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Super Heroics

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

4:40AM - IncrediSize!

Hot on the heels of the brilliant The Incredibles, which frankly dooms this community to near-redundancy, I have decided to put in a bit of work on extra chapters over Christmas.  For this reason, can those of you not already brought into the plot (so far we have classytart, momentsmusicaux, morganaus, prolixfootle and myself) please remind me what kind of character they want to be?

Current mood: creative

Monday, May 10, 2004

1:05PM - Chapter 3 (draft)

On the opposite side of the city, a strange sight would be visible to anyone who wanted to look.  Strangely, no-one does.

A man is bent double next to, almost beneath, a tall woman.  He is grunting with effort.  Well, whatever; some people are into that kind of thing, but neither party seems delighted by this strange tableau.

"Why do you wear them, anyway?" strains the man.

"They're practical."

"Practical?  Four-inch heels?  Morgan, we're travelling in sewers.  Sewer gratings are part of the experience.  Getting stuck in them because of your practical footwear shouldn't have to be."

"Look, Tregetour, if those boots keep my nose further away from the sewage, a little struggling is a small price to pay.  Now keep pulling."

The Tregetour battles diligently.  The Morgan has forbidden him to use a screwdriver in case it ruins the finish, so he has to pry the heel loose with his fingers.  It is not working.

"You can't run in them, anyway," he pants.

"I can run in them!  You're just jealous because they make me taller than you."

Finish be damned, thinks the Tregetour -- life is too short for this.  He opens his pouch and extracts a huge tool.  Inserting it between the bars of the grating, and ignoring the Morgan's protestations, he levers the bars slightly further apart -- and the heel slides free.


The hissed argument which acts as a substitute for a screaming row has to be cut short as the two heroes enter a large sandstone building on the corner.  The Morgan is hobbling slightly.  She crouches down in a doorway and pulls her boots off, glares evilly at the Tregetour, and substitutes a pair of rubber-soled espadrilles.  They walk silently into the building.  The door should be locked and alarmed; it isn't.  Passing through it silently, they can see a sliver of light from under one of the doors leading off the main corridor.

They edge towards it, the Tregetour checking the doors on the way with a device of his own invention -- but they are all locked, and the rooms they serve stand empty.  Pulling a listening device from his box of tricks, he makes his way toward the light, while the Morgan continues checking the doors beyond.

They are almost ready to begin listening when they hear it:  the unmistakeable sneeze of a silenced pistol, followed by a clumsy, heavy thud.

They freeze.

Wednesday, January 7, 2004

10:40AM - Enquiry

Some of you who want to be in this tale of derring-do have given details of what you'd like your characters to be; at the risk of inviting a deluge, can anyone who hasn't done so leave a comment in this entry explaining what they'd like their character to do?

I'm looking at you, prolixfootle!  You and morganaus are in the next chapter.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

12:00PM - Chapter 2

The sirens of the two fire tenders called to the torn wreckage of the anonymous grey, concrete building set up a wailing echolalia against the tall blocks nearby, mocking the small crowd gathered in the street below.  In this part of town, there are few passers-by at normal times of day, let alone 3am, but somehow there are a few rubbernecks even here.  The burning building appears to have been a normal office block; more observant onlookers might notice a predominance of tall filing cabinets in this particular office, and a lack of desks.  Or they might have before.

A tiny movement stirs a pile of loose rubble, and sets up a minor avalanche.  It goes completely unnoticed, as the firemen in the first tender are very interesting to watch.  One of them has a great big chopper.

Gently, a figure prises itself up from the pile; the figure is male, normal-looking, and covered in layers of damp underpants and shirts.  The outer layers are charred and smouldering.

"Saved by laundry", the figure says to itself, shrugs, and slips moistly into the shadows.

They'd not been sure he had what it took to be a superhero, those few years before.  For one thing, he was so normal.  Most superheroes were either built in the heroic mould, Charles Atlases holding up the mighty Caroline Globe of civilization, or nerdy, loner types, studying and studying and then, somehow, being granted the abilities they had thought they'd always be denied -- Peter Parkers who became Spidermen.  He had not proved himself, like the former; he had no overriding urge to, like the latter.  He was boring.  His background was boring, his hair was boring, his name ... was Percy.

But they'd had to admit his superpower was cool.

Brushing off the last of the underpants and beating out a small fire on his jeans, Percy looks round.  He was the only one in the main building; the others are safe -- either elsewhere, or in the underground bunker beneath.  But something tells Percy they won't be for very long.

11:34AM - Chapter 1

From the wide window of the penthouse, the view of the city is magnificent. It is a carpet of lights, rising up to a garland on the crest of the cliffs on the other side of the bay. He stands looking out with his arms spread, palms turned upwards and outwards. Seen from behind him, the lighthouse on the point is cupped in his right hand, like a child’s toy. He dips his head slightly, like an acquiescence, but when he raises it again, his gaze is steely: a challenge.
He breathes out with a faint sibilant sound of air through his lips.
‘Soon, it will be mine,’ he says softly.
There is a shape in the soft shadows at the edge of the room. It moves, develops into a lithe silhouette.
‘Ours, you mean, surely,’ it says.
He does not turn from the view, but blinks softly. He does not want her to see any reaction from him: he finds her tiresome. He plans to betray her at the earliest opportunity.
‘Yes,’ he replies after a pause. ‘We will raze it to the ground and rebuilt it on our own principles.’
She quietly pads up to him and advances her head near to his, so her chin is almost touching his cheek.
‘You don’t need to make such a fuss over the evil genius thing,’ she whispers.
He lowers his arms slowly. She has killed the moment. She will pay, he tells himself.
‘Perhaps not. But with an opposition that is so…’ he shakes his head.
‘Hapless?’ she suggests.
‘Amiably gung-ho.’
As he chuckles slowly, his mouth curls into a sneer.
‘It just invites a certain type of… response.’
She moves to sit on the desk at the end of the window. She picks up a paperweight, then turns it in her hands. Her legs swing under the desk, only perceptible as an recurring glint in the dim light.
‘So remind me.’
She is playing a familiar script. The paperweight, a polished stone sphere, passes from hand to hand.
‘Trust. That is the first point of attack. We undermine the bonds between them.’
‘How very psychological of you,’ she says. She grins in the dark.
‘Yes, I rather thought so.’
‘And to have this opportunity presented to us – we’d be fools, remiss even, not to act at this time.’
‘Both Morgan and the Prolix absent, yes. The others are left weakened.’ He places his hands on his chest and breathes deeply to feel them rise on his ribcage.
‘Everything is in place,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Those I have sent to infiltrate their group have gained sufficient trust.’
‘Those?’ she asks, perplexed. This is unexpected, but she is pleasantly intrigued. ‘There’s more than one?’
‘I may have forgotten to mention some of them,’ he says, turning to her and shrugging. ‘An oversight.’
His tone irritates her.
‘Anything else slip your mind?’ she asks. Her voice is still soft, but there is a thread of menace in it.
‘A few minor details.’ He takes a few steps towards her. ‘Here, pass me that paperweight.’ She does so. He bobs his hand a few times, feeling the heft of it.
‘Nothing important.’ He slowly swings his arm backwards. ‘The slight matter of a large explosion.’ Abruptly, he hurls the stone at the window.
To the woman sitting on the desk, it seems that at the exact moment the glass shatters, the city glows brighter. The skyline erupts, and nearer to their vantage point, she sees whole buildings explode. It all happens at the same time.
Her composure lost, she gasps, and the light from the city in flame is reflected on the skin of her cheek and in her eyes.

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

11:37PM - Superheroics

I come to tell a tale -- a tale of deeds bold, brave and above all foolhardy to the point of stupidity!

But enough about my dentist, already.

momentsmusicaux, myself and possibly also Philip J Fry share a dream -- a dream of founding a crime-fighting duo with a beautiful woman.  Not the same one, of course.  And robots can join in, if they bring costumes.  But this is a good dream, if one destined never to come to fruition.

Anyway, in consequence, one night we were having a discussion of superheroics, and, like that last paragraph, it got a little out of hand, and before I knew it, momentsmusicaux had started writing a story!  Then, before morganaus knew it, I had joined in!  Pretty soon, dozens of people didn't know what was going on and the whole thing went splerng.

So, we founded a community to keep our story in.

And here it is!

Over to you, momentsmusicaux.

Current mood: chipper