Sue Storm Poses As A Streetwalker

Calling what the NYPD had provided the Invisible Woman a costume was technically accurate. It kept her covered just enough to avoid getting arrested. Combined with high-heeled white boots, a small purse stuffed with fake ID and condoms, and rather more makeup than Sue preferred, and one of the world's greatest heroines looked every inch the streetwalking whore.

Sue occupied her position. Most of the other sex workers on this street had picked up on the disappearances, which meant that Sue got more than a few real offers. For most, she named a price too high for them to afford. The more **** and dangerous would either agree or try to bargain. In each case, Sue simply walked away. A few yelled ****, but none were willing to get physical.

Which was too bad. The Invisible Woman was in a mood to do some damage.

Because denying every client would be a red flag, Sue did have a few "customers"—undercover cops, driving up in nondescript cars. They would dicker, flash her a sign, and Sue would slide into their car to drive to a nearby motel. It gave her thirty to fifty minutes to pee, rest her feet, and get updates on the situation.

Since they knew the **** was disabling cameras, they relied on human intelligence, cops discreetly keeping an eye out. So far, nothing.

However, they knew they were dealing with a mutant. So Sue Storm called in a favor.

Psylocke sat cross-legged on the bed, a cerebro helmet on her head, hiding her eyes. The British woman was impossibly slim and fit—stronger and faster than Sue, with the wiry leanness of years of martial arts training. The tight-fitting purple costume was nearly as revealing as Sue's own, flaunting the bodacious body, and the more generous breasts. Yet Sue didn't feel jealous. Her body might not be quite as fighting trim, but she had the generous swell of hip from having given birth twice, and her breasts were still high and full; when Psylocke was her age, she'd be lucky if her bigger breasts weren't sagging to her navel.

"Anything?" Sue asks.

"Cerebro detects nothing," the psychic mutant said.

"Shit," Detective Costa said. A middle-aged, balding Latino in a badly fitting suit.

"You do not understand," Psylocke clarified. "I sense an absence. Someone is out there. They are using something to hide from Cerebro. From me. I cannot pinpoint their location exactly, because they are moving, but I can sense the proximity. When they draw close to you, Susan, I will be able to provide some warning."

"Well," Sue said. "That's a relief."

She adjusted her costume. Sue had no idea how Psylocke kept hers from crawling up her ass and giving her a wedgie.

"Spirit gum along the seams," Psylocke said, reading her thoughts. "Keeps the costume plastered on me, even during the most strenuous combat."

"Thanks," Sue said. "I'll do that next time."

So saying, the very visible streetwalker left the motel room. Bait in a trap, hoping the rat it would catch wouldn't be too big for her to handle.