Note: This is a portion of a multi-blog "Choose Your Own Adventure"-type story. The story begins here!
Making your decision, you secure the parchment in the pouch on your belt, you turn and make your way back down the hill, pausing only momentarily as something almost voice-like wafts down on the breeze. It's an unnerving sound, but time is of the essence, and you feel as though these runes are somehow tied to what's happening in the village.
A few moments later, you step into the village commons. The villagers are out, milling about and completing their daily errands. Twilight is a few hours away, so you know you have some time. The mother of one of the affected children is sobbing next to a cart of produce. You walk over to her and place a hand on her shoulder. She starts, then begins to dry the tears on her face with her apron.
"Ah, dear sir. My apologies for such an unbecoming state," she says, her voice still hitching slightly with barely-contained sobs.
You nod. "Worry not, m'lady. I know this cannot be easy for you. Is there anything you can tell me that might shed light on what's happening to the children of the village?"
She shakes her head, and her eyes well up with fresh tears. "No, sir. I can tell you nothing more than what I'm sure you've already heard: my son went out a few days ago to play with his friends, and when he returned he was alone. Alone and changed. He comes and goes as he pleases, and it's nearly more of a relief when he's gone, as I'm no longer able to sleep for the fear of what he is becoming." She bursts into fresh sobs. Knowing there's nothing you can say to calm or comfort, you press on. Doubtless, the parents of the children of the village are all going to share similar stories. No one seems to know what HAS caused the change to the children...so you need to find someone who knows what CAN.
The library of Heirin the Sage is a few minutes' walk from the village square. Perhaps he can help you. You stride off, determined to speak to the elderly historian, when you see a small form skulking in the shadows next to the village wall.
Do you:
Continue on to Heirin, ignoring the shadowy figure; (unclaimed)
or
Detour from your mission to investigate? (unclaimed)
If you want to join in, post that you will claim one of the links above and it will be flagged as taken on a first come, first served basis. When you have posted your entry, leave a comment and I will link it to your site. Your post should contain two or more hooks at the bottom which can then be claimed be other writers, and so it goes on.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Timeless...Or Is It?
"Attention," the pleasant-yet-synthesized voice of the ship's computer called over the speakers in each room, "touchdown will be in ten minutes. All who are exiting the ship should begin preparations in no less than sixty seconds. Again...touchdown in ten minutes. All those exiting the ship should begin preparations in no less than sixty seconds."
A lone figure stood looking out one of the viewing windows in the sleeping/living quarters. With a final glance toward the burnt umber surface of the world below, he turned and strode toward the prep area.
The clang of the lockers and rustle of jumpsuit fabric made him smile. Going into space? YOU? That had been all his mother could say. Surely you can't be that crazy. Grinning even wider, he collected the radar fob that would connect his suit to the tracking system within the ship. Don't you know you could get lost out there? He stepped into the jumpsuit that would keep his body heat circulating within inches of his skin during his time on the surface, then pulled it over his arms, reaching down to waist-level to zip the material all the way to his neck. You study rocks, son! Erosion and soil patterns! What possible use could they have for someone like you?
At this, he laughed out loud. A young brunette he'd been eyeing all during training gave him a quizzical look, half-smiled, and then went back to her own preparation when he simply winked and shook his head. She'd probably never understand what was going on inside his head. Heavens knew his mother didn't.
Still, Ma's concerns weren't without merit. He knew that the trip was dangerous...but so was life planetside these days. Water supplies were running low, pollution had gotten out of hand, and mankind had reached his fingers into other galaxies in an attempt to find a similarly-built world we could repopulate and slowly destroy. Then they'd found Body X213. Not exactly the typical planet, as its more oblong shape made it seem almost egg-like, instead of spheroid like your typical planetary object. Then they'd found the canyons. Winding, meandering canyons with almost perfectly-smooth walls. The scientists monitoring the planetary drone that had gone to canvass the planet's surface had nearly wet themselves. A new potential source of freshwater?
And so he found himself here. A geologist chosen to accompany a team of astronauts to the surface of the planet so that he could gauge the likelihood of finding a true aquifer on the dusty planetoid above which they currently hovered in orbit.
"Sir?" The voice startled him. "Mr. Jackson?"
Looking up, he saw the brunette looking at him. With a glance down, he noted her nametag: Shaw. "Yes, Miss Shaw?"
She smiled. "You seemed lost in your own little world, there for a second. Come on. They're ready to get us locked into our suits for the descent to the surface. Grab your gear!" She grinned and grabbed his arm, dragging him along with her. He laughed, caught off-guard a bit by her obvious enthusiasm. Moments later, they were secured in their spacesuits and plummeting toward Body X213.
It was only then that his mind began to whisper its doubts. Was this really a good idea? What if they didn't make it back? What if this was for nothing? No water, no harvest-worthy mineral deposits...nothing? He gazed out the viewing pane toward the steadily-approaching skin of X213, catching his breath in wonder at the barren beauty of the landscape as the craft broke through cloud cover. It reminded him of a painting he'd seen in a museum once, just before everything went digital. Man, he thought to himself, what was that guy's name? Dali. Yeah...Dali! Fellow had some crazy ideas in his head! As the rover slowed and began its pre-programmed landing sequence, Jackson's doubts began to grow quieter, drowned out as his mind took in the almost post-apocalyptic-fantasy feel of the planetoid's surface.
When the rover touched the planet, kicking up four small, red clouds of dust, he knew he'd made the right decision. The same synthesized voice he'd heard on the ship spoke from the speakers in the rover. "Touchdown achieved. All systems nominal. Atmospheric pressure levels similar to earth, but gravitational effect is increased. Necessary countermeasures have been built into your suits. Atmosphere is almost equal parts nitrogen and sulphuric gases. Human respiration impossible. Doctors Shaw and Jackson, you will proceed onto the surface of X213. Specialist Dyer will remain within the rover to monitor your progress and report any anomalies. You have one hour of surface time in which to gather your necessary information and additional hour of travel. Two hours of surface time. Maximum. Prepare to exit the craft."
Jackson looked at Specialist Dyer, a man he'd initially thought looked somewhat like a weasel. Dyer had proven a more-than-capable pilot and a fantastic navigator, though. He was a great comfort to have around, really. With a nearly-imperceptible nod, Dyer acknowledged him. He grinned and nodded back, stepping into the open airlock with Shaw. "We'll be back soon, Dyer!" he called as the door whooshed to a close. Through the communicator in his suit, Jackson heard Dyer's response as though he were standing right next to the man.
"You'd better be, Jackson. You'd better be."
When the airlock door opened onto the surface of the planet, Shaw stepped out first, attaching a pulley line to her suit. Once finished, she attached a second to the "belt" on Jackson's suit. "Well, at least we'll find our way back, yeah? Two-and-a-half miles of super-strength, remarkably thin cable. Longest leash ever."
Jackson could hear the grin in her voice. Her enthusiasm was contagious. He chuckled in response, then withdrew a small, heavily-shielded electronic device from the pack attached to the waist of his suit. His movements were sluggish and somewhat slowed, but nothing like the water-based gravity training they'd put him through after his selection for this mission. His muscles had ached for days after that mess. Though, for all he knew, they'd ache for days after this, too. The device made a series of beeping noises that the two of them could hear through their communicators, then fell silent. A steady, pulsing light sent waves out from the center of the device's screen periodically, with a significant pause between each. Jackson stared at it for a moment, then looked up and shrugged--as much as his suit would let him--exaggeratedly.
"Good news is, we're here." he said with a smile.
"And the bad news?"
"We've got a bit of a hike ahead of us. We're nowhere near anything even remotely like water."
They set off, with Jackson periodically checking the sonic device for any signs of water even though he knew it would begin to signal with a repetitive beep when anything was picked up. They'd been walking for fifteen or twenty minutes when a wind began to kick up the dust, making their progress even more labored. After a time the winds died back, and with a cry of shock, Jackson realized that the tracker had begun a slow, rhythmic pulse. Beep...beep...beep...
A lone figure stood looking out one of the viewing windows in the sleeping/living quarters. With a final glance toward the burnt umber surface of the world below, he turned and strode toward the prep area.
The clang of the lockers and rustle of jumpsuit fabric made him smile. Going into space? YOU? That had been all his mother could say. Surely you can't be that crazy. Grinning even wider, he collected the radar fob that would connect his suit to the tracking system within the ship. Don't you know you could get lost out there? He stepped into the jumpsuit that would keep his body heat circulating within inches of his skin during his time on the surface, then pulled it over his arms, reaching down to waist-level to zip the material all the way to his neck. You study rocks, son! Erosion and soil patterns! What possible use could they have for someone like you?
At this, he laughed out loud. A young brunette he'd been eyeing all during training gave him a quizzical look, half-smiled, and then went back to her own preparation when he simply winked and shook his head. She'd probably never understand what was going on inside his head. Heavens knew his mother didn't.
Still, Ma's concerns weren't without merit. He knew that the trip was dangerous...but so was life planetside these days. Water supplies were running low, pollution had gotten out of hand, and mankind had reached his fingers into other galaxies in an attempt to find a similarly-built world we could repopulate and slowly destroy. Then they'd found Body X213. Not exactly the typical planet, as its more oblong shape made it seem almost egg-like, instead of spheroid like your typical planetary object. Then they'd found the canyons. Winding, meandering canyons with almost perfectly-smooth walls. The scientists monitoring the planetary drone that had gone to canvass the planet's surface had nearly wet themselves. A new potential source of freshwater?
And so he found himself here. A geologist chosen to accompany a team of astronauts to the surface of the planet so that he could gauge the likelihood of finding a true aquifer on the dusty planetoid above which they currently hovered in orbit.
"Sir?" The voice startled him. "Mr. Jackson?"
Looking up, he saw the brunette looking at him. With a glance down, he noted her nametag: Shaw. "Yes, Miss Shaw?"
She smiled. "You seemed lost in your own little world, there for a second. Come on. They're ready to get us locked into our suits for the descent to the surface. Grab your gear!" She grinned and grabbed his arm, dragging him along with her. He laughed, caught off-guard a bit by her obvious enthusiasm. Moments later, they were secured in their spacesuits and plummeting toward Body X213.
It was only then that his mind began to whisper its doubts. Was this really a good idea? What if they didn't make it back? What if this was for nothing? No water, no harvest-worthy mineral deposits...nothing? He gazed out the viewing pane toward the steadily-approaching skin of X213, catching his breath in wonder at the barren beauty of the landscape as the craft broke through cloud cover. It reminded him of a painting he'd seen in a museum once, just before everything went digital. Man, he thought to himself, what was that guy's name? Dali. Yeah...Dali! Fellow had some crazy ideas in his head! As the rover slowed and began its pre-programmed landing sequence, Jackson's doubts began to grow quieter, drowned out as his mind took in the almost post-apocalyptic-fantasy feel of the planetoid's surface.
When the rover touched the planet, kicking up four small, red clouds of dust, he knew he'd made the right decision. The same synthesized voice he'd heard on the ship spoke from the speakers in the rover. "Touchdown achieved. All systems nominal. Atmospheric pressure levels similar to earth, but gravitational effect is increased. Necessary countermeasures have been built into your suits. Atmosphere is almost equal parts nitrogen and sulphuric gases. Human respiration impossible. Doctors Shaw and Jackson, you will proceed onto the surface of X213. Specialist Dyer will remain within the rover to monitor your progress and report any anomalies. You have one hour of surface time in which to gather your necessary information and additional hour of travel. Two hours of surface time. Maximum. Prepare to exit the craft."
Jackson looked at Specialist Dyer, a man he'd initially thought looked somewhat like a weasel. Dyer had proven a more-than-capable pilot and a fantastic navigator, though. He was a great comfort to have around, really. With a nearly-imperceptible nod, Dyer acknowledged him. He grinned and nodded back, stepping into the open airlock with Shaw. "We'll be back soon, Dyer!" he called as the door whooshed to a close. Through the communicator in his suit, Jackson heard Dyer's response as though he were standing right next to the man.
"You'd better be, Jackson. You'd better be."
When the airlock door opened onto the surface of the planet, Shaw stepped out first, attaching a pulley line to her suit. Once finished, she attached a second to the "belt" on Jackson's suit. "Well, at least we'll find our way back, yeah? Two-and-a-half miles of super-strength, remarkably thin cable. Longest leash ever."
Jackson could hear the grin in her voice. Her enthusiasm was contagious. He chuckled in response, then withdrew a small, heavily-shielded electronic device from the pack attached to the waist of his suit. His movements were sluggish and somewhat slowed, but nothing like the water-based gravity training they'd put him through after his selection for this mission. His muscles had ached for days after that mess. Though, for all he knew, they'd ache for days after this, too. The device made a series of beeping noises that the two of them could hear through their communicators, then fell silent. A steady, pulsing light sent waves out from the center of the device's screen periodically, with a significant pause between each. Jackson stared at it for a moment, then looked up and shrugged--as much as his suit would let him--exaggeratedly.
"Good news is, we're here." he said with a smile.
"And the bad news?"
"We've got a bit of a hike ahead of us. We're nowhere near anything even remotely like water."
They set off, with Jackson periodically checking the sonic device for any signs of water even though he knew it would begin to signal with a repetitive beep when anything was picked up. They'd been walking for fifteen or twenty minutes when a wind began to kick up the dust, making their progress even more labored. After a time the winds died back, and with a cry of shock, Jackson realized that the tracker had begun a slow, rhythmic pulse. Beep...beep...beep...
"You hear that, Shaw?" he said excitedly. "Hear that?" His excitement was nearly tangible. Water! Here! Granted, there was no guarantee that it would be potable, at least not at first...but it was a start! Jackson's eyes scanned the readout on the machine. He knew it would change a bit as they moved, but the source of the feedback was almost directly ahead of them. Judging by the time between the pulses of sound, it was still a good way off, but blast it all, they'd found it!
He saw her nod, and knew that she was nearly as excited as he was. Setting his eyes forward, he continued his stride, now fully aware of the monumental nature of what was about to take place. He looked back to see Shaw standing still, her head inclined skyward. Concerned, he covered the distance between them as quickly as he dared. She was standing, eyes closed, as if enjoying a gentle summer breeze. Jackson waved a hand slowly (it was really all he was capable of in the suit) in front of her helmet. "Shaw?" he queried, his voice steady only through sheer force of will.
She blinked for a moment, then looked at him. His face must have been a mask of shock and fear, because she recoiled slightly. "Jackson? Are you alright?" She looked down at the hand gripping her suit--a hand that Jackson didn't even remember extending. Shrugging it off, she gave him a raised eyebrow. "You okay? Sorry if I freaked you out a bit. I was just imagining what this place might be like, y'know...someday...if we're able to make it inhabitable. A place without the poisons and the overcrowding and the constant fear. Guess I kinda lost myself a bit."
Jackson chuckled again, though this one was noticeably less mirthful. "Yeah, I understand. I guess I just don't think about it, really. It won't happen in my lifetime, in all likelihood, so daydreaming about it only makes me feel a little sad that I'll never see it." Better keep your opinions to yourself as to the odds of this place ever being inhabitable, Connor. He gave Shaw a smile he hoped was convincing, and added, "but it's sure a beautiful thought, isn't it?"
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, and Jackson began to believe that he'd somehow upset Shaw. He was about to open his mouth to speak when Shaw herself broke the lull.
"So...Jackson. Like in 'Andrew,' the President?"
At this, Jackson laughed aloud. Loudly enough that it echoed from Shaw's speakers and reverberated back through his own communicator. "Well, actually, it's 'Connor,'" he responded. "Connor Jackson. I was named for my parents. Connor is my mother's maiden name. She died delivering me." His voice trailed off, mildly nostalgic. He'd heard the story of his mother's heroic delivery. Against all odds, she'd held on as disease ravaged her body. Upon his entry into the world, doctors informed Connor's father that the sickness that had claimed his mother showed no trace of having been transferred to the child she'd borne. His dad had always claimed that she'd fought it off for him...refusing to let the illness that would destroy her touch her child.
Mistaking his silence for hurt, Shaw apologized. "I'm sorry, Jackson, I didn't realize that it--"
He cut her off. "No, no. It's not bad. Not at all. Just made me a little reminiscent, I guess."
She nodded, but he could tell she wasn't convinced. So he changed tactics. "How about you? What's the first name of the enigmatic Shaw?"
She shook her head, then fixed a coy expression on him. "Oh, no. It's just Shaw. To everybody."
He feigned offense. "Oh, come ON now! We're about to make history together!"
Shaw slowly pantomimed pulling an imaginary zipper across her face. In the spacesuit and overlarge helmet, the effect was almost absurdly comical. Another burst of laughter escaped Jackson, and was cut off mid-guffaw by the voice of Dyer from the rover breaking in over the communicator.
"Jackson? Shaw? Can you read me?" his voice was clear, but Jackson could sense something beneath it--not panic, but something close. "Please, one of you, callback for me."
The two looked at each other. Shaw nodded to Jackson, who spoke up. "Yeah, Dyer, we're here. What's got you so worked up, man?"
The specialist exhaled audibly. "There's a sandstorm coming. Big one. Shouldn't last too long--maybe a half-hour or so at most. You've got a little more than an hour in your suits. You need to find a place to hunker down and let this thing blow over--"
"Pun intended?" quipped Shaw.
"--dammit, Shaw, I'm serious!" barked Dyer in response. "I'm gonna flip the grav switches on your suits...it'll compensate beyond the average gravitational settings and allow you to move a bit more freely...but you've got to be careful. No trying stupid acrobatic crap simply because the suit is doing most of the work. Get yourselves to someplace you'll be out of the brunt of the dust storm and stay there. You got it?"
"Yes," said Shaw and Jackson, in unison.
"Good. Move it. NOW."
A crackle of static and he was gone. Jackson and Shaw paused for a moment, looking at each other uncertainly. A moment later, they could hear the roar of the approaching sandstorm even through their helmets. Dust was beginning to whirl along the ground around them. Time was growing shorter by the moment, obviously. Gesturing with a hand, Jackson began to hustle in the same direction they'd been traveling. "Well, we've not passed anything that would've served as shelter thus far. We chose the landing space because it was wide and open, and even if we miscalculated or overcorrected on the landing, we'd be pretty much assured of landing in a flat plane. So we've got to find a spot, and our best bet is just to keep moving. If there IS water here, we still need to find it. Two birds, right?"
Shaw nodded, but said nothing. Jackson could feel that she was afraid. He was too...but right now, fear was an unaffordable distraction. He began to move as quickly as he could. The winds were picking up quickly, if the movement of the dust around them was any indication. He had to find them some shelter...and soon. The storm was minutes away, if that...and they'd never survive it in the open. He glanced down at the tracker, noting that the readout indicated that the source of feedback was a mere few hundred yards away. Squinting, he examined the expanse before him...there were shadows, tall ones, in the ever-growing tumult of blowing dust and sand. He pointed, turning to Shaw. "Come on! We'll find some place to hole up over there!"
Another nod. Two minutes later, they found themselves between two large rock formations that seemed to end on the edge of a rather steep canyon. They'd been walking in peace for the last minute or so: the rocks had begun about fifty yards behind them, and forced the sand and the winds upward, creating a calm on the surface of the planet, some ten or twenty stories below. Gazing up at the orange-tinted sky, Jackson was fascinated by the absolute chaos he saw. Shaw spoke, ending her prolonged silence. "That's amazing."
"You know it," replied Jackson. "It's nearly darkened the entire sky. You can see chunks of rock up there, Shaw! Can you imagine how powerful those winds must be?"
Shaw's response was hushed, almost whispered. "I don't want to think about it. We were almost caught in that."
Jackson understood her fear. But they were safe now, the natural wall of stone would keep out--
A billow of dust blew around them, moving through the pass, toward the canyon. Jackson watched it, seeing the dust and small stones whirling around in patterns reminiscent of ballerinas in a dance. Wow, he thought, that's absolutely beautiful in a rather mundane way. The thought made him chuckle, though it was unsettling, and he wasn't sure--
The winds are changing direction. It's coming.
"Shaw, run!" he screamed. A quick glance back the direction they'd come confirmed his suspicions: the dust was beginning to whip into the pass. It was coming. He pushed Shaw to get her moving as she stood gaping back toward the whirling storm.
The two of them began to move; not nearly fast enough, but as quickly as they could. Jackson could see the end of the pass, the edge of the canyon as they approached it. Coming to a halt a few seconds later, he found himself gazing into not a canyon, but an abyss. A crater in the face of X213.
"Not good." He muttered.
Shaw spoke up. "Jackson. Over there!"
He looked in the direction she was pointing and saw a small opening in the face of the rock wall. Access to it was a narrow outcropping that faced the canyon itself. Great, thought Jackson, stuck huddling in that and looking out over some bottomless pit. Fantastic. At the same time, he heard a rumbling above them. Craning his head, Jackson saw rocks begin to tumble from the top of the pass. Shaw was already on her way to the tiny "cave." He followed, wincing as he heard the sound and felt the impact as stone began to strike earth behind him. Reaching the cave, Shaw turned and called out to him:
"Come on, Jackson! You're almost here! Get the lead out!"
Jackson smirked slightly, even though she'd never see it. Easier said than done, doll, he thought. I'm hoofin' it across the edge of a friggin' canyon with no bottom. Pardon me if I want to be a little less than reckless. Still, he picked up the pace as much as he dared. He was only a few yards from the opening when a huge piece of stone struck just behind him. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, throwing Jackson off his feet. As he tumbled to the ground, he had just enough time to take stock of the fallen rock all around him before he landed, his helmet striking a particularly jagged chunk. When the cracks appeared in his helmet, it didn't even register.
"Jackson? Jackson! Can you hear me?" Shaw's voice came through the communicator, and Jackson could tell she was fighting panic. "Jackson! Are you ok?"
Pulling himself to his feet, Jackson thanked the heavens that nothing else had collapsed on him. He covered the remaining distance to Shaw, ducking into the opening and giving the harrowed young woman a smile. "Fit as a fiddle."
Shaw's eyes widened in terror. "Jackson! Your helmet...oh, my god..."
Noticing the damage for the first time, he shook his head. "It's tougher than it looks. Hit it just right, I guess. It'll hold together until the storm passes and we get back to the ship. Don't worry."
Shaw looked unconvinced, but didn't argue further. She blinked every time the thud-crunch of impacting stone met her ears. Jackson felt sorry for her, but didn't know what to do, really. They were stuck here. He crawled forward slightly, enough to allow himself to look out and stare into the darkness of the pit below.
Oh, man, he thought to himself, Nietzsche would love this. He chuckled dryly.
"Jackson?" Shaw's voice pulled him away from the pit. "Do you think we'll make it? Really?"
Grinning mischievously, Jackson replied. "I dunno. Maybe not, if you don't tell me your first name."
The look of confusion, then of shock, on her face was priceless. "Connor Jackson! We are in a life or death situation here, and all you can think about is--"
The crack of earth stopped her mid-scold. Jackson listened, his body tensed. When the earth beneath his legs disappeared, he didn't even have a chance to scream. His body plunged downward, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Jackson!" Shaw's terrified scream echoed through his helmet. He saw her head appear at the edge of the abyss, eyes wide. Saw her grab the cable that was connected to his suit. Then she was gone as his body slowly turned in its descent. He continued to move downward, into the black, when suddenly his body jerked. The sensation of falling ceased, and he felt himself moving in the darkness. He had no idea where he was going, what might be nearb--
His foot touched something solid; he felt it. But he was still moving so fast. Instinctively, he drew breath and held it. Braced himself.
--CRACK--
The impact rippled through his shoulder, whipping his head to the side. He felt his helmet connect with the wall of the canyon. Heard the sound of the visor's cracks weakening, moving, and giving way. Then he felt the wind blowing on his skin. His helmet was shattered. Opening his eyes, he could once again see the mouth of the canyon, and the flame-orange sky of X213.
It's over. He thought to himself. Shaw's head appeared once again.
"Jackson? I've secured the guide cables around some rock formation up here. You ok?"
He knew he couldn't answer her. One breath, and he was dead.
"Jackson?"
As he watched, she methodically eased herself over the lip of the canyon and began to climb down toward him. His lungs began to ache from the effort of holding his breath. Seconds later, she was clinging to the wall a mere six feet above his head.
"Jackson?"
He turned his head upward, and even in the limited sunlight, she could see what had happened to his helmet. "Oh, god, Jackson...no. No, no no..."
Jackson forced a tightly-closed smile and shrugged. His lungs were burning now. Maybe 15-20 seconds left. If that.
"Come on, Jackson. Take my hand. Please. I can't leave you here like this." Kicking off the wall a bit, Shaw tried to reach him. He shook his head. "Dammit, Jackson! Don't be stubborn!"
Another shrug. The pain in his chest was excruciating. He reached to his waist. Gripped the clasp that held the guide cable to his suit with one hand. With the other, he waved to Shaw.
"No, Jackson. Please." Her voice came through the speakers hoarse, and Jackson realized she was crying.
A distant rumbling echoed through the canyon, and they both looked upward. The rover craft, already a tiny speck in the atmosphere, had taken off. They'd been abandoned.
Shaw sobbed twice. Then, in a voice that Jackson would have sworn meant she was grinning, she simply whispered, "Jillian. My first name is Jillian."
He nodded, and then released the clasp. Shaw watched him fall, a strange smile on his face.
With a final glance toward the sky, her hands reached for her own guide-cable clasp. Release.
And then...darkness.
* * *
He saw her nod, and knew that she was nearly as excited as he was. Setting his eyes forward, he continued his stride, now fully aware of the monumental nature of what was about to take place. He looked back to see Shaw standing still, her head inclined skyward. Concerned, he covered the distance between them as quickly as he dared. She was standing, eyes closed, as if enjoying a gentle summer breeze. Jackson waved a hand slowly (it was really all he was capable of in the suit) in front of her helmet. "Shaw?" he queried, his voice steady only through sheer force of will.
She blinked for a moment, then looked at him. His face must have been a mask of shock and fear, because she recoiled slightly. "Jackson? Are you alright?" She looked down at the hand gripping her suit--a hand that Jackson didn't even remember extending. Shrugging it off, she gave him a raised eyebrow. "You okay? Sorry if I freaked you out a bit. I was just imagining what this place might be like, y'know...someday...if we're able to make it inhabitable. A place without the poisons and the overcrowding and the constant fear. Guess I kinda lost myself a bit."
Jackson chuckled again, though this one was noticeably less mirthful. "Yeah, I understand. I guess I just don't think about it, really. It won't happen in my lifetime, in all likelihood, so daydreaming about it only makes me feel a little sad that I'll never see it." Better keep your opinions to yourself as to the odds of this place ever being inhabitable, Connor. He gave Shaw a smile he hoped was convincing, and added, "but it's sure a beautiful thought, isn't it?"
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, and Jackson began to believe that he'd somehow upset Shaw. He was about to open his mouth to speak when Shaw herself broke the lull.
"So...Jackson. Like in 'Andrew,' the President?"
At this, Jackson laughed aloud. Loudly enough that it echoed from Shaw's speakers and reverberated back through his own communicator. "Well, actually, it's 'Connor,'" he responded. "Connor Jackson. I was named for my parents. Connor is my mother's maiden name. She died delivering me." His voice trailed off, mildly nostalgic. He'd heard the story of his mother's heroic delivery. Against all odds, she'd held on as disease ravaged her body. Upon his entry into the world, doctors informed Connor's father that the sickness that had claimed his mother showed no trace of having been transferred to the child she'd borne. His dad had always claimed that she'd fought it off for him...refusing to let the illness that would destroy her touch her child.
Mistaking his silence for hurt, Shaw apologized. "I'm sorry, Jackson, I didn't realize that it--"
He cut her off. "No, no. It's not bad. Not at all. Just made me a little reminiscent, I guess."
She nodded, but he could tell she wasn't convinced. So he changed tactics. "How about you? What's the first name of the enigmatic Shaw?"
She shook her head, then fixed a coy expression on him. "Oh, no. It's just Shaw. To everybody."
He feigned offense. "Oh, come ON now! We're about to make history together!"
Shaw slowly pantomimed pulling an imaginary zipper across her face. In the spacesuit and overlarge helmet, the effect was almost absurdly comical. Another burst of laughter escaped Jackson, and was cut off mid-guffaw by the voice of Dyer from the rover breaking in over the communicator.
"Jackson? Shaw? Can you read me?" his voice was clear, but Jackson could sense something beneath it--not panic, but something close. "Please, one of you, callback for me."
The two looked at each other. Shaw nodded to Jackson, who spoke up. "Yeah, Dyer, we're here. What's got you so worked up, man?"
The specialist exhaled audibly. "There's a sandstorm coming. Big one. Shouldn't last too long--maybe a half-hour or so at most. You've got a little more than an hour in your suits. You need to find a place to hunker down and let this thing blow over--"
"Pun intended?" quipped Shaw.
"--dammit, Shaw, I'm serious!" barked Dyer in response. "I'm gonna flip the grav switches on your suits...it'll compensate beyond the average gravitational settings and allow you to move a bit more freely...but you've got to be careful. No trying stupid acrobatic crap simply because the suit is doing most of the work. Get yourselves to someplace you'll be out of the brunt of the dust storm and stay there. You got it?"
"Yes," said Shaw and Jackson, in unison.
"Good. Move it. NOW."
A crackle of static and he was gone. Jackson and Shaw paused for a moment, looking at each other uncertainly. A moment later, they could hear the roar of the approaching sandstorm even through their helmets. Dust was beginning to whirl along the ground around them. Time was growing shorter by the moment, obviously. Gesturing with a hand, Jackson began to hustle in the same direction they'd been traveling. "Well, we've not passed anything that would've served as shelter thus far. We chose the landing space because it was wide and open, and even if we miscalculated or overcorrected on the landing, we'd be pretty much assured of landing in a flat plane. So we've got to find a spot, and our best bet is just to keep moving. If there IS water here, we still need to find it. Two birds, right?"
Shaw nodded, but said nothing. Jackson could feel that she was afraid. He was too...but right now, fear was an unaffordable distraction. He began to move as quickly as he could. The winds were picking up quickly, if the movement of the dust around them was any indication. He had to find them some shelter...and soon. The storm was minutes away, if that...and they'd never survive it in the open. He glanced down at the tracker, noting that the readout indicated that the source of feedback was a mere few hundred yards away. Squinting, he examined the expanse before him...there were shadows, tall ones, in the ever-growing tumult of blowing dust and sand. He pointed, turning to Shaw. "Come on! We'll find some place to hole up over there!"
Another nod. Two minutes later, they found themselves between two large rock formations that seemed to end on the edge of a rather steep canyon. They'd been walking in peace for the last minute or so: the rocks had begun about fifty yards behind them, and forced the sand and the winds upward, creating a calm on the surface of the planet, some ten or twenty stories below. Gazing up at the orange-tinted sky, Jackson was fascinated by the absolute chaos he saw. Shaw spoke, ending her prolonged silence. "That's amazing."
"You know it," replied Jackson. "It's nearly darkened the entire sky. You can see chunks of rock up there, Shaw! Can you imagine how powerful those winds must be?"
Shaw's response was hushed, almost whispered. "I don't want to think about it. We were almost caught in that."
Jackson understood her fear. But they were safe now, the natural wall of stone would keep out--
A billow of dust blew around them, moving through the pass, toward the canyon. Jackson watched it, seeing the dust and small stones whirling around in patterns reminiscent of ballerinas in a dance. Wow, he thought, that's absolutely beautiful in a rather mundane way. The thought made him chuckle, though it was unsettling, and he wasn't sure--
The winds are changing direction. It's coming.
"Shaw, run!" he screamed. A quick glance back the direction they'd come confirmed his suspicions: the dust was beginning to whip into the pass. It was coming. He pushed Shaw to get her moving as she stood gaping back toward the whirling storm.
The two of them began to move; not nearly fast enough, but as quickly as they could. Jackson could see the end of the pass, the edge of the canyon as they approached it. Coming to a halt a few seconds later, he found himself gazing into not a canyon, but an abyss. A crater in the face of X213.
"Not good." He muttered.
Shaw spoke up. "Jackson. Over there!"
He looked in the direction she was pointing and saw a small opening in the face of the rock wall. Access to it was a narrow outcropping that faced the canyon itself. Great, thought Jackson, stuck huddling in that and looking out over some bottomless pit. Fantastic. At the same time, he heard a rumbling above them. Craning his head, Jackson saw rocks begin to tumble from the top of the pass. Shaw was already on her way to the tiny "cave." He followed, wincing as he heard the sound and felt the impact as stone began to strike earth behind him. Reaching the cave, Shaw turned and called out to him:
"Come on, Jackson! You're almost here! Get the lead out!"
Jackson smirked slightly, even though she'd never see it. Easier said than done, doll, he thought. I'm hoofin' it across the edge of a friggin' canyon with no bottom. Pardon me if I want to be a little less than reckless. Still, he picked up the pace as much as he dared. He was only a few yards from the opening when a huge piece of stone struck just behind him. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, throwing Jackson off his feet. As he tumbled to the ground, he had just enough time to take stock of the fallen rock all around him before he landed, his helmet striking a particularly jagged chunk. When the cracks appeared in his helmet, it didn't even register.
"Jackson? Jackson! Can you hear me?" Shaw's voice came through the communicator, and Jackson could tell she was fighting panic. "Jackson! Are you ok?"
Pulling himself to his feet, Jackson thanked the heavens that nothing else had collapsed on him. He covered the remaining distance to Shaw, ducking into the opening and giving the harrowed young woman a smile. "Fit as a fiddle."
Shaw's eyes widened in terror. "Jackson! Your helmet...oh, my god..."
Noticing the damage for the first time, he shook his head. "It's tougher than it looks. Hit it just right, I guess. It'll hold together until the storm passes and we get back to the ship. Don't worry."
Shaw looked unconvinced, but didn't argue further. She blinked every time the thud-crunch of impacting stone met her ears. Jackson felt sorry for her, but didn't know what to do, really. They were stuck here. He crawled forward slightly, enough to allow himself to look out and stare into the darkness of the pit below.
Oh, man, he thought to himself, Nietzsche would love this. He chuckled dryly.
"Jackson?" Shaw's voice pulled him away from the pit. "Do you think we'll make it? Really?"
Grinning mischievously, Jackson replied. "I dunno. Maybe not, if you don't tell me your first name."
The look of confusion, then of shock, on her face was priceless. "Connor Jackson! We are in a life or death situation here, and all you can think about is--"
The crack of earth stopped her mid-scold. Jackson listened, his body tensed. When the earth beneath his legs disappeared, he didn't even have a chance to scream. His body plunged downward, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Jackson!" Shaw's terrified scream echoed through his helmet. He saw her head appear at the edge of the abyss, eyes wide. Saw her grab the cable that was connected to his suit. Then she was gone as his body slowly turned in its descent. He continued to move downward, into the black, when suddenly his body jerked. The sensation of falling ceased, and he felt himself moving in the darkness. He had no idea where he was going, what might be nearb--
His foot touched something solid; he felt it. But he was still moving so fast. Instinctively, he drew breath and held it. Braced himself.
--CRACK--
The impact rippled through his shoulder, whipping his head to the side. He felt his helmet connect with the wall of the canyon. Heard the sound of the visor's cracks weakening, moving, and giving way. Then he felt the wind blowing on his skin. His helmet was shattered. Opening his eyes, he could once again see the mouth of the canyon, and the flame-orange sky of X213.
It's over. He thought to himself. Shaw's head appeared once again.
"Jackson? I've secured the guide cables around some rock formation up here. You ok?"
He knew he couldn't answer her. One breath, and he was dead.
"Jackson?"
As he watched, she methodically eased herself over the lip of the canyon and began to climb down toward him. His lungs began to ache from the effort of holding his breath. Seconds later, she was clinging to the wall a mere six feet above his head.
"Jackson?"
He turned his head upward, and even in the limited sunlight, she could see what had happened to his helmet. "Oh, god, Jackson...no. No, no no..."
Jackson forced a tightly-closed smile and shrugged. His lungs were burning now. Maybe 15-20 seconds left. If that.
"Come on, Jackson. Take my hand. Please. I can't leave you here like this." Kicking off the wall a bit, Shaw tried to reach him. He shook his head. "Dammit, Jackson! Don't be stubborn!"
Another shrug. The pain in his chest was excruciating. He reached to his waist. Gripped the clasp that held the guide cable to his suit with one hand. With the other, he waved to Shaw.
"No, Jackson. Please." Her voice came through the speakers hoarse, and Jackson realized she was crying.
A distant rumbling echoed through the canyon, and they both looked upward. The rover craft, already a tiny speck in the atmosphere, had taken off. They'd been abandoned.
Shaw sobbed twice. Then, in a voice that Jackson would have sworn meant she was grinning, she simply whispered, "Jillian. My first name is Jillian."
He nodded, and then released the clasp. Shaw watched him fall, a strange smile on his face.
With a final glance toward the sky, her hands reached for her own guide-cable clasp. Release.
And then...darkness.
* * *
"Jack and Jill went up a hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
and Jill came tumbling after."
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
and Jill came tumbling after."
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Mutants and Masterminds: Unlikely Teammates (part 1)
The line at the Metro City First National Bank was taking forever.
Alec Stevens fidgeted in line. He hated waiting. Especially just so they could tell him how badly he'd overdrafted his checking account. Since grandfather'd died and the estate had been tossed into limbo, he'd had to fight to make ends meet. The old man had left a will, but it had been intended to deal with one very specific artifact. An artifact that currently resided in the backpack that Alec had strapped to his shoulders: a two-piece masquerade mask, half white and half black, with no other discernible details. Plain, generic, boring--worthless, really. At least that's what he'd thought at first. Upon putting it on for the first time, more out of boredom than anything else, Alec had immediately felt a voice inside his mind. With a thought, he'd produced two human-sized golems--the mask had called them "dolls"--that seemed to obey his every command.
It was only last night that Alec had discovered the proviso to his inheritance: apparently, the white half of his mask was quite rare. Only two of them existed, according to the message hidden underneath the false bottom of the case in which the mask rested, and there were people who would stop at nothing to get their hands on one of them. The first copy, his grandfather had said, was buried deep within the catacombs of a monastery in Tibet. Even the monks who dwelled there didn't know of its existence. The second had been bequeathed to him, for reasons his grandfather hoped would become apparent in time.
From the corner of his eye, noticed a priest in the line for the next teller over. He appeared to be only in his early 30s, but had gone prematurely grey-haired. It was a rather striking look, especially when the priest turned and fixed a steel-eyed stare on Alec himself. Alec glanced away hurriedly. Something about those eyes bothered him deeply, though he'd be hard-pressed to say what. Better to just get through this, get the stupid mask locked in a safety-deposit, and get the hell out of here.
* * *
Marcus Caine grinned to himself. The thin young man who'd been staring at him had jerked his eyes away pretty quickly after being caught. Marcus hadn't intended that reaction, but it didn't bother him to have gotten it. He didn't really have time for unnecessary distraction. One final withdrawal, and then Marcus Caine would vanish. Because if he didn't vanish of his own volition, it'd be short order before the Vatican saw to it that it happened anyway. Better to be on the run on his own terms than being backed into the proverbial corner first. Not that any of them could so much as lay a finger on him, really...but he detested violence when it was avoidable. His finger traced the edge of the white collar he still wore--would always wear, given the choice--as a reminder of who he really was. A man of faith. A warrior against darkness of any type. A true believ--
--cut the crap, Caine. We both know you won't be in control for long. Hell, I'm surprised you've lasted this long. Give me enough time, and I'll find a way out of here...and when I do--
--er in the One he trusted. He shook his head, clearing the jumbled thoughts a bit and reasserting control. Control...that's what this boiled down to, really. The exorcism had been a colossal failure, on most points. Yes, he'd managed to free the child possessed, but not before the baby's mother had perished and before he himself had--
--had what? Shanghaied me? Locked me inside this cavernous waste you call a mind? You "holier than thou" types are all the same. You dive headfirst into all kinds of crap, expecting the Powers That Be to haul your asses out. Looks like they really screwed you over this time, didn't they, Markie? How you ever think you're gonna--
Marcus pressed a hand to his temples and willed the voice away. His thoughts drifted back to the day six months ago when his entire world had been uprooted. It was supposed to have been a standard exorcism. However, when Caine and his two associates had arrived, they found a woman dead at the bottom of a stairwell, and her toddler son barricaded in his playroom. From the moment they broke through the pile of furniture, toys, and clothing, nothing had gone right. The entity that had taken control of the child unleashed a wave of power that had thrown Caine's two associates out of the room, sending them first into the wall of the hallway and then to the ground, unconscious.
Halfway through the exorcism ritual, Marcus had sensed a shift. Almost imperceptible, and external to the situation itself...as if something else was attempting to influence the exorcism. The thought unsettled him, and he shook it off. He looked at the child, aware that the vessel the demon was inhabiting was still human, and very much a prisoner. Could something have targeted this child on purpose? If so, what could he do? He couldn't bring himself to destroy an innocent child simply to vanquish a supernatural foe. The ritual was nearly complete...but what if it killed the child instead of freeing him?
Marcus had hesitated.
The demon leapt, a crazed, hungry look radiating from its eyes....and Marcus Caine's world had gone black.
* * *
The figure on the roof of Metro City's First National Bank was silent. He was listening to the sounds of the city: the traffic, the unnatural drone as individual conversations melded into white noise, the occasional voice that filtered out, usually from being raised in anger, frustration, or fear. He'd gotten reliable information that something was going down here today...though his source couldn't tell him what...or who the perp would be. Still, the squealer'd never steered him wrong before, so for now he'd trust him. Still, if something didn't change soon, he was going to go crazy. Idleness didn't suit him. He'd lived too long and done too much. Couldn't just stand around wai---
THUD. An impact rattled the windows in the building. To anyone else, it would have been imperceptible. To the heightened sensors in the enhanced bodysuit he wore beneath his civilian clothes, however, it was as obvious as the sun in the sky. Rising to his feet, the man bolted to the edge of the roof, pulling the facemask from the suit over his shock-white hair. The built-in goggles tracked multiple readings: infrared, sonic vibrations, nightvision, etc. Nothing initially showed up...but a moment later, a wave of sonic energy moved across his field of vision, moving directly toward the bank.
The man chuckled. Time to go to work.
* * *
As the lines moved slowly forward, the patrons of Metro City's First National Bank shifted anxiously from one foot to the next. The two tellers available were swamped, and no help appeared to be forthcoming. The priest glanced over and found the thin young man looking at him again. Each of the men nodded curtly but politely. Brothers in suffering, one might say. The tinny sound of Muzak filtered from the speakers, becoming nearly maddening in the silence of the bank's lobby. Silence that probably only amplified the intensity of the explosion that blew the glass-paned double doors into the lobby, showering the entrance to the bank in tiny crystalline shards.
As the dust settled, a young man and young woman stepped into view. The young man, with a streak of blue died into his short, spiky hair, was grinning from ear to ear. The woman, a similarly-sized strip of pink dyed into her own locks, looked much less thrilled. Her glare spoke of someone who had no problem whatsoever removing obstacles.
The young man spoke. "Rant and Rave are here to make a withdrawal, sheeple!" He threw his head back and laughed. At the sound of his laughter, two marble statues standing on either side of him in the foyer toppled, shattering to the floor. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice."
The priest bowed his head and muttered a quick prayer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young man who'd been looking at him withdraw a strange theatre mask from his suitcoat.
Well...so much for "get in and get out."
Time to go to work.
To be continued...
Alec Stevens fidgeted in line. He hated waiting. Especially just so they could tell him how badly he'd overdrafted his checking account. Since grandfather'd died and the estate had been tossed into limbo, he'd had to fight to make ends meet. The old man had left a will, but it had been intended to deal with one very specific artifact. An artifact that currently resided in the backpack that Alec had strapped to his shoulders: a two-piece masquerade mask, half white and half black, with no other discernible details. Plain, generic, boring--worthless, really. At least that's what he'd thought at first. Upon putting it on for the first time, more out of boredom than anything else, Alec had immediately felt a voice inside his mind. With a thought, he'd produced two human-sized golems--the mask had called them "dolls"--that seemed to obey his every command.
It was only last night that Alec had discovered the proviso to his inheritance: apparently, the white half of his mask was quite rare. Only two of them existed, according to the message hidden underneath the false bottom of the case in which the mask rested, and there were people who would stop at nothing to get their hands on one of them. The first copy, his grandfather had said, was buried deep within the catacombs of a monastery in Tibet. Even the monks who dwelled there didn't know of its existence. The second had been bequeathed to him, for reasons his grandfather hoped would become apparent in time.
From the corner of his eye, noticed a priest in the line for the next teller over. He appeared to be only in his early 30s, but had gone prematurely grey-haired. It was a rather striking look, especially when the priest turned and fixed a steel-eyed stare on Alec himself. Alec glanced away hurriedly. Something about those eyes bothered him deeply, though he'd be hard-pressed to say what. Better to just get through this, get the stupid mask locked in a safety-deposit, and get the hell out of here.
* * *
Marcus Caine grinned to himself. The thin young man who'd been staring at him had jerked his eyes away pretty quickly after being caught. Marcus hadn't intended that reaction, but it didn't bother him to have gotten it. He didn't really have time for unnecessary distraction. One final withdrawal, and then Marcus Caine would vanish. Because if he didn't vanish of his own volition, it'd be short order before the Vatican saw to it that it happened anyway. Better to be on the run on his own terms than being backed into the proverbial corner first. Not that any of them could so much as lay a finger on him, really...but he detested violence when it was avoidable. His finger traced the edge of the white collar he still wore--would always wear, given the choice--as a reminder of who he really was. A man of faith. A warrior against darkness of any type. A true believ--
--cut the crap, Caine. We both know you won't be in control for long. Hell, I'm surprised you've lasted this long. Give me enough time, and I'll find a way out of here...and when I do--
--er in the One he trusted. He shook his head, clearing the jumbled thoughts a bit and reasserting control. Control...that's what this boiled down to, really. The exorcism had been a colossal failure, on most points. Yes, he'd managed to free the child possessed, but not before the baby's mother had perished and before he himself had--
--had what? Shanghaied me? Locked me inside this cavernous waste you call a mind? You "holier than thou" types are all the same. You dive headfirst into all kinds of crap, expecting the Powers That Be to haul your asses out. Looks like they really screwed you over this time, didn't they, Markie? How you ever think you're gonna--
Marcus pressed a hand to his temples and willed the voice away. His thoughts drifted back to the day six months ago when his entire world had been uprooted. It was supposed to have been a standard exorcism. However, when Caine and his two associates had arrived, they found a woman dead at the bottom of a stairwell, and her toddler son barricaded in his playroom. From the moment they broke through the pile of furniture, toys, and clothing, nothing had gone right. The entity that had taken control of the child unleashed a wave of power that had thrown Caine's two associates out of the room, sending them first into the wall of the hallway and then to the ground, unconscious.
Halfway through the exorcism ritual, Marcus had sensed a shift. Almost imperceptible, and external to the situation itself...as if something else was attempting to influence the exorcism. The thought unsettled him, and he shook it off. He looked at the child, aware that the vessel the demon was inhabiting was still human, and very much a prisoner. Could something have targeted this child on purpose? If so, what could he do? He couldn't bring himself to destroy an innocent child simply to vanquish a supernatural foe. The ritual was nearly complete...but what if it killed the child instead of freeing him?
Marcus had hesitated.
The demon leapt, a crazed, hungry look radiating from its eyes....and Marcus Caine's world had gone black.
* * *
The figure on the roof of Metro City's First National Bank was silent. He was listening to the sounds of the city: the traffic, the unnatural drone as individual conversations melded into white noise, the occasional voice that filtered out, usually from being raised in anger, frustration, or fear. He'd gotten reliable information that something was going down here today...though his source couldn't tell him what...or who the perp would be. Still, the squealer'd never steered him wrong before, so for now he'd trust him. Still, if something didn't change soon, he was going to go crazy. Idleness didn't suit him. He'd lived too long and done too much. Couldn't just stand around wai---
THUD. An impact rattled the windows in the building. To anyone else, it would have been imperceptible. To the heightened sensors in the enhanced bodysuit he wore beneath his civilian clothes, however, it was as obvious as the sun in the sky. Rising to his feet, the man bolted to the edge of the roof, pulling the facemask from the suit over his shock-white hair. The built-in goggles tracked multiple readings: infrared, sonic vibrations, nightvision, etc. Nothing initially showed up...but a moment later, a wave of sonic energy moved across his field of vision, moving directly toward the bank.
The man chuckled. Time to go to work.
* * *
As the lines moved slowly forward, the patrons of Metro City's First National Bank shifted anxiously from one foot to the next. The two tellers available were swamped, and no help appeared to be forthcoming. The priest glanced over and found the thin young man looking at him again. Each of the men nodded curtly but politely. Brothers in suffering, one might say. The tinny sound of Muzak filtered from the speakers, becoming nearly maddening in the silence of the bank's lobby. Silence that probably only amplified the intensity of the explosion that blew the glass-paned double doors into the lobby, showering the entrance to the bank in tiny crystalline shards.
As the dust settled, a young man and young woman stepped into view. The young man, with a streak of blue died into his short, spiky hair, was grinning from ear to ear. The woman, a similarly-sized strip of pink dyed into her own locks, looked much less thrilled. Her glare spoke of someone who had no problem whatsoever removing obstacles.
The young man spoke. "Rant and Rave are here to make a withdrawal, sheeple!" He threw his head back and laughed. At the sound of his laughter, two marble statues standing on either side of him in the foyer toppled, shattering to the floor. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice."
The priest bowed his head and muttered a quick prayer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young man who'd been looking at him withdraw a strange theatre mask from his suitcoat.
Well...so much for "get in and get out."
Time to go to work.
To be continued...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Mutants And Masterminds: Let the Story Begin
So, I've also decided to track my gaming group's Mutants and Masterminds adventures, from a bit more of a story perspective. Successive posts will be a bit more detailed and stick closer to the adventures...but for these first few posts, I'll be winging it from memory, so I'll be taking a LOT of license with what happened, but sticking to the major plot points and their impact on the story as it stands.
Let's start with the cast, shall we?
Spectre: A mysterious, frail young man who speaks very little, Spectre was given an heirloom when his grandfather passed away: a masquerade mask. One half black, the other half white, the mask was kept in an ornate wooden case in his grandfather's study. Spectre discovered that both sides carried supernatural abilities to call golems into the service of the wearer of the mask. The dark side of the mask summoned vicious guardians who would attack at the whim of their master, and the light side summoned companion golems who strove to protect and augment their master and his contemporaries. Spectre appears only briefly in our tale, for reasons that may or may not become apparent.
Hellraiser: Marcus Caine was a respected (nearly feared, truth told) priest. Possessed of an almost uncanny ability to read people and situations, his quiet demeanor and inflexible personality made him perfect for the priesthood, and ultimately a sect of exorcists called in when typical rituals were of no effect. However, no one is flawless...on his final exorcism with the sect, Marcus Caine found himself facing a demon whose inhibitions were nonexistent: it had taken over the body of a young toddler, murdering the child's mother before the exorcist and his team could arrive. In the midst of the exorcism, Caine hesitated, unable to harm the frail child potentially. The demon leapt at the priest, and Caine finished the ritual, but a bit too quickly. Unbeknownst to anyone but Caine, the ritual backfired. Now, the demon is trapped within Caine's psyche, bound to the priest's will and desires, but constantly striving to free itself. Caine wields the dark servant's powers: he can generate, project, and manipulate cold blue-green flame in a variety of ways. This "hellfire" is terrifying to those who encounter it, and still burns like typical flame upon contact with other materials--perhaps even hotter, though no one's ever bothered to test the theory.
White Wolf: Don't let the grey hair fool you. White Wolf is not to be trifled with, as anyone who's ever had the misfortune will tell you. Ever seen in a technologically-enhanced stealth suit, this nameless wanderer is a mystery even to his partners in crime-fighting. Military-trained, he learned Thai, Chinese, and Japanese while a prisoner of war. Fleeing to China upon escape, he also began studying martial arts, using the combination of skills to fight for money in an attempt to get himself back home. Upon arriving back home, he discovered the love of his life dead and had an emotional breakdown. He fled to the frozen north, where he took up residence on a small island. An encounter with an albino wolf led him to a long-forgotten stash of buried treasure. Cashing in some of the collection, he bought the island and its mineral rights, and prepared for a life of solitude. However, he could not escape the memories of his time in the military, nor could he silence the voices that call out to him to do something. Initially, this was simply patrolling the area of the great lake that his island was nearest. Unfortunately, his vigilante exploits against poachers and the like drew the attention of law enforcement, forcing him to flee yet again. He finds himself now in Freedom City, living from motel to motel, still seeking a way to make the world a better place.
Rubix: Daniel Kirk had the stereotypically hard life. Abandoned as a child, he spent his formative years in various orphanages and homes, being bullied and slowly retreating into his only method of escape: imagination. Mostly in the forms of games, movies, and the like. He would conjure endless worlds, create vast cities, structures, and anything else his mind could envision. Upon his "graduation" into the real world at 18, he moved from dead-end job to dead-end job, listless and without any true direction, settling into a job at a retail electronics chain that he held for nearly five years--until the night it was robbed. The perpetrators beat Daniel into a coma, leaving him for dead. When he awoke, it was 3 years later, and he was paralyzed completely from the neck down. Doctors gave him no hope of a recovery, but because his mind was in pristine condition, they "encouraged" him to make the most of his situation. Incensed, Daniel retreated into himself again, becoming the lord of his own reality and disconnecting himself from the day-to-day goings-on in his hospital room. Blinded by anger and frustration at his situation, he was all but unreachable until the day of the incident. A young woman had been assigned the second bed in his hospital room, suffering from several broken bones, lacerations, and a minimal amount of internal bleeding, according to the conversation he overheard the nurse having with the doctor. She was pretty, even through the bruises. For three days she lay in the room with him, occasionally engaging him in conversation. She treated him like a person, though he could not even shake her hand. On the third day a scowling, brutish man stormed into the hospital room and yanked her off her bed. Helpless, Daniel watched as she fought back, kicking, crying, pleading. He watched as the hulk sent doctors sprawling, nurses scurrying, and security guards reeling into walls. Horrified, he watched as this monster gripped a handful of blonde hair and prepared to smash the woman's face into the floor. Time froze. His mind seemed to slip for just a moment, then all he could see was the man's watch. Expensive, silver...so shiny...he felt captivated by the way it seemed to dig into the man's meaty wrist and forearm...if only...
A scream startled Daniel out of his thoughts...the man was sitting on the floor, cradling a bloody stump and crying like a newborn baby. The blonde, her hair now streaked with dark splotches, stared at the brute in shock, then her eyes traveled to the now-severed hand that'd been entangled in her hair moments before--and the circular, silver blade that now lay glittering in the florescent lights of the hospital room. Daniel gazed at it in wonder, and on a whim, imagined the watch again. To his suprise, the silver disc slowly morphed itself back into the shiny timepiece right before his eyes.
Three days later, he was released from the hospital. The doctors claimed that the shock of seeing such violence, and his desire to help the young woman had motivated his body to overcome its limitations. Perhaps that was somewhat true, as Daniel discovered his ability to transmute inorganic material would now work only only if he were in contact with the object being changed. Suddenly revitalized and aware of himself, Daniel Kirk took the name Rubix and set out to right wrongs, balancing the scales of justice by whatever means necessary.
Roadblock: A 14-year-old boy, Roadblock is the "kid brother" of the group. The source of his powers remains a mystery, as he tests negative for any mutant genetics and his parents are average human beings. At the age of twelve, Jordan Walters was playing football with some friends when a wild pass sent him bolting across a street to attempt to make a catch. Intent on his game, Jordan never saw the garbage truck whose inebriated operator was driving too fast. The impact threw the young boy nearly 200 yards, where he landed on the top of an SUV parked in one of his suburbian neighborhood's many driveways. After shaking off some mild disorientation, Jordan climbed off the now-ruined roof of the vehicle to discover that not only was he not dead...he was completely unharmed. Not a scratch. With a shout of glee, the boy raised a fist into the air and leapt--nearly 100 feet in the air. When he landed, the pavement cracked beneath the force of his landing, but he found himself once again unharmed, and the garbage truck was barreling down the street behind him. Suddenly angry at the realization that the driver didn't seem to care who he hurt, Jordan turned and leapt forward, landing a few yards in front of the truck. Bracing himself, Jordan threw his shoulder into the grill of the mammoth truck, which struck him and then flipped, flying over the boy's head and landing across the road on its roof. The drunk driver, eyes wide in shock, began to climb out of the cab of the truck as Jordan dialed his cell-phone:
"Hello? Freedom City Police? Yeah...I need to report a drunk driver..."
Hanging up the phone, Jordan Walters smiled. This could be fun...
Tinman: This super-suited hero is a total enigma. None of the rest of the group have seen his face or heard his name. "Tinman" is the moniker they've chosen to give him, given his staunch refusal to give them other information. Clad in chrome metallic body armor, Tinman is the typical blaster/flyer one expects from such a hero, but is there more to him than what the party has seen thus far? Only time will tell. One thing is for certain, though. The man can kick butt and take names, and for now, that's all that matters.
The Pharmacist: Logan Chambers and his sister Bethani were good kids. Upper-middle-class upbringing, a good private high school, and a stable family life. Sure, Logan got picked on, bullied somewhat, and didn't have many friends. But he and Bethani were quite close, being only a year separate, and that was enough. Until some guys at school introduced him to drugs. Sophomore year, he smoked his first joint, and when he felt the troubles of his day float off his shoulders, he was hooked. When Bethani asked him why he seemed so much more laid-back, he showed her, and she was hooked, too. Their addiction soon graduated to more powerful substances, and Logan eventually began producing his own product while Bethani dealt. They told themselves they'd only do it long enough to save enough money to allow them to seek help for their addictions and move on with their lives, but we all know how those plans go. Eventually, they were discovered by their parents and forced into a rehab program. With no discernible results and the requisite lying and sneaking around back in full force after the program, the Chambers' parents kicked them out of the house. This perceived abandonment was enough to snap Bethani out of her lethargy and helped her kick her own habit, but Logan found it much harder. Wanting to help him any way she could, Bethani opted to stay with him instead of returning home to her parents.
It was during a particularly bad drug-induced panic attack that Logan saw three men in matching unrecognizable uniforms burst into the tiny single-room apartment he and Bethani shared. Two brandished guns and grabbed Bethani. The third shouted something Logan couldn't make out and punched the young girl in the stomach, doubling her over in pain. Dragging himself partially to his feet, Logan tried to scream at the man to stop, but nothing came out. The assailant turned, and with a gesture lifted Logan off the floor and slammed him into the wall across the room. Stunned, Logan lay and listened to the sounds of his sister begging the men to stop. Climbing to his feet once again, Logan staggered into full view of the strangers. Bethani looked at him and screamed for him to run, but Logan couldn't move. All he could see was his bruised, beaten sister and the men responsible. As a red tinge began to creep into the edges of his vision, one of the men holding Bethani raised a sawed-off shotgun and pointed it directly at Logan. Logan saw the man's finger tense on the trigger...
...then the gun clattered to the floor, along with the man's headless body. Logan stared, incredulous, at the spray of organic material now coating the wall behind where the man had been standing. The second guard holding Bethani locked eyes with Logan, and in Logan's eyes the tinge grew deeper. A second later, the man had turned his gun on himself. Now completely in shock, Logan stared at the bodies of the two attackers. The third man, seeing his opportunity, grabbed Bethani and bolted from the apartment. Logan staggered out after them just in time to see the man soaring into the sky with Logan's sister in tow. Not knowing what else to do, Logan turned to his parents, who turned to the police. At first helpful, the police dropped the case when it was discovered that Logan had been on LSD at the time, making his story and all its relating evidence suspect.
Torn by guilt, Logan dove deeper into his drug dependency, only to find that now every time he took something, some part of his mind awakened, and superhuman powers were his to command. After much study and research, he discovered that he (and probably his sister) carried latent psionic abilities. Through experimentation, he learned that the drugs were both curse and blessing - they had caused such damage to him neurologically that his natural abilities no longer functioned on their own, but they also re-awakened those abilities, going so far as to grant him different powers based on whatever was in his system at the time. Through further "scientific study" he discovered a dosage of each med type that granted him limited ability without impairing his basic motor skills and cognitive strength, which allows him to function in society even while under the influence of illegal substances. He's taken the codename "The Pharmacist" as a nod to a claim he made in simpler days to avoid conviction on a possession charge. He is inherently distrustful, and though he does much good for others, his usage of his powers has one ultimate goal: to find the men who took his sister.
And gods help them if she's not alive when he gets there.
Let's start with the cast, shall we?
Spectre: A mysterious, frail young man who speaks very little, Spectre was given an heirloom when his grandfather passed away: a masquerade mask. One half black, the other half white, the mask was kept in an ornate wooden case in his grandfather's study. Spectre discovered that both sides carried supernatural abilities to call golems into the service of the wearer of the mask. The dark side of the mask summoned vicious guardians who would attack at the whim of their master, and the light side summoned companion golems who strove to protect and augment their master and his contemporaries. Spectre appears only briefly in our tale, for reasons that may or may not become apparent.
Hellraiser: Marcus Caine was a respected (nearly feared, truth told) priest. Possessed of an almost uncanny ability to read people and situations, his quiet demeanor and inflexible personality made him perfect for the priesthood, and ultimately a sect of exorcists called in when typical rituals were of no effect. However, no one is flawless...on his final exorcism with the sect, Marcus Caine found himself facing a demon whose inhibitions were nonexistent: it had taken over the body of a young toddler, murdering the child's mother before the exorcist and his team could arrive. In the midst of the exorcism, Caine hesitated, unable to harm the frail child potentially. The demon leapt at the priest, and Caine finished the ritual, but a bit too quickly. Unbeknownst to anyone but Caine, the ritual backfired. Now, the demon is trapped within Caine's psyche, bound to the priest's will and desires, but constantly striving to free itself. Caine wields the dark servant's powers: he can generate, project, and manipulate cold blue-green flame in a variety of ways. This "hellfire" is terrifying to those who encounter it, and still burns like typical flame upon contact with other materials--perhaps even hotter, though no one's ever bothered to test the theory.
White Wolf: Don't let the grey hair fool you. White Wolf is not to be trifled with, as anyone who's ever had the misfortune will tell you. Ever seen in a technologically-enhanced stealth suit, this nameless wanderer is a mystery even to his partners in crime-fighting. Military-trained, he learned Thai, Chinese, and Japanese while a prisoner of war. Fleeing to China upon escape, he also began studying martial arts, using the combination of skills to fight for money in an attempt to get himself back home. Upon arriving back home, he discovered the love of his life dead and had an emotional breakdown. He fled to the frozen north, where he took up residence on a small island. An encounter with an albino wolf led him to a long-forgotten stash of buried treasure. Cashing in some of the collection, he bought the island and its mineral rights, and prepared for a life of solitude. However, he could not escape the memories of his time in the military, nor could he silence the voices that call out to him to do something. Initially, this was simply patrolling the area of the great lake that his island was nearest. Unfortunately, his vigilante exploits against poachers and the like drew the attention of law enforcement, forcing him to flee yet again. He finds himself now in Freedom City, living from motel to motel, still seeking a way to make the world a better place.
Rubix: Daniel Kirk had the stereotypically hard life. Abandoned as a child, he spent his formative years in various orphanages and homes, being bullied and slowly retreating into his only method of escape: imagination. Mostly in the forms of games, movies, and the like. He would conjure endless worlds, create vast cities, structures, and anything else his mind could envision. Upon his "graduation" into the real world at 18, he moved from dead-end job to dead-end job, listless and without any true direction, settling into a job at a retail electronics chain that he held for nearly five years--until the night it was robbed. The perpetrators beat Daniel into a coma, leaving him for dead. When he awoke, it was 3 years later, and he was paralyzed completely from the neck down. Doctors gave him no hope of a recovery, but because his mind was in pristine condition, they "encouraged" him to make the most of his situation. Incensed, Daniel retreated into himself again, becoming the lord of his own reality and disconnecting himself from the day-to-day goings-on in his hospital room. Blinded by anger and frustration at his situation, he was all but unreachable until the day of the incident. A young woman had been assigned the second bed in his hospital room, suffering from several broken bones, lacerations, and a minimal amount of internal bleeding, according to the conversation he overheard the nurse having with the doctor. She was pretty, even through the bruises. For three days she lay in the room with him, occasionally engaging him in conversation. She treated him like a person, though he could not even shake her hand. On the third day a scowling, brutish man stormed into the hospital room and yanked her off her bed. Helpless, Daniel watched as she fought back, kicking, crying, pleading. He watched as the hulk sent doctors sprawling, nurses scurrying, and security guards reeling into walls. Horrified, he watched as this monster gripped a handful of blonde hair and prepared to smash the woman's face into the floor. Time froze. His mind seemed to slip for just a moment, then all he could see was the man's watch. Expensive, silver...so shiny...he felt captivated by the way it seemed to dig into the man's meaty wrist and forearm...if only...
A scream startled Daniel out of his thoughts...the man was sitting on the floor, cradling a bloody stump and crying like a newborn baby. The blonde, her hair now streaked with dark splotches, stared at the brute in shock, then her eyes traveled to the now-severed hand that'd been entangled in her hair moments before--and the circular, silver blade that now lay glittering in the florescent lights of the hospital room. Daniel gazed at it in wonder, and on a whim, imagined the watch again. To his suprise, the silver disc slowly morphed itself back into the shiny timepiece right before his eyes.
Three days later, he was released from the hospital. The doctors claimed that the shock of seeing such violence, and his desire to help the young woman had motivated his body to overcome its limitations. Perhaps that was somewhat true, as Daniel discovered his ability to transmute inorganic material would now work only only if he were in contact with the object being changed. Suddenly revitalized and aware of himself, Daniel Kirk took the name Rubix and set out to right wrongs, balancing the scales of justice by whatever means necessary.
Roadblock: A 14-year-old boy, Roadblock is the "kid brother" of the group. The source of his powers remains a mystery, as he tests negative for any mutant genetics and his parents are average human beings. At the age of twelve, Jordan Walters was playing football with some friends when a wild pass sent him bolting across a street to attempt to make a catch. Intent on his game, Jordan never saw the garbage truck whose inebriated operator was driving too fast. The impact threw the young boy nearly 200 yards, where he landed on the top of an SUV parked in one of his suburbian neighborhood's many driveways. After shaking off some mild disorientation, Jordan climbed off the now-ruined roof of the vehicle to discover that not only was he not dead...he was completely unharmed. Not a scratch. With a shout of glee, the boy raised a fist into the air and leapt--nearly 100 feet in the air. When he landed, the pavement cracked beneath the force of his landing, but he found himself once again unharmed, and the garbage truck was barreling down the street behind him. Suddenly angry at the realization that the driver didn't seem to care who he hurt, Jordan turned and leapt forward, landing a few yards in front of the truck. Bracing himself, Jordan threw his shoulder into the grill of the mammoth truck, which struck him and then flipped, flying over the boy's head and landing across the road on its roof. The drunk driver, eyes wide in shock, began to climb out of the cab of the truck as Jordan dialed his cell-phone:
"Hello? Freedom City Police? Yeah...I need to report a drunk driver..."
Hanging up the phone, Jordan Walters smiled. This could be fun...
Tinman: This super-suited hero is a total enigma. None of the rest of the group have seen his face or heard his name. "Tinman" is the moniker they've chosen to give him, given his staunch refusal to give them other information. Clad in chrome metallic body armor, Tinman is the typical blaster/flyer one expects from such a hero, but is there more to him than what the party has seen thus far? Only time will tell. One thing is for certain, though. The man can kick butt and take names, and for now, that's all that matters.
The Pharmacist: Logan Chambers and his sister Bethani were good kids. Upper-middle-class upbringing, a good private high school, and a stable family life. Sure, Logan got picked on, bullied somewhat, and didn't have many friends. But he and Bethani were quite close, being only a year separate, and that was enough. Until some guys at school introduced him to drugs. Sophomore year, he smoked his first joint, and when he felt the troubles of his day float off his shoulders, he was hooked. When Bethani asked him why he seemed so much more laid-back, he showed her, and she was hooked, too. Their addiction soon graduated to more powerful substances, and Logan eventually began producing his own product while Bethani dealt. They told themselves they'd only do it long enough to save enough money to allow them to seek help for their addictions and move on with their lives, but we all know how those plans go. Eventually, they were discovered by their parents and forced into a rehab program. With no discernible results and the requisite lying and sneaking around back in full force after the program, the Chambers' parents kicked them out of the house. This perceived abandonment was enough to snap Bethani out of her lethargy and helped her kick her own habit, but Logan found it much harder. Wanting to help him any way she could, Bethani opted to stay with him instead of returning home to her parents.
It was during a particularly bad drug-induced panic attack that Logan saw three men in matching unrecognizable uniforms burst into the tiny single-room apartment he and Bethani shared. Two brandished guns and grabbed Bethani. The third shouted something Logan couldn't make out and punched the young girl in the stomach, doubling her over in pain. Dragging himself partially to his feet, Logan tried to scream at the man to stop, but nothing came out. The assailant turned, and with a gesture lifted Logan off the floor and slammed him into the wall across the room. Stunned, Logan lay and listened to the sounds of his sister begging the men to stop. Climbing to his feet once again, Logan staggered into full view of the strangers. Bethani looked at him and screamed for him to run, but Logan couldn't move. All he could see was his bruised, beaten sister and the men responsible. As a red tinge began to creep into the edges of his vision, one of the men holding Bethani raised a sawed-off shotgun and pointed it directly at Logan. Logan saw the man's finger tense on the trigger...
...then the gun clattered to the floor, along with the man's headless body. Logan stared, incredulous, at the spray of organic material now coating the wall behind where the man had been standing. The second guard holding Bethani locked eyes with Logan, and in Logan's eyes the tinge grew deeper. A second later, the man had turned his gun on himself. Now completely in shock, Logan stared at the bodies of the two attackers. The third man, seeing his opportunity, grabbed Bethani and bolted from the apartment. Logan staggered out after them just in time to see the man soaring into the sky with Logan's sister in tow. Not knowing what else to do, Logan turned to his parents, who turned to the police. At first helpful, the police dropped the case when it was discovered that Logan had been on LSD at the time, making his story and all its relating evidence suspect.
Torn by guilt, Logan dove deeper into his drug dependency, only to find that now every time he took something, some part of his mind awakened, and superhuman powers were his to command. After much study and research, he discovered that he (and probably his sister) carried latent psionic abilities. Through experimentation, he learned that the drugs were both curse and blessing - they had caused such damage to him neurologically that his natural abilities no longer functioned on their own, but they also re-awakened those abilities, going so far as to grant him different powers based on whatever was in his system at the time. Through further "scientific study" he discovered a dosage of each med type that granted him limited ability without impairing his basic motor skills and cognitive strength, which allows him to function in society even while under the influence of illegal substances. He's taken the codename "The Pharmacist" as a nod to a claim he made in simpler days to avoid conviction on a possession charge. He is inherently distrustful, and though he does much good for others, his usage of his powers has one ultimate goal: to find the men who took his sister.
And gods help them if she's not alive when he gets there.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Blur...
The restraints were cutting into his wrists. Again.
The facemask killed his vision. Again. Plus, it stank of sweat and morning breath.
They'd even replaced the earplugs. Funny. What difference would that make?
He wanted to scream. To let them know that he was angry, frightened, hungry, lonely, whatever. He knew, though, that it wouldn't matter. He'd shouted himself hoarse more than once. No one ever responded.
This was life. All he'd ever known...yet something didn't feel right. They'd decreased the pictures; he wasn't being forced to sit for endless hours viewing images of mangled bodies, explosions, emaciated children, and the like. Oh, they still made him look, yes, but only for an hour or so a day. A good chunk of the rest of his day was spent like this: blinded, restrained, and alone. It was punishment. Punishment for his disobedience.
His stomach began to growl, then to clench a bit. He felt the gurgling deep in the pit of his gut. He was starving. They'd had him running at least six hours yesterday, and no meal yet today. Of course, like this, he had no idea what time it was. Nor could he ask. Born deaf, he'd never learned to speak...and none of the men in the coats had ever bothered to try and learn to communicate. Even the reality of his punishment was something he was only guessing at...but he was fairly sure the red faces and arm-waving and the wide open mouths were a pretty good indicator that he was in deep trouble.
He hadn't meant to disobey. It was the exercises. Day in, day out, the same thing. The half-mile track the facility maintained. Lap. Lap again. And again. And again. He just ran. Ran and ran and ran. He was fast. How fast, he wasn't sure, but apparently, it made him special. He hadn't seen anyone else on the tracks, so either he was the only one, or they didn't want other people like him crashing headlong into each other. The track never changed--it was an 's' shape within an 'o' shape--he did one lap around the 'o,' then switched for a lap around the 's' from both directions, then repeated. He'd grown so tired...so bored...he just wanted to do something different.
A bead of sweat began to trace its way down his temple, then his cheek. It itched, but he couldn't reach up to scratch it. A single tear of frustration crept from the corner of his eye, joining the path of perspiration already there.
He hadn't meant to disobey...
* * * * * * * *
"Dr. Kirksen?" The voice was timid, quiet. Perhaps even a bit fearful. Kirksen smiled to himself before turning in his chair and letting his gaze settle on the waifish intern. She was perhaps eighteen, nineteen years old, very pretty, and obviously out of her depth.
She could just as easily have been on the other side of this project, he thought to himself. His eyes traveled the length of her body quickly. Not that he couldn't have taken his time; she was so busy staring at her feet that he could have been drooling and she'd just as likely not noticed. He made a mental note: Easily manipulated. Good.
His split-second assessment of her complete, Heinrich Kirksen let a smile break out upon his face. "Yes, my dear..."
"J-Jenks," the young girl stammered.
"Miss Jenks," he repeated, "what brings you to my office?"
Jenks finally raised her eyes and met his own. Her demeanor softened as she saw the warmth in his eyes--a warmth that was carefully calculated to achieve a specific effect. It did not disappoint. It never did. The intern relaxed visibly, then spoke. "Sir, it appears there've been some strange fluctuations in subject 653's biosigns. The monitors think you might want to look."
With a sigh, Kirksen pushed himself away from the desk. He drew himself to his lanky 6'4" height and stepped around to join Jenks, dwarfing her petite 5' 4" frame. Placing an arm on her shoulder, he said brightly, "lead the way!"
Thirty seconds later, they entered the primary monitoring station for Subject 653. Kirksen peered through the glass into the containment chamber. "Alright, people...what am I looking at?"
"Doctor?" One of the techs responded, his face comically quizzical. "I'm not sure I follow--"
Kirksen silenced him with a glare that could have flash-frozen the clueless technician. "I said, 'what am I looking at?' Is that a confusing question for you, young man?"
The technician backpedaled, stammering, "N-n-no sir...it's just that you're already aware--"
The doctor smiled, this one nothing like the warm, accomodating grin that he'd recently given Miss Jenks. "Yes, lab-monkey, I am already aware. What I want to know is...are you? Do you know what's in that room? Does your tiny, feeble mind have any inkling of what we have bound in there?"
The deer-in-the-headlights expression the young tech was now wearing was priceless. Dr. Kirksen grinned, sincerely...yet the effect was more disturbing than anything else. The young man nodded. "Yes, s-s-sir..." he began, "I'm aw--"
"Then start talking!" bellowed Kirksen.
The lab tech paled, then began to relate the information. "Subject 653 is a 15-year-old male, of mixed heritage. We believe his mother to have been caucasian and his father to have been African-American. The initial experimentation unlocked a latent ability to move at speeds undetectable to the human eye and all but the most sophisticated tracking and security measures." He paused, "they've also--"
"The point, lab-monkey. Get to the point. What is going on now?" Dr. Kirksen's face was a mask of apathy. "Why was I pulled from my office?"
A woman--another doctor, judging by the stethoscope around her neck and her lack of fear of Kirksen--cleared her throat. Both men looked at her. She grinned thinly. "The subject is agitated, Doctor," she said plainly. His pulserate has leapt, perspiration is increased, and the adrenals have been engaged."
"Anger?" Kirksen asked.
The woman, whose name badge identified her as Marion Broche, shook her head. "We don't believe so. It's fear."
"Fear?" Dr. Kirksen laughed. "Ridiculous. 653 can't feel fear."
* * * * * * * * *
Subject 653 could feel the tears, but he was powerless to stop them. He wasn't sure why the white-coat men were angry. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, and no one was going to explain it to him--that much was certain. The "punishment" had been going on for two weeks already, as nearly as he could estimate. And it showed no sign of ending soon.
The thought of remaining like this indefinitely was more than 653 could handle. A fresh wave of sorrow overcame him, and he began to weep. It hurt to cry. His body wanted to curl up and couldn't. The sobs tightened his stomach muscles, but he couldn't bend to alleviate the tension. It hurt to cry.
But he couldn't stop.
A mechanical whoosh, however, took his mind off the tears. He felt the facemask beginning to lift, and closed his eyes tightly against the sudden inflow of light. The recirculated air in the containment chamber brushed against his skin, its icy fingers a welcome reprieve from the sweat-filled stagnance of the mask. After a few seconds, he slowly opened his eyes, allowing them time to acclimate to the room. Its pristine walls, in stark lab-white, amplified the light coming from the two flourescent panels fifteen feet above his head. He looked around, his eyes drinking in the emptiness of the room as if it were priceless art.
Directly in front of him, he saw himself. The two-foot by six foot glass pane was reflecting his image back at him. He could see his own short-buzzed hair, and just make out the intense green of his eyes. The steel restraints that bound his shoulders and chest, ribs, waist, and legs shone beneath the light. He knew, somehow, that they were watching him behind that glass.
And they were still angry. Angry because he'd almost--
* * * * * * *
"Sir, has he been...crying?" This monitor, a twenty-something college student with auburn hair and green eyes, looked at Kirksen incredulously. "Th-that's not possible, is it? I thought their isolation was to ensure that no real emotional ability developed?"
Kirksen eyed her, one brow raised, a smile playing across his lips. "Problem, miss? Rethinking your career choice? Sudden attack of conscience?"
She shook her head slowly. "No sir...it's just worrisome. If they really are going to develop the same mental and emotional weaknesses as standard soldiers--"
A raised hand silenced her. Kirksen was no longer interested in what she might have to say. He was studying the specimen on the other side of the glass. What are you doing, he thought to himself, the anxious redhead's right. This shouldn't even be in your emotional repertoire. You've never experienced joy...why would you experience sadness?
Better yet, thought the doctor, why does it matter? So long as the programming holds, I could care less what "feelings" they experience for now. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the first technician he'd accosted upon arriving in the room. "You, boy."
The tech turned to face him, apparently attempting to prepare himself for another tirade. "Yessir?"
"Has there been any shift in his biomass?" Kirksten asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What," hissed the doctor, "are you daft as well as useless? Has. There. Been. Any. Shift. In. Biomass? Is that confusing? Has his weight shifted noticeably since the agitation began?"
The tech's lips quivered. "No sir, nothing that would regist--"
At that moment, everything went red. The instrument panels began to flicker, and a steady wail issued from somewhere deep within the compound.
"Sir...something very strange is happening with 653."
The doctor rolled his eyes. "Yeah? No sh--"
* * * * * * *
635 felt it before anyone else. Slight. Imperceptible. But there.
Vibrations. His deafness made sound irrelevant to him, but certain frequencies affected his physiology enough to be noticeable, and the lack of auditory stimuli made his other senses stronger. Vibrations, even the most subtle, were as clear to him as words spoken usually are to the rest of humanity.
When the resonance first began, it was so faint he nearly overlooked it...then he caught the pattern...
...pop-pop-pop...pop-pop-pop-pop...
...and then, suddenly...BOOM.
His hand pressed against the cold metal of the table on which he was restrained, 653 felt the vibrations rush through the room. An icy realization gripped him, though he had no idea what it meant: it's over. A new fear tore at his heart and mind and with each successive--
--BOOM--
--it became harder and harder to ignore. His body now covered in a thin layer of persperation, 653 felt his shirt beginning to stick to his skin. Even though he could see the space around him, his breathing became more and more ragged as he began to feel closed in. Trapped, even beyond his restraints.
--BOOM--
The door to the chamber opened. On the other side, everything seemed red. 653 watched the man who'd locked him onto the table as he slowly walked around the boy, occasionally rubbing his chin or his temple, a dark smile clouding his face. 653 disliked him intently...but never so much as when his face looked like this. The man reached for his face, and 653 tried to pull away. Cruel fingers gripped his cheeks and forced his head back around. His gaze met the dark man's, and for just a moment, revulsion swept over 653 so strongly that it caused him to physically shudder. That made the dark man smile even more broadly.
--BOOM--BOOM-- Vibrations so powerful they startled 653. So very close.
Suddenly the room went black. The grip on his face was gone. A moment later, watery green light flooded the room. The dark man was already opening the door to the chamber. He stepped outside the room and gestured wildly to someone else out of sight. 653 thought, he doesn't look happy, just before someone in a coat like the dark man's stepped into his view, gave him one last look, then shut the door.
Everything was quiet, except for the occasional
--BOOM--
from somewhere. Time passed. The vibrations kept sweeping through the room...sometimes gaining intensity, other times losing it...but always every few seconds. 653 kept his hands against the table, feeling the pulse...again. Again. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The flickering of the sickly green lights caused his eyes to fly open. He looked around the room, startled. Apparently the vibrations had lulled him to sleep. He pressed palm to table, and felt the now-comforting boom...immediately followed by a single, cacophanous BOOM that literally shook the table on which he lay. The lights flickered madly for a split second, and then the room was once again shrouded in darkness.
This time, however, they never came back on.
The facemask killed his vision. Again. Plus, it stank of sweat and morning breath.
They'd even replaced the earplugs. Funny. What difference would that make?
He wanted to scream. To let them know that he was angry, frightened, hungry, lonely, whatever. He knew, though, that it wouldn't matter. He'd shouted himself hoarse more than once. No one ever responded.
This was life. All he'd ever known...yet something didn't feel right. They'd decreased the pictures; he wasn't being forced to sit for endless hours viewing images of mangled bodies, explosions, emaciated children, and the like. Oh, they still made him look, yes, but only for an hour or so a day. A good chunk of the rest of his day was spent like this: blinded, restrained, and alone. It was punishment. Punishment for his disobedience.
His stomach began to growl, then to clench a bit. He felt the gurgling deep in the pit of his gut. He was starving. They'd had him running at least six hours yesterday, and no meal yet today. Of course, like this, he had no idea what time it was. Nor could he ask. Born deaf, he'd never learned to speak...and none of the men in the coats had ever bothered to try and learn to communicate. Even the reality of his punishment was something he was only guessing at...but he was fairly sure the red faces and arm-waving and the wide open mouths were a pretty good indicator that he was in deep trouble.
He hadn't meant to disobey. It was the exercises. Day in, day out, the same thing. The half-mile track the facility maintained. Lap. Lap again. And again. And again. He just ran. Ran and ran and ran. He was fast. How fast, he wasn't sure, but apparently, it made him special. He hadn't seen anyone else on the tracks, so either he was the only one, or they didn't want other people like him crashing headlong into each other. The track never changed--it was an 's' shape within an 'o' shape--he did one lap around the 'o,' then switched for a lap around the 's' from both directions, then repeated. He'd grown so tired...so bored...he just wanted to do something different.
A bead of sweat began to trace its way down his temple, then his cheek. It itched, but he couldn't reach up to scratch it. A single tear of frustration crept from the corner of his eye, joining the path of perspiration already there.
He hadn't meant to disobey...
* * * * * * * *
"Dr. Kirksen?" The voice was timid, quiet. Perhaps even a bit fearful. Kirksen smiled to himself before turning in his chair and letting his gaze settle on the waifish intern. She was perhaps eighteen, nineteen years old, very pretty, and obviously out of her depth.
She could just as easily have been on the other side of this project, he thought to himself. His eyes traveled the length of her body quickly. Not that he couldn't have taken his time; she was so busy staring at her feet that he could have been drooling and she'd just as likely not noticed. He made a mental note: Easily manipulated. Good.
His split-second assessment of her complete, Heinrich Kirksen let a smile break out upon his face. "Yes, my dear..."
"J-Jenks," the young girl stammered.
"Miss Jenks," he repeated, "what brings you to my office?"
Jenks finally raised her eyes and met his own. Her demeanor softened as she saw the warmth in his eyes--a warmth that was carefully calculated to achieve a specific effect. It did not disappoint. It never did. The intern relaxed visibly, then spoke. "Sir, it appears there've been some strange fluctuations in subject 653's biosigns. The monitors think you might want to look."
With a sigh, Kirksen pushed himself away from the desk. He drew himself to his lanky 6'4" height and stepped around to join Jenks, dwarfing her petite 5' 4" frame. Placing an arm on her shoulder, he said brightly, "lead the way!"
Thirty seconds later, they entered the primary monitoring station for Subject 653. Kirksen peered through the glass into the containment chamber. "Alright, people...what am I looking at?"
"Doctor?" One of the techs responded, his face comically quizzical. "I'm not sure I follow--"
Kirksen silenced him with a glare that could have flash-frozen the clueless technician. "I said, 'what am I looking at?' Is that a confusing question for you, young man?"
The technician backpedaled, stammering, "N-n-no sir...it's just that you're already aware--"
The doctor smiled, this one nothing like the warm, accomodating grin that he'd recently given Miss Jenks. "Yes, lab-monkey, I am already aware. What I want to know is...are you? Do you know what's in that room? Does your tiny, feeble mind have any inkling of what we have bound in there?"
The deer-in-the-headlights expression the young tech was now wearing was priceless. Dr. Kirksen grinned, sincerely...yet the effect was more disturbing than anything else. The young man nodded. "Yes, s-s-sir..." he began, "I'm aw--"
"Then start talking!" bellowed Kirksen.
The lab tech paled, then began to relate the information. "Subject 653 is a 15-year-old male, of mixed heritage. We believe his mother to have been caucasian and his father to have been African-American. The initial experimentation unlocked a latent ability to move at speeds undetectable to the human eye and all but the most sophisticated tracking and security measures." He paused, "they've also--"
"The point, lab-monkey. Get to the point. What is going on now?" Dr. Kirksen's face was a mask of apathy. "Why was I pulled from my office?"
A woman--another doctor, judging by the stethoscope around her neck and her lack of fear of Kirksen--cleared her throat. Both men looked at her. She grinned thinly. "The subject is agitated, Doctor," she said plainly. His pulserate has leapt, perspiration is increased, and the adrenals have been engaged."
"Anger?" Kirksen asked.
The woman, whose name badge identified her as Marion Broche, shook her head. "We don't believe so. It's fear."
"Fear?" Dr. Kirksen laughed. "Ridiculous. 653 can't feel fear."
* * * * * * * * *
Subject 653 could feel the tears, but he was powerless to stop them. He wasn't sure why the white-coat men were angry. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, and no one was going to explain it to him--that much was certain. The "punishment" had been going on for two weeks already, as nearly as he could estimate. And it showed no sign of ending soon.
The thought of remaining like this indefinitely was more than 653 could handle. A fresh wave of sorrow overcame him, and he began to weep. It hurt to cry. His body wanted to curl up and couldn't. The sobs tightened his stomach muscles, but he couldn't bend to alleviate the tension. It hurt to cry.
But he couldn't stop.
A mechanical whoosh, however, took his mind off the tears. He felt the facemask beginning to lift, and closed his eyes tightly against the sudden inflow of light. The recirculated air in the containment chamber brushed against his skin, its icy fingers a welcome reprieve from the sweat-filled stagnance of the mask. After a few seconds, he slowly opened his eyes, allowing them time to acclimate to the room. Its pristine walls, in stark lab-white, amplified the light coming from the two flourescent panels fifteen feet above his head. He looked around, his eyes drinking in the emptiness of the room as if it were priceless art.
Directly in front of him, he saw himself. The two-foot by six foot glass pane was reflecting his image back at him. He could see his own short-buzzed hair, and just make out the intense green of his eyes. The steel restraints that bound his shoulders and chest, ribs, waist, and legs shone beneath the light. He knew, somehow, that they were watching him behind that glass.
And they were still angry. Angry because he'd almost--
* * * * * * *
"Sir, has he been...crying?" This monitor, a twenty-something college student with auburn hair and green eyes, looked at Kirksen incredulously. "Th-that's not possible, is it? I thought their isolation was to ensure that no real emotional ability developed?"
Kirksen eyed her, one brow raised, a smile playing across his lips. "Problem, miss? Rethinking your career choice? Sudden attack of conscience?"
She shook her head slowly. "No sir...it's just worrisome. If they really are going to develop the same mental and emotional weaknesses as standard soldiers--"
A raised hand silenced her. Kirksen was no longer interested in what she might have to say. He was studying the specimen on the other side of the glass. What are you doing, he thought to himself, the anxious redhead's right. This shouldn't even be in your emotional repertoire. You've never experienced joy...why would you experience sadness?
Better yet, thought the doctor, why does it matter? So long as the programming holds, I could care less what "feelings" they experience for now. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the first technician he'd accosted upon arriving in the room. "You, boy."
The tech turned to face him, apparently attempting to prepare himself for another tirade. "Yessir?"
"Has there been any shift in his biomass?" Kirksten asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What," hissed the doctor, "are you daft as well as useless? Has. There. Been. Any. Shift. In. Biomass? Is that confusing? Has his weight shifted noticeably since the agitation began?"
The tech's lips quivered. "No sir, nothing that would regist--"
At that moment, everything went red. The instrument panels began to flicker, and a steady wail issued from somewhere deep within the compound.
"Sir...something very strange is happening with 653."
The doctor rolled his eyes. "Yeah? No sh--"
* * * * * * *
635 felt it before anyone else. Slight. Imperceptible. But there.
Vibrations. His deafness made sound irrelevant to him, but certain frequencies affected his physiology enough to be noticeable, and the lack of auditory stimuli made his other senses stronger. Vibrations, even the most subtle, were as clear to him as words spoken usually are to the rest of humanity.
When the resonance first began, it was so faint he nearly overlooked it...then he caught the pattern...
...pop-pop-pop...pop-pop-pop-pop...
...and then, suddenly...BOOM.
His hand pressed against the cold metal of the table on which he was restrained, 653 felt the vibrations rush through the room. An icy realization gripped him, though he had no idea what it meant: it's over. A new fear tore at his heart and mind and with each successive--
--BOOM--
--it became harder and harder to ignore. His body now covered in a thin layer of persperation, 653 felt his shirt beginning to stick to his skin. Even though he could see the space around him, his breathing became more and more ragged as he began to feel closed in. Trapped, even beyond his restraints.
--BOOM--
The door to the chamber opened. On the other side, everything seemed red. 653 watched the man who'd locked him onto the table as he slowly walked around the boy, occasionally rubbing his chin or his temple, a dark smile clouding his face. 653 disliked him intently...but never so much as when his face looked like this. The man reached for his face, and 653 tried to pull away. Cruel fingers gripped his cheeks and forced his head back around. His gaze met the dark man's, and for just a moment, revulsion swept over 653 so strongly that it caused him to physically shudder. That made the dark man smile even more broadly.
--BOOM--BOOM-- Vibrations so powerful they startled 653. So very close.
Suddenly the room went black. The grip on his face was gone. A moment later, watery green light flooded the room. The dark man was already opening the door to the chamber. He stepped outside the room and gestured wildly to someone else out of sight. 653 thought, he doesn't look happy, just before someone in a coat like the dark man's stepped into his view, gave him one last look, then shut the door.
Everything was quiet, except for the occasional
--BOOM--
from somewhere. Time passed. The vibrations kept sweeping through the room...sometimes gaining intensity, other times losing it...but always every few seconds. 653 kept his hands against the table, feeling the pulse...again. Again. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The flickering of the sickly green lights caused his eyes to fly open. He looked around the room, startled. Apparently the vibrations had lulled him to sleep. He pressed palm to table, and felt the now-comforting boom...immediately followed by a single, cacophanous BOOM that literally shook the table on which he lay. The lights flickered madly for a split second, and then the room was once again shrouded in darkness.
This time, however, they never came back on.
Musings...
Okay, so initially, this was going to be a blog about a very specific singular project...well, in the 3 weeks since I last posted (or first posted, depending on whether you have a half-full/half-empty mentality), two other projects have come into my world, with a third being revitalized somewhat.
Needing somewhere to put my thoughts together, I've decided to turn this blog into a basic spot where I can brainstorm about any of the projects I'm working on. I'll use the blog tags to ensure that if you're wanting to keep up with a specific project, you can access those specific posts.
Needing somewhere to put my thoughts together, I've decided to turn this blog into a basic spot where I can brainstorm about any of the projects I'm working on. I'll use the blog tags to ensure that if you're wanting to keep up with a specific project, you can access those specific posts.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Reason for Being (the blog's...not mine) :-D
This is a site I tossed up to post excerpts, brainstorms, and images/thoughts for a graphic novel I'm currently working on. It's a relatively new endeavor, so bear with me. :-)
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