What I Did This Summer - July / August Vignette

[Thevshi]

Summer has come! Some take the time to go on vacation. Many students make use of the time for a summer job. Others use the time for self-reflection or other self-improvement. What does your character do over the summer?

 

Your summer stories should be posted no later than the 30th August 2024.

 

(As a reminder, vignettes follow the same general rules as posts in terms of content, player character limits, and so on. You may have only one vignette per player character. Each vignette should be at least one page (~500 words) in length; if posted in your thread counts at the end of the month, it is worth 1pp for the associated character. An especially long vignette, 1000 words or more, may be worth up to 2pp. Multiple players can collaborate on a single vignette - we recommend Google Docs for this, it's very useful - but the vignette should be about one page per participating player.)

[Supercape]

Spore in

 

Fields of Summertime

 

The weather was idyllic for most; an unfiltered sun cooled by a light breeze. The Vineyards awash with heat and light, the grapes ripening as fast as they could be plucked. This was the Hale Vineyard, producers of fine independent wines for the past fifty years.

 

Just two years ago, they had been ablaze. Half a dozen people had died, including Harper Hales parents.

 

This was the first time she had returned. To close that gaping wound, to unwind the knot of scar tissue that had formed around her heart.

 

She was driven from nearby San Fransisco by Aunt, who harboured an equally eccentric name, Jazz. She was not a musician; by her own admission she was tone deaf and without any sense of timing. She was, however, quite chaotic and extremely free spirited. Jazz had taken over the running of the Vineyard without any experience, but she had a truckload of intelligence and an eye for the nature of men. She could see through a lie like an X-Ray.

 

“Surviving?” she asked Harper as they pulled into the Vineyards in Aunt Jazz’s purple sports car. Jazz wore the most wide brimmed hat she could, with a feather stuck on. Her Cigarillo was lit and she puffed smoke out of pursed lips.

 

“I’m ok,” said Harper, wearing wide sunglasses and a baseball cap, trying to keep as much of her skin out of the sun as possible. She burned easily, in body and soul.

“That sounds rather like a lie, Harper dear. It sounds rather like a lie.”

 

Harper smiled. “What, you never lied, Aunt?”

 

“Don’t call me Aunt, dear. It reminds me I have responsibilities. And the only way to manage responsibility is to ignore it. Responsibilities cause premature aging, you know.”

 

“Is that why you look fourty?”

 

Jazz laughed. “Why yes it is dear. And the smoking and drinking. I am actually seventy nine, you know.”

 

Jazz drove up to the edge of the Vineyards, delighting in the heat, the view, and her own lies. “I hope you don’t grow up to tell the truth, Harper, It is so frightfully dull. And often untrue.”

 

Together, they stepped out of the sports car. Jazz took Harpers clammy and tremulous hand in hers, saying not a word. For all her anarchic nature, Jazz knew when to stay silent. To simply be there. She had looked after Harper for two years as her legal guardian. She knew her ward.

 

She also knew Harper Hale was Spore. And she knew all that Spore could do.

 

“Are you going to sweat out that hallucinogen?” she asked.

 

Harper shook her head.

 

“Shame. I shall have to drink some wine instead. The Evenings are not to be experienced sober. They are much like the mornings in that regard.”

 

Harper rolled her eyes. “Drink isn’t the answer.”

 

“Nonsense, Harper. Drink is the answer to many questions, such as What should a man in a desert do?”

 

“I meant drink alcohol.”

 

“So did I, dear. So did I!”

 

Harper groaned. “I’ll report you to social services!” she said, grinning wildly.

 

“Aren’t they the folk that aren’t social and don’t provide a service?”

 

Harper didn’t quite agree. They had been kind enough, when her parents died. She let go of Jazz’s hand and ran two dozen yards ahead, hands outstretched, feeling the texture of the vines, reaching out, picking some plums, popping them in her mouth.

 

“Tasty?” asked Jazz.

 

Harper nodded. “Healthy.”

 

That was something. A place of death, now bringing life. All the ash in the soil, maybe. Her parents ash. The thought gave her a shudder, but it was therapeutic. The fancy that her parents lived on, in some symbolic way.

 

And yet she couldn’t quite face the singular most horrific memory of them all.

 

She kicked of her sneakers, felt the earth beneath her toes. The soil was dry on the surface, almost cracked, but the cilia of her symbiotic fungus could burrow a little deeper. There, moisture beneath the surface, feeding the vines. She fancied she could feel, smell the ash in the soil. It was fertile. This was a place of life.

 

Jazz took her time catching up, perambulating at a leisurely face, fingers brushing the vines, rubbing then, caressing the grapes yet not eating them. Too precious a fruit to waste on eating, in her opinion.

 

She waited before speaking, wise to Harpers closed eyes, slow tears, trembling skin. “It’s exhausting, running from a painful memory. I am far too lazy to do so. But some are not blessed with my extraordinary laziness. Some have to choose.”

 

“That’s what this is all about?” asked Harper.

 

Jazz shrugged. “It’s a slice of the cake.”

 

“Not the best slice.”

 

“No, not the best. But a slice you have to eat before you get to the good stuff.”

 

Harper opened her eyes and turned to face her aunt. The tears were there, unrestrained, unresisted. “What good stuff is there, here? It holds bad memories. You weren’t there.”

 

“It holds good memories, too.”

 

“The good memories just make the bad ones hurt more.”

 

Jazz gave a subtle shake. “And maybe the bad ones make the good ones richer. Don’t let one consume the other, Harper.”

 

“Easy for you to say,”

 

“No. Not easy,” said Jazz, voice steely. “I never met a soul whose heart isn’t scarred from regret and pain. And the longer you walk through life, the more scars on your soul. But scar’s aren’t a failure, they are a story. Would you want to walk through life without shedding a tear?”

 

Harper paused. “I guess not, although… sometimes I wish for it, all the same.”

 

“Spend the summer here with your memories. Be like a boxer, lean into the pain. If you fear your memories, you fear yourself. Not a win.”

 

Harper nodded, slow, sad.

 

And so began three summer months of sunshine, grapes, running, laughing, crying. Being busy in a that relaxed way – picking fruit, making cheese, and even, yes, a little bit of carefully supervised (by a sort of adult) wine tasting.

 

It was, they both agreed, best done now.

 

Harper ran further than she ran before, until she was breathing fire and her stomach did flip flops in her tummy. She needed to be physically fit. She practiced mindfulness, meditation, yoga. She needed to be mentally fit.

 

For come the end of summer she would be facing a new chapter in her life, and potentially a hard one. A chapter she wanted to swim in, not drown. She was going to Claremont, not just as Harper Hale, but as the amazing Spore!

[Supercape]

Diamondlight

 

In

 

Summer Island Love

 

August Zoss had plenty of money, and little time. Superhero, philanthropist, owner of Zoss enterprises. His life was busy, even with the Card Sharks covering for him.

 

He forced himself to have three holidays a year. Vacations he desperately needed, desperately wanted; and yet, why was it so difficult?

 

The answer, he had concluded, was the internet. How could one unplug oneself from the titanic flows of information? One would need a superhuman brain to process all the data; and whilst Zoss was smart by any human measure, his brain was not superhuman.

 

And so, one starry night in his vacation home in the Bahama’s, he put his mobile phone to the floor, under a chair leg, and sat down on his chair very hard.

 

He smiled at the satisfying crunch.

 

He turned round, squinted, and with pinpoint precision, fired silver-blue laser beams from his eyes. Just a second, or less. Enough to fry the wifi modem.

 

Unplugged.

 

Relaxed.

 

He poured himself a small brandy, in a sparkling crystal glass, and trod barefoot to the wooden veranda. It was near midnight, the heat of the day cooling. A sea breeze ruffled his half undone linen shirt. The view was magnificent; a sparkling sea, not still, but not unruly. Waves gently lapped against a fine sand beach. The star’s were out, shining in a dark and cloudless sky. No moon tonight. August gazed to the stars, his extraordinary eyes picking up the faint light with ease; each star twinkled.

 

He smiled, took a sip of brandy, and heard the rustling behind him.

 

August Zoss was no stranger to beautiful women, and the woman approaching him was, without doubt, beautiful – dark, rustic hair of mid length, olive skin, deep eyes and high cheekbones. A full smile, white teeth. But August did not care for beauty on its own – a dull, monotonous affair. What he care about was fascination.

 

The woman behind him had carved large slabs of muscle on to every bone. A bodybuilder. August was fairly sure she was juicing with something; either that or she had some mutated genetics. That was his business, as far as he was concerned. The world was approaching a transhuman era, and everyone had the right to alter and modify the one thing they undeniably owned. The body they lived in.

 

If she was juicing, she had done a remarkably good job of it. Her skin was unpuckered, not falling prey to any scar or pustule. Her face remained feminine, not yet showing the tell tale signs of masculinisation. August did not think about it too much; biological sciences was not his forte. But he could appreciate her artistry; she had turned herself into a work of art. A hard and beautiful sculpture of granite.

 

She put her arms around him from behind, her chin on his shoulder. August smiled, feeling her power. Delightful; a power she had earned with blood sweat and tears (and possibly chemical ingenuity). He could of course blast her with a beam of pure energy, but that was ungentlemanly and unworthy of praise. His power – at least some of his power – was an accident.

 

“Hear me sneaking up?” she asked.

 

August smiled. “Saw you.”

 

“Eyes on the back of your head?”

 

August smiled. It was true, sort of. His entire body was sensitive to light. He could literally see behind him, but not with eyes. “In a manner of speaking.”

 

“Like the view?”

 

“More than like. Admire.”

 

The woman gave a little laugh, a step back, and a twirl. She wore a loose fitting t shirt, some daisy duke jeans, both battered by age and sweat. But no loose clothing could disguise arms as thick as most mens legs. She had put countless hours into exercise.

 

This, August knew. He had saw her working out at a beach gym. He was not the only admirer, perhaps he was not the only man (or woman) fascinated by her. And that was how he had started the conversation, a nuanced, subtle admission of fascination. Without intent, without need. He simply found her beautiful, fascinating. He would have happily settled for an hours conversation discussing her life and philosophy under a palm tree, sipping espresso and munching olives.

 

That, he did. But an hour became two, three, and more. Dinner was served; fish, chilled white wine. August ate healthily, and kept himself in good shape (as befitted a superhero; one never knew when one might need more than superpowers), but she ate like a horse, and selectively-protein, protein, protein. Tuna steak, tuna steak, tuna steak. Two whole meals. No carbs. No alcohol.

 

August could not even bring himself to do more than sip his white wine. It felt disrespectful, somehow.

 

They had talked, and even laughed. August made no attempt to flirt, or seduce, but talking easily, taking interest, compliments warm but not hot – these all conspired to thread the bonds of intimacy between them. Before they knew it, they were in his Electric submersible-car, driving to his holiday villa. August brushed off her comments on his wealth without a word in response. Wealth was a tool, but it was not interesting.

 

She was interesting.

 

No drinks were drunk or offered at the villa. Alcohol was an insult to her; she reminded him, he said, of a Spartan. She smiled. Not so Spartan, she said.

 

And then they were in each others arms, lips locked. The most precious moment of all, as far as August was concerned. What melding of bodies in the bedroom could possibly match that first intimacy? When the world faded, all was lost, when one drowned in honey. The bliss of that first kiss.

 

For all pleasures that followed, and pleasurable they were, August always felt they could not compare to the first moment. Perhaps this was why he could never bring himself to a relationship.

 

There were a thousand reasons, each oscillated around his skull. Was he afraid of commitment? Was he terrified of love? Pragmatic reasons – he was too busy. And a superhero had enemies, enemies who could target his loved ones. Maybe all these reasons were true. But there was also this – nothing could compete with the first moment.

 

He put down his barely touched brandy. The taste was still on his lips, but there were sweeter things to taste.

 

Perhaps this time, it would last. Perhaps not. But he could not control the future, or even himself. No, not control the future, but enjoy the present, the moment, the moments. And the best way to do that was to abandon control. Trying to control oneself could be the worst whip of all.

 

He had two weeks of vacation in paradise, and he would savour every day. And he would not savour it alone.

Edited July 20 by Supercape

[Supercape]

Captain Cosmos

 

In

 

Venetian Blind

 

It was the height of Summer, and Buddy Brand had managed to crowbar out a few days of leave from the boss. As far as his boss was concerned, it should have been a few minutes. Or less. The world of media was too fast, too competitive, to allow for any slippage like a vacation.

 

Fortunately, there will still some legal brakes on such views, like contracts.

 

Buddy Brand was caught up in the world of media. He was good, but not great. Valued, but not invaluable. He made no mistake of his place on the greasy pole – he was in no danger of being fired, but equally, nobody would hesitate if a chop needed to happen. He could not leverage his mid level fame.

 

And it was busy, always busy. Plus, Buddy Brand had another job, on the side; he was also the amazing multi-dimensional superhero, Captain Cosmos!

 

Juggling these two jobs would have tested the endurance of any normal man or woman. Fortunately, Buddy could draw on the power of infinite alternative versions of himself to keep going. He did not tire, or need food or water. The heat of the city and television lights did not phase him. Technically, he did not even need sleep.

 

But “Need” was a funny word.

 

What did anyone need. Oxygen, first and foremost. Then heat. Water, Food. These four things was all a human technically needed, but few humans would be content with this. People professed to need love, respect, a car, a house, a gold plated swimming pool studded with diamonds as big as your fist. Buddy could hardly begrudge the use of the word, but it was a matter of perspective.

 

Did Buddy need sleep. Not technically. He would surely survive without it. But without it, he would go insane. He needed to dream.

 

But even this was not quite enough. The last few weeks had been a blur of media frenzy, super heroic shenanigans, and even some hot conversations with friends. Buddy needed to get away. He needed to decompress. Needed to shut off the data streams into his skull. He needed to go blind.

 

Irritable, snappy, pressured. He decided to go to extremes. He was going to Venus.

 

No, this was not a lurid euphemism for some sordid love affair at a cheap motel. Buddy Brand was literally going to Venus.

 

Orange cape trailing behind him, Captain Cosmos flew up from the city, the streets, the smells and noise fading rapidly. But space was big, like, really big. Even at his top speed of 250mph, it would take him a long time to leave the Earths gravitational field. The International Space station, at a fairly low orbit, was an hour away. And so Buddy altered his dimensions; entering a trans-dimensional state, bypassing the strands of Gravity, hitching a ride on them. As his dimensions changed, he suddenly shot up like a bolt of lightning in reverse. In under a minute, he was flying past the International Space Station. He gave it a cheery wave.

 

Such transformation came at a cost to his sanity. Esoteric dimensional states needled at his brain. Suspicions and perceptual abnormalities started seeping in. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a clown wave back at him from the space station.

 

He shook his head. The hallucination was just the stress of a transdimensional state. But as the Gravity of Earth faded, the stress faded. He recalled the famous equation F = G m1 m2 / r squared. He didn’t understand it, but he got the principle, gravity distance squared something something. Essentially, gravity faded fast as distance grew. The needles in his cortex started to fade. As gravity hit (essentially) zero, he could sustain odd dimensional states much longer, almost indefinitely.

 

In his transdimensional state, Buddy could bypass normal physics. Space could contract, elongate, or just be ignored. Free from the chains of gravity, he slid past threedimensional state, and drove himself to Venus, faster than light. A literal warp drive.

 

Einstenian physics be damned.

 

Venus was blue. As he slowed down, his velocity becoming sub-lightspeed, Buddy took a moment to behold the wonder. And relish in a singular thought… Nobody would find him here!

 

The edges of the planet were hazy, thanks to the thick atmosphere. He could feel the heat now, the trace atmosphere as he descended. Some scientists said that the ammonia detected at this level might indicate some sort of protezean life, but Buddy was no astrobiologist. He hadn’t packed a spectrometer or Geiger counter. He wasn’t here for a science experiment. He was here to avoid data, not accumulate it.

 

The atmosphere was becoming thicker, the winds picking up. Buddy could feel the pressure on his skin; far, far higher than an earth atmosphere. He flew through thick clouds of sulfuric acid, prickling on his skin. His costume was fortunately made of morphic molecules and would not dissolve. Here, nobody would perceive his butt naked body, but he did have to return to Earth some time soon, and doing so naked was not something he wanted to worry about.

 

The heat started building, faster now. A hundred, two hundred degrees centigrade. Even Buddy was feeling the heat. He paused. Venus was a hellscape; a beautiful hellscape. He dared not breathe in the gas; of course, he didn’t need oxygen. Back on earth, however, he continued to exhaled and inhale reflexively – a fortunate reflex, as it maintained his cover, but with the furious heat and acid of Venus, Buddy had unconsciously held his breath.

 

Gazing down below, he could see the hellscape of Venus in the distance. Rivers of lava flowing from multiple Volcanoes, like a network of lakes and rivers.

 

Nobody would bother him here!

 

Lava. Acid. Heat. Atmospheric pressures nearly a hundred time that of Earth. And yet, for all that hellish pressure, it was less hellish, less pressured than the Briefing room at the TV station.

 

Here, in hell, Buddy could relax.

 

Drifting in the sulfuric acid clouds, soaking up the blazing sun and burning winds, Buddy floated, closed his eyes.

 

And relaxed, certain that his sleep would not be disturbed.

 

Now this, he thought, was a vacation.

[Supercape]

Haven

 

in

 

Summer of Zen

 

Every Summer, Haven went to Kyoto. To be more precise, just outside Kyoto. In a tranquil area, full of Zen gardens.

 

It was here he came to reflect. On life, the universe, and everything.

 

Getting to Kyoto was an ordeal. He could mimic the appearance of anybody, and with his computer skills, he could bypass the passport control. Illegal, of course, but it was not the first time Haven did something illegal. He was a man with no face, and anonymity was his shield. To keep his shield, he had to dive into cyberspace and tweak a bit of data there, a bit of data here.

 

He could do the act without remorse. The danger – the fear – was its addictive power. He could tweak, tweak, tweak, slowly progressing to larger tweaks in more critical systems. This was the crack for a good hacker. And good hackers could go down a dark path, confident that they knew best. Using words like “Greater good” with free abandon.

 

Haven dressed in a crisp black suit, jacket, shirt, tie – all black, in different shades. He knew he looked like something of a Yakuza, a thug, but there was no ink on his back, nor his arms. Hopefully, he looked professional, just another businessman on some business. And yet people seemed to avoid him all the same. He smiled at the woman nest to him in line to depart the airport. She smiled back. Polite, but not intimate. If Haven had lungs, he would have sighed. This seemed to be the nature of his existence.

 

 

But could he change that nature?

He wandered the streets, smiling politely at passers by. Some smiled back, some hurried along. One evidently intoxicated woman tried to clumsily flirt, to the point of borderline sexual harassment. He had to push her away. He shook his head at he behaviour, and shook his head again, contemplating the nature of lust and desire, and wondering if his metal form could embrace that joy.

 

Summer, he recalled, was the season of lust and love. It seemed an echo now; was this carved into his artificial system, or was it merely cobwebbed, atrophied from underuse?

 

For Haven, Summer was a time – a ritual – of such contemplation. Perhaps he could be using his time more productively? I do enough, he told himself. Every soul must also strive to improve itself, not just the world it lives in.

 

He found a garden, paid the entrance, and sat on a wooden bench. His fingers touched the wood, feeling its grooves, the organic nature of the substance. Perfect, imperfect. Both grown and carved.

 

An old man sat by him, slim stick in hand, face weathered with lines, skin loose over thin and old bones. His spine was a little hunched, his legs a little bandy, but still he gave a smile. He spoke in Japanese, voice soft and hoarse.

 

“Hot day for a suit.”

 

The sun was still rising, but it was a cloudless sky in Summer. It was indeed hot. Any man, or woman, in a suit would be sweating. But Haven didn’t sweat.

 

He nodded.

 

They sat together.

 

“Visitor?” asked the old man.

 

Haven nodded. He wishes he wasn’t. He wished he could sit here forever. But forever was a long time, and the wish he could sit here forever would not last.

 

Time passed. Haven and the old man sat, still, reflective, contemplating the carefully cultured zen garden, each plant and structure carefully arranged to look unarranged. This was the paradox of Zen.

 

“Not many people can sit in silence for as long as me,” said the old man, not looking at Haven but smiling at him.

 

Haven found himself smiling back. He hadn’t come here for conversation, but this was an unusual conversation, words slow and laced, pregnant with meaning and without threat.

 

“Not many people are me,” he said.

 

The old man’s smile threatened to widen, possibly break into a smile. “You belong in this place.”

 

Haven nodded. “I need to belong somewhere.”

 

“Ah. I am old, and it the simple pleasures that remain. Peace, belonging. It is only when one has lived life full of complexities that one can appreciate the simple.”

 

“Relativity.”

 

The old man nodded again, slow, almost sad now. “At the end, we are just dust on gravel. We form one way, then another, and then we are lost.”

 

Haven nodded back. He formed many ways. And he could, potentially, live forever, or at least (as he understood it) until the universe ripped itself apart. But would he be the same person?

 

“We die every moment, to reform the next.”

 

“I like you, Visitor,” said the old man. “What is your name?”

 

Haven paused. What was it? Milo? Haven? Perhaps he needed a name for this moment, this state of being, that was neither Milo nor Haven.

 

“Mercury,” he answered.

 

Fluid, metal. One could not nail mercury down. Perhaps that was his nature.

 

“Greek God? You don’t look Greek, you don’t look like a God. Not your real name, is it? But what is a real name?” asked the old man, who shrugged. “Pleased to meet you, Mercury.”

 

“And yours?” asked Haven, out of politeness.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the man. “If you are called Mercury you can call me Uranus.”

 

Haven was about to make comment on the juvenile jokes that perpetually frothed from the name, but held the reflex in. This was not the place. Uranus, god of the underworld. The old man was truly venerable and would be soon in that place, if it existed. If Haven was Mercury, this man could call himself Uranus; and give a subtle check regarding Haven’s humour.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Uranus,” he said, pronouncing the name entirely correctly.

 

“Likewise.”

 

Haven stood up, straightening his jacket, straightening his tie. “I must go.”

 

“Must?”

 

“I am... Compelled to. We must follow our will.”

 

“And thus we chain ourselves.”

 

Haven raised an eyebrow. “Free will isn’t anything of the sort, is it. But best my slaver is myself than another.”

 

“That is true,” nodded the old man. “I have seen many slaves, many masters, and some are harsher and more cruel than others.”

 

The old man stood up and straightened his back.

 

“How old are you?” asked Haven.

 

The old man winked. “Old enough to know he should not say how old. Same time next year?” he asked.

 

Haven found himself nodding. He wondered why he was nodding, although he would indeed be at this Garden next year.

 

“If you are alive,” he said. It was an inquisition, not a cruelty.

 

“Oh I’m Uranus. I am the god of death. I would be surprised if anything can kill me, other than myself.”

 

And with that, he took his cane and slowly walked out of the garden, leaving Haven to ponder the man’s words.

[Thevshi]

Velocity/Slipstream – Virtuoso

 

Beaudrie Opera House

Theater District, Freedom City, New Jerse

Monday August 5, 2024

 

Megan Howell-Harrow was seated in the main section of the Beaudrie Opera House. The large theater was empty save for Megan and a couple of other individuals who were seated next to her.

 

"Thank you again for being willing to give Lynn a chance to play for you to see if there might be a place for her in the program." The blonde woman stated to the two men seated near her as Lynn Conners, the displaced teenage from another timeline, walked out onto the empty stage.

 

"How could we say no." Replied Fredrick Vanderhoff, the chairman of the board of trustees for the Freedom Youth Philharmonic. "You and your family have been extremely generous with your donations for decades, in addition to supporting the arts throughout the city."

 

The older man looked toward the teenager girl as she reached the center of the stage. "Although, I must say Megan, I am rather curious. This young lady is the very image of you as a teenager. Is there some relation?"

 

Megan did not lose a beat, having anticipated this question. She had decided, that telling the truth was probably the best approach, just with some omissions. "Well, this is Freedom City, capes are not the only ones that can get caught up in the unusual. She is my daughter, from another timeline. Based on information from the Atoms Family and others, it is unlike she will ever be able to return home, so Robert and I have taken her in and are trying to provide her as much normalcy as we can, given the circumstances."

 

"Ah," Vanderhoff replied as a sympathetic look crossed his face as he watched the teen. "I am sure that can be a challenge, but I know you and your husband will do all you can."

 

The figure sitting on the other side of Vanderhoff remained silent, studying Lynn as she prepared to start playing. Howard Walters was the lead conductor for the youth orchestra, and likely the final say as to whether or not there would be a spot for the teen girl.

 

Up on stage, Lynn stopped a short distance from the front of the stage, perfectly centered in front of the three figures seated in the otherwise empty theater. The blonde teenager was dressed in a button up collared white blouse and plaid skirt. Setting a music stand down in front of her, she set out the sheet music for the first piece she intended to play.

 

Putting the violin that had recently been purchased for her by this timelines version of her mother up between her shoulder and chin, Lynn glanced out at the three figures seated before her before focusing back on the sheet music. Taking a deep breath, the time displaced teen began playing Hans Millies’ Concertino in Mozart Style, 2nd Movement. As she began playing, Lynn focused on the notes on the sheet and keeping herself focused on the proper tempo. The piece was generally a slower tempo, with smooth transitions, and she let herself get into causal rhythm.

 

After finishing that first piece, Lynn turned the page of sheet music to the second piece she had selected. Getting herself set once more, she then began Vivaldi's Spring I. Allegro. This piece had much more variations in tempo, something Lynn enjoyed, as having to move appropriately between the different tempos helped her focus on remaining at normal speed as she played. 

 

As she finished the last note, Lynn lowered her bow and violin, looking up towards the three figures seated in the theater. Vanderhoff began clapping with genuine enthusiasm. "Magnificent. Very well done." He stated loud enough for Lynn to hear. Megan was clapping as well, smiling at the blonde teen.

 

Walters had been quiet, studying the blonde violinist for a few moments before he started clapping as well, although with much more restraint than Vanderhoff or Megan. Standing up, he spoke up loud enough that his voice carried up to the stage. "Very well-done indeed young lady. You certainly have a natural talent. I believe there is a place for you with the orchestra and we will be able help you on your way to reaching your full potential."

 

Up on stage, Lynn softly let out a sigh of relief. Although she had qualified for a spot on the orchestra back in her own timeline, since her arrival in this timeline, she had begun to learn that in addition to more significant differences between the timelines, there were countless subtle deviations between the two. And then there was the fact they had been asking for her to be considered outside the standard recruitment tryouts, she might not have stood out enough to be considered outside the normal process.

 

"Congratulations Ms. Conners." Vanderhoff added as he stood as well. He then looked over to Megan with a small smile. "Megan, I believe I can leave you and Howard to work out the details. Always a pleasure to see you." With a small nod to the lead conductor, he then made his way out of the aisle and toward the exit.

 

A short time later Megan and Lynn exited the opera house, Lynn with her violin case in one hand. "Well, that went well." Megan commented as the pair walked out into hot summer air, the blonde woman putting on her sunglasses. When Lynn stopped, Megan halted as well, turning to be sure everything was alright with the teen. No sooner had she done so than the teen wrapped her into a hug.

"Thank you." Lynn said through light tears of happiness.

 

"Of course, dear." Megan replied as she returned the hug. "But to be honest, I just got you in the door, everything after that was all you."

 

Stepping back again and using her free hand to wipe away the tears, Lynn gave Megan a faint smile. "Maybe, but I do apricate all you and Robert have done for me since I arrived here."

 

Megan gave the teen a sympathetic smile. "We can never replace all that you have lost, nor do we expect to. But we can at least provide opportunities for you to gain new memories and friendships that you will hopefully cherish as much as what you had in your original timeline."

 

"But, enough of that, you just played two fantastic pieces and got a spot on the prestigious Freedom Youth Philharmonic. I say it is time to celebrate." Megan then said with a wide smile as she turned back down the sidewalk and looped one arm around Lynn's free arm as she started to lead the teen back towards where they had parked.

[Supercape]

Rev

 

In

 

Super Grand Prix

 

It was racing season again, and Rev wanted to race.

 

It wasn’t that simple.

 

Even before her accident, the mechaphage, the skin and bones being eaten away and replaced by shiny chrome and pulses of electrical power, Lexa Venn had always loved cars. Particularly cars travelling very fast, belching gas, grinding gears and pumping pistons. Beautiful, ugly, entrancing. And the most exciting version of fast cars? Chases!

 

Official sport races were just chases, when you boiled down to it. Perhaps not quite as exciting; you wouldn’t be able to release your caltrops, or fire your missile launchers. You wouldn’t get somebody leaning out of a window firing an uzi. But those kind of chases weren’t easy to come by, and you wouldn’t normally do it in F1 cars driven by F1 drivers.

 

So it was down to Mexico for summer holidays, closing down her chop shop for a few weeks and trying to slide into the competition.

 

It was bittersweet, laced with frustration. Lexa would have given anything to step into one of those cars, feel the rumbling engine in her bones. To feel the thrill of throttle, the smell of burning rubber, to pit wits against other drivers, other engines. But Rev wasn’t human; at least as far as the governing bodies of the race track where concerned.

 

This was the rub; superheroes and sport – be it on foot, on the racing track, or even electronic sports. You couldn’t have Centurion entering a weight lifting competition.

 

And that was simple. Often, things were a lot more fuzzy, a lot more messy. What constituted a superhuman? When was there an advantage?

 

Could a man with cybernetic eyes enter a marathon? Maybe. But maybe the ability to calculate distances and pace and incline instantly was an advantage, no matter how slight.

 

“Cmon!” said Rev, throwing her hands up in exasperation at the adjudicator of the race. “What kinda advantage would I get?”

Ms Sands, a tall, dusty woman wearing a little too much makeup, raised her eyebrows. “We have to think of the other players, dear. Let them have a fair race.”

 

Lexa winced at the term dear but let it slide. “Why would I make it unfair?”

 

Ms Sands reached out with her black ink pen, and flicked it onto Lexa’s bare forearm. The synthetic skin undulated, and the chrome underneath went ting.

 

“That’s why. Humans only.”

 

Lexa rolled her red eyes skywards. “I am human.”

 

“Not according to us. Non medical cybernetics. Abnormal blood results. You wouldn’t let a driver race if he was high on amphetamines, would you?”

 

“That would be his choice. What choice do I have?”

 

Ms Sands shrugged apologetically. “I sympathise, dear, I do. But our priority is the sport. We cant let people in who are… well, super.”

 

There was something in that voice, that word. Super. Disdain, envy… no overt, but gently bubbling. And why not? Only human to covet what others had and what you did not. Lexa did it herself. What the lovely Ms Sands did not know was the cost. The Mechaphage had changed her body, and not always for the better.

 

“Rules are meant to be fair!” she said, knowing the battle was lost and this wild shot – an appeal to reason – wasn’t going to change anything. It was reflex, perhaps, or just some defiant spit at the enemy.

 

“Now you just sound like a child,” said Ms Sands.

 

Lexa clenched her fists, went red, and stormed off. She felt like a child, that was for sure. And she was only twenty.

Old enough to drive, she reminded herself. Not a kid. Not anymore.

 

She paced through the racing venue, feeling the urge to kick something – a trash can, maybe – across the floor. A thousand arguments rattled around her head, all screaming its not fair, and injustice! Super-phobia. Discrimination. She would go to the press, hire a lawyer, protest in the street, post on social media.

 

But this was gnashing of teeth. What she ended up doing was walking to the garages.

 

Security was there, but Lexa had a pass, and a grin, and – in this circle at least – a certain amount of fame that greased wheels and opened doors. And she had, when money was a little tight, endorsed various engine oils and parts, for a little (or more) pocket cash. She could cash in that goodwill now.

 

The cars themselves were all beautiful. Shining, clean. Some had their hoods popped open, with top rated mechanics and engineers examining the contents, ensuring everything as greased and functional as could be. No wire would be left loose, nothing would jiggle when it shouldn’t. Tyres and undercarriages were also being inspected.

 

Lexa stopped to inspect one of the engines, her nostrils inhaling the fine aroma of oils and metals. A leathery mechanic, probably younger than he looked, leant on the popped bonnet and clucked in satisfaction.

 

“Beauty, int she?” he drawled. Southern accent.

 

Rev looked up with a grin. “Sure. You get to work on this?”

 

“Pretty much her nanny,” said the Mechanic. “Feed her, clean her, oil her. A bit of an obsession, but I never had kids, so a man’s gotta plow that love somewhere, right?”

 

“Sure…” agreed Rev. It was true, but there was that pang. Her uterus, ovaries were more metal than flesh. She would never have children. She doubted she would have wanted them, but somehow the fate that she couldn’t was a nail in her heart.

 

“I reckon I know you…” said the mechanic. “Rev, right? The kid with jets?”

 

Rev smiled. She wasn’t unknown, but she wasn’t famous either. But when it came to the world of racing cars, she was much better known. She stuck up her thumb, her signature, and from the tip of her thumb came a two inch blue flame.

 

“You got me!”

 

“Pleased to meet ya. Cant say I am surprised to see you here, you got a fan club amongst our kind. But kinda figured you would be racing today.”

 

Rev’s smile vanished like a windscreen wiper had scraped it off. “Can’t. No supes…”

 

The mechanic shrugged. “Figures. Can’t say if that’s right or wrong, fair or otherwise. But must be disappointing?”

 

“I’ll say.”

 

The mechanic looked back at the engine. “You gotta deal with whats infront of you, ‘s my philosophy, right?”

 

“Roll over and die?”

 

“No. That’s not dealing with it. Look, how about you set up your own race? Down here in Mexico? Super-races. Gotta be a tone of supers with nuclear powered hover cars, or enhanced reflexes, right? Set it in the desert. Throw in some smoke, fireworks, and spikes. Could be a thing, right?”

 

It could be a thing indeed. “I could do that?” she asked.

 

“Let me make some phone calls….” Said the mechanic, with a toothy smile.

 

And thus, in 2024, the spark that would become the Mexican Super-Wheels race began. A two week summer party every year, full of Tequila, music, thrills, spills, and atomic super-cars!

[Supercape]

Sgt Shark in

 

Fishing for fun

 

The calm, sunlit ocean waters seethed, twenty yards from a bronze, fine-sanded beach. Crystal blue turned to red.

 

With an abrupt burst, Sergeant Shark burst from the water, his mighty maw holding the torn carcass of a large fish. It was hard to say if the shark-man hybrid ever smiled, for his jaws seemed perpetually fixed in an unnerving, hungry grin. But he looked happy as blood trickled from his teeth down to his chest.

 

His mighty hands, the nails sharp, reached up and tore the fish in two with a burst of entrails and blood.

 

There was little doubt he was happy now. A fully belly? Part of it, no doubt. But the real joy came from the kill. Sergeant Shark was a hunter. A killer. And woe betide and fish that fell between his mighty jaws.

 

Or possibly anything else that fell between his teeth.

 

Squat, powerful legs pushed forward, and he strode through lapping waves towards the beach. The sun beat down, bright and hot. Despite the heat and sunshine, a Caribbean beach was Finley Finn (aka Sergeant Sharks) favourite holiday destination, even before he had become a human-shark hybrid. It was undeniably beautiful, both above and below the ocean surface.

 

A group of men and women waited for him on the beach. Their leader, a thin old man with the look of boot leather, fell to his knees, long grey hair laying wild across his shoulder.

 

“Shark God!”

 

The others fell to their knees too, supplanting their hands, offering flowers and ornaments.

 

Finley Finn, also known as Sergeant Shark, and no also apparently known as a Shark God, blinked.

 

He was aware of Shark God mythology around the world, but only dimly. Ukupanipo and Kamohoalii, the Shark Gods of Hawaiian mythology, for instance. Presumably something about the shark inspired worship. Or fear. Or both.

 

He spat out a fish head, his appetite evaporated. He had a feeling his holiday would take a sour turn.

 

“What?” he growled.

 

“Oh Mighty Shark God, we, your faithful few, come to honour your divine divinity!”

 

The old man, in Finley’s opinion, looked crazy.

 

“I’m no God. I’m not even a Shark…” he said, chewing the remnants of scales and cartilarge stuck in his teeth.

 

“Only a divine being would be so modest!”

 

“Only a fool would call me a God.”

 

The old man wailed, wept, and put his head in the sand. “Then I am a fool, oh mighty Shark God!”

 

“You’re psychotic…”

 

“Then I am psychotic, oh mighty shark God.”

 

It was hard to see when Finley rolled his jet black eyes. But he did. He had some medical training, but that was about combat. Stopping a brother in arms from bleeding out. Not psychosis. Something about this man screamed mentally ill, but Finley was no psychiatrist.

 

“Outa my way,” he said, striding forward. The dozen worshippers quickly parted, and Finley marched back to his hotel, hoping that was the end of the matter.

 

Behind him, he heard the pitter patter of two dozen bare feet across sand.

 

He turned, showed his teeth and said “I said… Outa my way! Or I’ll eat you”, and licked his sharp teeth.

 

They moved. A step. Maybe two.

 

Grunting, Finley turned back and started walking again. After a few seconds, he heard the feet of the devout patter again. This time a little further away.

 

Finley turned around, gave an unholy roar (as befitted an angry shark god), and charged the group. His claws out, his teeth glinting, his mouth drooling. “EAT YOU ALL!” he screamed. This time, the group’s primitive limbic systems overrode their devout will and they scattered.

 

“ALL OF YOU! EVERY LAST BONE!” shouted Finley as they dispersed.

 

He didn’t want to eat then all. He told himself. Over and over again. What he wanted was to have a pleasant two week summer holiday fishing.

Thinking the matter was over, Finley retreated to his beach hut and lay down for a pleasant post-prandial snooze.

 

He was wrong.

 

He awoke at dusk, stretched, feeling a little dry but otherwise quite sated, quite happy. In his half asleep state, he had forgotten all about the mad group of cultists. He yawned, and opened the door to his hut, so as to best take in the spectacular orange sunset dancing over the ocean.

 

He quickly remembered the vexation of the afternoon. The same dozen madmen (and madwomen) holding lit candles, who started chanting as soon as they saw him.

 

“I told you to get lost,” said Finley, trying to keep his voice low and his maw from chomping. “You don’t need a shark God. You need to think for yourselves.”

 

“Behold the words of the Shark God!” said the crazed leader.

 

“We don’t need a shark God. We need to think for ourselves,” said the group, in perfect unison.

 

“But I just said tha---” said Finley, before clamping his stunned jaw shut.

 

“But you just said tha---” echoed the group.

 

Finley took a step back into his hut and slammed the door.

 

“Behold! The God Shark is not satisfied with our devotion! We must show him more!” screamed the cult leader, the muffled words of agreement from his (presumably equally crazy) posse.

 

“Hello, is that police?” said Finley, barking into the phone. He had faced down all sorts of serious threats, life-threatening threats, both as Finley Finn and as Sergeant Shark. He couldn’t recall feeling quite so out of his depth, quite so floundering, as he was right now.

 

All he could do was finish his conversation with the (rather helpful) police officer, gently put the phone down (despite the urge to throw it against the floor), sit on his bed, and put his clawed hands over his ears. He tried to count sheep, or fish. Anything to distract himself from the chanting outside.

“Its supposed to be a holiday… Its supposed to be a holiday…” he kept repeating to himself, until the thought occurred to him that this was a mantra.

 

Predictably, the cult outside started repeating the mantra. “It’s supposed to be a holiday…. It’s supposed to be a holiday…”

 

All Finley could do was scream.

 

Blessed (pardon the phrase) relief was the police van, that arrived and duly carted the posse of cultists off. Most of them were bound for a cell overnight, with a caution in the morning. The leader of the cult was due psychiatric assessment and a trip to the local psychiatric hospital.

 

Finley tossed and turned, unable to sleep the whole night.

 

He was red eyed and restless by the time the sun rose. Furious with himself for not relaxing, he charged into the sea and swam as deep and far from land as he could go.

 

This was supposed to be a relaxing holiday? Why couldn’t he relax now? He knew very well. What he needed was something to take his mind of it. And a very tasty tuna fish had just swum past him….

[Supercape]

Gamma Buzz

 

In

 

Not much of a holiday

 

The problem with holidays was that if you had no money they were not much of a holiday at all. All Baltazar “Baz” Botez had was some loose change that went clink in his back pocket. With the other Claremont kids off to see family, or take vacations in the Alps, Baltazar was left somewhat alone in the halls of Claremont academy.

 

At least, he told himself, he was not on the street.

 

In another life, Baz didn’t get into Claremont. Maybe he didn’t get into the USA. He would be the cockroach monster and would have made a living with petty theft. Perhaps even more than petty theft. As sour as the concept was, Baltazar knew he could have become a super villain – maybe a relatively benign one, forced into crime to feed himself and his sister – but a super villain nonetheless. It was not a happy thought.

 

Baz could handle being a punk, a rebel, a greasy cockroach kid riding the streets on a smoking motorbike blazing out the sex pistols. But a villain, no no.

 

He needed something to do. And at times like these, one turned to family. In Baltazars case, this was Bianca “Biz”Botez.

 

A couple of years younger, an illegal immigrant, and working the subways as a cleaner. Nice smile, pretty face, and stunning eyes. Not literally stunning, but they did have a slightly unnatural shining green quality.

 

Biz had been playing with radioactive cockroaches with Baz, but unlikely her rapscallion brother, she had done it far less and from a distance. She had retained her human body. The only trace of any mutation was her eyes – able, like Baz, to see in infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. Handy, for a Subway cleaner. And she was pretty handy with her broom – not just for cleaning, but for the occasional smiting of some unruly subway denizen.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, having spotted Baz crawling up along the ceiling of the subway station.

 

“What? You can see me?” said Baz.

 

“Of course,” replied Biz, pointing at her eyes. “You pretty much glow in the dark, stupid!”

 

“Hey! Don’t call me stupid! I am your brother, the amazing cockroach kid!”

 

Biz poked him with her broom. “I’m hear to clean up cockroaches! Shoo!” she said, smiling. “Seriously, you could lose me my job?”

 

She glanced behind her. There were only a few people waiting on the platform, and they were not interested in the dark ends of the station.

“I can take a break,” she said, in hushed tones. “But not here… this way, come on!”

 

Biz knew the subways better than probably anyone in Freedom City. And Baz knew them almost as well. Stuffed full of unexplored and forgotten nooks and crannies, some leading to the sewers, some leading further down, to ancient ruins and historical predesessors of the modern architecture. Not all were merely forgotten. In some places, things lived. Or even unlived. Zombies, mutant alligators, spectral ghosts and eldritch cultists had all been rumoured to dwell in the depths. Some of the rumours were true. At the moment, the current flavour of the month for subway rumours was the feared Crococonda, an ancient lemurian hybrid beast.

 

So it was that the siblings ended up in a rather cramped, very filthy, and totally forgotten nook of the subway system. It was unlikely that any human soul had been in there for fifty years. Now, it was populated by squeaking rats and crawling, yes, cockroaches.

 

“Lovely,” said Baz, face frowning. He flicked a few cockroaches into a spider web. A spider was very grateful.

 

“We don’t all leave in Claremont mansion. Swanky Senor Botez,” said Biz. Miming putting on a top hat and stroking an imaginary moustache.

 

“Sorry. But… cant we do any better?”

 

“Not if you want to chat unseen. Nobody knows about this little place. Nobody wants to.”

 

“I can see why.”

Biz shrugged. “Could be worse. Plenty of places worse, down here. At least the Crococonda wont gobble you up.”

 

“Wait, is that thing real?” asked Baz.

 

Biz shrugged. “Dunno. But those kind of rumours keeps people from exploring too far. Look, this place aint so bad…”

 

She pulled open a filthy draw, to reveal a packet of cigarettes, a small bottle of whiskey, a wind up radio and a pack of playing cards.

“Home sweet home,” she smiled. “Good for a bit of piece and quiet.”

 

A thought zoomed through Baltazars (frequently zooming) head. “Wait… nobody knows about this place, right?” he said, scanning the corners of the place.

 

“That’s right.”

 

“And, like, nobody will?”

 

Biz shrugged. “Can’t say for certain. Hardly anyone comes down here, and as far as I can see, those that do don’t like poking around too much. Besides, its pretty hard to spot, and harder to squeeze into…”

 

That was true. Fortunately, Biz was thin and Baltzar had amazing cockroach-flexibility.

 

“So… this can be my cockroach cave!” said Baltazr proudly, putting his crazy idea into words.

 

“Your… what?”

 

“Cockroach Cave! My secret hero headquarters!”

 

“This place? Its…” said Biz, adding in a few choice expletives to describe just how poor and filthy the place was.

 

“I am sure you, I mean we, can clean it up, right? You know your way round a mop?”

 

Biz growled, and brandished her mop up Baltazars nose. “Careful, or I will stick this up your amazing cockroach backside! But, but yeah I can get you some detergent and bleach…” she looked around. “I guess we could get this place respectable.”

 

“And even better than just a superhero cave… My pirate radio station!”

 

“Your what?”
 

“That’s right! Cockroach radio! From the streets! Playing all the sickest tunes, and giving you all the best made up news and rumours from the streets! Independent media to the best beats in town!”
 

Biz slapped her head. “Of course. How could I not have guessed. The radiation has fried your brain…”

 

“Aim for the moon, you might hit the stars!” said Baz, grinning wildly. “Look, we can hook up power cables here, leaching electricity directly and almost legally from the subway electrical system…”

 

“Almost legally?”

 

“Almost legally. Look, we are practical illegal immigrants anyway, whats a little power siphoning going to matter? And for a good cause. Namely, Cockroach Radio!”

 

“Cockroach Radio, huh? Well, if you make it the voice of the illegal immigrant, Ill listen. Ill even help set it up.”

 

The two siblings bumped fists.

 

And so began a summer of sneaking in and out of the subways and sewers, preparing the Cockroach cave for action. To begin with, a deep clean – and it needed to be deep. Then electricity. It was slow work, but it was a start. But with a bit of will, a bit of elbow grease, the Cockroach cave would be ready for action when the Cockroach Kid graduated from Claremont!

[Poncho]

Michael Adon - One Day With a Friend

 

EVO; Evolution. The fighting game championships; the innovator of fighting game championships, taking place over a weekend in July. Over 10,000 competitors and even more just there for the experience. 

 

Michael was just there for the experience, since it wouldn’t exactly be fair for a person with superpowered reactions to compete in a video game tournament- also he wasn’t near as good as those top players would be-. So instead he had just taken the chance to go visit as a spectator, wandering around the show floor and enjoying the local attractions.

 

Sure he was supposed to be at camp with his parents and Carmen, but Carmen wouldn’t have wanted to go to such a busy place, and he could travel faster than his parents could- or most things could, really- by flying places. Maybe he shouldn’t be using his flying powers to fly cross country on a whim to go to a fighting game convention, but sometimes using superpowers for fun was, well, fun. He’d probably get yelled at by his mom and maybe Carmen when he got back, but for now he was enjoying some overly expensive Papa John’s pizza while drinking free water and playing around in some of the tech demos.

 

He got to play as Braum in 2XKO, got a signed poster from Sajam, and watched the HunterXHunter Nen Impact invitational. It was enjoyable, but Michael was also Michael, and on some level he realized he shouldn’t be enjoying all of this. It wasn’t something he could put out of his mind so easily, but it was something he continued to accept was genuinely enjoyable. He always did have to fight his conflicting feelings about doing bad things and good things; he wanted to have fun too, even if he didn’t often do it. But of course, the fun loving side of Michael always had a tag team partner when trying to beat up the serious, studious side of the golden boy.

 

Sam, who was willing to fly across the entire country on a whim to meet up with Michael away from the prying eyes of his family and other friends and finally get some time for just the two of the old friends to hang out, which is something they hadn’t had time for in way too long. So they were currently walking around the convention area looking at sponsorships and deals. Michael hadn’t been super interested in contesting his skills with people who played far more competitively then he did, but he still bounced around between casual sets across a few different games. He wasn’t here to win anything, after all.

 

Sam, however, definitely was. She’d set herself up with some prestige and was currently engaging in money matches on one of the SF6 cabinets. There were plenty of people willing to put a couple of bucks on a set, and Sam was very good at the game- much better than Michael was- so she was racking up money at a fairly decent clip while Michael sat on a chair nearby and watched. The two were cracking jokes and generally being actual teenagers; a vanishing rarity in Michael’s life. Especially specifically with Sam.

 

“...Why don’t you actually compete in the tournament instead of just doing matches like these if you’re so good?” Michael asked Sam as he watched her stack up another pile of money into her pocket.

 

“Well, I don’t know if I’m really good enough to win the tournament. Maybe I am, but I don’t know. If I won, or if I placed highly, I’d maybe make more total money. But if I don’t, I’ve wasted days doing nothing. While this way, I make less money, but I do it definitively. It’s taking the smaller risk for the lesser profit, but ensuring there is a profit.” Sam explained as she waited for her next challenger. “Shouldn’t you know that if you want to be a politician?”

 

“Well, yeah. Obviously you can’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good and all that stuff, incremental progress is still progress. I just figured that you’d want the challenge to yourself.” he said, pretty stalled out by Sam’s casual ease that she obliterated his argument.

 

“No reason to. I like where I’m at.” she finished. “Besides, that would feel more like cheating now, given, you know, what’s going on.” she noted. “So...really this is the better way to do it, right?” she said with a grin.

 

“...Yeah, okay. I guess you’re right.” Michael finally said, giving up at attempting to out logic Sam at this point; she was clearly better at the discussion than he was. So he watched Sam win a few more games before going to get something to eat to bring back to her. By the time he came back, she’d won enough games that she was getting tired of it, and the two moved over to the stage to watch the finals of Street Fighter 3, which had been delayed for a few hours due to technical issues.

 

And so the two best friends spent the rest of the day at EVO watching the top 6 of a game that was older than them by almost 8 years; it was from the previous millennium, even. He was in the audience, third row, as Evo Moment 38 happened; watching Hayao stretch out on the floor as he played Hugo masterfully against Ken. It was more hype than the actual finals to see Hugo do so well. He didn’t really know anything about Street Fighter Third Strike, but even rudimentary knowledge of fighting games could provide the understanding of how impressive certain actions could be; of the dexterity, the reads, and the planning. The game seemed crazy to watch, a completely different style of fighting game then the current ones that were around; so defensively focused, so strategic in all the small movements. Of course this was also defeated by a matchup between Hugo and Elena where it was a complete slaughter, where Hugo could do nothing; even old games had their problems, after all. It might have been a unique experience, but it had its own flaws. 

 

By the time it was over, it was quite late, and the pair had been gone from where they were supposed to each be for quite some time, so as the venue emptied out, they followed, eventually heading down a back alley where no one was around.

 

“...Well, that was fun.” Sam said. “But I guess we need to get back now.” 

“Yeah. We’ll be back in Freedom City in a week or so, I’ll let you know.” Michael responded, checking his phone. "We'll meet up again when I get back, there's still some time before school starts back."

 

“Alright. Well, having fun camping. I’ll see you then.” Sam said as she floated up into the air before glowing bright yellow and flying off quite fast. Michael yawned, stretching his limbs. He was actually pretty tired, so getting back to where his parents were seemed pretty smart, so he floated up, let his power surge, and took off like a streak of light across the dark sky.

[Poncho]

King Cole III - Public Nuisance

 

Sun!

 

Surf!

 

Sand!

 

Renee hated all of these things. She wanted to stay at home. She wanted to read more about her Grandfather’s books. But instead she had been pulled away by her parents to Florida, where they were all currently hanging out down at the beach, Renee was hiding on the condo’s balcony, looking out over the ocean.  She didn’t like the sun, she didn’t like the sand, and she always got salt water up her nose. All of it was a terrible situation that made her quite annoyed with the idea of the beach entirely.

 

She could have spent the entire vacation time alone in their house, and instead she was here. She had gotten to sleep in, at least, but that didn’t mean anything, she got to do that regularly at home. So she was mostly miserable during the day, though going out to various restaurants and entertainment places during the night had been fun. But she was getting bored of sitting in the room every day by herself, and Renee wasn’t the kind of person who would leave this condo by herself and for no reason.

 

...But wouldn’t King Cole III?

 

She thought about it for only a few minutes before retreating to her room; she always kept her ingredients on hand in case there was heroing to do, after all. So after a few minutes, she’d downed her potion, and had borrowed some clothes from her siblings and put some stuff together into a functional, not at all Renee looking outfit, and King Cole III quickly escaped the confines of the condo room and ran out into the summer heat of the sunshine state.

 

Out onto the burning sidewalk, King Cole III looked left, then right, deciding to head right, running down the lined road of condos and timeshares and hotels. The street itself was packed with traffic, as it always was, cars zipping by without a care as they headed towards their next tourist destination. She spied a group of teens around her age waiting on a street corner, one with a skateboard. She grinned to herself as she ran up to them.

 

“Hey! Can I buy your skateboard?”

 

“W..what?”

 

“Your skateboard. I wanna buy it.” She repeated. “How much?”

 

“...You’re kidding.”

 

“Nope! How much?”

 

“...Fifty bucks?” King Cole III grinned and reached into her pockets, pulling out a wallet and shoving five tens into his hand. 

 

“Cool, thanks!” She said, grabbing it right out of the guy’s hand and rolling it down the street, hopping on it to skate down the road.

 

She may have never been on a skateboard before, but King Cole figured stuff was easy as long as you had good balance, and the potion gave King Cole great balance, so she zipped down the road, weaving between random walkers with a surprising amount of skill; she really liked this part of the potion, how it made her pretty good at anything she tried. When she approached a stairway step she kicked the board up and landed on the handrail, grinding down the metal bar to the bottom of the stairway.

 

“Haha, ten out of ten if I do say so myself!” she declared, skating around the small recessed shopping area that she had landed in, where people were hanging out, sitting at tables or engaging in shopping at some of the stands. King Cole deftly avoided them as she rolled around, but people were still not happy with her, obviously.

 

“Stupid kid! You’re gonna hurt someone!”

 

“Get off the board! We’re trying to shop here!”

 

“Sorry, sorry!” King Cole called back, waving at them as she careened around for a bit before leaving the area, still being hounded by yelling adults. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” she yelled in response as they chased her out of the area. “Aaaaa, I’m leaaaving!” her voice said, fading away as she disappeared around a corner with a wave, being chased by rude expletives and thrown napkins.

 

This was how King Cole wheeled her time away as she enjoyed the Florida sun. When it came time to return to the room in order to bet her parents and siblings there, she hitched a ride on the bumper of a bus, hanging on with her hands as she stood on her skateboard and getting pulled along. She got several annoyed honks by other motorists, but as she got close to where she was going she let go of the bumper and boarded off, weaving through the traffic between her and the condo. A quick jaunt back up the building and a quick store of the skateboard, and the potion had run out and Renee had once more taken her place sulking on the balcony, no one the wiser of what she had done.

 

Up until that evening, when her entire family went out for pizza, and Renee was sunburnt, her pale skin turned a blistered pink and heated all over, making even small motions quite painful.

 

“I don’t understand it at all.” One of her older sisters said in between bites of pizza, laughing. “You didn’t even leave the room and you’re burnt to a crisp worse than any of us. Are you a vampire?” Renee could only hang her head- which made her burns hurt- and come up with an excuse.

 

“I guess I spent too much time on the balcony...” she mumbled, eating her pizza slowly. “This is what I get for coming to some crappy sunny place like this instead of staying with grandma.” she whined. 

 

“Now now, a little sunburn won’t kill you.” her dad said, laughing. “You’ll just need to lotion it down until it starts to peel. And maybe next time you won’t burn so bad.” 

 

But no matter how much it hurt or how gross it got when she started peeling or how much she was lightly teased by her siblings for getting burned without ever going to the beach, Renee held tight to her actual good memory of the first summer she’d had as King Cole. Skating around the city, being a bit of a nuisance, and finding new fun things to get into were just the first explorations of what would become her greater life.

[Poncho]

Dwayne Devon Davidson - Visit from the Parents

 

“Four packs of 24 count hot dogs is...48 times 2, 9..6? 96 Hot dogs. So if buns are 8 to a pack we need... 12 packs of buns.” Dwayne said. Even with an alien supercomputer on his arm, he had to do some math by head, and it was always easier to do it when he was counting it out with words instead of trying to do it just in his head. It cost a pretty penny to get all this stuff- price of groceries was always going up-, but he didn’t mind too much as he got the hot dogs, condiments, and drinks all bundled up, then taken out to his car for him to drive back out to Lincoln. 

 

It was a tradition on his street; A big Juneteenth/Summer/July 4th block party that brought several people’s relatives in as well. Dwayne wasn’t really the best griller, best cook, or anything like that, so he mostly made regular old hot dogs- some of the people in the block showed up with hand made hot dogs and burgers and buns-, and acted sort of as a block captain to avoid any of the kids getting too rambunctious. 

 

This year was especially nice for him, because his parents and one of his siblings had driven down to enjoy the party, and by 10AM the party was in full swing, with the kids running around or taking turns on the slides, pools, or jump houses, the grills spread throughout the road and streets sizzling with food, and music playing from stereos. Dwayne had, unfortunately, been banished from his grill by his dad, but he also wasn’t going to fight that battle. In his late sixties and walking with a cane but still straight backed and unbowed by the weight of the world, Patrick Davidson might have been one of the only white men at the block party, but no one was going to deny that ‘Three-D’s’ dad was allowed at the party. Meanwhile, Dwayne was sitting nearby and playing checkers with his mom; Shawna was heavyset, confident, and always the voice of reason, her hair going grey but still full of life.

 

“So you’re a Superhero now, huh?” Patrick called as he dropped a hot dog in a bun and put it on a plate; it was immediately snatched up by a hungry child. “Hey! Kid. Be polite. Ask before you take it.”

 

“...Sorry, sir. Can I have this hotdog?”

 

“Yes.” he said, before the kid ran off. 

 

“Yeah, I’m a Superhero now or something. Still working at the fire department though.” Dwyane clarified as he moved a piece on the checkerboard.

 

“Don’t most Superheroes hide their identities? Why don’t you?” Shawna asked.

 

“Well, none of you live in the city with me, and I work for the city; It would be hard for me to leave and not get fired if I was ducking out of every disaster call to go turn into an alien and help solve the crisis.”

 

“What do your bosses think?”

 

“Uneasy acceptance. There was a Firewoman before who was immune to fire. I’m clearly more than just immune to fire, but it’s not like there’s not precedent. I can do whatever I want on my off time, but on my shifts I’m generally only helping out at issues the truck and ambulance are called out to. It’s easier that way.” 

 

“You’re doing the right thing, even if I wish you could get that thing offa you.” Shawna said.

 

“It’s not coming off anytime soon, at least. It’s wedged in there pretty good. Sets off all the metal detectors too. Which is another reason why trying to hide it would be difficult; I can’t even go into the courthouse or get on a plane without people finding out about it due to the metal detectors, so hiding it would be almost impossible. I could come up with a lie about surgery or something but obviously I had to show my medical records to my boss, and since my job is physically demanding I’d need to come up with something that wouldn’t imperil my job but would also explain why I set off metal detectors and in the end I just didn’t want the hassle.” he explained. In truth, while Dwayne did good things and always tried to do the right thing, he also did tend towards trying to do things that didn’t make his life any more complicated. It kept him grounded, mostly.

 

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens with Alien technology. You shouldn’t have put it on.” Patrick mumbled. “You touch weird alien stuff and next thing you know you’re bonded to a weird alien thing. Just like that Megastar guy or whatever. It’s why I’m happy I’ve never been anywhere near any Alien Stuff. Until it turns out you got some grafted to your wrist.” He grumbled. Not upset, and not angry, not at Dwayne at least, but just grousing like old men are prone to do.

 

“I didn’t exactly get a choice.” Dwyane said with a laugh. The Watch beeped as if it was agreeing with the assessment. “I have no idea what it wants, only that I need to keep it until I can figure out what it is. And maybe until it gets fixed. The Atom Family was helping with that; that Rex kid, one of the Ravens...there’s some lady from another dimension. Lots of people in that set up.”

 

“Well, it’s good you got some back up at least; if anything you’d think all your work with Emergency Services would teach you you should always have some back up.”

 

“Oh don’t worry, I know. It’s part of why I don’t just go out running on my own without it being on one of my sites; too much possibility of something going wrong and things turning out bad.” 

 

At this point Patrick dropped a plate of Hot Dogs on the table. 

 

“Alright, let’s eat.” he declared. 

 

So the interrogation of Dwayne and his life was slowed for a bit, but never stopped; his parents were always curious and always hoping for the best from all of their children. 

 

It was a nice, warm Jersey Summer day, and Dwayne was eating with his parents, who had come down for the day, and he got to talk to them in person.

 

It was hard to complain about a summer day like that.

[Poncho]

Millisand and Zendaar, the Star Knights - A Star Knight is Always Vigilant

 

Intergalactic Luxury Cruiser: Hydrogen Dream

 

The line to board Hydrogen Dream was long and winding; a few hours from taking off to a cruise across the stars, everyone was ready to go, bringing suitcases and excitement for a grand vacation that would take the lucky passengers across two different galaxies, stopping on two different resort planets along the side. Alongside screaming, cheerful kids, loving couples, and retirees enjoying some freedom were two off-duty Star Knights; Millisand Vermillion of the Berengi, and Zendaar of the Zultasians.

 

Appropriate for his sage, Millisand was dressed in a floral patterned shirt of garish colors, khaki shorts, a bucket hat, socks with sandals, and glasses. He was leaning on his cane with one hand while he waited in line, for once his wrinkly, gorilla-like face was not a neutral or displeased look but instead presenting a genuine smile. 

 

Meanwhile, Zendaar, wearing beach shorts and a tank top, was having to carry both his and Millisand’s bags, and did not look near as happy as his mentor, again, a stark departure from the usual.

 

“Aren’t they supposed to have like...carriers for this stuff.” The blue space elf complained to his mentor, who chuckled.

 

“They have to be brought there first, and we’re not in line yet. Don’t be so impatient. Other people need more help than we do to get on; you’re a strapping young man, after all, you don’t need any help.” 

 

“I wouldn’t if I was carrying only my own bags. Yours feel like you’re carrying the entire armory in your bag.”

 

“Remember the code, Zendaar. A Star Knight is always Vigilant.” 

 

And so boarding continued. It took far too long for Zendaar’s taste, but eventually they were on the ship, and by the time everyone was settling down to relax, the ship took off through the infinite expanse of stars, going onto its next destination.

 

The Next Day

 

Millisand had parked himself in a lounge chair around the swimming pool on the open deck of the ship, watching the stars go by as he sipped a drink. Old retirees would come up to him from time to time, speaking cheerfully of times where he had saved them or had visited their planet, and he would happily reminisce about those times. It was very boring to Zendaar, who had heard most of these stories before and was not interested in hearing them again, so he had left his aging mentor at the pool side and instead gone wandering amongst the many bars and restaurants that the luxury liner had to offer, sampling a variety of concoctions and foods from across the galaxy. It was on his quest to see exactly what was a ‘Galactic Fizzbanger’ that he happened to be wandering down a hall where, in a small cubby, he overheard a conversation.

 

“Look, Girlie. You just need to do this. Put the package in the engine room and you’ll get off scott-free. Your brother will be safe.” An imposing male voice.

 

“What is it!?” responded a panicked female voice. “I don’t want to hurt people.” 

 

“The only person you’re hurting is your brother if you don’t do what I tell you. So go do it.” he barked. “I’ll be in contact later.” and then the slamming of a door in the cubbyhole. A green skinned, violet eyed alien with deer-like features exited the cubby hole next, wearing the uniform of a worker on the liner, holding a package, where Zendaar was waiting.

 

“What was that all about?” he asked casually. The alien woman seemed surprised, then quickly turned away.

 

“Do not worry about it, Sir. It was a discussion on the course of the ship. Please enjoy your stay.” she said as she walked quickly away. “You are here to enjoy your vacation, not interfere in our work.” she finished as she disappeared around a corner, leaving Zendaar with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“I’d love to, lady, but a Star Knight is always vigilant.” he mumbled to himself as he went the other way.

 

CRASH, BANG, ZAM!

 

The bottle broke over his opponent’s head as Zendaar tossed him down the bar, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Alright, man. What’s the deal?” the blue skinned elf asked, grabbing the man’s arm in a wrist lock. “Who's your boss, what’s his plan? Give me the deets.” 

 

“Okay! Okay! Look! My boss is Shenzar the Knife. He wants to hold this whole ship for ransom, so he’s gonna blow up one of the engines and seize the bridge! Don’t break my arm man! I didn’t want to go along with any of this anyway!” he yelled.

 

“Relax. I’m not gonna break your arm. Just your finger.” He said. He wrenched back, then laughed. “Nah, kidding. You’re clean. You should go to your room and not do anything, that’ll work out best for everyone.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you got it man.” the grunt said as Zendaar left him in a heap. The Star Knight didn’t even bother to acknowledge that as he went on his way.

 

On the Bridge!

 

A brawl had broken out between Zendaar of the Zultasians, the Star Knight, Shenzar The Knight, and whoever else. With his gauntlets, the Star Knight was engaged in a pitched battle between him and the Crimelord, who was wielding a large energy axe. 

 

“You should have brought backup!”

 

“I don’t need it!” Zendaar responded, gritting his teeth as he blocked a blow from the axe and got sent flying into one of the control consoles in a rain of sparks.

 

“Seems like you do.” the alien said with a laugh. Then a large club of energy bashed the crime lord over the head and he went down in a slump.

 

Millisand Vermillion, The Star Knight, in his full armor, stood over him with a huff under his heavy crimson armor.

 

“He had backup.” the gorilla said casually. Zendaar looked at him with a glare.

 

“How did you know?” The elf asked, frowning. The gorilla chuckled.

 

“Come on, Zendaar. A Star Knight Is Always Vigilant.”

 

“...You knew the whole time.”

 

“Why would we be here otherwise, my student? Oh vacations are fun, but you must always be aware of when you need to do some work.”

 

“All the old people...?”

 

“No one pays attention to what old people are doing when they’re doddering around, everyone always assumes they’re deaf and blind or forgetful.”

 

“The bomb?”

 

“The Captain and I saw to it.” Zendaar threw up his hands.

 

“Why was I even here then!?” Millisand laughed heavily and clapped him on the shoulder.

 

“To learn. You did a good job! But you didn’t quite do it right. So let’s call it a B- this time.” 

 

“What a waste of a vacation! I should have let you handle all of this!” Zendaar said before finishing his statement by letting out a loud groan.

[Thevshi]

Paradigm – Sabbatical

 

Oceanus IV

Outer length of the Perseus Arm, Lor Republic Space

Lor time mark 2168.2 [August 4, 2024 (Terran Calendar)]

 

Amara Val-Ren took a deep breath as she floated on her back in the warm and shallow tropical waters just off a long stretch of beach on one of the few small land masses that dotted the equator of the fourth world of the Oceanus system. As she floated, black/purpled haired Naram tried to let any tension and stress float away as she stared up into the night sky. With no population areas or orbital cities to create light pollution, the sky was filled with countless bright stars and the very visible dust cloud of the Perseus Arm as it spiraled out from the galactic core.

 

Oceanus IV's twin moons were just ascending into the night sky, which they would cross through until the morning. Although she could not see them (even with her Delaztri enhanced vision), Amara knew that there was both a Lor cruiser and a Khanate cruiser near the closest moon. The two vessels were there for additional security in the system given the presence of Kinarr Khan, the current ruler of the Stellar Khanate, who was in the small dwelling built a short distance from the beach.

 

In the relatively short time since Kinarr had taken over rulership of the Stellar Khanate as the new Star Khan, he had entered into a peace treaty with the Lor Republic and Collation worlds and begun opening the Khanate to trade with those worlds.  This resulted in a massive shift in the political landscape of much of the sector, with Kinarr starting significant reforms within the Khanate to make in more in line with the Republic and other Coalition worlds. Needless to say, these actions had not been popular with some within the Khanate that preferred the system put in place by Kinarr’s father. This included the powerful crime syndicates that had openly operated out of the Khanate, and had been forced to take their operations underground when Star Knights and the Praetorians were extended jurisdiction into the Khanate.

 

Of course, that meant the Praetorians had been busier than they had been in some time. To Amara, it was somewhat reminiscent of the aftermath of the Incursion, where the Praetorians when regularly assisting the Republic and many of the Collation worlds. Although Amara had been heavily involved in the expanded operations of the Praetorians, Kinarr had not abandoned his proposal of marriage, and had spent as much time with her as he could when he was on CoVic Station, or when Amara accompanied her fellow Praetorians on missions within the Khanate. But those visits were generally not the best opportunity to allow for learning more about each other.

 

Thus, at the urging of some of her fellow Praetorians, Amara had agreed to take some time off from her full-time duties of leading the Praetorians and spend time with Kinarr. Thus, she found herself on this island on Oceanus IV with Kinarr. Amara found the young Zultasian to be rather complicated, while being raised within the aggressive and warlike culture of his people, he also had great admiration for the Lor Republic and its more open society. Kinarr truly did not seem to believe in his father’s views of conquest and ruling through strength and fear. Instead, he wanted to see the people of the Khanate have the opportunities that were available to citizens of the Republic and other Coalition worlds.

 

The Naram was interrupted from her thoughts by the sound of Kinarr calling out, "Amara, it is almost time for the transmission from CoVic."

 

With but a thought, she rose up into the air from the warm waters, hovering for a brief moment before slowly gliding over toward the beach and the small structure where Kinarr was standing. Although this was a vacation, Kinarr could not completely cut himself off from his advisors and what was going on within the Khanate. Similarly, Amara had daily updates on any Praetorian missions and events that might require Praetorian attention.

 

Landing next to the tall Zultasian, Amara took the offered towel to dry herself as she made her way inside the rather rustic dwelling. Slipping on a robe, she took a seat in front of the holodisplay and activated it, a hologram of Elite appearing in front of her. "Greetings Tatiana." Amara said with a smile as her longtime friend and advisor returned the greeting and began the briefing……

[Jack]

Arctus - A Hidden Gem

 

Somewhere in Southside... 

 

The sun was high in the sky as Jack wandered down a narrow alley, the distant hum of traffic and chatter from the bustling streets fading into a muffled backdrop. He stepped through a rusted gate, the hinges creaking in protest, and found himself in an overgrown plot of land. The sudden transition from concrete to soft earth beneath his bare feet was a welcome change, and he wiggled his toes, savoring the cool, damp soil.

 

The scent of wild herbs and decaying leaves filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the city's acrid air. Jack's heightened senses, courtesy of his bear spirit, picked up on the faint rustling of small creatures scurrying through the undergrowth. A smile tugged at his lips as he realized he'd stumbled upon a hidden oasis in the heart of the urban jungle.

Untamed vegetation reached skyward, a chaotic blend of verdant and earthen hues that had overtaken the formerly bustling plot. Jack halted, absorbing the scene that greeted him.

 

Fragments of an ancient cobblestone walkway lurked beneath the thick greenery, suggesting an era when this space had flourished. Rays of sunlight pierced the leafy overhead, painting mottled silhouettes on the terrain below.

 

As he walked along the cobblestones, Jack ran his fingers along the gnarled trunk of a tree, feeling the rough bark under his calloused hands. It had grown wild, twisting and bending in unnatural ways, a testament to years of neglect. Jack's heart sank as he recalled the stories his grandparents told him of caring for the land, of respecting its beauty and purpose.

 

The contrast between the overgrown vegetation and Freedom City's towering buildings left Jack feeling a strong sadness for this place. Just past the metal barrier, urban life throbbed with vitality—vehicles sped by, pedestrians bustled along the pavements, unaware of the abandoned haven that had previously provided solace. This place, once teeming with potential, now lay forgotten.

 

Jack understood that the city had grown up, expanding its reach and suffocating the natural beauty that once thrived here. He could almost hear the whispers of the plants, calling out for attention, for someone to acknowledge their existence. Jack understood, but that understanding stirred something deep within him.

He squatted low, examining a cluster of wildflowers that bravely pushed through the weeds, their colors muted but still vibrant. He felt an overwhelming urge to nurture this place back to life, to reclaim the forgotten space for nature. The bear spirit within him rumbled, sensing the life force that still clung to the earth. The bear understood too.

 

With a determined nod, Jack decided to take action. In the chaos of the city, he yearned for a connection to the land—and a chance to breathe life back into this neglected plot, was just what he needed.

 

Jack knelt in the wild, tangled mass, fingers sinking into the earth. He took a deep breath, the scent of damp soil mingling with the faint perfume of the wildflowers. The familiar rhythm of work enveloped him, transporting him back to summers spent in Siberia, to the time spent alongside his grandparents.

 

“Every weed is a battle, Jack,” his grandfather had said, voice gruff yet filled with warmth. “But every battle is worth it for the land.”

With that memory etched in his mind, Jack began pulling the weeds with methodical precision. He gripped the stubborn roots, muscles tensing as he yanked them free, one by one. Each tug echoed the lessons learned long ago, the satisfaction of nurturing life, of coaxing beauty from chaos.

 

The sun warmed his back as he worked, each movement a reminder of the simplicity and peace he found in nature. His hands moved deftly, stripping away the invasive plants that choked the life from the flowers. He felt the spirit of the land beneath his fingertips, as if it breathed alongside him, guiding his efforts.

 

“Da, this is good,” he murmured to himself, the words rolling off his tongue in a thick accent. The rhythmic sound of his voice matched the rustling of leaves above, a gentle harmony that connected him to the world around him. He could almost hear the encouragement of his grandparents, their laughter mingling with the wind.

 

He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, and looked at the pile of weeds accumulating beside him. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. The vibrant colors of the wildflowers began to emerge, and Jack felt a surge of pride swell in his chest. Each blossom was a reminder of the resilience of life, a testament to the strength of nature.

 

As he continued his work, he lost himself in the flow of the moment. The world outside faded away, and all that existed was him, the earth, and the silent whispers of the land. In this small, overgrown plot, Jack felt an ancient connection, a bond with the spirit of the bear that stirred within him.

He knew that with each weed pulled, he reclaimed not just the land, but also a piece of himself, echoing the love and care his grandparents had instilled in him. A calm came over him as he worked. The bear spirit inside him felt at peace too, as if it lay next to him on the cobblestone, enjoying the rays of the sun.

 

As Jack knelt in the earth, hands caked with soil, he took a moment to breathe in the scents around him. The air buzzed softly, and he could hear the faint chirping of crickets and the fluttering of wings. He glanced around, noticing the small insects darting about, each busy with their own purpose. Ants marched in a determined line, carrying bits of food to their hidden homes. A ladybug rested on a leaf, its vibrant red shell gleaming in the sun.

 

He marveled at how life persisted even in this forgotten space, a patchwork of resilience woven through the tangled weeds.

“Hey there, little one,” Jack whispered to the ladybug, tilting his head as it crawled across his hand towards a distant plant. “Yous got quite the home here, da?”

 

He observed the way the creature navigated the rough terrain, a tiny explorer in a vast world. The ladybug paused as it made its way onto the leaf, as if acknowledging Jack’s presence before taking flight, disappearing into the green expanse. Jack felt a twinge of kinship.

 

He wiped the sweat from his brow, his shirt damp against his back. The distant sounds of the city seeped into the serene atmosphere—cars honking, people laughing, the rumble of a train somewhere far off. It struck him how different the life in the city felt from the quiet existence of this overgrown plot. Here, the chaos faded, replaced by a rhythm he understood.

 

Jack returned to his task, pulling weeds with renewed vigor, but his mind drifted. He thought of the city’s relentless pace, its concrete structures swallowing green spaces whole. How many more areas like this had fallen to neglect? He could feel the weight of that loss, a sorrow that tugged at his heart.

 

“Gotta do better,” he muttered to himself, glancing at the emerging flowers. “Gotta protect what’s left.”

 

Each tug of the weeds felt like a promise—a commitment to nurture and defend the natural world, to give voice to the silent stories hidden beneath the layers of dirt. He paused again, his breath steadying, as he watched a small rabbit poke its head out from the underbrush, curious yet cautious.

 

Jack smiled, warmth spreading through him. Even here, life thrived, and he felt a renewed responsibility to cultivate and protect it.

 

He stood and reached into his cargo shorts pocket, fingers brushing against the small, weathered pouch he always carried with him. Inside lay a handful of seeds. He pulled them out, feeling their cool texture between his fingers. They were wildflowers, bright and vibrant, a small promise of life waiting to unfold.

 

He knelt once more, his hands pressing into the rich, dark earth. With each seed he dropped into the ground, he whispered words of encouragement, affirming his connection to the land.

 

“Grow strong, little ones. Be free,” he murmured, the words a soft little prayer for each seed. He smiled as he covered the seeds with soil. He imagined the seeds taking root, stretching towards the sun, bursting forth in colors that would dance in the breeze. He could see the blooms standing tall, their colors bold against the backdrop of the concrete jungle. He could almost hear the laughter of children playing nearby, the soft hum of bees buzzing from flower to flower, life returning to a forgotten space. soon, a garden would thrive in the heart of the city once again.

 

As he finished planting the last seed, the sun began to dip low in the sky, casting warm hues of orange and pink across the horizon. Jack leaned back on his heels, wiping his brow, and took another moment to appreciate the transformation around him.

 

The weeds lay piled to the side, the wildflowers emerging as the first hints of beauty. The gentle rustle of leaves danced in the evening breeze, and he could feel the land’s gratitude in the cool air that enveloped him.

 

He glanced up, the colors of the sunset igniting the sky, a canvas painted by nature’s hand. Jack breathed deeply, letting the fresh scent of earth fill his lungs. It felt good to witness the potential of this place, to see the work of his hands beginning to bear fruit, even if just in his mind's eye.

 

Jack stood, wiping the dirt from his hands and watching as birds began to return to the area. Their chirps filled the air, a joyful chorus that seemed to breathe life back into the forgotten space. He marveled at their carefree flitting from branch to branch, their wings shimmering against the setting sun. Each movement felt like a symbol of hope, a reminder that life could thrive even in the most unexpected places.

 

A wave of fulfillment washed over him. The effort he had put forth today felt significant, a promise to nurture life and respect the land. He glanced around, taking in the vibrant blooms that would soon emerge, the seeds he had planted nestled safely in the earth. It was a small victory, but it resonated deeply within him.

 

“Da, I will come back,” he murmured, speaking to the land as if it could hear him. He felt a growing bond with this place, a sense of belonging that tugged at his heart. The weight of the city, with its noise and chaos, faded again as he embraced the quiet of the overgrown plot.

 

Jack took another long moment to breathe in the scents of damp earth and budding flowers until his lungs were full. He let out the breath and felt like the guardian of this small sanctuary, a protector of its untold potential.

 

As he turned to leave, the sunlight dipped lower, casting long shadows across the ground. Jack paused, glancing back one last time. The birds continued their dance among the branches, and he felt a surge of determination. He would return to this space, to tend to it, to see it flourish. Each visit would be a step toward healing not just for the land, but for himself as well. For the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, a calm tide washing away the chaos of the city.

 

[Thevshi]

Foreshadow II/Synapse – Family Tradition

 

Palace of Versailles

Versailles, France

Friday August 9, 2024

 

The mid-morning sun shown down on the stands set up at the Palace of Versailles as Dee Farrington adjusted her sunhat slightly in the warm summer air before turning to her side to do the same for her nearly four-year-old daughter that was seated between her and Erick. Dee was uncharacteristically wearing a sundress, as was Natasha. Her shoulder length hair was still dyed black, although she had a few stripes that she had left her natural blonde.

 

Ten years ago, she and Erick had met at the 2014 Sochi Winter Games. Since then, the couple had made a tradition of attending both the Winter and Summer games that had followed. While the Englishwoman generally preferred the Winter Games (with the many extreme sports she enjoyed, such as snowboarding), Erick had a special connection to the Summer Games, having once been a competitive gymnast that had competed at an international level (including winning at Worlds). Now that Natasha was getting old enough to show an interest in some of the sports, the family had been attending as many of the events at the Paris Games as they could. Yesterday had been the first day of the Pantheon, with the fencing portion for both the men and women taking place back in Paris. Earlier today had been the 200m freestyle race for the men, and now they were waiting for the start of the men’s show jumping competition to begin.

 

"Are we going to see the horses soon?" Natasha asked, her English accent very much similar to her mother's, looking between her parents.

 

"Yes love, you are going to get to see the horses very soon." Dee replied.

 

Erick chuckled at softly at the exchange.  "I bet they're gonna jump super high just for you Tashy."  The Jersey born, English transplant added with a wink.  Though he did have to pull down his sunglasses to actually reveal the motion.  Much like his wife and daughter, Erick had taken to breathable attire for the festivities in the French heat.  He was donning a crisp, light blue linen button-down shirt paired with slim fitting khaki chinos.

As an athletic enthusiast with his own international gymnastics background, these family vacations were an almost cultural experience that the precognitive gymnast got to share with his family.  Albeit one with a price point that could only really be repeatedly frequented by a family with their notable wealth.  But, it wasn't as if either parent was under any illusions that Natasha's upbringing would not be rife with the opportunities that came from a silver spoon.  Such as summers at the Olympics.

Is it too early to consider building out some stables?  Erick thought as he leaned back in his seat, his musings were not meant to be private. After all, his intended listener could clearly hear the tongue in cheek joke across their shared mental connection.

 

Although Natasha was getting old enough (in addition to showing signs of inheriting her mother’s intelligence) to know when her father was playfully joking, she still could not help but get excited at the possibility the horses might jump higher than normal. The blonde child turned back to look out at the course set out on the grounds below them, eagerly waiting for the competition to begin.

 

The British upper-class is hardly known for restraint in when to start spoiling their children. Dee mentally responded as she glanced over to her husband with a slight smirk. Erick did not need the mental connection to know there was a look to go with the response and smirk, though it was hidden behind Dee’s own sunglasses. And if we did, I am sure my parents would be more than happy to assist in acquiring the best horses for those stables. She then added.

 

While Dee had long had a contentious (and complicated) relationship with her parents (and to a lesser extent her brother), she had chosen not to exclude them from Natasha’s life. In many ways, that had helped improve relations to the best they had been in a long time. Indeed, Dee’s parents had clearly not expected her to be the one to provide their first grandchild.

 

I'm sure they would.  Erick chuckled at the sensation of their thoughts intermingling.  Barely containing the laugh that wanted to escape his lips.  For all that his in laws failed as parents to his wife and sister.  He couldn't deny that rich doting grandparents were rich doting grandparents no matter where you went.

Reaching over with one hand to ruffle Natasha's hair, Erick's eyes followed the path his daughter's did before going further still.  Examining the equestrians at the starting line.  After a moment he shrugged and turned his attention back to the course itself.  You know at the first one of these, we would have been halfway through getting shot at on the snowmobiles by now.  He teased.

"It's kind of funny.  Gymnastics judging is often too strict, but the judges for this are too lax.  I guess no matter the sport, best to do everything in your power to keep it out of the judges hands."  His hands openly pointing towards the judges rather casually.

 

Dee gave Erick a slight smirk as he mentioned their "first date" during the Sochi games. At this point in the Sochi games, we were past the snowmobile/luge course chase, we were even past uncovering a Cold War Era Soviet mentalist and enhanced thug. We had moved on to relaxing in a hot tube.

 

While Natasha was aware her parents shared a mental link and could often tell when they were using it, today she was too enthralled with the horses that had moved out onto the grounds for the start of the competition to notice. "Oooh, look at the pretty black one!" Natasha stated, pointing towards one of the horses.

 

Dee chucked aloud at Erick's comment about leaving decisions to a judge. "Well, that is what you get for having participated in a subjective sport like Gymnastics," she said with a half-smile. "Plenty of other sports with an objective standard, such as a clock."

 

Oh darn my memory seems to be failing me. We may have to go down a walk through memory lane to remind me in vivid detail.  When we're not on a family vacation that is.

Obediently moving his head in the direction Natasha pointed Erick looked at the ebony colored horse.  "Ooh that is a pretty one."  In the sort of tone a father gives when supporting their daughter's excitement.  Of course with the signs of her high intellectual potential, he knew not to lean to far into placating. 

"Hmmm a sport with clocks." Erick pretended to contemplate the possibility that Dee had teased.  While he took a wide look around.  "Naaah.  I was meant to fly in front of an audience.  I love a good spectacle too much for that.  If we're honest, my dad.  Err the birth dad.  He picked the sport.  Traveling musician, Ruska Roma performance troupe.  The acrobats in the traveling theatre were close family friends.  It's a whole thing."

Erick wasted no time in changing the subject by pretending to have a vision.  Completely with an over the top joking gasp.  "Sad news, I foresee that the United Kingdom isn't even going to place in the top five."

 

Well….I imagine Natasha will be crashing pretty hard tonight, so there should be an opportunity to revisit those memories. Dee mentally responded while keeping a straight face and looking toward the horse her daughter was pointing out as well.

 

"That is a very majestic horse." She replied in agreement with Natasha. The Englishwoman the glanced over to her husband with a smile as he discussed his choice of a subjective sport like gymnastics. "Family upbringing aside, you are a risk taker."

 

When Erick gave his gasp and announced his "vision" of the events, Natasha looked over at her father with a look of disappointment. "Really? Not even the top five." The young girl asked in a somewhat downcast tone.

 

Dee looked over with a more skeptical expression. "Do not worry love, you will eventually get better at realizing when your father is just teasing and has not really had a vision." Natasha seemed relieved to hear that the UK team had an opportunity to perform well in the event as she looked back out at the field as the first horse began to run through the course.

 

Looking forward to that stroll down memory lane, Erick thought to Dee, a playful edge to his mental voice.

He then smiled warmly as Natasha's initial disappointment quickly shifted to relief. It was never too early to get them started at reading people.  Whether she chose a life filled with cutthroat competitive athletes, cutthroat gangsters in alley ways or the presumably less dramatic options people with normal childhoods run into..  It was good to get the little lessons in here and there.  "Your mom's right kiddo," Erick said, leaning over his daughter as she looked back out to the field.  "I was just kidding.  I’m sure the UK will give everyone a run for their money.  Maybe we'll even see that pretty black horse take the top spot."
 

These were the the little things.  taking time out to enjoy the simple bliss of the family outing.  Well simple being relative considering the location.  But the meat and potatoes of it all were pure simplicity.  The light-hearted teasing, the mental banter, it was all part of the rhythm they'd developed over the years when the trio was just a pair and only continued to foster further as the family had grown.
 

"But, since mom caught on first.  I guess she needs a prize." Quickly leaning further past Natasha he moved to give Dee a quick peck before the figurative starting pistol of the event got going.

 

Dee did not mentally reply to the comment about revisiting the memories of when they first met, but did give Erick a sly grin when Natasha had turned back toward the field and gathering horses. It passed rather quickly, before she leaned in near Natasha to better look out at the horses the girl was pointing out, providing some information about the breed of each.

 

As she talked with her daughter, Dee could not help but reflect a bit on how her life had taken such a drastic turn a decade ago at the Sochi Games. The Englishwoman had never really envisioned being a mother, now, she viewed it as a central part of who she was.

 

When Erick gave her a quick kiss, Dee gave another smile, while Natasha giggled for a moment before turning back to the field as the first horse began its run through the course. The young girl watched the event with rapt attention, amazed at how gracefully the large animals were as they were guided through the course by their riders.

 

Several hours later, the family made their way out of the stands to start towards the car park. Erick was carrying Natasha, whose head was resting on his shoulder, the girl sound asleep. The last semi-final rounds were still underway, but exhaustion had got the better of the young girl. Dee walked alongside them, carrying Natasha’s sunhat in one hand, using her other to brush a lock of her daughter’s hair out of the girl’s face. Told you she would crash hard. Dee told Erick over their mental connection. Though, had thought it would be when we got back to the suite. They had brought up leaving over an hour ago, as it was clear Natasha was getting tired, but the girl had insisted on staying to watch more of the horses.

 

It was not long before they were in their SUV, Natasha still sound asleep in her car seat. The evening traffic was likely a bit heavier than normal due to the Games, but Dee gave a relaxed sigh, not letting the traffic bother her as they made their way back to their rental.