The cops are hauling down I-35 at at least 120 miles per, and their still losing the speedster.
Im standing at a rest stop, somewhere in the middle of Southern Kansas, watching the chase through a pair of borrowed binoculars. The birder standing next to me was a little wary of handing his optics to a guy wearing a bright orange tank top with a nuclear trefoil on it and a pair of orange cammo pants, but I did say, please, so I guess he thought I was harmless enough.
Harmless. Heh, thats funny.
I gotta say, it couldve been worse. I mean, I could have decided to pull up the sonic freakshow, Baron Bedlam last night. That wouldve been fun, metamorphosing into a shadowy demon that feeds off the energy caused by destruction. Yeah, a lotta brooding and fist-talking woulda come outta that one.
No, instead I decided to pull up old Frankie Fallout. The Atomic Punk had a little dust on him, but we were rolling along fine, hammering the Pantheon and doing some serious damage. And then, whammo! Im ten years younger, thirty pounds lighter, atomic powered, and my hair has more Crisco in it than my grandmas apple pie.
Fucking Mohawk. Got rid of that thing damn quick, let me tell you. Took half a bottle of shampoo, but I got it combed down before I left this morning. I think it looks better as a warriors queue, but thats me, not Frankie. Frankie likes his Mohawk.
Its not like Frankies in my head or nothin. But I can tell what is Frankie and what is me. Im coarser, cruder, and louder, but Im still the lit-geek and writer that I was before. But the memories and preferences wash over me sometimes. I can see Frankies momma in my head, a generous and pious lady, full of love for her fellow residents of the Row. I was humming riffs from Black Flag over Tulsa without realizing it, and I dont even own any of their albums. And I find myself craving a cigarette and a Budweiser every now and then. That aint happening. No fucking way.
Speed-Boy is getting closer. Hes got a pillowcase over his shoulder, packed full of money, and hes got that weird, streaky lightshift that Superspeed gives you. He robbed a bank down in Northern Oklahoma, according to the police band in the birders RV. Theyve tried spike strips, but hes too nimble for them. For now, the cops are just following him. About six highway patrol interceptors, and a helicopter out of Kansas City.
It had to happen. Some idiot punk with more power than sense thought he could make it easy. Dumbass didnt realize that theyd bag him off the surveillance cameras. At least he didnt kill anybody. When they pulled up outside his house, he got scared and ran, and the cops gave chase. Theres four pileups down I-35, and one of them involves a Greyhound full of people. Time to put him down before anyone else gets hurt.
I hand the binoculars back to the birder and take a breath. The powers there, deep in my chest, like a heartbeat. A few moments of breathing and then I tap it. Theres a flash, and I can hear the birder gasp. He just saw the light flare from behind my shades, and the fire race across my body. My senses sharpen as everything along the highway goes into sharp focus. The speeding figure catches my attention and I lock onto him. I can feel the power doubling back on itself in my chest, growing in strength. The boost wont last long, but I only need the one shot. I extend my arm towards the punk, focusing on him, and only on him, while letting the energy pool at a spot somewhere behind my elbow and build into a warm pressure.
Space seems to shrink and its just me and the idiot. I cant hear the birder, the sirens from the copcars, or even the wind. When Im ready, I extend a finger and thumb in an imaginary pistol and point at the road beneath his feet, releasing all the energy with a single word.
Bang.
Im not sure what the white light is, but it puts forth one hell of a punch. I miss the idiot, but I wasnt really aiming at him. The sudden explosion of asphalt right in his path blows his feet out from under him, and he goes flying. The road turns away, and he sails off into the brush. I watch, waiting to see if he gets back up, but the cops are there before he can recover. Theyre on him quickly, and I see one of them dodge a flurry of punches like theyre moving in slow motion and tackle him to the ground. Looks like some of the cops play City of Heroes. Good; they need all the help they can get.
I can see a patrol car heading my way. No time to deal with the cops; I gotta be in Jersey by dinner. Time to go. I push the energy down, through my feet, and I rise away from the ground. Flying is, by far, the best part of this thing. I toss a salute at the helicopter and then accelerate away to the northeast. Jerseys a bit of a hike, even by air.
Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
Im standing at a rest stop, somewhere in the middle of Southern Kansas, watching the chase through a pair of borrowed binoculars. The birder standing next to me was a little wary of handing his optics to a guy wearing a bright orange tank top with a nuclear trefoil on it and a pair of orange cammo pants, but I did say, please, so I guess he thought I was harmless enough.
Harmless. Heh, thats funny.
I gotta say, it couldve been worse. I mean, I could have decided to pull up the sonic freakshow, Baron Bedlam last night. That wouldve been fun, metamorphosing into a shadowy demon that feeds off the energy caused by destruction. Yeah, a lotta brooding and fist-talking woulda come outta that one.
No, instead I decided to pull up old Frankie Fallout. The Atomic Punk had a little dust on him, but we were rolling along fine, hammering the Pantheon and doing some serious damage. And then, whammo! Im ten years younger, thirty pounds lighter, atomic powered, and my hair has more Crisco in it than my grandmas apple pie.
Fucking Mohawk. Got rid of that thing damn quick, let me tell you. Took half a bottle of shampoo, but I got it combed down before I left this morning. I think it looks better as a warriors queue, but thats me, not Frankie. Frankie likes his Mohawk.
Its not like Frankies in my head or nothin. But I can tell what is Frankie and what is me. Im coarser, cruder, and louder, but Im still the lit-geek and writer that I was before. But the memories and preferences wash over me sometimes. I can see Frankies momma in my head, a generous and pious lady, full of love for her fellow residents of the Row. I was humming riffs from Black Flag over Tulsa without realizing it, and I dont even own any of their albums. And I find myself craving a cigarette and a Budweiser every now and then. That aint happening. No fucking way.
Speed-Boy is getting closer. Hes got a pillowcase over his shoulder, packed full of money, and hes got that weird, streaky lightshift that Superspeed gives you. He robbed a bank down in Northern Oklahoma, according to the police band in the birders RV. Theyve tried spike strips, but hes too nimble for them. For now, the cops are just following him. About six highway patrol interceptors, and a helicopter out of Kansas City.
It had to happen. Some idiot punk with more power than sense thought he could make it easy. Dumbass didnt realize that theyd bag him off the surveillance cameras. At least he didnt kill anybody. When they pulled up outside his house, he got scared and ran, and the cops gave chase. Theres four pileups down I-35, and one of them involves a Greyhound full of people. Time to put him down before anyone else gets hurt.
I hand the binoculars back to the birder and take a breath. The powers there, deep in my chest, like a heartbeat. A few moments of breathing and then I tap it. Theres a flash, and I can hear the birder gasp. He just saw the light flare from behind my shades, and the fire race across my body. My senses sharpen as everything along the highway goes into sharp focus. The speeding figure catches my attention and I lock onto him. I can feel the power doubling back on itself in my chest, growing in strength. The boost wont last long, but I only need the one shot. I extend my arm towards the punk, focusing on him, and only on him, while letting the energy pool at a spot somewhere behind my elbow and build into a warm pressure.
Space seems to shrink and its just me and the idiot. I cant hear the birder, the sirens from the copcars, or even the wind. When Im ready, I extend a finger and thumb in an imaginary pistol and point at the road beneath his feet, releasing all the energy with a single word.
Bang.
Im not sure what the white light is, but it puts forth one hell of a punch. I miss the idiot, but I wasnt really aiming at him. The sudden explosion of asphalt right in his path blows his feet out from under him, and he goes flying. The road turns away, and he sails off into the brush. I watch, waiting to see if he gets back up, but the cops are there before he can recover. Theyre on him quickly, and I see one of them dodge a flurry of punches like theyre moving in slow motion and tackle him to the ground. Looks like some of the cops play City of Heroes. Good; they need all the help they can get.
I can see a patrol car heading my way. No time to deal with the cops; I gotta be in Jersey by dinner. Time to go. I push the energy down, through my feet, and I rise away from the ground. Flying is, by far, the best part of this thing. I toss a salute at the helicopter and then accelerate away to the northeast. Jerseys a bit of a hike, even by air.
Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."