Rubber Maid: Rubber Bullet

Rhonda Mord paused at the entrance to the firing
range. The shooting had stopped. She could smell
the<br>chemical aftereffects of the gunfire, and heard the whir
of the motors bringing the targets up to be checked.
Then she heard the voices. Two of her fellow officers,
who she called Smith and Jones, though they weren�t
their real names. Competent officers, but you only knew
them by sight. The one thing she did know � that
EVERYONE knew, was Smith and Jones were FIERCELY
competitive.<br><br>�Twenty bucks says I put my next five in the same spot.
You willing to test that?� That was Smith. Young,
blonde and utterly cocksure of himself.<br><br>�You
cheap little punk!� Lazily amused. Jones was
dark-haired, squat and Jones�s opposite in every respect.
�Make it at least INTERESTING. Twenty-FIVE, or it�s not
worth taking off you. Double or
nothing?�<br><br>�You�re on. What say we take fifteen? That way, we come
back fresh, no griping about tired eyes, hands, or who
fixed what?�<br><br>�Suits me.� Smith and Jones pushed
out the door, past Mord, acknowledging her with a
smile, wave, and a curt, though friendly, �Detective�.
The pliable policewoman nodded back, then slipped
inside.<br><br>The range was empty � only Smith and Jones had been
shooting, and they�d left their weapons behind. Careless,
but perhaps understandable, given the surroundings.
One of them, a standard Glock nine-milimetre, had
been emptied. The chamber was open, the slide fully
back.<br><br>Mord, the Rubber Maid, quickly glanced into the booth.
The rangemaster was occupied. This would take
moments, and would be difficult, but � she grinned. She
took one of her own bullets, and unscrewed it,
spilling the gunpowder into her cupped hand, merging her
fingers into a scoop, to avoid spillage. Then, she
rejoined the bullet, and placed the empty cartridge on the
floor. For visual reference. Then, she quickly removed
her clothes, hiding them behind a number of jackets
in the corner. No one came.<br>Laying down
lengthwise on the floor, next to the bullet, she
concentrated.<br><br>Rhonda shrank. Her malleable form compressed in on
itself, growing ever smaller, smaller, and more compact.
Her vision changed, as her eyes grew smaller and
altered, her face drawing out to imitate the point of the
bullet. Her mass, compressed into an increasingly smaller
space, felt oppressively heavy.<br>Finally, her size
matched that of the bullet. Now, the tricky part.

By touch or rather feel, she moulded her bottom
into an exact replica of the bullet�s percussion cap,
surrounded by a deep groove, which she filled with the
powder from her own bullet. Then, tensing her minature
form, she sprang upwards, arcing onto the desk next to
the Glock. Then, she quickly slithered inside the
empty chamber, a small tendril snapping it
shut.<br><br>It was cramped, and the smell of gun oil not
pleasant, but she was rewarded. Footsteps came into the
room, and she heard Jones say, �I�ll shoot first.� and
Smith�s �Be my guest,� in response. Then, she was lifted,
and smiled inwardly at Jones�s grunt of effort.
�Seems a little heavier than usual.�<br><br>�Already
making excuses,� Smith drawled. �Admit it � you�re not
good enough to take me, old man. Rough once those eyes
start to go. Hold up, you�re empty.�<br><br>�You�re
right.� Rubber Maid felt the jerk of the empty clip being
discarded and the new one slammed home.<br>Then a PUSH as
the new clip was inserted, and her rubbery body
partially displaced by the clip�s first bullet that should,
by all rights, be in the chamber. She had a
momentary misgiving. �I hope this doesn�t backfire --
literally.� Heard Jones�s breath, felt him take his shooting
stance.<br><br>SLAM! She felt a surge of heat, on her rump, then her
breath was knocked from her body as she shot forward. It
was breathless, exhilarating. She�d bent the laws of
physics and DONE IT! Then, she hit the target with a
dizzying PLOP, and stuck there. Opening one eye, she saw,
yes, Jones could shoot. He�d placed well.<br><br>�Next
one to the left,� Jones said. �Read �em and weep,
punk.�<br><br>BLAM! Mord felt the hot breeze and the paper tear,
again feeling the misgiving. Nice shot. WHAM! The next
one just to the right of her. SLAM! Just beneath her.
BLAM! Above her, and it was over.

ou shoot, then we�ll bring the targets up,�
Jones said. �Use the fresh one, right where you�re
standing.�<br><br>The bullet shape made perspective odd, but she saw
the target Smith was going to fire at. It was close
enough. It wouldn�t be fair to allow Smith the victory
after she�d denied Jones, so�now, while they were
distracted!<br><br>Mord sprang, and plastered herself to the centre of
the adjacent target in an elastic leap. The distance
and her size, she was sure, had prevented them from
seeing her. Then she flattened out, conforming herself
to the paper target, changing colour and shape to
match it.<br><br>Her body indented with the impact of
Smith�s first bullet, but she was unharmed. A quick
tendril caught it as it bounced, and pulled it behind her
in a Rubber Maid sleight of hand. Then she condensed
herself around her original mpact point, and let Smith
shoot around her in a similar manner. Also, very
skilled. When they were distracted, she stretched her
condensed form in a near-invisible thread to the floor, and
slithered off to get her clothes. Behind her, she heard the
shocked voices.<br><br>�A tie? You gotta be kidding me!
No WAY!�<br><br>�Where are our FIRST shots? There�re
no HOLES! We BOTH hit dead centre first. Where are
the bullets?�<br><br>�Well, we said ALL five,� Jones
mused, �so I guess it�s a draw. Care to go
again?�<br><br>�I�d like to,� Smith said, �but I can�t. I got a
report to write.�<br><br>�NOW who�s making
excuses?�<br><br>�Hello,� Mord said, stepping from who-knows-where, street
clothes over her costume once more, Smith�s deflected
first shot tucked securely in a pocket, and peering
over their shoulders at the targets. �Nice shooting.
Mind if I have a go?� She gave her best
smile.<br><br>They just gaped at her. Mord stepped to the adjacent
target, and it seemed in one move, took her stance, and
fired. BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! Then, the whir of the
motor, and a target with five perfect holes arranged in
the centre fluttered down between the two of them.
�Imagine that,� Rubber Maid said, sounding like a coy,
Southern belle with a deliberately bad accent. �See you
later, gents.� and stepped out the door.
<br><br>Detective Mord was hanging onto the doorframe when they
walked by her, seemingly lost in thought.<br><br>It was
taking all her strength to keep from laughing.

end