Steely-Eyed Missile Man
1:
Shit always happens when you're trying to sleep. Always. It's like a rule or something. Up there in Heaven, there's probably a God of Slumber Interrupted by Bloody Loud Noise. Or maybe a Goddess.
Yeah, definitely a Goddess.
I cracked open one eyelid, and looked up. Yeah...flashing lights, gunfire, the whole deal. Hell, some idiot out there was using full magazines of tracer.
My blanket went over my head, and I screwed my eyes shut. It didn't help, not really. I'm a man of many talents, but the ability to voluntarily disconnect my ears and optic nerves isn't among them. There was just too much for me to block out. I wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon, no matter how tired I was.
Back when I was in college, I rented my own place just to get away from crap like this. Nobody likes pulsing techno backbeat at four in the morning. Or worse, listening to the guys upstairs moving furniture and vigorously agreeing with each other.
But I didn't exactly have a choice of accommodations anymore, or my pick of neighbors. Public housing sucks. The government really doesn't give a damn. Thanks for nothing, Uncle Sam.
"Give up, kid," my roommate drawled, "might as well enjoy the show."
I told him exactly what he could do with his show, in as much graphic detail as my fuzzy brain could muster.
He laughed.
The bastard.
He was right, though. Damnit. I sat up, swung my legs off the bunk, and rubbed my eyes. Through blurred vision, I stared at my roomie. He smirked back.
"They're early," I grumbled, raising my voice to be heard over the din, "it ain't October."
"Ehhh, not by much," he replied, "ya know how it is. Big teams all want first pick of the draft."
"Thought you didn't follow that," I accused.
He shrugged. "Not hard to track the season."
My jaw itched. Needed a shave. I scratched absently as I looked out the door. It wasn't hard, since some enterprising soul had removed the entire thing. There were little bits of twisted metal where the hinges used to be, hanging forlornly from the frame.
That bit of postmodern deconstructionist interior design was new. I asked my roomie about it. He nodded.
"Probably what woke yer up," he said, "the new guy, whatsisname, from down the block? Used it to pound a guard."
"Damn," I muttered, "our door? Hope they don't make us pay for that."
"It's insured," my roomie answered, diffidently. He didn't look too concerned, so I took his word for it.
We watched the riot in silence for a while. Well, my cellmate watched it. Seemed to amuse him. I just glared at the chaos. Nothing better to do. What I really wanted was some good old-fashioned nocturnal action, and not the kind you do with company. Obviously I wasn't going to get it.
It wasn't a bad show, though. I mean, I really wanted some sleep, but if I had to watch it...well, there was some entertainment value at least.
You know that whole thing where people make music by banging on random junk - garbage cans, pots, pans, that sorta shit? Used to be kinda original, until everyone and their inbred hick cousin started doing it. But there's a difference between just doing it...and doing it well.
Some of the guys were almost artistes. Not much technical merit, but top marks for enthusiasm. Emotion in the performance and all. To be fair, this wasn't exactly the preferred medium for most of 'em. But the Zigursky Penitentiary had some pretty damn good ways of locking down powers. Inhibitor collars, suppression fields, drugs in the food...the whole tinfoil hat treatment.
So the guys out there, they kinda had to improvise.
I had to give credit to the boys across the hall. From what I could see of their handiwork, if phone lines were open, they'd definitely get my vote. Real talent. Never seen a prison toilet used quite like that before.
Someone came up to our door. Or where the door used to be, anyway.
I tensed, then relaxed. The guy didn't look like a threat. Yeah, he was wearing a uniform, but his rifle was slung by his side. He was carrying something else.
Hard to be terrified of a man with a clipboard.
"Balestrieri, Benjamin," he asked, "no middle initial?""
My cellmate grunted in the affirmative.
The guy at the door squinted at his papers. Looked like he did, anyway. He had one of those creepy black helmets, so I couldn't see his eyes. But his body language was pretty clear - poor working stiff trying to do his job. I could sympathize.
Almost.
"No known powers," the guy continued, looking to Benny for confirmation, "possible esper connection to anomalous artifact weapons - paired forty-five caliber and nine millimeter semi-automatics?"
Benny's eyes narrowed. I could see him tense up. "Whadda ya want with my girls?"
"I'll take that as a yes," our visitor murmured, making a little note on his clipboard. Then he flicked the pen tip at me. "Abramowicz, Ezekiel J."
"That's me," I agreed, warily.
"Third-generation enhanced anatomy, physiology. Super-soldier serum. Super-speed, super-strength, invulnerability?"
"Generic super, I know," I answered, rubbing my scalp, "but I'm good with balloon animals, if you wanna put that down."
Benny chuckled.
Clipboard guy just gave me a stare.
"Zeke Abramowicz, aka. 'Missile Man', alias 'The Scud for Hire', alias 'Patriot Knockoff', also known as..."
"Yeah, yeah," I cut him off before he could get to the really embarrassing ones. Like the name with 'Minuteman' in it. Sounded okay to most folks, fit the theme and everything. But if I remembered right, that particular one was from my psycho ex. Baaad memories.
Hell, my body parts could punch through steel, but was that good enough for her? Nooooo, invulnerable guys are a dime a dozen, she said. Doesn't count if your godmode crashes after a couple minutes, she said...
Bitch.
Thankfully, the guy stopped. But then he just stood there, looking vaguely impatient.
I frowned at him. "What?"
He pointed. "You, Abramowicz? You're on the list."
Okay. Now that was new.
I'd like to say I gave some incredibly witty retort there and then, the stuff of movie trailers and multi-million Youtube hits. But in the interests of accurate reporting, I must admit I just stared at him.
Suave, I know. A regular rock star, that's me.
Benny came over, and smacked me hard on the shoulder. I barely felt it - though Benny winced, and flexed his hand. But he managed to get out what he wanted to say, which was: "Congrats, kid."
I just sat there. "The fuck?"
Momma taught me that a well-brought-up gentleman does not use profanity in everyday conversation. Shouldn't be a habit or anything. But occasional indulgence is acceptable, in moderation. Like socially, or on special occasions.
This felt like an appropriate time. Hell, it probably demanded more than just cheap grocery-store swearing, but I was fresh out of good vintage profanity. A simple 'fuck' was all I had, really.
"I said," the clipboard guy repeated, as if talking to a slow child, "you're on the list."
"I got that," I stated, getting to my feet. The concrete flooring felt distantly chill through my skin. "I mean, the fuck l am I doing on your list? Don't remember sending you boys a resume."
"Arachnos has a very efficient HR department," the spider responded, blandly.
That earned him a fresh glare. "Really," I snarled.
The spider shrugged. "They're psychic."
I folded my arms across my chest. "Funny, real funny."
"Nah," Benny interrupted, "he ain't snowin' ya. They have these chicks who see the future..."
"Oh," I mumbled, "now I feel stupid."
Benny coughed. "Only now?"
"Don't start, man," I warned, "don't start. I'm having a very trying day. Which might become a psychotic episode at any moment."
"I hate to break up this touching interlude," the Arachnos goon said, in the sort of voice that meant nothing of the sort, "but we're on a schedule."
"Better go, kid," Benny gave me a shove, "send me a postcard."
It wasn't enough to actually budge me - even under inhibitors, I was a damn sight heavier than a stock showroom model. But I stumbled out of the cell anyway.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, "thanks."
I actually meant it. He was a decent sort to share a cell with. A little gun-crazy, but hey, we all have our hobbies. More importantly, Benny didn't snore much, didn't clog the toilet, didn't insist we should share bunks for experiments in land-based synchronized swimming...unlike some guys I could name.
"No prob," Benny said, "knock 'em dead."
I got a few steps down the hall before I stopped, and turned round. "Hey, you really want the the postcard?"
"Nah," Benny replied, "I'll be out soon anyway. Good behavior."
"You sure?"
He thought about it. "Mail some decent coffee?"
"Will do."
He gave me a thumbs up.
The Arachnos guy was waiting for me at the end of the corridor. "Helicopter's parked outside. Can you find the North courtyard, or do you need a map?"
"I'll be fine," I assured him, "just follow the bodies, right?"
He nodded, then snapped something off his clipboard and handed it to me. I looked down - it was a strip of cheap card, perforated two-thirds down the way.
"Boarding pass," the spider explained, "keep the stub. It'll get you discounts at the Arachnos quartermaster, or special offers at participating shops and restaurants."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
"No," he stated, flatly. Then after a beat, he added, "I lied about the quartermaster. Your best bet is the sushi place in Mercy. Twenty percent off the lunch buffet."
"Huh," I mused, "I thought you guys were supposed to be humorless stormtroopers. Witty banter is a costumed thing. You're taking our jobs, man."
The spider shrugged. "I do night classes at Aeon University. Professional skills upgrading. Tough market, you know?"
"I hear ya," I replied, waving the ticket, "North courtyard, right?"
"Mm-hm."
"Cool," I said, "seeya."
"Have a nice day."
I made my way down the cell block, heading for the nearest hole in the walls. Was a pity Zig jumpsuits don't come with pockets. I felt the sudden urge to stick my hands in them. A casual saunter just isn't the same without that detail.
When I got into better light, I glanced at my helicopter ticket. The illumination from the perimeter watchtowers was a little harsh, but I could make out the seat number. Good enough.
Someone took a shot at me. Police sniper, probably. Standing in the open under a searchlight, I must have been a tempting target. It stung a little, but it was just a normal round, not Impervium-tipped or anything. Must be budget cuts.
Just as well, really. With the collar still on, I wasn't exactly swift enough to dodge. But even without active power effects, I still had the benefits of good clean living and a healthy diet. I was a good boy; always ate my vegetables.
The Arachnos transport was easy to find. It wasn't exactly a crowded parking lot. I got on board, found my place, and sat through the inevitable departure delays and boring safety video.
The girl in the next seat tried to make small talk, but I did the polite disinterest thing until she got the hint and shut up. She was nice enough, but she was a dog.
Literally.
I don't have anything against furry girls...tails and tongue are kinda hot. But this lady had some seriously bad breath. I think she stopped to nom a prison warden before catching the heli.
Can't say I blame her. See, they fed us when we got under way - except the in-flight meal was terrible. I swear, Arachnos must let Captain Mako design their rations.
As I settled in for a nap, I genuinely hoped that spider guy had been telling the truth about restaurant discounts.
The flight was pretty good, though. Damn smooth for a military VTOL. And with the Rogue Isles a few hours out, I had time to catch some sleep.
Good enough for me.
Now for something different. You know I'm terrible with finishing fiction I start. So in an attempt to force myself to write SOMETHING regularly, and perhaps actually conclude the various bits of crap I have pending, I am beginning another project.
Wait, what? No, no, listen, see - 'Steely-Eyed Missile Man' can never be unfinished, because it has no plot or ending. It's simply a running episodic chronicle of the life and times of Ezekiel 'Zeke' Abramowicz, aka. 'Missile Man'. Possibly with flashbacks to his past. Possibly not. But either way, each bit I post will be self-contained.
I do kinda intend to roughly follow him as he levels up, though. Missile Man is a lowbie SS/SR Brute.
Benny appears courtesy of Sofaspud - he is Sofa's future dual pistols character, who last appeared in his own little bit over in the snippets thread. I really liked that piece, and thought Benny was an awesome character. Sofa was kind enough to let me borrow him. The unnamed Wolf Spider is actually Operative Parker, my TacOps VEAT.
-- Acyl
1:
Shit always happens when you're trying to sleep. Always. It's like a rule or something. Up there in Heaven, there's probably a God of Slumber Interrupted by Bloody Loud Noise. Or maybe a Goddess.
Yeah, definitely a Goddess.
I cracked open one eyelid, and looked up. Yeah...flashing lights, gunfire, the whole deal. Hell, some idiot out there was using full magazines of tracer.
My blanket went over my head, and I screwed my eyes shut. It didn't help, not really. I'm a man of many talents, but the ability to voluntarily disconnect my ears and optic nerves isn't among them. There was just too much for me to block out. I wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon, no matter how tired I was.
Back when I was in college, I rented my own place just to get away from crap like this. Nobody likes pulsing techno backbeat at four in the morning. Or worse, listening to the guys upstairs moving furniture and vigorously agreeing with each other.
But I didn't exactly have a choice of accommodations anymore, or my pick of neighbors. Public housing sucks. The government really doesn't give a damn. Thanks for nothing, Uncle Sam.
"Give up, kid," my roommate drawled, "might as well enjoy the show."
I told him exactly what he could do with his show, in as much graphic detail as my fuzzy brain could muster.
He laughed.
The bastard.
He was right, though. Damnit. I sat up, swung my legs off the bunk, and rubbed my eyes. Through blurred vision, I stared at my roomie. He smirked back.
"They're early," I grumbled, raising my voice to be heard over the din, "it ain't October."
"Ehhh, not by much," he replied, "ya know how it is. Big teams all want first pick of the draft."
"Thought you didn't follow that," I accused.
He shrugged. "Not hard to track the season."
My jaw itched. Needed a shave. I scratched absently as I looked out the door. It wasn't hard, since some enterprising soul had removed the entire thing. There were little bits of twisted metal where the hinges used to be, hanging forlornly from the frame.
That bit of postmodern deconstructionist interior design was new. I asked my roomie about it. He nodded.
"Probably what woke yer up," he said, "the new guy, whatsisname, from down the block? Used it to pound a guard."
"Damn," I muttered, "our door? Hope they don't make us pay for that."
"It's insured," my roomie answered, diffidently. He didn't look too concerned, so I took his word for it.
We watched the riot in silence for a while. Well, my cellmate watched it. Seemed to amuse him. I just glared at the chaos. Nothing better to do. What I really wanted was some good old-fashioned nocturnal action, and not the kind you do with company. Obviously I wasn't going to get it.
It wasn't a bad show, though. I mean, I really wanted some sleep, but if I had to watch it...well, there was some entertainment value at least.
You know that whole thing where people make music by banging on random junk - garbage cans, pots, pans, that sorta shit? Used to be kinda original, until everyone and their inbred hick cousin started doing it. But there's a difference between just doing it...and doing it well.
Some of the guys were almost artistes. Not much technical merit, but top marks for enthusiasm. Emotion in the performance and all. To be fair, this wasn't exactly the preferred medium for most of 'em. But the Zigursky Penitentiary had some pretty damn good ways of locking down powers. Inhibitor collars, suppression fields, drugs in the food...the whole tinfoil hat treatment.
So the guys out there, they kinda had to improvise.
I had to give credit to the boys across the hall. From what I could see of their handiwork, if phone lines were open, they'd definitely get my vote. Real talent. Never seen a prison toilet used quite like that before.
Someone came up to our door. Or where the door used to be, anyway.
I tensed, then relaxed. The guy didn't look like a threat. Yeah, he was wearing a uniform, but his rifle was slung by his side. He was carrying something else.
Hard to be terrified of a man with a clipboard.
"Balestrieri, Benjamin," he asked, "no middle initial?""
My cellmate grunted in the affirmative.
The guy at the door squinted at his papers. Looked like he did, anyway. He had one of those creepy black helmets, so I couldn't see his eyes. But his body language was pretty clear - poor working stiff trying to do his job. I could sympathize.
Almost.
"No known powers," the guy continued, looking to Benny for confirmation, "possible esper connection to anomalous artifact weapons - paired forty-five caliber and nine millimeter semi-automatics?"
Benny's eyes narrowed. I could see him tense up. "Whadda ya want with my girls?"
"I'll take that as a yes," our visitor murmured, making a little note on his clipboard. Then he flicked the pen tip at me. "Abramowicz, Ezekiel J."
"That's me," I agreed, warily.
"Third-generation enhanced anatomy, physiology. Super-soldier serum. Super-speed, super-strength, invulnerability?"
"Generic super, I know," I answered, rubbing my scalp, "but I'm good with balloon animals, if you wanna put that down."
Benny chuckled.
Clipboard guy just gave me a stare.
"Zeke Abramowicz, aka. 'Missile Man', alias 'The Scud for Hire', alias 'Patriot Knockoff', also known as..."
"Yeah, yeah," I cut him off before he could get to the really embarrassing ones. Like the name with 'Minuteman' in it. Sounded okay to most folks, fit the theme and everything. But if I remembered right, that particular one was from my psycho ex. Baaad memories.
Hell, my body parts could punch through steel, but was that good enough for her? Nooooo, invulnerable guys are a dime a dozen, she said. Doesn't count if your godmode crashes after a couple minutes, she said...
Bitch.
Thankfully, the guy stopped. But then he just stood there, looking vaguely impatient.
I frowned at him. "What?"
He pointed. "You, Abramowicz? You're on the list."
Okay. Now that was new.
I'd like to say I gave some incredibly witty retort there and then, the stuff of movie trailers and multi-million Youtube hits. But in the interests of accurate reporting, I must admit I just stared at him.
Suave, I know. A regular rock star, that's me.
Benny came over, and smacked me hard on the shoulder. I barely felt it - though Benny winced, and flexed his hand. But he managed to get out what he wanted to say, which was: "Congrats, kid."
I just sat there. "The fuck?"
Momma taught me that a well-brought-up gentleman does not use profanity in everyday conversation. Shouldn't be a habit or anything. But occasional indulgence is acceptable, in moderation. Like socially, or on special occasions.
This felt like an appropriate time. Hell, it probably demanded more than just cheap grocery-store swearing, but I was fresh out of good vintage profanity. A simple 'fuck' was all I had, really.
"I said," the clipboard guy repeated, as if talking to a slow child, "you're on the list."
"I got that," I stated, getting to my feet. The concrete flooring felt distantly chill through my skin. "I mean, the fuck l am I doing on your list? Don't remember sending you boys a resume."
"Arachnos has a very efficient HR department," the spider responded, blandly.
That earned him a fresh glare. "Really," I snarled.
The spider shrugged. "They're psychic."
I folded my arms across my chest. "Funny, real funny."
"Nah," Benny interrupted, "he ain't snowin' ya. They have these chicks who see the future..."
"Oh," I mumbled, "now I feel stupid."
Benny coughed. "Only now?"
"Don't start, man," I warned, "don't start. I'm having a very trying day. Which might become a psychotic episode at any moment."
"I hate to break up this touching interlude," the Arachnos goon said, in the sort of voice that meant nothing of the sort, "but we're on a schedule."
"Better go, kid," Benny gave me a shove, "send me a postcard."
It wasn't enough to actually budge me - even under inhibitors, I was a damn sight heavier than a stock showroom model. But I stumbled out of the cell anyway.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, "thanks."
I actually meant it. He was a decent sort to share a cell with. A little gun-crazy, but hey, we all have our hobbies. More importantly, Benny didn't snore much, didn't clog the toilet, didn't insist we should share bunks for experiments in land-based synchronized swimming...unlike some guys I could name.
"No prob," Benny said, "knock 'em dead."
I got a few steps down the hall before I stopped, and turned round. "Hey, you really want the the postcard?"
"Nah," Benny replied, "I'll be out soon anyway. Good behavior."
"You sure?"
He thought about it. "Mail some decent coffee?"
"Will do."
He gave me a thumbs up.
The Arachnos guy was waiting for me at the end of the corridor. "Helicopter's parked outside. Can you find the North courtyard, or do you need a map?"
"I'll be fine," I assured him, "just follow the bodies, right?"
He nodded, then snapped something off his clipboard and handed it to me. I looked down - it was a strip of cheap card, perforated two-thirds down the way.
"Boarding pass," the spider explained, "keep the stub. It'll get you discounts at the Arachnos quartermaster, or special offers at participating shops and restaurants."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
"No," he stated, flatly. Then after a beat, he added, "I lied about the quartermaster. Your best bet is the sushi place in Mercy. Twenty percent off the lunch buffet."
"Huh," I mused, "I thought you guys were supposed to be humorless stormtroopers. Witty banter is a costumed thing. You're taking our jobs, man."
The spider shrugged. "I do night classes at Aeon University. Professional skills upgrading. Tough market, you know?"
"I hear ya," I replied, waving the ticket, "North courtyard, right?"
"Mm-hm."
"Cool," I said, "seeya."
"Have a nice day."
I made my way down the cell block, heading for the nearest hole in the walls. Was a pity Zig jumpsuits don't come with pockets. I felt the sudden urge to stick my hands in them. A casual saunter just isn't the same without that detail.
When I got into better light, I glanced at my helicopter ticket. The illumination from the perimeter watchtowers was a little harsh, but I could make out the seat number. Good enough.
Someone took a shot at me. Police sniper, probably. Standing in the open under a searchlight, I must have been a tempting target. It stung a little, but it was just a normal round, not Impervium-tipped or anything. Must be budget cuts.
Just as well, really. With the collar still on, I wasn't exactly swift enough to dodge. But even without active power effects, I still had the benefits of good clean living and a healthy diet. I was a good boy; always ate my vegetables.
The Arachnos transport was easy to find. It wasn't exactly a crowded parking lot. I got on board, found my place, and sat through the inevitable departure delays and boring safety video.
The girl in the next seat tried to make small talk, but I did the polite disinterest thing until she got the hint and shut up. She was nice enough, but she was a dog.
Literally.
I don't have anything against furry girls...tails and tongue are kinda hot. But this lady had some seriously bad breath. I think she stopped to nom a prison warden before catching the heli.
Can't say I blame her. See, they fed us when we got under way - except the in-flight meal was terrible. I swear, Arachnos must let Captain Mako design their rations.
As I settled in for a nap, I genuinely hoped that spider guy had been telling the truth about restaurant discounts.
The flight was pretty good, though. Damn smooth for a military VTOL. And with the Rogue Isles a few hours out, I had time to catch some sleep.
Good enough for me.
Now for something different. You know I'm terrible with finishing fiction I start. So in an attempt to force myself to write SOMETHING regularly, and perhaps actually conclude the various bits of crap I have pending, I am beginning another project.
Wait, what? No, no, listen, see - 'Steely-Eyed Missile Man' can never be unfinished, because it has no plot or ending. It's simply a running episodic chronicle of the life and times of Ezekiel 'Zeke' Abramowicz, aka. 'Missile Man'. Possibly with flashbacks to his past. Possibly not. But either way, each bit I post will be self-contained.
I do kinda intend to roughly follow him as he levels up, though. Missile Man is a lowbie SS/SR Brute.
Benny appears courtesy of Sofaspud - he is Sofa's future dual pistols character, who last appeared in his own little bit over in the snippets thread. I really liked that piece, and thought Benny was an awesome character. Sofa was kind enough to let me borrow him. The unnamed Wolf Spider is actually Operative Parker, my TacOps VEAT.
-- Acyl
