A little something that's been stuck in my head for a while that finally decided to come out.
Any form of review is welcome, especially from rob & bob, as I want to make sure I have both characters' voices correct.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
I woke up in my bike’s seat for once.

For those who have been following my travels, you already know how uncommon that is. For those who have only this chapter of my tale, I am Douglas Quincy Sangnoir, Colonel, security chief of the United Nations Metahuman Peacekeeping Force Warriors Alpha, based in London, England. I am a metahuman, which is someone with all the abilities of humanity and more beside. I have been kicked out of my home dimension through no fault of my own, and have been going from dimension to dimension hoping my next stop will reunite me with my wife Maggie and my comrades.

And for your information, my mode of travel through worlds has always made me unconscious, and as such I have been more often than not ejected from my bike’s seat.

Shaking my head to remove the last remaining cobwebs of unconsciousness, I took a first look at my current world.

Modern, by the looks of it, with skyscrapers all around. It was night, and late night at that if the number of lights meant anything. The road I was on was asphalt, which might be why my bike’s AI managed a good landing this time, and by the looks of it not well maintained.

A quick look around saw no threats, and more signs of shoddy maintenance bordering on actual damage. A closer one revealed what I expected: This city had experienced an earthquake or something of the sort recently, and the damage was everywhere. I checked from high that there was no fire or other such danger to the people here, and when I found none I decided the find a place to stay for the night.

I would look for whatever passed for leadership or law enforcement during the day, and offer my services. In times of crisis like this, there was surely some work I could do

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

I ended up borrowing a boardroom in a building of a company called Amagasa Corp., which looked quite abandoned if one were to judge by the dust. The building still had power and water, so at least I wouldn’t be forced to survive on my water rations.

I went back to the room where I had stashed my panniers to find that Eimi had finished booting. “Not home I suppose ?”

I was by now quite used to the directness of my digital partner. “Doesn’t look like it. Unless something huge happened while I was gone, this isn’t my world.”

“Fake id then ?”

“Wait on that. This place seem to have gone some kind of earthquake recently so it might not be…”

That’s when the windows cracked from a wave of air pressure. A sound had just preceded that, but I haven’t yet found the right onomatopoeia for it. Suffice to say that it was the sound of a sizable part of a building crashing down, something that I have unfortunately caused at least once. It was also very close.

Acting on instinct I grabbed both Eimi and my paniers only to run back outside to my bike. I wasn’t going to take a chance on having the roof crumble on me. I might survive but I wasn’t going to risk my equipment on it.

Once in the air, I noticed the fallen building. Behind and to the left of the Amagasa Corp building, it was evident that the structure had not fallen naturally. It had been visibly cut in half nearly horizontally.

Getting closer, I quickly noticed a fight going. On the highway right next to the fallen skyscraper two figures were duking it out. I instinctively did a tactical analysis on both figures and was surprised to find that these weren’t ‘crunchies’. It was surprising because both figures were at most four foot something.

Turning Eimi to point her webcam at the battle, which seemed to have paused for an instant, I couldn’t help but ask. “Anyone you know ?”

Before she even could answer, a circle of energy started drawing itself in the air right above the downed building, followed by a six-pointed star within the circle. Inside that appeared the one of the most bizarre creatures I ever had the misfortune to encounter.

Its body was that of a fish, and easily taller than me with a dorsal fin (which looked quite sharp) that doubled that height. It had the requisite fins of similar size on both sides of its center, along with something like tentacles protruding from the area above the fins. These were bizarrely colored differently from the body, with those on one side a pinkish red while those on the other were a deep blue.

And, most visibly, it had the face of an Asian girl with pink hair (including hair band) instead of that of a fish.

The shock of such a bizarre thing stunned me for a second.

“Whee! I’m a cute florist! I sell pretty flowers! Pretty, pretty! Do you want flowers? Do you, do you?” It said out loud, with the voice of an eight year old schoolgirl.

I kept watching as one of the two combatants, the flying one, teleported out, while the other jumped off the highway. The fish-like thing followed the latter after a short conversation, I supposed, some form of telepathy or electronic means.

I turned towards Eimi. “Any idea what that might be ?”

“Some.”

“Transfictional ?”

“Yes.”

I thought for an instant. Transfictional information meant that she had read the events here as a story somewhere in another dimension. It was a little bit like future knowledge, but from an outside point of reference. “Anything I should know ?”

“The one who just jumped off is a good guy, and could probably use your help. Either that or taking the miracle goop and building a space habitat in the next few hours.”

“That bad ?” I raised an eyebrow at her words.

“Not sure… But if it goes bad it can go very bad.”

“So… follow the fish ?”

“Follow the fish.”  
-People may die, but ideas are forever. Je suis Charlie.

Possibly, given the lyrics, the Final Gatesong (though I suspect you already have that picked out, Bob):
"Already Home" by Marc Cohn

I can see the sunshine
Coming through my room
Breaking down the winter of my discontent
Looking out my window
At the people passing by
I keep wondering where my old companion went
On the steps of the museum
I wrote a line or two
But it took a while to find my way
Back to something true like
This is where I lay my hat
This is where they know my name
This is where they show me that
A man's not so alone
Maybe I'm already home
(Sometimes you've got to go back)
Maybe I'm already home
(Sometimes you don't know why)
Rolling down the window
Burning up the daze
Cutting through the veil that keeps on blinding me
I was only sleeping
Waiting here for you
Waiting for your touch that keeps reminding me
Well I've seen the world of wonders
Been underneath it too
But it took a while just to find my way
Back to something true like
This is where I lay my hat
This is where they know my name
This is where they show me that
A man's not so alone
Maybe I'm already home
(Sometimes you've got to go back)
Maybe I'm already home
(Sometimes you don't know why)
Why it had to take me so long
Just to find a place that really feels
This must be where I belong
Thinking about it
All I had to do was click my heels
This is where I lay my hat
This is where they know my name
This is where they show me that
A man's not so alone
Maybe I'm already home
(Sometimes you've got to go back)
Maybe I'm already home
(Sometimes you don't know why)
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com

"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."

Chapter one of Fred "Pyeknu" Herriot's The Loon and the Ladies from Avalon is now up on the site.  It's indexed on the Fic^2 page, if anyone was wondering.
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.

Hollywood Machine - 09/Jul/2012
Arthur'd heard of something called 'colour therapy'.  If he could combine that with a health-boosting tan.  Maybe something with mirrors...  His mind kicked into overdrive, and he experimented with blending different sorts of handwavium, in a surplus paint mixing machine; 12,000 possible varieties!
Exhausted one night, from fruitless interviews and the latest failed handwavium blend ('paisley'), he plugged-in the microwave, nuked himself a pasty.  Then, he thought, plugged back in the extension for kettle and toaster.
In the morning he discovered it was the paint mixer and sun bed, somehow both using the same extension lead, that'd been on all night.  Two drums of blended handwavium had emptied, and the two machines combined, into something with too many angles, and a chrome finish.  The 'chrome' was explained by some distorting mirrors, ex-fairground, also incorporated.  And his multi-colour lamps.  He didn't like how his features reflected off the surface.  And, it hummed, even after unplugged from the mains...
Pushing it behind a partition, with items left by previous owners of the premises (ancient hair driers, even older production machinery), he cleared-up, or at least hid the problem.  Recent recruits had accents he could cut with a knife.  He thought the Job Centre was sending 'no hopers' his way.  Ms Jones required a positive progress report in two days, three at most.  How?
Mrs O'Hare, the teacher scared of pupils, had been giving Rod some free instruction, after hours.  Meant someone was in the premises, anyhow.  Ms Jones had been insisting Arthur take off at least two evenings a week, no matter how much work needed to be done.  He wasn't sure why, but it gave him a chance to relax, and seemed to blunt his gambling cravings.
Mrs O'Hare had been paid to talk into an experimental 'teaching machine' that Arthur'd waved-up.  From an old dicta-phone and a teleprinter.  But, he'd junked that two days ago, as it seemed to be going no where, and dumped it in the back.
Arthur woke in the night, knowing something was badly wrong.  He rushed downstairs to the workshop - sleeping above had cut his rent bill, and it was good for security.  As there'd once been a small factory on the back, the sound insulation wasn't bad, though ancient.  There were Mrs O'Hare, and Rod, slumped under old-style hair driers, no sign of the partitions, an immense machine looming behind them.
They quickly revived, and Mrs O'Hare seemed far less timid than she often was. Rod opening his mouth was the big surprise.  His stutter was totally gone, and he spoke with Mrs O'Hare perfect diction.  Mrs O'Hare strode across, picked up the exercise book, and thrust it at Rod.  Word perfect.
---

Rod said he was jumpy about leaving home the next couple of days, and while his stammer remained gone, his speech mostly returned to normal, but with a clearer accent.  Mrs O'Hare said they'd not seen the machine, just a couple of old hair driers, and she'd told Rod how she always used to feel relaxed under them.  Then things got strange.
Arthur experimented.  He found The Machine seemed to be able to fade into the background (camouflage?), though other times it loomed, shiny and disturbing. Two more drums of raw handwavium, that were, he thought, well separated, were empty, and an old roller conveyor system had been absorbed.  His electricity bills indicated the machine was somehow tapping the local power grid.
Ms Jones was not pleased.  Weeks of effort and all he had was a mysterious machine.  And no usable recruits.  Still, the accident with Mrs O'Hare was worth following-up.  Maureen, an interviewed 'no hoper', joined them, as a receptionist, and general dogs-body; she'd failed Ms Jones recruitment test for 'going up'.  Rod seemed to quite like her.
---

It took Arthur quite a while to untangle what happened.  Rod had told Maureen about his speech improvement.  Maureen, who appeared to be an amateur radio ham, had 'played' with the equipment, and been disappointed to find it did nothing for her.  Then, she persuaded Mrs O'Hare to do a hair drier teaching session.
The other thread had been Ms Jones deciding to do a late evening inspection; maybe that's why Arthur got evenings off?  And Ron coming in, because Maureen had said she'd see him later.  Ms Jones was standing horrified, just inside the door, looking at two slumped figures.  Ron threw open the door, and Ms Jones went onto the conveyor belt.
Into The Machine.
Frankenstein meets French Farce, thought Arthur.  All it needed was a Wardrobe and a Man With No Trousers.  And a bolt through his neck.
Ron couldn't stop the machine, or get anyone to respond; half an hour later teacher and pupil revived, and a transformed woman came out the far end.  Ron later said the machine almost held him hypnotised.
Only then did they phone Arthur.  He'd been having a quiet evening drink with his science fiction friends.  He was slowly conceding some of that stuff was quite a good read.
---

Ms Jones looked years younger, and when she opened her mouth her slightly crooked teeth were perfect and white.  Her diction was Mrs O'Hare at her best, and her limp was gone.  Even her skin was perfect, no blemishes at all, and her hair.  A crowning masterpiece.
She didn't even have bad breath.  Arthur leaned close enough to check.
Maureen was speaking far more clearly, but she was enthusiastic about the 'Full Treatment', that Ms Jones had got.  As Ms Jones was dazed, and Rod totally opposed, Arthur ruled they wait a few days, to check for ill effects.  And, he pressured Ms Jones to get a full medical check-up.
---

Making a swift recovery Ms Jones reluctantly explained that she had an artificial leg.  This was now a perfect fit, and similarly perfect were her teeth.  The doctors said she was in excellent health, and a minor skin complaint was gone.  She wasn't actually younger, just as well as she could be for her age.  Her smoking habit was gone.  A specialist clinic said she tested negative for biomod.
It appeared she could now hide her Glasgow accent, though she didn't seem to have any other new abilities - her writing and presentation skills were already excellent.  She did report temporary agrophobia.
A few previous interviewees were invited to return, and agreed to sign full non disclosure forms.  It appeared that the machine only worked if Mrs O'Hare, no one else, was wearing one hair dryer and someone was sitting in a second one.  Then the machine did its half hour treatment.  Arthur could have sworn a small smile appeared on Mrs O'Hare's face when this was revealed.
Maureen was the third volunteer, and afterwards looked radiant.  Rod was very disappointed when she made it clear she was 'going up'.  Without him.  Ms Jones fully recovered in three days and was her old self, though she now had perfect teeth, and no limp.  Her skin and hair returned to a smart but business-like look.
Arthur did more tests.  After a while the machine stopped working, and he found it needed feeding, with make-up, glamour magazines, and 'magic smoke' that it obtained by cooking integrated circuit boards to death.  He didn't think it was intelligent, but it seemed to have an large animal-like presence.
---

Arthur knew it would happen.  They insisted on taking away the (now named) 'Hollywood Machine'.  It was going up to O'Neill Station.  Mrs O'Hare was happy with her new permanent job.  A 'Kelly' arrived to supervise the move.  Arthur did his best to avoid her, and spoke at least one octave above his normal pitch, in her presence.  Apart from a few strange looks, he thought he got away with it.
What was next?  He'd had a strange dream before they took The Machine away.  He'd fallen onto the belt, and come out, with frothy pale lace on his shirt cuffs and collar, and a slick hair-do.  A Glam Metal Detective?  Was he still male?  He'd been unchanged, in the morning.
But, after all, they hadn't tested The Machine on Men, had they?

What The 'Hollywood Machine' Does
It does glamour.  You will get perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect hair.  Without make-up.  From Mrs O'Hare you will get perfect speech, initially identical to hers, and her excellent writing and presentation skills.  The teeth remain 'fixed', but unless significant effort is taken, like a diet shift for the skin, and careful pampering for the hair, these will fade back to normal, over several days.  Your normal speech patterns will return, over a few days, but with a little effort there will be an overall improvement, which training can help with.
Side effects of the machine include it removing any mild visible health problems, at least in the short term.  It handles the physical side of alcohol and nicotine (or other drugs) addiction, for all but the worst cases - social or psychological factors may mean people keep on smoking, etc.  Prostheses, such as spectacles, hearing aids, and even artificial limbs will be (permanently) adjusted for ideal fit.  Clothes and footwear are also adjusted.
The machine is capable of three 'treatments' per day, each half an hour.  Mrs O'Hare must be in her seat, and someone who is still in need of her teaching in the other seat.  Obviously Mrs O'Hare cannot be treated.  Each treatment temporarily decreases Mrs O'Hare's agrophobia, and stage fright.
The effects of the machine can boost people's confidence.  The (mild) agrophobia fades over a few days.  The main problem is the machine is psychologically addictive (assume this problem effects 50%).  If used more often than once per three days the agrophobia gets worse, and if used at least once per day for a week it becomes permanent, at Mrs O'Hare's level.  For those with the addiction problem, one treatment per three weeks seems best.
If the machine is used on someone who is already a 'perfect beauty', and the equivalent of fully trained by Mrs O'Hare, it has no effect.  There is a flat 5% of people that the machine has no effect on, not matter how poor their initial state - they tend to end up mildly depressed.  There's no known way of characterising or detecting this 5% ahead of time.  For both 'perfect' and 'reject' it refuses even to start the treatment cycle.
The machine cannot alter your weight, just move it about a bit, and tone your muscles so you carry it better.  It cannot make hair or fingernails longer, just trim and polish (temporary hair or nail extensions might be used in the worst cases), though it can lighten body hair so it is near invisible.  The weight returns to its original position and the muscle tone fades to its previous state unless a regular exercise program is started.  The lightening remains for newly-grown body hair unless some quite violent skin treatments are used.  The machine has no effect on injuries, diseases or poisons (but, see drug addictions, above).
Note that the machine does not biomod people, and may be ineffective on those biomodded; it depends on the biomod.  Also note that it isn't clear what effect the machine has on men...
--
"It is the business of the future to be dangerous" - Hawkwind

Human Resources - 09/Jul/2012
Arthur was concerned.  All his gambling debts, paid off.  He had a company, an assistant.  He was in danger of becoming... prosperous.
This was a new experience.  Mr O'Neill was 'satisfied' with the three girls he'd 'recruited'.  So satisfied that Arthur was now running a recruitment agency.  "Hire me some more, sixty or seventy should do."
Even that wasn't enough.  He now had a 'line manager'.  Ms Jones was tasked with ensuring 'everything went smoothly'.  When he'd explained he worked best in a 'freelance, creative fashion', she looked him in the eye.
"I did the job interviews on those... young ladies.  Brilliant from a skills perspective, a human resources nightmare.  You didn't recruit them, you didn't 'discover' them, you literally built 'Angels'.  If you're a HR consultant then I'm Princess Di."
Arthur considered calling her 'Your Highness', but it didn't seem really safe. Ms Jones, a lady in her late forties, walked with a slight limp.  While her skin hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, he sometimes detected a hint of Glasgow in her voice.  Her neat trouser suits implied business practicality not anything resembling glamour.  And she could write an email that'd slice the meat off your bones.
Because he was no fool, Arthur asked for the project brief.  And, the real brief.  It was Stellvia, again.  Attractive young women were required.  Skilled, useful, ones.  Dedicated.  Loyal.  Had he mentioned attractive?  Once or twice he wondered if that was a pitying look Ms Jones gave him.
For a brief, mad, moment he considered starting an 'exotic' recruiting agency.  Employing women who'd given up hope.  Had no self respect.  Wave them into heart-stopping beauty.  Force useful skills into their heads.  But, even he had his limits.  And there was probably a law against it.
OK.  It came down to skills and glamour.  And, he guessed, education.  He wasn't making more Angels.  He'd had a chance to think about it and realised how lucky nothing'd gone badly wrong.  But, glamour.  All those beauty parlours did it. Surely he could come up with something?
Single women.  At least one relevant skill or hobby.  Willing to travel. Eighteen to twenty-five years old.  Physically active.  No major health issues. Who was he?  A 'Big Brother' recruiter?
Self-reliant?  Minimum education?  Driver's license?  He was totally out of his depth, here.  People were just waiting for him to fail.  Loyalty, dedication?  Nothing like the 'Charlie' trick would work again.
Stick to what he knew.  He started with a tanning bed.  There were new regulations, and some of the older beds had been ruled unsafe.  So he got one cheap; he could fix it.
Ms Jones controlled the purse strings, too.  Or, at least, she checked his purchases with an eagle eye.  Insisted on seeing all the original receipts.  Cheap wasn't a problem, but there had to be clean accounts.
A teacher friend his aunt knew.  Mrs O'Hare.  Husband left her, terminally shy.  Almost afraid to leave her own house.  But brilliant at personal instruction, clear English diction, writing and presentation skills.  Supposed trained to be an actress, but ended terrified of audiences.
If he could get it right, he'd get eager girls, sorry, 'young women', sharpen their skills, glam them up (teeth whitening?), and throw them, sorry, 'present them', to Ms Jones.  A bit of a thin plan, but best he could think of.  He needed all the help he could get.
His assistant, 'Rod' he liked to be called, was a youth in his late teens.  Tall, skinny, a slight stammer, and someone who looked at fatty food and sprouted a crop of pimples.  Still, he was good enough to take-over Arthur's TV and electronics repair business, and do most of the simpler work, unsupervised.  A good job, as "Lagrange Recruitment" was taking all his time.
Why him?  He wasn't a business man.  He just liked playing with machines.  What if they found him out?  Still, he'd got a return invite from those science fiction reading students.
Maybe one of them would have a good idea?
--
"It is the business of the future to be dangerous" - Hawkwind

I'm taking a short story writing class now, and the first assignment is a character sketch. I chose to do one on one of my CoX toons. Any feedback would be appreciated.

* * * * *

She's so damnably perfect.

I don't really care that we're all but twins. Dimensionally, I mean. Born to the same parents, same place, different universes. For some reason she's three years older. But still born on the same day. Her mother had a sixteen hour labor. Same as mine. We're all but twins. Same face, hers has more laughter and light. She's a successful stock broker. Going to Paragon U for a Masters in Folk Literature. Nothing like that where I'm from. Sometimes I hate my Primal Self.

“Heya, E, ya never said what you wanted for dinner on Friday. I picked the rest of the week. And not takeout again, please!”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever's fine Brah. I don't really care.” Its how we separate ourselves. Our mothers were insane. (Who names their *daughter* Elizabeth Glorien Jr.?) She gets the childhood nickname. Its her world, after all. “You liked that stuffed pepper recipe, right?” She's still got that Kansas drawl. I don't know when I lost mine.

“Yah. Ya okay with making it? Not gonna torch the baking stone this time?”

“Yes, Brah, I can make it. And I bought you a new one, anyway!” She's got a nice little condo in Skyway. I don't know why I live there. We're too much alike. Have our toothbrushes in the same spot. Use the same shampoo. Like laying on the couch the same way. Sleep on the same side of the bed. (That's one of the messy parts. We get tangled together, sleeping.) I really should move out.

“Ain't I heard that before. Ya good to head to Cim with Miranda later?”

Another rolling of eyes. She's picking out the bell peppers from the tray. Looking over them, feeling for soft spots. I double-blink at the sign that says that they were organicly grown, no help from any Plant 'Trollers. Why would they even...? “I'm good for it, Brahela. There are seven of us in the Acadame going. Someone from Legendary is coming to supervise.” She's in the parent organization. I'm in one of the sub organizations. They do more. Are more active. More MORE, I suppose. “Do you know who its going to be?”

“Mmn. Maybe. Think Eva's got our names, a dartboard, and a few darts. That'll choose.”

Wait. *What?* “You're on the list?”

“Ah'course. I'm on active duty. I listed myself free tonight. Didn't say no when she asked. Think five will be enough? Leftovers for later.”

Five? “The peppers? But what about-? Yes, five are good. Why didn't you tell me before this?” Just because she's so...

“Didn't really think about it. Ya had the Cim venture on the calender. Eva asked for names at the meeting earlier today. We haven't really talked about things today.”

My fault. Running errands for the Acadame. Getting my required contribution out of the way. Auditing some classes. Staying away from her home. From her. One of the reasons I signed on for the outing. Breakfast and lunch were free, but she was like Mom, always wanted dinner to be 'Family'. The Club was free for transit to Cimeroa this evening, and that's what the Headmistress scheduled. “Ahkay...” Damn that stupid accent.

She stops, a couple of limp carrots in hand. She cants her head to the side. Oh, no. Not this again.

Her hug enfolds me. We're the same height, her chin rest over my shoulder as I bury my face in her neck and feel the sting in my eyes.

She's so damn perfect.

So, I haz superhero - basically, Wolverine with gills and armor instaed of a bad temper and metal bones (He's a concept built V&V horsehoe crab Animal Abilities char - Regen, Natural Weapon (bone spikes), Water Breathing, undecided about whether he shifts to armor form or has to wear a manmade suit) but I no haz heroic name. Any suggestions?
--
"Anko, what you do in your free time is your own choice. Use it wisely. And if you do not use it wisely, make sure you thoroughly enjoy whatever unwise thing you are doing." - HymnOfRagnorok as Orochimaru at SpaceBattles
woot Med. Eng., verb, 1st & 3rd pers. prsnt. sg. know, knows

Dang... just got in under the wire on this one.

By the time anyone reads this, the KickStarter will almost certainly be closed.  But the video is still work watching just for the lulz -- possibly the best KS promo video I've seen.

Sirrocco Wrote:And now I have a bizarre little meta-idea of a Sentai show where the Villain is just the black ops arm of the Friendly Local News Station equivalent, and the whole thing is secretly being run as a bizarre form of reality TV show. If you really want to work the deconstruction, the Heroes find out at some point, and the station, in too deep to do anything else, tries to get them to buy into it.

At least when I see the forum, the box beside every post - the one with the poster's ID information - now has five new options: "My Recent Posts", "Message Me", "Blocking", "Ignore User's Posts", and "Report Post". (Except for my own posts - I only see "My Recent Posts" under my own name.)

Who gets the notification if a post is reported?
--
Rob Kelk
"Governments have no right to question the loyalty of those who oppose
them. Adversaries remain citizens of the same state, common subjects of
the same sovereign, servants of the same law."

- Michael Ignatieff, addressing Stanford University in 2012