Paragon City, the City of Heroes. That's what they say, anyway. As if there's some magical ward or all-knowing Customs agent who keeps the riff-raff
out. Heroes in the big P, villains in the Isles, and never the twain shall meet.
Yeah, right. It may be the City of Heroes, but it has its share of villains too. I should know. I'm one of them.
The thing is... I didn't start out that way. Most of us don't. I've talked to a lot of them. Here in the Zig, there's not much else to do
but swap stories and hope you make it through your sentence.
I'm supposed to get out tomorrow. Time off for good behavior, and let's face it, with all the tights out there busting bad guys left and right, the
Zig is getting a bit crowded. They're shuffling folks like me back out as fast as new faces come in.
I suppose I might be rehabilitated. I'm not sure. I guess we'll find out.
It feels good to let loose with the ladies again. My girls have been waiting for me while I was stuck in that hole. They're loyal to a fault, though I
wouldn't have held it against them if they'd felt another man's touch while I was in there.
Might've held it against him, now, but nobody'd fault me for that. Shouldn't touch another man's girls, simple courtesy.
Carmen to the left, Bella to the right; both moving in perfect synchrony, rising and falling as their voices ring out in beautiful harmony.
My hands tingle as the targets at the far end of the range register bulls-eyes. Both of them.
Ah, my girls and I. I'd missed them, and I can tell they'd missed me. They're the only things I miss, though.
First strike against me, of course. I'm not supposed to handle firearms. But these aren't ordinary guns. They're my girls. They belong
with me, and I with them.
We'll see how the parole officer takes it, I guess. If he ever finds out. I don't intend to make it easy for him.
The temptation to let Bella -- she's the hot-tempered one -- out to discuss matters with the shopkeeper is strong -- almost too strong. I know it's
just the girls wanting a little action. I restrain her, barely, and focus on what the scrawny little man in front of me is saying.
"-- like to help you out, really, but I'm sure you can see the difficulty."
"No," I tell him, "I don't. I'm qualified. I filled out the application. I'm a resident of legal age and I even graduated high
school. Why can't I be a cashier?"
The little man wrings his hands. "We've already filled the position, you see."
He's lying. I know it, he knows I know it, but it's how the game is played. He doesn't dare admit to me that he won't hire me because I'm
an ex-con; just like the twenty-dozen other employers I've applied at in the city. And it infuriates me. The old anger, the rage that the shrinks in the
Zig told me led to my being there in the first place, rises to the surface, and I'm tempted -- oh, horribly tempted -- to let the girls loose to have their
fun.
But I'm on thin ice as-is, and I know it. The shopkeeper knows it too; he's not hiding behind my parole officer, not literally, but that's the way
it seems.
"Okay then," I say, trying to stay polite. The bridge is already burned, but just in case, I need to stay on his good side. "I understand.
Keep me in mind if it opens up again?"
"Oh, I will, I will," he says, showing me to the door with more speed than I'd have credited him with. "Absolutely!"
He's lying again.
That night I'm on the docks. I don't have a place to stay -- the little bit of money that you earn in the clink doesn't last long on the outside,
and the girls have expensive tastes -- so I'm planning on dossing down inside this old shipping container I found. Someone else has been sleeping here,
looks like, but I don't figure they'll bother me if I don't bother them. If they even show up.
The night sky is beautiful, what I can see of it through the haze of the War Walls. Carmen rests in my palm, her delicate, understated lines a pleasing
contrast to Bella's heavier, edgier look. I squeeze her grip and she laughs softly. Carmen's the quiet one -- though no less deadly for all of that.
Bella doesn't like to admit it, but Carmen's more accurate, too. What she lacks is strength. Carmen is precision and ruthless efficiency; Bella is
overwhelming force and power. Between the two of them there's nothing they can't handle.
My attention is drawn to a noise outside. Sounds like a cape putting the beatdown on someone. I slip Carmen back into her holster and tug my jacket forward
to cover her sleek form; she values her privacy and I'm in no hurry to advertise that I'm packing, not while I'm still on parole. I move forward
quietly, peeking out of my makeshift shelter.
There on the beach stands a bedraggled hero. Growing up in the big P, you learn quick to tell at a glance what sort of hero you're looking at. The magic
types usually have robes, tech-heads have gadgets crawling out of the ears, the martial artists have that Look in their eyes, and so on. This guy isn't
any different, and I class him as a fantasy type in a heartbeat.
Well, the gleaming broadsword and the ornate shield help a little there, I'll admit.
He's taking on some Council. Which isn't a bad thing, I suppose. Those Council goons are jerks, but they're not wimps and they don't give up.
I wince as the biggest one of the bunch does some fancy martial-arts kick that leaves the cape sprawled on the sand, his shield bouncing into the surf.
I start to pull back -- none of my business, right? -- and catch sight of the cape's eyes. He's staring straight at me. I can tell from the way
he's twitching that he won't be getting up in time to stop the Council from sending him to the hospital, but something in his eyes stops me in my
tracks.
Oh, hell.
I grumble to myself, but the girls are excited at the thought of some real action instead of just range time. I get to my feet, settle my hat politely on my
head, and wander down to the party. It's stupid and reckless, but something about that cape lying there trying to get back up after having his bell rung
like that strikes a chord in me. He's a gutsy kid, whoever he is, and I got to respect that.
The Council goons are laughing and clapping each other on the back, their leader squatting down by the hero's face and making snide remarks. Fuggin'
Nazis. I don't bother getting fancy, and instead just apply a little bit of Bella action to the back of the nearest Council skull. She'd prefer to be
singing at him, sure, but this way I can claim the dumb sucker fell down and hit his head on a rock or something.
Carmen nudges me, pointing at the goon on my left, and I duck just in time to avoid his fist meeting my face. Love that girl, I do; even tucked away she's
always looking out for me. She's no good in this sort of fight and she knows it. She's a classy lady. Bella, on the other hand, is the sort of
hard-partying biker chick who loves a good rumble, and she's perfectly in her element right now. I can hear her laughing as she takes out his kneecaps --
one-two, crunch-crunch, scream -- and I can't help but grin a little.
That's two down, and the others are just about done spinning around to notice me.
"On yer feet, kid," I growl at the cape, kicking one of our opponents in the beanbag and stepping aside so his puke misses my boots. Bella screams a
warning at me -- Carmen too -- and I flip her in my grip, my thumb taking her off safety even as the barrel comes to rest on the face of a big guy I hadn't
noticed before. He's got a gun too, and it's much bigger than either of mine. Size isn't everything, yeah, yeah, but sheer volume of lead does
make a big difference. Fuggin' minigunners.
"Don't do it, buddy," I warn him. Carmen slithers out of her sheath and drops into my other hand, and I let her point where she wants to -- at
the leader, who looks to be getting ready to throw a grenade, of all things.
The kid wobbles -- finally! -- to his feet and stands there a moment, blinking rapidly and trying to get his body under control. I know what he feels like --
I've had my lights dimmed like that more than a few times, too -- but we don't have time for this.
"Who are you?" the Council leader growls.
"Friends call me Benny," I reply with a smirk, "but you can call me Sir."
"Cute," he spits. "I despise cute. Arnold, kill him!"
Shit. "I'm sorry, girls," I whisper as the minigun barrels begin to spin up. "Looks like I'll be away for a while again."
Their voices cry out as one, in perfect harmony. The two surviving Council goons don't have time to realize that they're already dead as Carmen and
Bella reach out and slaughter them. Ruthlessly, efficiently. Beautifully.
I hope they'll wait for me again.
Like the title says, it's a concept story for a potential dual pistols... something. I can't decide if he'd be a
hero or villain, really; he's very gray, morality-wise. This has been simmering for a couple days now and wouldn't leave me alone until I finished it.
When dual pistols come out, I'll be rolling Benny up, but for the life of me I can't think of a suitable name yet, heh.
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs
out. Heroes in the big P, villains in the Isles, and never the twain shall meet.
Yeah, right. It may be the City of Heroes, but it has its share of villains too. I should know. I'm one of them.
The thing is... I didn't start out that way. Most of us don't. I've talked to a lot of them. Here in the Zig, there's not much else to do
but swap stories and hope you make it through your sentence.
I'm supposed to get out tomorrow. Time off for good behavior, and let's face it, with all the tights out there busting bad guys left and right, the
Zig is getting a bit crowded. They're shuffling folks like me back out as fast as new faces come in.
I suppose I might be rehabilitated. I'm not sure. I guess we'll find out.
It feels good to let loose with the ladies again. My girls have been waiting for me while I was stuck in that hole. They're loyal to a fault, though I
wouldn't have held it against them if they'd felt another man's touch while I was in there.
Might've held it against him, now, but nobody'd fault me for that. Shouldn't touch another man's girls, simple courtesy.
Carmen to the left, Bella to the right; both moving in perfect synchrony, rising and falling as their voices ring out in beautiful harmony.
My hands tingle as the targets at the far end of the range register bulls-eyes. Both of them.
Ah, my girls and I. I'd missed them, and I can tell they'd missed me. They're the only things I miss, though.
First strike against me, of course. I'm not supposed to handle firearms. But these aren't ordinary guns. They're my girls. They belong
with me, and I with them.
We'll see how the parole officer takes it, I guess. If he ever finds out. I don't intend to make it easy for him.
The temptation to let Bella -- she's the hot-tempered one -- out to discuss matters with the shopkeeper is strong -- almost too strong. I know it's
just the girls wanting a little action. I restrain her, barely, and focus on what the scrawny little man in front of me is saying.
"-- like to help you out, really, but I'm sure you can see the difficulty."
"No," I tell him, "I don't. I'm qualified. I filled out the application. I'm a resident of legal age and I even graduated high
school. Why can't I be a cashier?"
The little man wrings his hands. "We've already filled the position, you see."
He's lying. I know it, he knows I know it, but it's how the game is played. He doesn't dare admit to me that he won't hire me because I'm
an ex-con; just like the twenty-dozen other employers I've applied at in the city. And it infuriates me. The old anger, the rage that the shrinks in the
Zig told me led to my being there in the first place, rises to the surface, and I'm tempted -- oh, horribly tempted -- to let the girls loose to have their
fun.
But I'm on thin ice as-is, and I know it. The shopkeeper knows it too; he's not hiding behind my parole officer, not literally, but that's the way
it seems.
"Okay then," I say, trying to stay polite. The bridge is already burned, but just in case, I need to stay on his good side. "I understand.
Keep me in mind if it opens up again?"
"Oh, I will, I will," he says, showing me to the door with more speed than I'd have credited him with. "Absolutely!"
He's lying again.
That night I'm on the docks. I don't have a place to stay -- the little bit of money that you earn in the clink doesn't last long on the outside,
and the girls have expensive tastes -- so I'm planning on dossing down inside this old shipping container I found. Someone else has been sleeping here,
looks like, but I don't figure they'll bother me if I don't bother them. If they even show up.
The night sky is beautiful, what I can see of it through the haze of the War Walls. Carmen rests in my palm, her delicate, understated lines a pleasing
contrast to Bella's heavier, edgier look. I squeeze her grip and she laughs softly. Carmen's the quiet one -- though no less deadly for all of that.
Bella doesn't like to admit it, but Carmen's more accurate, too. What she lacks is strength. Carmen is precision and ruthless efficiency; Bella is
overwhelming force and power. Between the two of them there's nothing they can't handle.
My attention is drawn to a noise outside. Sounds like a cape putting the beatdown on someone. I slip Carmen back into her holster and tug my jacket forward
to cover her sleek form; she values her privacy and I'm in no hurry to advertise that I'm packing, not while I'm still on parole. I move forward
quietly, peeking out of my makeshift shelter.
There on the beach stands a bedraggled hero. Growing up in the big P, you learn quick to tell at a glance what sort of hero you're looking at. The magic
types usually have robes, tech-heads have gadgets crawling out of the ears, the martial artists have that Look in their eyes, and so on. This guy isn't
any different, and I class him as a fantasy type in a heartbeat.
Well, the gleaming broadsword and the ornate shield help a little there, I'll admit.
He's taking on some Council. Which isn't a bad thing, I suppose. Those Council goons are jerks, but they're not wimps and they don't give up.
I wince as the biggest one of the bunch does some fancy martial-arts kick that leaves the cape sprawled on the sand, his shield bouncing into the surf.
I start to pull back -- none of my business, right? -- and catch sight of the cape's eyes. He's staring straight at me. I can tell from the way
he's twitching that he won't be getting up in time to stop the Council from sending him to the hospital, but something in his eyes stops me in my
tracks.
Oh, hell.
I grumble to myself, but the girls are excited at the thought of some real action instead of just range time. I get to my feet, settle my hat politely on my
head, and wander down to the party. It's stupid and reckless, but something about that cape lying there trying to get back up after having his bell rung
like that strikes a chord in me. He's a gutsy kid, whoever he is, and I got to respect that.
The Council goons are laughing and clapping each other on the back, their leader squatting down by the hero's face and making snide remarks. Fuggin'
Nazis. I don't bother getting fancy, and instead just apply a little bit of Bella action to the back of the nearest Council skull. She'd prefer to be
singing at him, sure, but this way I can claim the dumb sucker fell down and hit his head on a rock or something.
Carmen nudges me, pointing at the goon on my left, and I duck just in time to avoid his fist meeting my face. Love that girl, I do; even tucked away she's
always looking out for me. She's no good in this sort of fight and she knows it. She's a classy lady. Bella, on the other hand, is the sort of
hard-partying biker chick who loves a good rumble, and she's perfectly in her element right now. I can hear her laughing as she takes out his kneecaps --
one-two, crunch-crunch, scream -- and I can't help but grin a little.
That's two down, and the others are just about done spinning around to notice me.
"On yer feet, kid," I growl at the cape, kicking one of our opponents in the beanbag and stepping aside so his puke misses my boots. Bella screams a
warning at me -- Carmen too -- and I flip her in my grip, my thumb taking her off safety even as the barrel comes to rest on the face of a big guy I hadn't
noticed before. He's got a gun too, and it's much bigger than either of mine. Size isn't everything, yeah, yeah, but sheer volume of lead does
make a big difference. Fuggin' minigunners.
"Don't do it, buddy," I warn him. Carmen slithers out of her sheath and drops into my other hand, and I let her point where she wants to -- at
the leader, who looks to be getting ready to throw a grenade, of all things.
The kid wobbles -- finally! -- to his feet and stands there a moment, blinking rapidly and trying to get his body under control. I know what he feels like --
I've had my lights dimmed like that more than a few times, too -- but we don't have time for this.
"Who are you?" the Council leader growls.
"Friends call me Benny," I reply with a smirk, "but you can call me Sir."
"Cute," he spits. "I despise cute. Arnold, kill him!"
Shit. "I'm sorry, girls," I whisper as the minigun barrels begin to spin up. "Looks like I'll be away for a while again."
Their voices cry out as one, in perfect harmony. The two surviving Council goons don't have time to realize that they're already dead as Carmen and
Bella reach out and slaughter them. Ruthlessly, efficiently. Beautifully.
I hope they'll wait for me again.
Like the title says, it's a concept story for a potential dual pistols... something. I can't decide if he'd be a
hero or villain, really; he's very gray, morality-wise. This has been simmering for a couple days now and wouldn't leave me alone until I finished it.
When dual pistols come out, I'll be rolling Benny up, but for the life of me I can't think of a suitable name yet, heh.
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs