I break into the secret villainous headquarters of Count Chaos, ready to stop all his henchmen and foil his nefarious plot of world eradication, when to my utter obfuscation-- all of my powers stop working.
I stand there, hopping slightly, trying to propel myself into the air, flailing my arms uselessly because my fire invocation is null, squinting at the floor in an effort to at least make myself invisible, but none of the techniques I have learned over the years are working.
My powers appear to be on strike.
The villain for once does not need to cue his henchmen to laugh on time: they burst out with raucous guffaws, holding their sides because I am obviously the most pitiful excuse for a hero they have ever seen. I stop flailing in an effort lessen the impression.
"You are here to try and stop me, aren't you, little thing?" the Count asks, wiping a tear from his eye. "Your costume looks like that of those puny superhero creatures. Is that the best you can do, or are you just a lost child that wandered in here by mistake? Either way, I would offer you the chance to leave while you can, as you obviously would not even be a challenge in battle."
I stand defiantly, legs apart, hands on hips, like a sailor manning the wheel against an unassailable storm. "Never! I may be experiencing a momentary loss in my abilities, but I shall stop you nonetheless! You are a monster, Count Chaos, and I cannot let you destroy our planet simply because you are bored!"
"But why ever not? It's such a tedious place. You could just watch from here while I make it blossom. I like you, little creature. You are feisty and irrational, to challenge me so confidently with nothing to support your cause. I think I would like to keep you as a pet."
I cannot even describe the degree to which I am offended. Count Chaos is a giant, due to (what most heroes who have ever faced him speculate) a random mutation. But I am still his fellow human, not an insect far below to be inspected.
I run to the console and place my hands protectively over the glass lid covering what appears to be the giant explosion-signalling button. "You're not going to touch this!" I shout.
"Oh, please," Count Chaos sighs, "Did you really think I would be so stupid as to actually design my plans in such an archaic and traditional manner? Far from it," and he tips over a string of dominoes on his desk. They lead off the table and down between the legs of the chairs around it, setting off a complicated series of reactions which I become almost completely distracted by-- which is the point. I now have to choose what to focus on-- the string of reactions, or the button.
"Your choice," the Count smiles, "Which do you stop? The marble is rolling and you have little time to catch it. But perhaps it is not so important after all. If you leave your post, I will press the button. But it may be only the dinner bell. There is no telling what shall trigger the bombs. It is complete Chaos," he grins evilly, delighted to actually use his name for its designed purpose, albeit against a decidedly less epic opponent than he had imagined.
I curse my imagination for not coming through when I need it most. If I could just borrow Syca's sense for a moment, and divine which was the true signal...but, even if I did, the Count could easily force me away at just the right moment for his plan to continue. I glance over-- he looks impatient, almost as if he wants me to figure it out, wants me to stop him from destroying the world and is upset that the truth hasn't dawned on me already-- and then I see it. There is a green apple on the console across the room.
Something about this apple comforts me. I feel like I must have it, and take at least one bite, and then everything will be all right. As the Count reaches triumphantly toward the button behind me, I dash over and yank the apple from its place-- but it turns out the apple was a lever in disguise. The lever drops a metal cage around the button case, and Chaos retracts his gloved fingers in surprise.
"Y-you actually d-did it!" he stammers. "A superhero capable of noticing the potential of the utterly mundane! And I didn't think they existed anymore..." He sighs, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. Then, he sits down in the command chair, and takes off-- his leg extensions. His arm extensions. His wig.
"Count Chaos! You're-- you're not a giant!"
"No...nor am I a supervillain. Merely a psychologist. I wanted to study the heroic brain, to see if it recognized patterns and interpreted the world differently than normal. If it perhaps noticed more, and assimilated information at a faster speed. Until now, while I have seen great fighting responses, I have never seen a hero surpass my trials with analytical powers alone. You are quite remarkable."
"Thanks, yeah, no problem," I shrug, knowing that I actually had no real reason to grab at the lever, but that I was stressed and hungry.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
An Architectural Mid-life Crisis
I step out of the base this morning to go on a run, when I realize quite to my chagrin, that time and space have folded in on each other.
Like a crumpled ball of paper, a piece of a banister from a 19th Century Opera House here overlaps with the escalator of a 21st century shopping mall there, and the smell of burnt rubber hangs over the whole street.
I look at the strange conglomeration of places and times with a sigh. No telling what's out there, but I DO have to go running, and I need to pick up sugar because the base is running out and we're planning on making cupcakes tomorrow...
I go back inside and change into my supersuit for a modicum of reassuring safety, then traverse the wavering stairs into the melee. I have hardly gone two feet when out of a garbage-can portal climb Sasha and Morgan, two of my fellow highschool students. It appears than they are looking for the center of the Earth, which is now somewhere on the outside, to put it back and right all this mess. They inform me also that all the continents have been forced back together again into one big Pancontinent, with the exception of Great Britain, which somehow managed to escape the great and mysterious migration. It seems that time and space are changing themselves, rather than some human design. It is so random, I am left to wonder if it has any cause at all...
Still. It must be returned to normal, lest Chaos become the new Order and rule over all. Balance is a much better way of doing things.
I run up the side of a building that looks like an Escher painting, following my two comrades, and when we reach the Center of the Outside, Morgan takes out this giant apparatus thingy that I really wish I had created so I would know what it does, and places it directly on the innermost Out, and of course presses the giant red button. "It didn't work that way, originally," he says as he keeps his finger on the button, which is sucking away all the fallacies in the universe, "But I reconfigured it just so that all the systems inside would link to this one button. Because that's how life should be done." When the clean-up is almost through, one of the chickens in Morgan's head crows loudly to warn him, and he shuts off the apparatus by merely letting go of the red button. "Can't have all the weirdnonsensicallness sucked out of the world, now can we?" he remarks as they leave again through a regular stairway and out the stout double-doors. "Then who would want to live here?"
The world seems to agree with this statement, because as they depart, a single leaf falls from a tree and starts lazily trailing them.
There is, of course, no wind.
Like a crumpled ball of paper, a piece of a banister from a 19th Century Opera House here overlaps with the escalator of a 21st century shopping mall there, and the smell of burnt rubber hangs over the whole street.
I look at the strange conglomeration of places and times with a sigh. No telling what's out there, but I DO have to go running, and I need to pick up sugar because the base is running out and we're planning on making cupcakes tomorrow...
I go back inside and change into my supersuit for a modicum of reassuring safety, then traverse the wavering stairs into the melee. I have hardly gone two feet when out of a garbage-can portal climb Sasha and Morgan, two of my fellow highschool students. It appears than they are looking for the center of the Earth, which is now somewhere on the outside, to put it back and right all this mess. They inform me also that all the continents have been forced back together again into one big Pancontinent, with the exception of Great Britain, which somehow managed to escape the great and mysterious migration. It seems that time and space are changing themselves, rather than some human design. It is so random, I am left to wonder if it has any cause at all...
Still. It must be returned to normal, lest Chaos become the new Order and rule over all. Balance is a much better way of doing things.
I run up the side of a building that looks like an Escher painting, following my two comrades, and when we reach the Center of the Outside, Morgan takes out this giant apparatus thingy that I really wish I had created so I would know what it does, and places it directly on the innermost Out, and of course presses the giant red button. "It didn't work that way, originally," he says as he keeps his finger on the button, which is sucking away all the fallacies in the universe, "But I reconfigured it just so that all the systems inside would link to this one button. Because that's how life should be done." When the clean-up is almost through, one of the chickens in Morgan's head crows loudly to warn him, and he shuts off the apparatus by merely letting go of the red button. "Can't have all the weirdnonsensicallness sucked out of the world, now can we?" he remarks as they leave again through a regular stairway and out the stout double-doors. "Then who would want to live here?"
The world seems to agree with this statement, because as they depart, a single leaf falls from a tree and starts lazily trailing them.
There is, of course, no wind.
Zombie Counseling
"Ever have one of those days when you just can't seem to get some creeper's arm off of your waist?" Amanda jokes from across the street, prying the rigid digits of the last zombie she killed from their death-clench on her jacket.
I laugh, but then am nearly trampled by a hoard of angry zombies galloping in my direction.
"Yeah, I, uh...it can be a real killer!" I counter while smashing someone's face. Grimace. That really wasn't terribly good, but it can't be helped. I've been feeling a little...off lately. Like, maybe I'm getting sick or something. Super heroes can't get sick, can they? I mean, you'd think with all the extra powers you'd at least get a good immune system, like a free upgrade with the package. Right? I mean, how can you fight crime with a congested brain?
I suddenly realize that throughout the passage of this train of thought, Amanda has been standing there motionless, mouth agape. Staring at me.
"Hey!" Laila says, running up to Amanda. "What's with the face?" and, following her gaze, Laila comes to look at me too-- and freezes.
"Um... Hannah? Are you feeling okay?" she asks tentatively.
"Yeah, I feel fine, other than a little sniffle in the brain. Why?"
"You kind of look you've turned into a zombie."
"What?!?" I run out of the street. There are a number of shops along the sides, but unfortunately due to the recent zombie uprising, most of the windows are broken. I keep running frantically, until finally I find an old vintage clothing store with the glint of an intact mirror coming from the one standing dressing room. I step inside and stare at myself. "Huh...my face appears to be half-missing. I wonder when that happened."
Amanda and Laila rush in behind me, hands posed for fighting, peering over cautiously.
"Hannah?" Laila calls. "Are you all right?"
"I thought I was." I reply. "How long have I had my skin torn off like this? I can't feel a thing, but it's kinda freaking me out." Amanda edges closer, and touches my face.
"Freaky. I have no idea, I could swear it wasn't there a second ago, but I thought these things took longer. Maybe I just didn't notice."
"We've been fighting these guys on the same street right across from each other since this morning! How could you possibly not have noticed?!" I am flustered now, peering at my face, my hands, my clothes, looking for any other signs of zombification. Everything else appears to be fine...my circulation's great, and there's no smell of decay or blood coming from the face wound, the flesh is just missing...
"Now, Hannah," Laila says softly, coming over to placate me in my distress.
"You know we've all been quite busy lately, it's understandable if Amanda hasn't noticed. It looks like that wound is the only problem, and I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation, but for the meantime, let's get you to the safehouse and to bed. I'm sure you must not be feeling terribly well." She lays her arm on my shoulder, but I shrug it off and back away, out of the dressing room.
"Stay away!" I cry. "I don't want you to get infected! And anyways, shouldn't I be getting a taste for brains and violence any minute now? I don't want to start chomping unexpectedly on your cerebellum!"
"Now, Hannah, I KNOW you wouldn't do that. Something is obviously keeping you from changing all the way, so I think we can assume you are safe for the time being. What you need is care."
"Pah!" I reply bitterly. "You should lock me up, if you're not going to kill me. We've all seen the damage these things have done over a few short hours. I signed up to prevent horror in the world, not become it!"
"It could just mean you're getting tired," Amanda offers hopefully. "Maybe you need to wake up and take a rest from all this crime-fighting. You're always getting bruises on your legs and arms from hitting the sides of the bed when you sleep, remember. Perhaps you just need to take a break..."
"Never!" I cry defiantly, pushing them both away, soaring upward to the ceiling and clutching the hanging lamp for comfort. "This isn't just my night job, it's my life! You two don't understand what it's like, having this to come back to every night when Reality is so boring! Here I can actually accomplish things! Colors are more vivid! People are more valiant! I can friggin' FLY!! Why would I want to go back and endure all that ordinary dayness when I could be finishing a successful night of dreaming? NO. I'll just...get over this stupid zombie thing."
I fly out the door before I can hear their responses, because I am hurt and angry and afraid that everything will be taken away from me...that, somehow, they will remember this conversation when we next meet, and will keep me from going to sleep on the basis that it has become too overwhelming of a factor in my life. I know sometimes I can be a bit domineering to Laila about my eight-hour minimum, but...I can't experience all of this Realm, this Universe, fully if I don't...
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. After all, it is only a fabrication of my mind. What little girl am I really saving, here? Whose rotten torso am I kicking? It's just a few neural impulses running around an empty brain late at night...
I decide to go to sleep a little later the next night, and not complain about Laila's leaving the light on to study. I may be addicted to R.E.M., but that's no excuse for neglecting my real relationships.
I laugh, but then am nearly trampled by a hoard of angry zombies galloping in my direction.
"Yeah, I, uh...it can be a real killer!" I counter while smashing someone's face. Grimace. That really wasn't terribly good, but it can't be helped. I've been feeling a little...off lately. Like, maybe I'm getting sick or something. Super heroes can't get sick, can they? I mean, you'd think with all the extra powers you'd at least get a good immune system, like a free upgrade with the package. Right? I mean, how can you fight crime with a congested brain?
I suddenly realize that throughout the passage of this train of thought, Amanda has been standing there motionless, mouth agape. Staring at me.
"Hey!" Laila says, running up to Amanda. "What's with the face?" and, following her gaze, Laila comes to look at me too-- and freezes.
"Um... Hannah? Are you feeling okay?" she asks tentatively.
"Yeah, I feel fine, other than a little sniffle in the brain. Why?"
"You kind of look you've turned into a zombie."
"What?!?" I run out of the street. There are a number of shops along the sides, but unfortunately due to the recent zombie uprising, most of the windows are broken. I keep running frantically, until finally I find an old vintage clothing store with the glint of an intact mirror coming from the one standing dressing room. I step inside and stare at myself. "Huh...my face appears to be half-missing. I wonder when that happened."
Amanda and Laila rush in behind me, hands posed for fighting, peering over cautiously.
"Hannah?" Laila calls. "Are you all right?"
"I thought I was." I reply. "How long have I had my skin torn off like this? I can't feel a thing, but it's kinda freaking me out." Amanda edges closer, and touches my face.
"Freaky. I have no idea, I could swear it wasn't there a second ago, but I thought these things took longer. Maybe I just didn't notice."
"We've been fighting these guys on the same street right across from each other since this morning! How could you possibly not have noticed?!" I am flustered now, peering at my face, my hands, my clothes, looking for any other signs of zombification. Everything else appears to be fine...my circulation's great, and there's no smell of decay or blood coming from the face wound, the flesh is just missing...
"Now, Hannah," Laila says softly, coming over to placate me in my distress.
"You know we've all been quite busy lately, it's understandable if Amanda hasn't noticed. It looks like that wound is the only problem, and I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation, but for the meantime, let's get you to the safehouse and to bed. I'm sure you must not be feeling terribly well." She lays her arm on my shoulder, but I shrug it off and back away, out of the dressing room.
"Stay away!" I cry. "I don't want you to get infected! And anyways, shouldn't I be getting a taste for brains and violence any minute now? I don't want to start chomping unexpectedly on your cerebellum!"
"Now, Hannah, I KNOW you wouldn't do that. Something is obviously keeping you from changing all the way, so I think we can assume you are safe for the time being. What you need is care."
"Pah!" I reply bitterly. "You should lock me up, if you're not going to kill me. We've all seen the damage these things have done over a few short hours. I signed up to prevent horror in the world, not become it!"
"It could just mean you're getting tired," Amanda offers hopefully. "Maybe you need to wake up and take a rest from all this crime-fighting. You're always getting bruises on your legs and arms from hitting the sides of the bed when you sleep, remember. Perhaps you just need to take a break..."
"Never!" I cry defiantly, pushing them both away, soaring upward to the ceiling and clutching the hanging lamp for comfort. "This isn't just my night job, it's my life! You two don't understand what it's like, having this to come back to every night when Reality is so boring! Here I can actually accomplish things! Colors are more vivid! People are more valiant! I can friggin' FLY!! Why would I want to go back and endure all that ordinary dayness when I could be finishing a successful night of dreaming? NO. I'll just...get over this stupid zombie thing."
I fly out the door before I can hear their responses, because I am hurt and angry and afraid that everything will be taken away from me...that, somehow, they will remember this conversation when we next meet, and will keep me from going to sleep on the basis that it has become too overwhelming of a factor in my life. I know sometimes I can be a bit domineering to Laila about my eight-hour minimum, but...I can't experience all of this Realm, this Universe, fully if I don't...
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. After all, it is only a fabrication of my mind. What little girl am I really saving, here? Whose rotten torso am I kicking? It's just a few neural impulses running around an empty brain late at night...
I decide to go to sleep a little later the next night, and not complain about Laila's leaving the light on to study. I may be addicted to R.E.M., but that's no excuse for neglecting my real relationships.
The Storm
(This event happened at a time when Amanda, Laila and I were still learning the effects and reaches of our powers, and did not yet know that Becca, Mary, and Willa had accrued some strange abilities as well. We were all studying in Amanda's living room, in front of the fireplace, because even though it was almost summer and there was no fire, the comfort of the sentiment remained.)
Amanda's house has a really long driveway that goes over a creek at one point, surrounded by lots of very tall trees. The water is usually almost nonexistent by this point, and the little fish that spawn and grow in the creek have to ford their way to bigger streams to develop.
Anyways.
Amanda is working on her math homework, and getting very frustrated with a particular problem, which is of course the last one preventing her from finishing so we can commence with our planned Indiana Jones movie marathon. She begins doodling a large and furious cloud looming over the half-written equation.
Laila comes over to check on her, and, fascinated by the drawing, runs her finger over the swirling yet violent lines practically carved into the paper.
'This would be a really pretty storm," she remarks-- and at that moment a crack of thunder shakes the room, knocking us all off our feet.
Caspian starts cawing and shrieking loudly in his cage, as bolts of energy fizz and pop throughout the room.
We all stare, aghast, as a sheer mountain of water rises from the creek and crashes toward the house. Toward the three big, beautiful windows on the second story, which we happen to be standing behind.
"Run!" I yell, trying to offer a useful course of action, but at this point all we can do is leap out of the way as a pine tree, uprooted by the maelstrom, crashes straight into the room and through the brick fireplace, poking into the kitchen on the other side. We, however, are too busy to think about this particular development, as we are currently being swept out to sea...
Later, sopping wet and wrapped in towels on the Coast Guard boat which rescued us, we ponder the reason for our predicament. It was obviously Laila's touching of the drawing which made the storm come to life, as she has shown minor control of weather in earlier instances. However, it is the drawing which created such a powerful storm in the first place, embedding in itself in Amanda's residual frustration against the math problem...and so, the finest word of wisdom we learn from this escapade is:
Don't doodle on your homework.
Amanda's house has a really long driveway that goes over a creek at one point, surrounded by lots of very tall trees. The water is usually almost nonexistent by this point, and the little fish that spawn and grow in the creek have to ford their way to bigger streams to develop.
Anyways.
Amanda is working on her math homework, and getting very frustrated with a particular problem, which is of course the last one preventing her from finishing so we can commence with our planned Indiana Jones movie marathon. She begins doodling a large and furious cloud looming over the half-written equation.
Laila comes over to check on her, and, fascinated by the drawing, runs her finger over the swirling yet violent lines practically carved into the paper.
'This would be a really pretty storm," she remarks-- and at that moment a crack of thunder shakes the room, knocking us all off our feet.
Caspian starts cawing and shrieking loudly in his cage, as bolts of energy fizz and pop throughout the room.
We all stare, aghast, as a sheer mountain of water rises from the creek and crashes toward the house. Toward the three big, beautiful windows on the second story, which we happen to be standing behind.
"Run!" I yell, trying to offer a useful course of action, but at this point all we can do is leap out of the way as a pine tree, uprooted by the maelstrom, crashes straight into the room and through the brick fireplace, poking into the kitchen on the other side. We, however, are too busy to think about this particular development, as we are currently being swept out to sea...
Later, sopping wet and wrapped in towels on the Coast Guard boat which rescued us, we ponder the reason for our predicament. It was obviously Laila's touching of the drawing which made the storm come to life, as she has shown minor control of weather in earlier instances. However, it is the drawing which created such a powerful storm in the first place, embedding in itself in Amanda's residual frustration against the math problem...and so, the finest word of wisdom we learn from this escapade is:
Don't doodle on your homework.
Spaceship Stealing
We decide to go on what is commonly termed a "Joy Ride" in the cruiser of the space pirates we just captured, on the way to deliver them to the police of their home planet.
Amanda, Laila, Becca and I skip into Dollar Tree and stock up on chocolate, Martinelli's cider, sandwiches, and live ducks (for company). We pack Amanda's concertina, Laila's pennywhistle, and mum's violin, and once the prisoners are tied snugly in traditional rope and placed down in the hold, we set off on our journey.
Growing bored-- it is taking longer than we expected to reach the next populated galaxy-- I start sticking little star and moon glow-in-the-dark stickers to the viewing screen, mimicking the few constellations I know from Earth's night sky. Amanda is painting on the navigation console, a few drops spilling to the carpet and circling the station with colour. Becca is reading in the greenhouse. Laila's in the captain's chair, bare feet on the desk, wheedling out a seafaring tune with her pennywhistle. It's been a few days, but the peace of the voyage is nice.
As I am pondering this new peace, a star whale looms up behind Orion on the viewscreen, and bumps into the ship.
Everything and everyone is sent sprawling like those few dedicated actors who hurl themselves across the set in Star Trek, and when it all settles, we realize that the compartment in which the ducks were staying has completely separated from the ship.
Fortunately, we are all superheroes. We know how to handle this rescuing biz.
Laila and I suit up, while Amanda monitors the exit shafts from the control room, and Becca goes to check on the prisoners. We are shunted out, propelled after the fleeing duck compartment, which has miraculously sustained no damage from being so forcefully ejected. We catch it, attaching cables to draw it back in to the ship, and Amanda starts reeling it in. But then the cables stop, and to our horror, are discharged from the ship-- and the ship itself begins to pulse away from us in the deep emptiness of space...
"What's going on?!" I shout to Amanda over the tiny mic in my space suit.
"Uhhh....technical difficulties," she replies somewhat tersely. "Just who exactly tied the ropes on prisoner number three?"
"OH..." I reply, cheeks reddening. "Sorry about that..."
So, while Laila and I fiddle around and make faces at the ducks through the porthole to calm them down about the whole situation, Amanda re-subdues the burliest four-armed Hydrothican of the pirate group. Thankfully, we have our own piratical experience, and since it's well known that Earth pirates are the best there have ever been at swordsmanship, and Amanda keeps hers at her side at all times, the prisoner eventually re-surrenders, and peace is restored. By this time, however, all the commotion has shaken the fizz out of the Martinelli's.
Sigh...and we were going to have such a great intergalactic picnic/tour in this stolen spaceship...
We drop off the prisoners, spend a day on Hydrothica, and return home via a rather shorter trip in the speed-cruiser of a Hydrothican policewoman.
We take Amanda's car up to Multnomah Falls instead, free the ducks, and watch the sunset while eating the last of the chocolate. Who knew such sparse rations could last five days?
Amanda, Laila, Becca and I skip into Dollar Tree and stock up on chocolate, Martinelli's cider, sandwiches, and live ducks (for company). We pack Amanda's concertina, Laila's pennywhistle, and mum's violin, and once the prisoners are tied snugly in traditional rope and placed down in the hold, we set off on our journey.
Growing bored-- it is taking longer than we expected to reach the next populated galaxy-- I start sticking little star and moon glow-in-the-dark stickers to the viewing screen, mimicking the few constellations I know from Earth's night sky. Amanda is painting on the navigation console, a few drops spilling to the carpet and circling the station with colour. Becca is reading in the greenhouse. Laila's in the captain's chair, bare feet on the desk, wheedling out a seafaring tune with her pennywhistle. It's been a few days, but the peace of the voyage is nice.
As I am pondering this new peace, a star whale looms up behind Orion on the viewscreen, and bumps into the ship.
Everything and everyone is sent sprawling like those few dedicated actors who hurl themselves across the set in Star Trek, and when it all settles, we realize that the compartment in which the ducks were staying has completely separated from the ship.
Fortunately, we are all superheroes. We know how to handle this rescuing biz.
Laila and I suit up, while Amanda monitors the exit shafts from the control room, and Becca goes to check on the prisoners. We are shunted out, propelled after the fleeing duck compartment, which has miraculously sustained no damage from being so forcefully ejected. We catch it, attaching cables to draw it back in to the ship, and Amanda starts reeling it in. But then the cables stop, and to our horror, are discharged from the ship-- and the ship itself begins to pulse away from us in the deep emptiness of space...
"What's going on?!" I shout to Amanda over the tiny mic in my space suit.
"Uhhh....technical difficulties," she replies somewhat tersely. "Just who exactly tied the ropes on prisoner number three?"
"OH..." I reply, cheeks reddening. "Sorry about that..."
So, while Laila and I fiddle around and make faces at the ducks through the porthole to calm them down about the whole situation, Amanda re-subdues the burliest four-armed Hydrothican of the pirate group. Thankfully, we have our own piratical experience, and since it's well known that Earth pirates are the best there have ever been at swordsmanship, and Amanda keeps hers at her side at all times, the prisoner eventually re-surrenders, and peace is restored. By this time, however, all the commotion has shaken the fizz out of the Martinelli's.
Sigh...and we were going to have such a great intergalactic picnic/tour in this stolen spaceship...
We drop off the prisoners, spend a day on Hydrothica, and return home via a rather shorter trip in the speed-cruiser of a Hydrothican policewoman.
We take Amanda's car up to Multnomah Falls instead, free the ducks, and watch the sunset while eating the last of the chocolate. Who knew such sparse rations could last five days?
In the Event of a Crash, Please Put on Your Seatbelts...
I am going somewhere because I feel like it is necessary.
This plane, this time-- it might be Syca, urging me with her special sight, because three hours into the nine hour flight, the plane starts shaking uncontrollably, buffeted by violent streams of wind and lightning.
I leap from my seat, despite the warnings of the stewardess over the intercom, and make my way to the cockpit, phasing through the locked door. "So, what's the problem?" I ask the pilots amiably, leaning over their chairs. This time, to avoid shock, I have taken the form of the stewardess.
"I've no idea how to fix this, Allie! This storm just appeared out of nowhere! The instruments are all going haywire..." cries the man on the right, younger and obviously the junior pilot. His counterpart, giving him a sidelong look, replies,
"We may not know what started it, but we still have a chance." He turns his head slightly in my direction, while maintaining surveillance of the hectically blinking lights and instrument panels around him. "How's the Device coming along?"
"Uh...I'll go check," I reply, and sneak backwards out of the door-- only to bump into the real stewardess on her way to the cockpit. She stares at me, I stare at me, from the nice blue uniform all the way down to the ludicrously pink high heels... crap. I forgot to change back.
She doesn't scream, however. With quick and sensible thinking, she grabs my collar and shoves me into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her, before any of the passengers can see the strange sight. Her eyes appraise me coldly, the pupils narrowing in distrust. Her arm is quite strong, and I feel like she could snap my neck easily if she took notion.
"How did you get on this plane? Who-- what are you?" she growls. Quickly, I shift into my normal shape.
"I'm just a passenger, but-- I thought maybe I could find out what was going on and help...and I was just going to talk to you, the older pilot said something about a Device they might need soon..."
She relinquishes her hold in shock, leaning back against the mirror in the cramped space. "Did he really say that? How on earth could it be time already....and how do I know I can trust you? You could be the Cause."
"I assure you, I'm not wittingly the cause of anything bad," I plead, but she does not let me out.
"They never are." she replies sternly.
"I could help you land the plane!" I say earnestly. "I can fly on my own, if you let me out of here I can direct the plane to a safer course."
"Hmm...not so sure I believe that. Can you give me some sign of trust?"
"Um...yes!" I take out a piece of my soul and hand it to her, wrapped in my scarf. "Hold onto this. If I don't come back, you can flush it down the toilet."
She steps aside, and I squeeze past and out of the loo, feeling terribly light with only a tiny particle of my soul missing... Whew. The lengths a hero goes to to get a commission these days...
Still, it enables me to fly faster and actually keep ahead of the plane, sending signals back about how the storm is changing up ahead, where there are breaks that can be used to navigate clearly and regain bearings...
Then, suddenly, the clouds disappear completely.
I fall out of the storm into a strange yellow sky. Below stretches deep blue sand-- NO!! I'm upside down, or the world is... I yell in the radio that they have to pull down hard, bank toward the ground as hard as possible, because things are not the way they seem and they are about to crash....
And as I land on the hot sand and pull off my goggles to watch the skies, the plane emerges out of the line of the horizon, stretching and growing and lifting itself into the night sky.
This plane, this time-- it might be Syca, urging me with her special sight, because three hours into the nine hour flight, the plane starts shaking uncontrollably, buffeted by violent streams of wind and lightning.
I leap from my seat, despite the warnings of the stewardess over the intercom, and make my way to the cockpit, phasing through the locked door. "So, what's the problem?" I ask the pilots amiably, leaning over their chairs. This time, to avoid shock, I have taken the form of the stewardess.
"I've no idea how to fix this, Allie! This storm just appeared out of nowhere! The instruments are all going haywire..." cries the man on the right, younger and obviously the junior pilot. His counterpart, giving him a sidelong look, replies,
"We may not know what started it, but we still have a chance." He turns his head slightly in my direction, while maintaining surveillance of the hectically blinking lights and instrument panels around him. "How's the Device coming along?"
"Uh...I'll go check," I reply, and sneak backwards out of the door-- only to bump into the real stewardess on her way to the cockpit. She stares at me, I stare at me, from the nice blue uniform all the way down to the ludicrously pink high heels... crap. I forgot to change back.
She doesn't scream, however. With quick and sensible thinking, she grabs my collar and shoves me into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her, before any of the passengers can see the strange sight. Her eyes appraise me coldly, the pupils narrowing in distrust. Her arm is quite strong, and I feel like she could snap my neck easily if she took notion.
"How did you get on this plane? Who-- what are you?" she growls. Quickly, I shift into my normal shape.
"I'm just a passenger, but-- I thought maybe I could find out what was going on and help...and I was just going to talk to you, the older pilot said something about a Device they might need soon..."
She relinquishes her hold in shock, leaning back against the mirror in the cramped space. "Did he really say that? How on earth could it be time already....and how do I know I can trust you? You could be the Cause."
"I assure you, I'm not wittingly the cause of anything bad," I plead, but she does not let me out.
"They never are." she replies sternly.
"I could help you land the plane!" I say earnestly. "I can fly on my own, if you let me out of here I can direct the plane to a safer course."
"Hmm...not so sure I believe that. Can you give me some sign of trust?"
"Um...yes!" I take out a piece of my soul and hand it to her, wrapped in my scarf. "Hold onto this. If I don't come back, you can flush it down the toilet."
She steps aside, and I squeeze past and out of the loo, feeling terribly light with only a tiny particle of my soul missing... Whew. The lengths a hero goes to to get a commission these days...
Still, it enables me to fly faster and actually keep ahead of the plane, sending signals back about how the storm is changing up ahead, where there are breaks that can be used to navigate clearly and regain bearings...
Then, suddenly, the clouds disappear completely.
I fall out of the storm into a strange yellow sky. Below stretches deep blue sand-- NO!! I'm upside down, or the world is... I yell in the radio that they have to pull down hard, bank toward the ground as hard as possible, because things are not the way they seem and they are about to crash....
And as I land on the hot sand and pull off my goggles to watch the skies, the plane emerges out of the line of the horizon, stretching and growing and lifting itself into the night sky.
Appreciation...
"Dedication to the cause must be renewed."
His first words to me after I emerge from the training room, sweaty but confident. He thinks that the masses don't care anymore about being saved, don't care about heroes and justice, just want to live their lives and take their chances and hope somebody else gets shot instead of them. I can tell this is going to be a long speech, so I hoist myself back up onto the bars and dangle by my feet.
"The people of this world need to be reminded that we are daily sacrificing our lives and the prospect of normal happiness, so that they can continue theirs. They accept our gifts and then shut the door, never asking us in for tea, never acknowledging that we are anything more than street cleaners!" He paces around the room, furiosity growing within his veins.
"But we are not just cleaners! We are people! We demand to be realized for the saviors we are! For generations we have fought, underground and in secret, to keep this world a place of safety and respite. Is it not so? Were we to step aside, the dangers would manifest themselves to the common people in their utmost horror! Is that what they want? They would be destroyed!"
"Now, Jack," I smile, using his code name to help calm him, sliding down from the side of the exercise bar, "You know that's not entirely true." He faces me, eyes glazed, slowly coming out of the fervor that takes hold of him every Saturday morning when the man next door refuses to let him watch his favorite TV show in his house.
"Well, if they don't want to have to look at us, they could at least pay for us to have our own supplies in the base. I mean, superheroes get bored too! Are we all just supposed to sit here like mannikins until a call comes in? A little TV couldn't hurt. Really, I mean, what are we supposed to do? This is inhumane treatment! I mean, I'm missing the game!"
"Jack, Jack, Jack..." I reply, jumping from the bars to the trapeze up above, "You could try reading a book." I toss him down the one I was reading while working out.
"Bleghhhh. Thoreau? Really?"
"Have you ever read him?" I counter, leaping down to the floor and taking a swig from my thermos.
"No, but I've heard he's really boring. Always blathering on about trees and nature and things. What I need is some adventure!"
Hunh. We'll see about that...
So I take him by the hand and run into the lab and plug him into the Imaginator I've just created, a filmy tentacular screen that latches onto the eyes, and all of Thoreau's life is uploaded into Jack's brain.
"Wow..." he mumbles, eyes bugged out. "How did that just happen..." He walks slowly around the room, and concedes that he was perhaps incorrect in his assumptions. "I didn't know he had a family...I thought he was a drifter with no connections...woa...this guy was deep..."
He staggers around a bit more, and I wonder if I've maybe gone overboard in an invention this time...nah.
Jack says, "See you later," and heads toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I call.
"To climb a tree."
His first words to me after I emerge from the training room, sweaty but confident. He thinks that the masses don't care anymore about being saved, don't care about heroes and justice, just want to live their lives and take their chances and hope somebody else gets shot instead of them. I can tell this is going to be a long speech, so I hoist myself back up onto the bars and dangle by my feet.
"The people of this world need to be reminded that we are daily sacrificing our lives and the prospect of normal happiness, so that they can continue theirs. They accept our gifts and then shut the door, never asking us in for tea, never acknowledging that we are anything more than street cleaners!" He paces around the room, furiosity growing within his veins.
"But we are not just cleaners! We are people! We demand to be realized for the saviors we are! For generations we have fought, underground and in secret, to keep this world a place of safety and respite. Is it not so? Were we to step aside, the dangers would manifest themselves to the common people in their utmost horror! Is that what they want? They would be destroyed!"
"Now, Jack," I smile, using his code name to help calm him, sliding down from the side of the exercise bar, "You know that's not entirely true." He faces me, eyes glazed, slowly coming out of the fervor that takes hold of him every Saturday morning when the man next door refuses to let him watch his favorite TV show in his house.
"Well, if they don't want to have to look at us, they could at least pay for us to have our own supplies in the base. I mean, superheroes get bored too! Are we all just supposed to sit here like mannikins until a call comes in? A little TV couldn't hurt. Really, I mean, what are we supposed to do? This is inhumane treatment! I mean, I'm missing the game!"
"Jack, Jack, Jack..." I reply, jumping from the bars to the trapeze up above, "You could try reading a book." I toss him down the one I was reading while working out.
"Bleghhhh. Thoreau? Really?"
"Have you ever read him?" I counter, leaping down to the floor and taking a swig from my thermos.
"No, but I've heard he's really boring. Always blathering on about trees and nature and things. What I need is some adventure!"
Hunh. We'll see about that...
So I take him by the hand and run into the lab and plug him into the Imaginator I've just created, a filmy tentacular screen that latches onto the eyes, and all of Thoreau's life is uploaded into Jack's brain.
"Wow..." he mumbles, eyes bugged out. "How did that just happen..." He walks slowly around the room, and concedes that he was perhaps incorrect in his assumptions. "I didn't know he had a family...I thought he was a drifter with no connections...woa...this guy was deep..."
He staggers around a bit more, and I wonder if I've maybe gone overboard in an invention this time...nah.
Jack says, "See you later," and heads toward the door.
"Where are you going?" I call.
"To climb a tree."
The Superstore Apprentice
I am a vigilante in the city, fighting demons and vampires and politicians, when one day, on an anonymous tip that there is a gigantic underground ring of black market dealing going on---I move to Suburbia.
Business is low, however, and one day I wake up to realize my make-shift shelter has run out of its stock of bread and candy corn.
This is, however, understandable--I haven't had a real job since last summer.
I walk into town, feeling slightly less epic with a rumble in my superheroic belly, and decide to apply for work at the local supermarket-- and maybe sneak out some food in the process.
~ ......~
I shuffle into the interview office, happy and hopeful. The interviewer frowns as I hand him an application filled out mostly with the juice of wild beets I found on the way over. It is a little messy...
"You have very...interesting...credentials, Miss Moone." he frowns, adjusting his spectacles gravely. "You say your greatest talents are flight, telekinetic juggling, and witty one-liners. Is this true?"
"Well..." I fidget uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden interview chair. "Witty one-liners, maybe not so much. I just put that on there because most superheroes are known for short and powerful comments, but really I'm more of an extended metaphor kind of person--"
"Do you have any actual skills in sales, or accounting, or cleaning? The position you are applying for specified a 'jack of all trades' willing to restock shelves, mop the floors, and take in the numbers when the janitors, movers, and accountants are away taking their many mandated vacations.... In short, you need to be able to manage every aspect of the store but still be subject to the criticisms of higher management. Do you think you can handle this?"
"Well...I really need this job, so of course I can take on a little extra work!"
"Great! Sign here, here, here and here. Just don't read the fine print. It leaves you feeling a little depressed."
I leave the interview with a huge smile on my face, thinking smugly how lucky I was that I actually got a job, and what little effort I had to put into it, too...Strange...
The realization of what I've gotten myself into only hits me later on. Yeah, it's a crapload of work- but what a great place to catch burglars!!!
Three weeks later, I am restocking the shelves at midnight, when the jingle-bells on the back door ring. There are jingle-bells because the supermarket is too cheap to buy locks and security systems. They get robbed quite often, or so the one other fellow on night shift tells me, but it doesn't cost them anything because all the goods are super-crappy anyways. The bells are just to let the workers know to get out of the way, to avoid any lawsuits posed by the obliteration of a worker by a masked bandit with a submachine gun, should the bandit get bored one night and decide to bring one....They pay all the workers off in handsome vacations, which are cleverly balanced to be under the amount it would cost to actually prevent robberies.
Phil (the other guy on night shift) slinks immediately away to his car, but I hunker down in the back amid stacks of Corn Puffins and Slinky Shoes to wait for the intruders...
But there is no bursting of the doors to reveal masked menaces. Instead, in walks a clerk in a grey suit, and several burly men in overalls behind him. The man in front consults a clipboard, then walks over to the Slinky Shoes stacked just to the right of my hiding place. He lifts each box in turn, and appears to be looking for some sort of marking on the sides. Those that have it, he tosses to the men behind him, who immediately start tearing into the boxes. Prying the shoes loose from their casings, they flip hidden catches in the soles, tossing out small grey bags of questionable nature into a larger velvet sack...
The store is in league with the black market dealers! No wonder they can afford to pay off their workers--they don't just sell cheap toys and plastic foods, they hide drugs and secret weapons in the "recall" boxes...serial numbers list the key, and as I sneak closer to peer over the clerk's shoulder, I can see that some of the items are things I didn't even know existed yet-- mind probes, matter replicators, rocket shoes, and more...
And then of course one of the henchmen finally notices my head peeking out from between the crates, and chaos ensues as they leap for me, snarling. I dash up the side of the wall and duck into the delivery van that's just backed up to the door. The driver turns with astonishment but I leap forward and knock him away from the wheel. Then I remember that I don't know how to drive yet and hand it back to him, only to realize that it has come off the steering apparatus...
Men scatter out of the way as the truck careens backward, and to my horror, a giant pile of Rocket Shoes looms in the rear-view mirror. Thinking fast, I grab the driver's waist and break out of the side door, propelling us toward the open sky beyond the warehouse door....
The other henchmen are already running for cover, and I am thankful that the delivery truck was going slowly, since it was in the process of backing carefully in. We all end up diving behind the same van, since it's the only other thing in the parking lot. The villains' back-up vehicle, in case the police ever manage to do something productive about catching the other one. A few more moments of silence ensue.
"Nice van," I say, trying to make small-talk while we wait for the inevitable explosion. The truck is painted like a hippie van to disguise its nefarious intentions, but I have to admit that, though clever, it feels slightly ludicrous to be hiding behind it in this particular situation.
"Thanks," one of the overalled men barks gruffly. "It was Cleo's idea." He thumbs over his shoulder at the thin man in ragged jeans. Cleo grins and says, "I always wanted to be a muralist--"
And then the world tears apart.
The storage warehouse explodes in a ball of pent-up shoe fury, and the superstore, since connected, catches as well, apparently being made out of quite cheap and flammable material. Bits of plastic toys rain to the ground softly, lit by the night lamps on the street.
We all applaud the reaction as well worth the wait, then I offer to take the gentlemen out for ice cream, and we crowd in the van. While I whisper directions into the clerk's ear, the henchmen start up a rousing song, and together we drive out of the story and Suburbia...
Business is low, however, and one day I wake up to realize my make-shift shelter has run out of its stock of bread and candy corn.
This is, however, understandable--I haven't had a real job since last summer.
I walk into town, feeling slightly less epic with a rumble in my superheroic belly, and decide to apply for work at the local supermarket-- and maybe sneak out some food in the process.
~ ......~
I shuffle into the interview office, happy and hopeful. The interviewer frowns as I hand him an application filled out mostly with the juice of wild beets I found on the way over. It is a little messy...
"You have very...interesting...credentials, Miss Moone." he frowns, adjusting his spectacles gravely. "You say your greatest talents are flight, telekinetic juggling, and witty one-liners. Is this true?"
"Well..." I fidget uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden interview chair. "Witty one-liners, maybe not so much. I just put that on there because most superheroes are known for short and powerful comments, but really I'm more of an extended metaphor kind of person--"
"Do you have any actual skills in sales, or accounting, or cleaning? The position you are applying for specified a 'jack of all trades' willing to restock shelves, mop the floors, and take in the numbers when the janitors, movers, and accountants are away taking their many mandated vacations.... In short, you need to be able to manage every aspect of the store but still be subject to the criticisms of higher management. Do you think you can handle this?"
"Well...I really need this job, so of course I can take on a little extra work!"
"Great! Sign here, here, here and here. Just don't read the fine print. It leaves you feeling a little depressed."
I leave the interview with a huge smile on my face, thinking smugly how lucky I was that I actually got a job, and what little effort I had to put into it, too...Strange...
The realization of what I've gotten myself into only hits me later on. Yeah, it's a crapload of work- but what a great place to catch burglars!!!
Three weeks later, I am restocking the shelves at midnight, when the jingle-bells on the back door ring. There are jingle-bells because the supermarket is too cheap to buy locks and security systems. They get robbed quite often, or so the one other fellow on night shift tells me, but it doesn't cost them anything because all the goods are super-crappy anyways. The bells are just to let the workers know to get out of the way, to avoid any lawsuits posed by the obliteration of a worker by a masked bandit with a submachine gun, should the bandit get bored one night and decide to bring one....They pay all the workers off in handsome vacations, which are cleverly balanced to be under the amount it would cost to actually prevent robberies.
Phil (the other guy on night shift) slinks immediately away to his car, but I hunker down in the back amid stacks of Corn Puffins and Slinky Shoes to wait for the intruders...
But there is no bursting of the doors to reveal masked menaces. Instead, in walks a clerk in a grey suit, and several burly men in overalls behind him. The man in front consults a clipboard, then walks over to the Slinky Shoes stacked just to the right of my hiding place. He lifts each box in turn, and appears to be looking for some sort of marking on the sides. Those that have it, he tosses to the men behind him, who immediately start tearing into the boxes. Prying the shoes loose from their casings, they flip hidden catches in the soles, tossing out small grey bags of questionable nature into a larger velvet sack...
The store is in league with the black market dealers! No wonder they can afford to pay off their workers--they don't just sell cheap toys and plastic foods, they hide drugs and secret weapons in the "recall" boxes...serial numbers list the key, and as I sneak closer to peer over the clerk's shoulder, I can see that some of the items are things I didn't even know existed yet-- mind probes, matter replicators, rocket shoes, and more...
And then of course one of the henchmen finally notices my head peeking out from between the crates, and chaos ensues as they leap for me, snarling. I dash up the side of the wall and duck into the delivery van that's just backed up to the door. The driver turns with astonishment but I leap forward and knock him away from the wheel. Then I remember that I don't know how to drive yet and hand it back to him, only to realize that it has come off the steering apparatus...
Men scatter out of the way as the truck careens backward, and to my horror, a giant pile of Rocket Shoes looms in the rear-view mirror. Thinking fast, I grab the driver's waist and break out of the side door, propelling us toward the open sky beyond the warehouse door....
The other henchmen are already running for cover, and I am thankful that the delivery truck was going slowly, since it was in the process of backing carefully in. We all end up diving behind the same van, since it's the only other thing in the parking lot. The villains' back-up vehicle, in case the police ever manage to do something productive about catching the other one. A few more moments of silence ensue.
"Nice van," I say, trying to make small-talk while we wait for the inevitable explosion. The truck is painted like a hippie van to disguise its nefarious intentions, but I have to admit that, though clever, it feels slightly ludicrous to be hiding behind it in this particular situation.
"Thanks," one of the overalled men barks gruffly. "It was Cleo's idea." He thumbs over his shoulder at the thin man in ragged jeans. Cleo grins and says, "I always wanted to be a muralist--"
And then the world tears apart.
The storage warehouse explodes in a ball of pent-up shoe fury, and the superstore, since connected, catches as well, apparently being made out of quite cheap and flammable material. Bits of plastic toys rain to the ground softly, lit by the night lamps on the street.
We all applaud the reaction as well worth the wait, then I offer to take the gentlemen out for ice cream, and we crowd in the van. While I whisper directions into the clerk's ear, the henchmen start up a rousing song, and together we drive out of the story and Suburbia...
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