreign correspondent's desk, a post she envied, as news from The Front came across the wire and was hand delivered by a snot-nosed intern. Rudy Dawson was furiously typing up the highlights from last night's heavyweight title fight in the newly created Enhanced Division that allowed for performance enhancing prosthetics and implants, and Margot Purcell reviewing her article about a major shakeup in the mayor's race once the incumbent, Louis Mariani, suffered an unexplained drop in his PQ score from the Brass.

Grace, on the other hand, was still stuck at the entertainment desk despite exposing Heinrich Bauer, a German spy that had recruited a number of disgruntled boat captains that were serving as extras on the film set "Fraulein...Fatale!" to replace the pyrotechnic charges with high-energy explosives powerful enough to ignite the industrial run-off. The story ran on the front page, but it was on the sidebar with a tiny picture of her. She still remembered the day she broke the story, beaming with pride as she walked into the editor's office. Instead of getting a promotion, she got the "reward" of walking out of his office on shaky legs, cum dripping down her thighs; his version of a pat on the back.

"Trouble in Tinseltown?" she typed before ripping the page out and crumpling it up before tossing it in the trash. "Drama on the Set!" she pecked out. She sighed, and leaned back; rubbing her long, pale neck with her delicate fingers. She had been assigned to write a piece about Elizabeth Taylor's latest shenanigans. Her source, one of the extras on the set of "Cleopatra", let it slip that she had taken to drinking heavily and was causing delays in production; demanding use from a number of her male costars, several at a time it seems.

She sighed again and pulled the single-sentenced page out and tossed it in the bin beside the dozen other crinkled up wads of paper. Grace stood up, her long legs and torso stretching her to nearly 5'11 tall before her heels pushed her over the 6 foot mark. Her heavy double D cup breasts were tightly framed in the cut out panel of her stylish black dress, and her raven-black hair shimmered as she moved.

"Writer's block?" Milton Cohen asked as he pecked away at his typewriter on the desk beside her. He was a 60 something year old man with crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and a clean-shaven, slightly wrinkled face that was endearingly expressive. He was a good reporter not so much for his writing talents, but for the fact that he just had a face you wanted to trust; and therefore spill the beans to. She walked over to him, her black high heels clicking on the wooden floor.

"Yeah." she said, sitting on the corner of his desk and crossing her legs. She looked out the window of the 88th floor of Tribune Tower. The hazy yellow and purple cloud that usually obscured her view was fairly thin today, and someone had opened a window to let the cloud of cigarette smoke out. There wasn't much to look at, just the neighboring skyscraper's blast proof steel window panels, ready to slide into place at a moment's notice; and corroding gargoyles with there pockmarked, crumbling concrete faces.

From the ground, the towers of Northspire looked amazing, even awe inspiring. They were done in an Art Deco style with flowing lines and rounded edges, some topping 200 stories in height. Up here, you could see them as they really were: dingy, gray obelisks that were slowly corroding away in the acidic smog of Diesel City.

"You know, I got a hot scoop this morning I've been meanin' to work on." he said with a grin. Grace scoffed, but smiled. She could tell he was up to something.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, taking the bait despite herself as her stocking-covered leg swung from side to side on her crossed knee. He leaned in close, looking over his shoulder for effect. She entertained him, a faint smile on her lips. Cohen was always trying to cheer her up.

"I heard..." he said in a conspiratorial voice, "that you have the prettiest pussy in Diesel City; he said looking back over his shoulder for further dramatic effect. She laughed, blushing a little bit.

"Oh yeah? And who told you that?" she asked, playing along and thankful for the distraction. He waved his hand and shook his head.

"A reporter never reveals his sources, but anyway, I'd like to see if its true." She rolled her eyes.

"Milton..."

"What? I wanna see it. Six months you've been sittin' next to me and I haven't so much as gave you a smack on the ass. I wanna see it, what can I say!" She sighed as she smiled, looking up at the ceiling. Slowly, she swiveled so both of her legs were arched over his typewriter, knees clamped together and thighs almost completely exposed. She leaned back on her hands as she scooted forward, gently pushing him back in his seat with her high-heeled foot. She held him there as her other leg slowly parted before her shoe clicked on his desk. When she drew her other foot back, she let it hing open so she was spread wide before him. She eyed him, waiting for his response.

"My, my would you look at that... Great symmetry. Puffy but not meaty, just enough lip but not so much it hangs down, and pink as a flamingo!" He said, extending his finger to run along the partition of her inner and outer lips.

"That tickles." she said with a smile. He grinned up at her, holding up his hand in a "sorry" gestured before comically resting his chin on his hands and staring. "Seen enough?" she asked. He took a breath and smiled.

"I could stare at this all day..." She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, signaling she was ready to get off the desk. "Okay, okay!" he said, covering his eyes and spinning his chair around so his back was to her. She playfully pushed him with her foot, causing his chair to glide across the floor as he spun around in the "see no evil" pose. "Is it gone? I gotta work, you know!" he chimed in as she swung her legs back over the edge of the desk and stood up.

"Don't worry Milton, you're good to go." she said, tapping her foot on the floor and crossing her arms; fighting to keep a smile off her face. He opened his hands as if playing peek-a-boo; a warm, goofy smile on his lips. Grace couldn't help but laugh. He had cheered her up.

"Now I also heard from a reliable source you've got the firmest, biggest breasts in..."

"I'm going to lunch, Milt." she said, cutting him off as she turned to walk away, her lovely round ass swaying as she walked.

"I'm just sayin' a reporter's gotta verify..."

"See ya later, Milt!" she said as she walked to the elevator. Grace hit the button, turning to see him wave and wink at her. She blushed again, grinning and waving with a couple rolls of her outstretched fingers. She really liked Milton. Part of it, she knew, was sympathy. He had come to the US as a child, but had family in Austria. Her smile faded and turned to sadness. The Germans were brutally thorough enacting their solution to the "Jewish Problem" before the Axis countries of Germany, Austria, and Italy solidified into the superpower commonly called "The Stadt."

Thankfully, Mussolini put his foot down as a condition of unity to end the carnage, arguing that Germany was "sufficiently purified," that manpower and resources were better spent elsewhere, and that Germany no right to tell its partner nations how to conduct their internal affairs with their citizens. Unfortunately, most of the damage had been done. Her sadness wasn't just for Milton, as her grandfather was a Romani Gypsy who had immigrated here at the turn of the century. She didn't even want to think about what might happen to her in the Stadt, even with her press pass giving her some measure of immunity.

She wasn't "tainted" enough to earn a bullet from all but the most stubborn of the old guard, but the alternative was far, far worse as the newest generation of Stadtis found that tormenting their victims was perversely more satisfying than a trip to the gas chamber; especially after the instigation of the "Ubermensch Doctrine." If the "impure" fell in line and offered no resistance, they were allowed to live, but not to breed. It was the saddest, most sadistic way to enact their new "Final Solution."

The elevator door opened to the ground floor lobby. Grace stepped out, her mind somber. She was so lost in thought that she bumped into Lucy Calhoun, sending a stack of papers tumbling to the floor. The pouty-lipped, bespectacled brunette was still quite popular in the bullpen, despite showing the beginnings of a baby bump. As usual, there was no way to know who the father was, but it was most likely one of the guys at the sports desk. "Oh, gosh! I'm so sorry!" Grace said, gathering up the breaking news drafts from the field reporters from the floor. Her eyes naturally scanned the pages, and then went wide."Lucy...do you know what this means?" she said, holding a hand to her open mouth in shock as she read the page...