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FloWildKat — Ocean Riffs - Chapter 17
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Published: 2025-09-04 11:07:50 +0000 UTC; Views: 579; Favourites: 0; Downloads: 0
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Ocean Riffs
Chapter 17 : School Daze (WASP)
University High School Gymnasium : 03:20 AM
She stepped into the center aisle of the gym, openly, daring Philip to take another shot. He didn’t.
In the locker room, Philip wrapped a tourniquet high on his thigh with steady fingers. His hands slick with blood, his teeth clenched hard enough to ache. The P-38 rested upside-down between his legs as he shoved in a fresh mag with his left hand. The revolver was away in the gymnasium.
“Sorry Grandpa”
His breathing was even. He wasn’t panicked.
He was simply… methodical.
“Almost done,” he whispered to himself.
He didn’t expect to leave this school alive. He never ever thought he could since he entered here seventeen years ago.
But before he died, he would take four more names.
M. N. O.
And Penny.
He grinned faintly, adjusting the strap of his holster.
There was no hate in his expression. No rage.
Only that slow, deliberate kind of madness.
Cold and absolute.
This locker room was his purgatory. He remembered the humiliations, the bullying, the beatings. He especially remembered one time when, naked, he had to mop the floor, on his knees to the mockery of the other boys who called him “Cinderella”. When the bell rang, most had left except Jack and Juan. The latter had picked him up by taking him by the arm
“Aren’t you tired of being called Cinderella? »
“Yes but…”
“So move your fat ass!” If you want to be respected, turn this big fat pumpkin into a handsome muscular stud! Then you will be respected! That’s the only way, scum !»
He punched him in the stomach, knocking him on his knees. With a violent kick to the face, Jack knocked him down. A sharp crack made Philip realize that his nose was broken, blood was streaming down his face, mixed with tears.
“And a rhinoplasty will give you a human face, you poor rag!” » concludes Jack
But that was the trigger. To be recognized and respected he had to be beautiful, strong and tough! He emptied his locker and took refuge with his paranoid grandfather, just sending a text message to his mother to tell her that he wasn't coming home again. The response was short and dry.
“Go to hell, ungrateful!” »
That’s all, folks !
----
University High School – Gymnasium’s Boys Locker Room Friday 03:20 AM
Christine reached the heavy metal door. Her fingers clenched the Glock tighter than necessary. The grip was tacky with sweat, the muzzle trembling slightly as another wave of dizziness surged.
She staggered—but didn’t fall.
Then she heard them.
Laughter. Sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. Cheerleaders leaving practice.
Not now.
Eighteen years ago.
No. Don’t do this. Stay sharp, stay here.
But the door in front of her wasn’t in April 2026 anymore.
It was September 29, 2008.
And she was sixteen again, her cheeks hot, her throat dry.
Standing in front of the very same door.
Heart racing. Hopeful.
Jack "Tempest" Templeton, senior, basketball team captain. Handsome. Confident. He had noticed her. Told her to meet him here after practice. A ride home, he said. Maybe dinner. Maybe… something more.
Christine—then just “Crissy”—had dressed carefully that day. No more little hearts on her panties. No more ponytail except during cheer practice. She was going to be a woman now.
She pushed the door open.
He was there, leaning casually on the far wall.
Smiling.
“You’re here… good”, he’d said.
She took a few shy steps forward. Her voice caught. His arms wrapped around her—first kiss soft, thrilling.
Then another. Too deep. Too forceful.
She pulled back.
“Jack, I—”
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t hear.
Or didn’t care.
“Just relax,” he whispered against her ear, biting it. “Let yourself go, little one.”
Her breath caught. Something was wrong.
His left hand slid beneath her top, fingers finding her breast.
His right hand tugged up her skirt.
She froze, paralyzed by confusion and rising fear.
“Please... Jack, I’m not ready.”
“Don’t worry. I am.”
Tears welled as he pushed harder, more insistent.
A gunshot cracked.
Christine blinked.
Present. Now.
Gunfire.
Lockers rang with ricochets.
Philip.
She ducked. Her breathing ragged, hands shaking. But in her mind, she was still sixteen.
Still trapped.
Still begging.
“You’re a reluctant mustang, little Chrissy,” Jack had growled, gripping her ponytail.
“But I’ll train you. My sweet little filly !”
Fabric tore. Her satin panties shredded.
But she remembered what came next.
She hadn’t frozen forever.
She had fought.
Knee to the groin.
Head to the chin.
Blood.
Escape.
Now, Christine ! Now. You're not that girl anymore ! She thought.
Another shot screamed past close to her, and she returned fire without hesitation.
One, two, three, four.
Metal clanged.
A groan.
Philip collapsed behind a row of lockers, blood gushing from his left forearm.
Still alive. Still dangerous.
She stormed forward, fury burning through the fatigue, the memories, the darkness.
He tried to crawl for his weapon. The P-38 skidded out of reach as she kicked it across the floor, her Glock now aimed straight at his forehead.
His hands lifted, trembling and red.
Still smiling through the pain.
Christine’s chest heaved.
Her arms throbbed.
But her grip didn’t waver.
Not again. Not here. Never.
She didn’t say anything.
The barrel of her Glock said it all.
---
University High School – Gymnasium’s Boys Locker Room Friday 03:24 AM
Philip looked up at her, intrigued. The officer aiming a Glock at his head had the right stance—but not the right eyes. Her gaze wasn’t focused on him; it was turned inward, aimed at a shadow in her past.
He smiled. If she pulled the trigger now, it would simplify everything. No more trials. No more headlines. Just silence.
Then another woman entered, moving calmly—unarmored, no tactical gear, just a navy-blue city suit and a badge clipped to her belt. She walked straight to the officer and stepped between her and Philip.
Her tone was soft, but firm. Unshakable.
"No, Christine. This isn't the way."
Christine's jaw clenched. Her Glock didn't waver.
"I told you I'd come back here with a gun someday, Missy."
"That guy isn't Tempest."
The name struck a note in Philip's memory. Jack Templeton. The school's golden boy. The smiling sadist.
Melissa kept her voice even.
"The man you're pointing at is Mark Philip Andronic.
"No!" Philip barked, a bitter echo. "Mark is dead!"
Christine blinked, thrown for a moment.
"Mark Andronic?" she said slowly. "Frilly Boy Mark?"
Melissa nodded.
"Yes. The quiet boy everyone laughed at. Especially Templeton and his crew. You two had the same enemy, Christine. But Mark let his hate fester and rot him from the inside. He lost his way and now takes it out on girls who never hurt him. If you shoot him, you'll be standing in the same dark. And you'll never be at peace."
Christine’s voice cracked.
"No one believed me back then. Not even my parents!"
Melissa stepped closer, softer now.
"No one... except me, Crissy. And back then, you didn't pick up a weapon. You picked up your guitar. You wrote music that broke hearts. You survived, and you gave beauty to the world. That’s who you are."
A single tear slid down Christine's cheek.
She lowered her Glock. Clicked the safety back on. Turned away, wordless.
At that moment, Alicia and Kelly entered, their eyes sharp, alert—and then soft with quiet understanding. They said nothing. Just watched Christine walk away into the hallway, as the bomb squad began their work around the gymnasium exits.
Melissa stepped forward, handcuffs ready, kneeling beside Philip—now clearly wounded in both arms—and fastened them gently, her tone that of a weary doctor, not a vengeful cop.
"You have the right to remain silent..." she began, finishing the Miranda warning like a ritual, a necessary one.
Then she looked into his eyes. Not cruelly. Just directly.
"Mark... one victim is still missing. The letter K. She's the only one we haven't found. Telling us where she is won't erase anything you've done. But it will mean something—for her, for the people who love her. If she's alive, it could still mean something for you too."
Philip gave a dry, broken laugh.
"I'm not sure there's anything good left in me, ma'am."
Melissa didn't flinch.
"Then this is your chance to prove yourself wrong."
He hesitated... then said quietly:
"She's in a barrel. I tied it to a rock near Big Rock Beach, close to the bus stop. I... made holes in the lid. Don’t ask why. Maybe I hoped..."
He trailed off.
Melissa was already calling it in, directing the team at the bunker toward the location.
Kelly, still catching her breath, looked at Philip, confused and repulsed.
"Why did you leave her alive?"
Philip didn’t look at her.
"She posted she was gonna swim out to sea and vanish. I watched. After five minutes, she turned back. I got angry. Hit her with my fist. Found the barrel and the rope. Locked her in. That’s all."
Melissa nodded, finishing her call.
"They’re on it. If she’s still alive, it’ll count. The prosecutor will consider it."
Philip, already strapped to the stretcher, gave a hollow chuckle.
"Won’t matter. I’m already dead. Long ago."
“Another question, Mark, why have you targeted students of an Anaheim high school as you were bullied here ?”
“Simple : A for Anaheim, for 26 vain teenage girls. Bellflower would have been next, then Carson and so on. Alphabet is essential… That's what Mother said when she spanked me every time I forgot a letter in my recitation when I was in Kindergarten. 26 slaps while listening the ABC song… Every time.”
As the medics wheeled him away, Melissa stood, looking him with pity and disgust. A minute later, Alicia and Kelly followed her quietly down the hallway, both shaken in different ways—neither of them speaking.
They didn't know what they felt.
Not yet.
But whatever it was, they weren’t feeling it alone.
---
University High Auditorium – 03:37 AM
When Melissa stepped into the auditorium, it was almost empty.
A small pool of blood was beginning to dry at the edge of the stage—six deep-red stains where Allan had taken the bullets meant for the girls. The auditorium still echoed faintly with sirens outside and the hum of distant voices.
Christine sat alone on an amp, her eyes on the floor. In her hands, one of the abandoned electric guitars, strumming something slow and bluesy. Not a tune Melissa recognized, but one that carried the weight of something personal. She didn’t say anything—just walked up the stairs and crossed the stage. Her hand instinctively checked the bass’s cable. It still worked.
Penny, her arm freshly bandaged, had refused to go to the hospital before seeing her friends. When she heard the soft notes drifting from the stage, cutting through the chaos of police chatter and ambulance lights, she returned to the auditorium. On her way in, she passed Kelly and Alicia, who stood frozen at the doors, staring in disbelief at the surreal scene: two tired cops half-lost in music, as if the night hadn’t happened.
Kelly gave a small shrug and started up the steps. She found the drumsticks on the floor, bent to pick them up, and made her way to the kit with a familiarity she hadn’t felt in years.
Alicia lingered at the doorway, eyes drawn to the second guitar, then to Penny—who watched her with a knowing look.
"Do you play guitar, Officer?" Penny asked, amused.
"A little, Miss Penny. And I know most of Dazzling Dolls tracks."
"Really? That's ancient history now—might as well be the War of Independence.”
"Why? Because Crissy Lawless is a sergeant and Lil'K’s a special agent with the FAT?" Alicia grinned. "No way. You’re still alive to me."
Penny laughed—a clear, light sound, like something finally lifting off her chest. A real fan. At 4 a.m. In a crime scene. She looked back toward her lifelong friends—Melissa, Christine, Kelly—now adjusting their instruments on a stage that, one hour earlier, had nearly become a massacre. It felt absurd. It also felt perfect. "And why not?" she thought.
"So... you know ‘Still Waitin’—the Lita Ford cover we reworked?"
"Of course!"
"Then take rhythm guitar and tell the others we’ll start with that. If they’re not too rusty, we’ll go on to 'Second to None' and 'Breathless'. Think you can manage?"
Alicia hesitated, bashful.
"Uh... yeah. I think so. But I’m not a pro, you know, Miss Lane. Just dabble. Private stuff, nothing like this."
Penny tilted her head, half-chuckling. The image of this strong, tactical-clad young woman, bruised and dirt-smudged, suddenly shy like a teenager asked for a dance—it was endearing.
If she gets any more nervous, Penny thought, she’s going to request a bathroom pass before stepping on stage She smiled.
"Don’t worry. The crowd’s pretty relaxed tonight. And I’m not a good guitarist. The only reason Missy plays bass is because I was even worse at it. Now go tell them. And call me Penny."
"Okay... Penny." Alicia grinned. "I’m Alicia. Officer Alicia ‘Free Kick’ Sazaki."
"Alicia will do just fine."
Penny winked.
"Go on. And keep your eyes on Lil’K—she’ll count us in. Follow Missy for chord changes. I have no idea what mood Christine’s in, so... best not to rely on her just yet."
Alicia jogged over to Melissa and Kelly while Penny picked up a mic and switched it on. A burst of feedback cut through the stillness, snapping Christine back from her trance. She blinked, then adjusted her guitar strap.
Kelly raised her drumsticks, gave a clean 1-2-3—and started the beat. Melissa’s bass joined in, steady and grounding. Alicia, a little tense at first, found the rhythm and slipped into place.
Penny took a breath. Then she sang.
"You were my best friends / You never let me down / Whenever I needed you / You were always around..."
At the chorus, Christine’s guitar joined the others, raw but true. For a few minutes, the past and present aligned. Not as ghosts, but as music.
Seven years since their last tour. Seven years since the last impromptu rehearsal.
And yet, there they were again. Together. Still standing.
Still waiting.
---
University High Auditorium – 3:55 AM
At the end of Breathless, the last note still vibrating through the stage floor, a lone pair of hands clapped from the shadows near the footlights.
The applause was calm. Precise. Cold.
A woman in her forties stepped forward—short brown hair, LASD uniform, and a look that could freeze lava. Christine and Alicia both froze, their hands still on the necks of their guitars. Alicia’s fingers trembled. Christine’s jaw clenched.
Captain Catherine Puckett climbed the stage stairs, expression unreadable.
"A risky third op in less than 24 hours, eh? Think you're a superheroin, Sergeant Lawson? Super Lawgirl?"
Christine stood straighter.
"There was an emergency call, Captain, and—"
"—And 460 other sworn officers in OPS. Plus another 10,000 in the LASD. Not to mention every beat cop in the LAPD."
Alicia tried to step in.
"We were passing by and—"
"And thought, 'What’s a fifth high-risk intervention in three days?' That about right, Officer Sazaki? Because that’s your current tally. One week on the job and you’ve outpaced the monthly report sheet of a SWAT sniper." She narrowed her eyes. "Let’s not even get into the jurisdiction violations."
"The F.A.T. shares authority over all Californian Counties, Captain," Kelly cut in smoothly.
"You can try that line on Orange’s sheriff down there. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. He really loves surprise federal or state incursions on his territory."
Melissa stepped forward, quiet but firm.
"Criminals don’t care about borders, ma’am."
"Judges do." Puckett snapped, then pointed toward Kelly "And you—thought it wise to launch an ad hoc investigation on a serial killer not even listed in your unit's mission brief?"
"My jurisdiction was only the Tuesday escape," she replied.
"You think I’m stupid? Special Agent Fogg made an emergency call from here ! "
"No, Captain," Kelly piped in innocently tone with her best girly voice "It wasn’t me ! It was my big sister !"
She pointed at Melissa like a 1st grade schooler shifting blame for a broken lamp.
Captain Puckett turned sharply to Melissa, who calmly held up her badge.
"Special Agent Melissa Fogg, Homeland Security Investigations—Domestic Operation. The Predator case is mine. And without Sergeant Lawson, Officer Sazaki, and Special Agent Kelly Fogg, we’d have no suspect in custody and no lead on the 11th victim."
The Captain stared at her for a moment, saying nothing.
Then:
"Kelly O’Connor’s been found alive."
Time stood still.
Then a slow exhale rippled through the group, smiles flickering through bruised and bloodied faces like light after thunder.
"She’ll need hospitalization and long-term care... but she’s alive, thanks to all of you."
There was a moment—something like pride blooming among the fatigue—before Puckett raised her hand to shut it down.
"However—here’s your final order tonight : you’re all going home. Now. You’re going to shower, and you’re going to sleep. Because as of five minutes ago, you’re no longer cops—you’re only sleep-deprived dangers. And if I hear so much as a whisper of you vigilante-ing your way through another lead tonight—"
She pointed a finger upward.
"I swear, I’ll call in Rangers and Marines to stop you, at any cost ! Even with a B-52 strike on your head ! And don’t think I won’t do it !”
She turned and began walking offstage—then paused, without turning back.
"Congratulations, all of you. You pulled off real feats tonight."
A beat.
Then, softly:
"And you still sound damn good onstage, the Dolls."
Silence.
Puckett leaved the building.
"She did say The Dolls, right?" Christine whispered to Penny.
Penny smiled.
"Yup. That’s the second fan I’ve met tonight."