vignette One Year Later - November/December 2024 Vignette

[Tiffany Korta]

Freedom League Building, Freedom City
On-screen appears a mature, well-dressed woman, who, for some, looks almost like the spitting image of the actress who played Lady Liberty in the 1970s. Behind her is the archive of books and other materials stored deep in the heart of the League's headquarters.

 

“Hello there! Part of our remit here is to preserve the memories of deeds of all superheroes, not just those of the League. To that end we’d like to collect records of your actions, but not those of regular superheroes (we have enough of those in everyday life).

 

In what we’re calling the One Year Later initiative, we want you to provide a record of holidays, both public and private. The format you use is up to you, but we can provide a near-undetectable camera drone that will capture footage that perfectly hides your and your loved one’s identity.

 

This initiative runs from January 2024 to 2025, and you’ll have final approval of what can be released to the public and what is kept for future generations…”

 

 

With this time of year being one full of various celebrations rather than pick one we’re allowing you to choose all of them!

 

• You can choose a single holiday, a small sample or as many holidays as you wish. These can be public holidays, Thanksgiving, Christmas etc, or private ones, Birthdays, Marriages etc, or a mix of both.
• The format can be in the form of diary entries, videos or written blogs, or in the site's regular story format.
• Bad things can happen, but remember to keep things within the site's NC-13 rules.

 

Your submission should be submitted to Freedom League Headquarters no later than January 7^th 2025!

 

(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]

Lament in

 

From dusk to dawn: The Journals of Luther LeGrasse

 

October 31^st, All Hallows Eve

 

Midnight:

 

The sun has finally set, and the stars are out. Clear skies, clear stars. I wish my head was clearer; too much Liquor at the club. Playing Jazz with friends, all dressed up as witches, ghouls and zombies. It was fun, much joy was had.

 

How sour it is that I had to keep the mindless horror fed. Oh we had fun, but the creature was hungry, and I must always keep it fed. The joy was muted, like hearing music from the next room, or with pillows against your head.

 

Still, it was better that than feed of the children who marched and danced through the streets demanding candy.

 

How I envy those simple days.

 

But enough. I no longer know if these moments of melancholia are mine or the entities. But for now the beast is fed, and I can be myself.

 

If I could find some deserving soul, some thug, some crook, one of those reprehensible members of society that stick to it like a parasitic wart, then I will feed him to the Void.

 

Sometimes, I wonder if there is a creature that feeds on misery. How would that suit me? Solace in the cosmic balance of things, or resentment that I was fed the crap side of the scales?

 

01:00

The last of the trick or treaters. Too old to be trick or treating. Punks dressed up for the night, drinking, pretending to be kids. I gave them some candy, they wanted drink. I told them to get lost. Spooked ‘em, just a little. Enough to give them a bad nights sleep, maybe some night terrors. Well, they stayed up late and were drunk. I ain’t got time for punks.

 

0200

I took to wandering the streets. The night had that kind of heat that clung to your skin and stained your clothes. I stay up late most nights, playing music, drinking, or wandering. You don’t see me before midday, most days. But tonight its one of those nights where no amount of liquor, no amount of soft music or counting sheep is going to get me to sleep. It’s the kind of day when doubt creeps into your bones. Who am I? Do I deserve love, happiness, anything? It’s the kind of night where all the masks we put on get ripped off. When all the paint we put on ourselves to kid ourselves we are good people get stripped off. Maybe the moon and stars make us see what we are really like. Damn, I have read enough astrology to know I don’t believe a word of it.

 

I got to thinking, maybe this melancholia is just the beast inside, feeding on my soul – whatever that is. Sometimes, I don’t even notice its hungry, it just kind of creeps on you, like a ninja. Maybe that gnawing empty stomach is there so often, I just get used to it. Maybe I don’t want to notice it, try to block it out with the stage or the notes of a trumpet. But I always get to notice it – trouble is, sometimes I notice it too late.

 

So I got to wandering the dirty, or dirtier, parts of the street. Plenty of fools still out, but I’m not looking for fools. I’m looking for the rats who feed on fools.

 

0300

My mood had been darkening all night, every step. Was it the Void, or myself. I’m a fool, I tell myself. A fool, a charlatan. The village idiot who charades as a court jester. I need applause to love myself, but even when I get it, some twisted part of me thinks it is sympathy or pity. Worse part of it is, I don’t know how much of this is the void, how much of it is me. What I do know is that I feel empty, hollowed out. A void.

 

So I got tramping through the bad parts of town, where skin is broken by drugs and knives. Needles crunch beneath my shoes. Yeah, this is a bad part of town. The worst, I would say. A couple of dealers try to sell me their wares. A couple of ladies try to sell me theirs. I ignore then all. Never been one to go down either road, not even when my mood is darkest. Its cold, filthy comfort, and I seen to many friends wrecked by vice.

 

0400

Its an hour till dawn. Maybe I can see a hazy glow on the horiszon, maybe I can’t. Hard to say – still plenty of Halloween lights on. Light, just another one of the banquet of pollution raining on the city. And here’s another. A couple of punks, lounging by a closed down bar, smoking cigarettes. I can tell straight away they aren’t up to no good. These aren’t just kids, you know the ones – huddled in groups, trying to look hard in front of their friends, harassing, intimidating. These are those kids grown up, hardened by real violence. One of them got a nasty scar on his cheek. These punks know violence. Know drugs, too, by the look of em.

 

Halloween. It’s a way getting your joy to dance with your fear. Leastways, that’s what its meant to be. I dunno, maybe we are so desperate to give children a happy life, we don’t teach ‘em how to master the real fears and pains of life. I just dunno. Maybe I’m just a bitter cynical fool.

 

Anyways, Halloween meant to bring joy to folks, at least for the most part. Takes some real dirty heart to mug someone on Halloween night. Its not meant to be a night for real fear.

These two, they straighten up as they see me. Maybe they think I’m an easy mark, or maybe a rich one. Probably both. They pretend to be brave, but that’s just an act. I should know, I act all the time. And they got that smell of desperation. Hollow cheeks, thin limbs. Been to long at injecting happy into their veins. Ain’t any happy left now, they just trying to stop it hurting so bad.

 

One pulled a knife, the other a pistol. Small, but it will do the job. At least, it would do the job on some regular guy. Not on me. Guy might as well as pulled out a feather duster. I been shot by larger calibre, gave me a big black bruise and set me on my backside. But not this time – this time I let the Void out, my skin black and tough like a sheet of plate mail. Reach out, suck out his joy, leave him quivering on the floor, the Void sated. The other drops his knife, but its too late – I do the same to him.

 

Goddamn – they ain’t going to forget that any day soon. And next Halloween they will be staying indoors.

 

It ain’t been the best of Halloweens. Like always, it’s a bad taste in my mouth. But the Void is sated, and there is always next year.

[Supercape]

Rev in

 

Fastest Birthday Ever

 

The heat made the air heavy, made the sweat ooze from every pore. This was the south, desert country. The sky above was crystal-blue, cloudless, flawless, lit by a blazing sun that parched everything in the air and on the ground, bar some Saguaro, some lizards, and the odd insect.

 

And Rev.

 

The cyborg – driver was dressed in as little as she could get away with and stay descent. A cut off sleeveless crop top, suitably ragged, some denim shorts, with a low-slung belt. A wide brimmed baseball cap, to shelter from the sun. Her belly was damp with sweat, but her shiny chrome limbs did not sweat at all. They had been well oiled, and glittered in the sun. Every now and then, a hiss could be heard from the energy dispersal systems embedded in the cybernetic systems. Rev didn’t get hot. Or cold, for that matter.

 

She half sat in her dune buggy, legs touching the ground. She could still feel the sand and cracked earth on her chrome soles and between her chrome toes. In her hand, she held a remote control, linked to a buzzing drone that hovered and swooped above.

 

She gave it a wave.

 

On the back of her dune buggy, a transmitter received the drone signal and broadcast. Rev was being streamed for a social media site.

 

“Hi everybody! I’m Lexa Venn, a.k.a. The rumbuctious rebel called Rev! And today is my birthday!”

 

The drone swooped once more, catching a paronmic view of the desert. A beautiful view, verging on bleak.

 

“I’m heading back to Freedom City later today. As long as my buggy hold’s out. You know, the normal drinks and dancing and loud music. Probably complaints from the neighbours and a police call. But that’s for later. Right now, its late morning and I’m going to have some birthday fun!”

 

She swept a chrome arm across the bleak and stunning desert. “Some desert fun!”

 

The drome stayed floating at low level, following Rev as she wandered around her dune buggy.

 

She kicked a huge tyre and gave a wink at the drone camera.

 

“Traditional, isn’t it? Kicking the tyres. Doesn’t do jack though. What, anyone think you can tell the quality of a tyre but booting it? No. Instead, you got to look…”

 

She squatted on her haunches, studying the wheel carefully. Pointing at the fresh grooves. “See? Brand new. Good traction. Inflated properly. Perfecto!”

 

The drone swooped away a little, as Rev walked around the buggy, pointing out this feature, or that, all with a grin of enthusiasm. Sometimes with a little dance, a little twerk, or a little “yeah!”

 

Eventually she climbed through the framework roof, and swung herself into the driver seat. Chrome hands gripped the wheel. The radio station clicked on, blasting out some metal beats and over enthusiastic DJ.

 

It had been timed. The DJ gave a shout out. “Happy Birthday to our hero of the day, Rev! Have a fast one, Rev, this one goes out to you!”

A ferocious jazz metal bass thundered through the desert air.

 

“That’s the spirit!” said Rev. “Now, here’s the fun part. I souped up this buggy pretty good. Got all the gadgets, fast, big wheels. Can handle off road like a champ. But you know, one thing I can do is REV!”

 

The charged mechaphage infection spread from her limbs into the vehicle. It grew, it crackled. The infection looked like a bodybuilder taking his own body weight in steroids. What was merely muscular became a bloated sack, more muscular still. Pipes, motors, axels – all where quivering, ready for action. And action they would see.

 

“Let’s see how well my baby holds it together!” said Rev to the drone camera. “After all, where’s the fun in knowing what’s going to happen?”

She paused, frowned, and turned to the camera again.

 

“Oh and don’t do this at home kids. This video etc etc blah blah safety first and all that stuff.”

 

She gave a cheeky wink.

 

“Right! Lets activate!”

 

Switches where switched, ignition ignited. The engine rumbled as if it was an army of jackhammers. Rev had to scream to the camera over the cacophony.

 

“SOUNDS LIKE WE GOT A WINNER, FOLKS!”

 

She took a breath in, gripped the wheel tighter. The pedal trembled under her chrome foot, begging to be pressed.

 

“JET. SET. GOOOOOOO!”

 

The engines rumbled, black acrid smoke flowed from pumped exhausts, the tyres grated against sand and grit, burning rubber – a disgusting smell that Rev loved. She loved it because she knew what was coming a fraction of a second later.

 

She released the brakes.

 

The buggy lurched forward like a kick to the gut. Its acceleration was hideous, enough to crack a neck – if you had a normal fleshy neck. Fortunately, Rev was prepared and had bolts of steel running down her cervical spine. She could take it.

 

And yet he face flattened, her hair whipped, and wind smashed on her face. Unpleasant yet euphoric. Het heart beat like a steam engine, trying to maintain pressure against the G-force. The world seemed to contract and expand in front of her.

 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!” she waved to the drone, leaving it in the dust.

 

The stream switched to the camera she had attached to the passenger sheet. It wobbled magnificently, but that only added to the whole experience. Speed!

 

The old analogue speed gauge went far into the red. Instead, Rev had an additional digital (and modified) speed gauge strapped to the dashboard, linked to sat – nav. 500mph, 1000mpg, more… the speed kept climbing up.

 

“WHEEEE!” she yelled to the camera, giving it a thumbs up. Her thumb tip gave a little one inch blue flame, her trademark.

 

A tinkle started in the engine. A tinkle that snowballed into a rattle. Something in the engine was coming loose.

 

“Oh… that doesn’t sound good…”

 

But did she pump the brakes, or lay off the gas?

 

NO WAY! This was Rev.

 

The digital speedometer reached an outstanding 2450 mph before the rattle become a rumble. Blue and orange flames and vile smoke started pouring from the engine.

 

“In fact… that looks bad…”

 

Then an axel broke. A wheel fell off, spinning off to the desert. A screech, a plume of sand and dirt. And then the vehicle simultaneously fell apart and went into a roll.

 

“AAAAAARGH! BEST. BIRTHDAY. EVER!” said Rev as the remains of the car chasis tumbled over and over. Rev lost count, but it was probably a dozen rolls.

 

And then it slid for another hundred yards, before coming to a stop.

 

“Well folks, that’s what we call fun, right?” said Rev to the camera. She pulled herself out of the wreckage, dusting herself off. She had come off pretty good. No broken almost-bones, just a few bruises, some ripped clothes, and he hair had kind of burnt off.

 

“No better was to start the birthday party, am I right?” she said, giving a rare double thumbs up, with two twin blue flames.

 

And with that, her jets roared from her feet, launching her into the sky and onwards to Freedom City.

Edited November 30 by Supercape

[Poncho]

Golden Star in: One Year of Training

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

The machine blared. Michael groaned as he pushed himself back to his knees. 

 

The holographic copy of Sentry Draco sputtered, then disappeared. 

 

Another loss, another failure. Michael sighed, wiping sweat off his brow and walking over to where his water and backpack were. He sat down for a moment, drinking water and thinking. 

 

Michael had been fighting for simulator time for ages; he was in here as often as he could be without sacrificing his grades or other commitments. And when he came in here, he mostly lost. 

 

But that was the point.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A copy of a former student from the school, named Megastar. His fists hit Michael like falling stars, battering him unconscious after just a few minutes of slugging it out with the silver skinned, muscle bound warrior

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A copy of Parker. He had no issues stalling out Michael, grabbing him from halfway across the room and holding him until the Golden Boy passed out.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

Croconada. Without Blackstaff’s help, he was entangled in the creature’s massive, heavy coils, then bitten in half.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A tank brigade. Just like the last time, a shell exploding right next to his face sent him to the dirt, and then the machine guns opened up on him, riddling him with lead.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

An intergalactic, red skinned warlord. He couldn’t even scratch the creature, who lifted him up in one giant hand and brought him down on his knee, breaking Michael’s back.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A giant robot mummy. Though he dazed it with a punch, the creature was simply too large and too strong, sending him flying with a hard slap through several buildings.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

The Maestro. Just like before, his mastery over sonic powers crushed Michael, ripping open his eardrums and tearing through his flesh with just the violent pressure of sound.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A giant Brain and a mysterious apparition it summoned, using psychic powers and pure physical force to take down Michael, his lasers not able to scratch the creature, his blows missing wide, no matter how much effort he put into them.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A group of experienced shark mercenaries. Weaker than him, but intelligent, well trained. Able to take advantage of his weaknesses, able to strategize around him and take him down, chomping him with razor sharp teeth, shooting him with guns and missiles.

 

Over and over again, Michael went to train. He practiced against things he had no hope of beating, things that had beaten him. He never tried anything easy, he never took quick wins. He sharpened himself entirely against people who either had bested him, or he had almost no chance of winning against. Every day that he could get away with it, he went to work training.

 

He’d had superpowers for a little over a year at this point. He’d gotten a little stronger. He’d found friends and people to work with. For most people- even for Michael before he’d gotten his powers-, that would be plenty. That would be enough.

 

It wasn’t enough anymore.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

A red skinned woman throwing ice spikes, an armored warrior with a polearm and shield. He was utterly unable to break through the armored warrior’s shield and armor, unable to catch the snow woman, torn to shreds by the woman’s icey manipulations and ground into the dust by the resilience of the armored man.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED; FAILURE

 

A red skinned, slender man whose power outclassed Michael’s own, easily absorbing his punishing blows and hurling him bodily through the air like he was a feather, a complete demolishing of the Claremont student.

 

FUNCTION TERMINATED: FAILURE

 

Agents of the Powerhouse; using powers like his, stolen from him, copied based on him. A new version of the serum he was using, a lesser version, but it didn’t matter, because he still couldn’t match them. Fighting hard but still overwhelmed.

 

He had somewhere to be in a few hours, in the cold December snow and dark. A New Years party at his parent’s house; he’d invited several of his Claremont friends and Carmen, and he couldn’t be late to his own New Years party, that’d just be weird. They were going to walk the streets after, head down to the park and watch the fireworks over the Century River. It was going to be cold but fun, wrapped up in blankets and jackets, just enjoying a night to be teenagers instead of superheroes.

 

But Michael didn’t ever really turn it off. Others probably did, but just as many might not like him. But Michael didn’t. Always thinking of how to be better, always thinking of how to do better. Thinking of how to get stronger, how to get faster. How to do more. 

 

It was never really enough. 

 

He’d just have to try harder.

 

He had stepped out of the Doom Room to take a break now, looking up at the moon, visible on the night, and he sighed. He wanted to try that. He’d not managed to get that far before. Paradigm could clear that distance in a few seconds, and go further beyond that. He felt like a snail in comparison sometimes. But could he at least get there?

 

Michael floated up into the sky, slowly at first, but then faster. He flew directly up, his cape trailing behind him, leaving a trail of starlight and fire. He looked like a Firework released early across the city, a sparkling, single flare shooting into the sky on a trail of light. He went up and he went faster, pushing himself against the strain of how much he could will himself on. He felt himself hit the top of the atmosphere, and pushed past it, his eyes fixed on the moon, fixed on at least one small step of progress. He ignored that he flew past the Lighthouse, twisted his way through the fields of space debris without touching it to avoid setting off Kessler Syndrome. He wasn’t ‘ascending’ anymore, because he’d left the earth behind. He was just ‘flying’. 

 

He barely disturbed the moon dust as he came to a stop a few inches from the surface. He landed slowly, his feet sinking into the fine grained surface of moon sand. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, but he let nothing wash over him. The soundless void of empty space. He was the only person around for thousands of miles, on a New Year’s Eve, when people were with their families or finishing up their last work of the year, Michael Adon was standing on the surface of the moon. He felt the sun warming his eyeballs and opened them, staring at the burning star at the center of the solar system. It was oddly comforting to see it, like a sibling he didn’t see very often. His own powers were so like it, after all, like a sun trapped in his chest. Sometimes it felt good to just bask in it. 

 

The Sun didn’t respond to its ‘little brother’. But of course it wouldn’t. Michael had to think, had to exist. The Sun simply did as it always had. To do what needed to be done without thinking about it, to succeed without concern. The Sun wasn’t really alive, but Michael assigned human traits to it; a serious creature that did its job and had no issues in doing so. Something he’d like to be, something he could look up to. A coping mechanism, really.

 

“...New Year, new challenges.” Michael mumbled to himself. He didn’t need to breathe, but he could talk in space.

 

“This year’ll be better. I’ll make it better. No more constantly losing. No more being a burden. I’m going to succeed this year. Golden Star is going to be a winner. I will let others rely on me, and I will meet those expectations.” he declared to himself and the burning star that he was looking at, like he was emblazing those words on the surface of the boiling constellation. 

 

He looked out into the expanse of space; at twinkling stars and far away locales. 

 

“I’m going to succeed and show Velocity and the others why I would be good for the League. I’m going to prove I’m worth it, and prove I can help. I’m going to be like Paradigm and The Centurion.” he said to himself. “And there’s no time for failure. I can’t fail, because no one needs a failure.” 

 

He floated up off the surface of the moon, spinning in a circle as he looked around in all directions, seeing the massive expanse of stars and planets that stretched to infinity. He had a lot of work to do, a lot of people to protect and a lot of people relying on him. So he couldn’t afford to slow down.

 

He took off back to Earth with renewed vigor.

[Poncho]

King Cole III in: Advice for Marriage

 

It was a pretty colonial house, a heavy wooden frame, a wrap-around porch, two balconies. It was designed by one of the richest men in New Jersey before the Revolutionary War, but not finished till after. It’d passed through the hands since, usually one of the richest people in the greater Freedom Area. 

 

In the 1970s, it was designated a historical site, and the then owner had opened it up to bookings; instead of living there, it was repaired and sold as an event area. Marriages, High School Reunions, graduation parties, and more were all held at the newly designated Revolutionary Heights, with its opulent building structure and lavish gardens, hanging out over a cliff face to the rocks below.

 

And Renee was here for her sister’s wedding, and while she could bury herself in her books usually, she did still have to participate. 

 

Her sister had chosen a purple cream color for their dresses; Renee was at least not expected to be the maid of honor, but she was part of the maids. At the end, thankfully, the one that people didn’t really notice. 

 

It was a fun experience for the teenage King, possibly completely at odds with how she usually acted, but it was easy to understand why when a little thought was put into it; she loved her sister and she loved celebrations, but hated being the center of attention. By being put at the very end of the Maids and not being the one getting married, she got to participate in the party but not be the center of it, cheerfully existing on the outskirts of the party and enjoying the aspects. 

 

Renee was taking a turn with the video camera right now, walking around the party and getting recordings of the party guests and at times their well-wishes. Again; as long as they weren’t talking to her, as long as she wasn’t the center of attention, she could handle all of this pretty easily. She brought the camera around to the edge of the cliff where her oldest sister- who had already gotten married a few years ago- was sitting under an awning looking out over the water with a smile as she ate some food carefully to avoid staining the dress, bringing the camera close to her.

 

“Do you have anything to say to Jeanne?” Renee asked. Hailey turned to the camera and smiled.

 

“I wish her all the happiness in the world.” she said simply. “Marriage is great when you want it, and if you enjoy it, it’s something worth fighting for. But she’s always been a fighter, so I’m sure that even if times get tough, she’ll fight for what she wants.”

 

“That’s not really enthusiastic, shouldn’t it just be like ‘Marriage is great, you’re gonna do great, you two are so in love’ or something?” Renee asked.

 

“Of course I believe in all of that. But sometimes there’s hard times too, and during those times you want to hear someone believes in you at that point too, not just when things were going good; so if everyone else is going to give them well wishes about how wonderful and perfect being married is, I’m going to tell them that even when it’s hard, it’s never impossible as long as you’re willing to fight for it.” she responded cooly, smiling. “So even when it’s tough, or hard, you should fight for what you want; there’s nothing worth fighting for that’s easy, and there’s nothing so tough you can’t beat it.” she declared strongly. Renee frowned and paused the camera, trying to figure out what she should think about the way her sister was talking. 

 

“...is that a reasonable thing to put in a video like this?” Renee asked.

 

“I think it’s good. Nothing worth having is easy, that’s just the truth. Good grades, a cute boy or girl, following your dreams. All that stuff is going to be hard. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be worth anything.” Hailey responded. “You should figure out what you’re willing to fight for, Renee. There’s no use going through this life without doing anything. The world is going on with or without you, you know. No one is going to open the door and ask you to join the crowd, or pull you out of line into adventure. You have to make those choices yourself.” 

 

“...That’s really heavy.” Renee mumbled. How did she feel about that? How did King Cole feel about that? King Cole was always just doing what she wanted. Was that a flaw in Renee, that it required King Cole to do the things she wanted to do? Was there an investment into being King Cole that she was still not willing to do- something in her Grandfather’s book she hadn’t broached- because she was scared? Her sister’s words, spoken so frankly, were rattling her a little. It was all stuff that had been said a hundred times before in movies and books and tv shows, but having your eldest sister say them verbatim to your face was a crack in the armor.

 

“You just got into that new school, didn’t you. So why don’t you try acting out instead of acting in. Do something dangerous, exciting. It’s hard to do, I know, it’s easier just to ignore it, it’s easy to be in your routines, you’ll get anxiety and you’ll get scared and you’ll fear what would happen if you fail, how stupid you’d look if it didn’t work out, but sometimes that happens.” Hailey sighed.

 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be so rough on you. You’ll figure yourself out, Renee. You just need a little more time. Not everyone can be like those teen heroes on the web, so don’t feel so bad that you don’t measure up to them yet.” She smiled. “Now then, don’t you have more people to record?”

 

“...Yeah.” Renee said, picking up the camera and going back out, heading towards the crowds again. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her sister, but it had left her with her own concerns and frustrations now, her own feelings. Trying something dangerous or socially risky seemed hard, but maybe if Renee couldn’t do it, the King could. She had a pretty good idea of something she could do, at the least, something that would really put the shock into people.

 

She knew exactly who to ask, the most handsome boy in school. She’d show them all up.

[Supercape]

Sgt Shark in

 

Bonfire Night

 

Finley Finn did not like heat, metaphorical or literal. His action, his violence, was silent and fast. In, claws and teeth out. For his size and strength, few, if any (even the heroes of freedom of city) where so stealthy and cold. Perhaps it was his years experience in the Special Boat Service, doing black ops around the globe.

 

Perhaps it was because he had been transformed into a shark-man hybrid.

 

So heat he did not like. Finley Finn, aka Sergeant Shark, operated from the shadows. If there was a fire fight, he would throw himself into it, out in the open, teeth itching for flesh. But this was not quite so satisfying as the silence and invisibility.

 

But aside from the metaphorical heat, he did not like literal heat either. It dried his skin, made it crinkle and itch.

 

But this was Bonfire night, and Sergeant Shark liked Bonfire night. There was something in the history that appealed to the rebel. A daring soul, defying the government, and playing with fire. Playing with gunpowder.

 

Remember, remember, the 5th of November,

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason

Why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

 

And forget, Sergeant Shark would not. And besides all the history, fireworks were cool. Something in them reminded him of battle and shook his spine. But there was no good in running from battle, or even the memories of battle. One had to face them, gaze upon the horror and beauty, and stand firm. For the memories and trauma would come back, whether one ran from them or not.

 

Sergeant Shark was drinking beer with his buddies. Four tough men from the Special Boat Service, the British marine equivalent of the more famous SAS. As the joke went, the SBS had to do everything the SAS did, plus be able to do it in the water. His four buddies were experienced, hardened by battle, focussed yet modest. With that tiny drop of insanity that you needed to join any special forces.

 

They were also around forty. Past their physical prime (although still in excellent shape). Their active career in the SBS was coming to a close, sooner or later.

 

They sat by the bonfire, waiting for the fireworks. A few civvies – the bolder ones – approached Sergeant Shark for an autograph. Ideally, the Sarge would have been but a shadow, unknown to the world. But that was an impossible feat for a half-shark hero. A low profile was the best he could do, even with the Ministry of Powers doing its best to muffle the fame.

 

All four of his old team would give their lives for each other, and Sergeant Shark would give his life for them. The trust was absolute, even now.

To the clink of beer bottles, the crackling of burning wood, they discussed the past and future. Laughing at near misses, solemn at losses.  But they had told these tales many times. Nothing was lost from retelling, but the conversation edged towards the future.

 

“Guy Fawkes. Hero or Villain?” said Sgt Shark, swigging the dregs of a beer bottle.

 

“Hero!” said some. “Villain!” said others. Eventually all of them agreed that Mr Fawkes was a bit of both. Terrorist, Freedom Fighter, who could really say? A killer certainly, but all of them had killed, and killed many.

 

“Gets you thinking, doesn’t it?” growled the Sergeant. “I mean, you guys have a couple of years left in you, then, what? Desk jobs? Training? Private security?”

 

“Its hard to put down a gun once you picked it up,” conceded one of the men. “You know how it is, Sarge. The worlds full of warriors looking for something to fight. Peace, it kind of itches, an itch you can’t scratch.”

 

“We all got a screw loose!” said one of the men with a laugh. “Else we wouldn’t be doing what we do. Could eat a bullet any mission. We just make sure we stack the odds as high as they go.”

 

“Every brave soldier should fight like a coward!” said another. “That’s how we win. Load the dice.”

 

“And can you put all that to bed?” asked the Sergeant, as a stream of fireworks banged and lit the sky with fragrant oranges and greens. The smell of gunpowder wafted over them.

 

The consensus – grunted, grudging, reluctant – was that they could not. At least, not do so easily.

 

“How about your work for me?”

 

Eyebrows raised, jaws slacked. “What do you mean?”

 

Sergeant Shark gave a shrug and one of his famous toothy shark smiles. “You know I got business. Military still has one arm on me. Vanguard, another. NATO, UNISON, you name it, I’ve had dealings with them. Right now, it ain’t exactly clear who I work for, if anybody. I just draw my service funds, and do what needs to be done.”

 

“You don’t pay to well then…”

 

“I can get some funding. Maybe the government, maybe international. Hell, might even be a little cash with what remains of the vanguard. Money isn’t the problem, although none of us are going to get rich any day soon.”

 

They clinked their beer bottles to that.

 

“What I really need is people I can trust. You know, Guy Fawkes gives me some inspiration. Whatever you think of him, he got things done, right? Even he if he failed, he tried. Thing is, he worked alone.”

 

“And everyone needs a team.”

 

More clinking of beer bottles.

 

“Right. I trust you guys with my life,” said the Sergeant. “You got the skills, the expertise. You know how to operate on the sea, and under it, as good as anyone. Now, you ain’t getting younger. Maybe not as strong or fast as you were…”

 

“Screw you, Sarge!” said one, flexing a bicep. Strong for his age, but past his prime.

 

“You know what I mean. What I need is skill and expertise. Not some 18 year old jock juicing with roids whose going to run a marathon then charge the enemy with a bayonet. I need… well, I need you guys. Guy Fawkes gotta have a team!”

 

The finale of the firework display rattled into the air, exploding in a sheet of brilliant light. Cheers came from the crowd.

 

The four servicemen looked at each other, at the Sergeant, and nodded, raising beer glasses and emptying them down their throats in a final, solemn toast.

 

“Looks like we got our retirement plan then. You got us, Sarge!”

 

The Sergeant finished his own beer, stood up, and saluted. “Welcome to the Special Shark Service, boys!”

[Supercape]

Captain Cosmos in

 

The Office Christmas Party

 

TRIGGER WARNING: This account features painfully accurate depictions of an office Christmas party, 

 

It was that time of year. The dreaded time of year. The time of year everyone dreaded, but could not admit to dreading.

 

The office Christmas party.

 

Half would drink too much, half would drink to little. This being the world of media, more than a few would disappear to the restrooms to powder their nose and come out bristling with energy. Silly paper hats would be worn, awful secret santa presents would be exchanged, and terrible Christmas music would be played. So terrible that they would drill through the ear and into the hippocampus and linger there on replay for hours to come.

 

It started at 17:00

 

Buddy took off his tie as a symbol. He unbuttoned the top bottom of his shirt and loosened the collar. As a ritual. He might be impervious to bullets, able to survive in the cold (or hot) reaches of space. But dang, his collar was wet with sweat. This was the office Christmas party.

 

As George Michael started wailing about how he was going to give his heart to someone special this year, Buddy started doing the rounds of shaking hands, smiling, and pretending to have a good time. This Christmas song, especially, filled him with nauseating dread. The threat of a Christmas party office romance was high. Buddy would have preferred being called away to deal with Christmas Tree Man wreaking havoc in liberty park.

 

Ms Collins, the womens hour editor, a middle aged divorcee who had splurged out on plastic surgery and botox, was already drunk. She was cosying up to the new runner, an attractive young woman adorned with a plethora of body piercings. Both were already tipsy, and no doubt that would be red faces on Monday. Perhaps Human Resources might get involved.

 

But perhaps not. Jerry Crane, the head of HR, was already dancing to George Michael, singing along in an out of tune voice, hips waving incoherently to the beat, with a sloshing glass of office punch in his hand.

 

This was heading towards a train crash. Buddy painted a smile onto his face and poured himself a glass of punch. He couldn’t get drunk anymore, but the punch tasted strong.

 

Buddy didn’t miss intoxication. But boy, he wished he could numb his senses tonight.

 

For a sweet moment, he fantasised about becoming one dimensional. A mathematical line, impossible to see, intangible to touch. The paper cup full of punch would fall to the floor, and he would disappear. Lamentably, he would still be fully conscious, able to see and hear everything around him. Almost worse. But at least people wouldn’t try to strike up conversation with him.

 

“Looking good, Buddy! What you doing for Christmas?”

 

Ezma Freeman, make up. The most interesting thing about Ezma was her name. Whilst a competent wizard with a makeup brush, Ezma had a talent for talking about vapid inanities in a loud voice. She would wait for you to utter three syllabuls and then change topic to some other torturously boring subject.

 

“Not much, Ez-“

 

“Well you should go and get about, Buddy! Maybe some lady might interest you? How about Jane Greenhill, from finance?”

 

“I’m not rea-“

 

“Or maybe just spending time with your family? Seeing your parents?”

 

“I don’t speak –“

 

“Hey! They are playing the Chipmunk song! Remember this? Christmas don’t be late? What’s your favourite Christmas song, Buddy?”

 

“I can’t say –“

 

“Woohoo! Merry Christmas! Do you like this one. It’s---”

 

“Excuse me. Bye.”

 

Buddy abruptly walked off, leaving frowning and slightly incredulous make up artist behind. He had enough of her during working hours. Listening to her drivel on the whole night, getting progressively inebriated, was a fate worse than death.

 

Maybe I can go zero dimensional?

 

The theoretical state he had never tried, nor ever would. It was probably impossible to reach. But! Sweet escape, for it would mean he would cease to exist at all.

 

Arguably zero dimensional was still more dimensional than this party.

 

But now a new dimension appeared. Not boredom, not tedium. No embarrassing fawning by a drunk lech, no whining diatribe on the state of the news or a cancerous marriage. The emotion in question was fear, and it was inspired by the boss.

 

John Gallows, the head of documentaries. An energetic middle aged man with thick glasses and a tyrannical demand that everyone should be as enthusiastic and laid back as he was. The effect, of course, of this dictat was that everyone found their lower orifice puckering and twitching at the mere sight of him.

 

“Hi Buddy. Enjoying yourself, I hope?”

 

“Of course Sir, its Christmas!”

 

“Oh we don’t need any of that sir, Buddy! Its off the clock, isn’t it? We can all let our hair down and relax!”

 

“Of course, Si--- I mean. Of course.”

 

“But as you are here, what do you think about switching up the Brand report a bit? I mean, you aren’t getting any younger, and we have some young talent to foster, heh? Maybe we should lift your editorial burden. What do you say?”

 

“I. Ah…”

 

“That’s the spirit! Say, I’ll book in a meeting new year and we can thrash out some ideas, right? Good to have you on board!”

 

“Uh…”

 

And just like that Mr Gallows was off to another victim. He was, thought buddy, like a worm. He would crawl inside your career and eat it from the inside out. One day, it would be so hollow that it would collapse, and lo and behold, Mr Gallows would have some fresh meat for the grinder to replace you. And then consume. Rinse and repeat.

 

And so on. Buddy did the rounds, steering a complex line between doing enough to place himself beyond reproach, and doing as little as possible within that parameter. A path through the fluxing party people, steering himself as well as he was able away from the time bombs and the dullards, into the path of people whom he might actually spend time with by choice. Lamentably, even those souls were so tense from the situation (a situation where it was office policy not to be tense) that they somehow sapped the last dregs of joy from an already joyless situation.

 

It spoke volumes that Buddy checked the clock every five minutes. It always felt like an hour hand ground past him, but no, it was five minutes.

Navigation esoteric dimensional hyperfluxes was a piece of cake compared to this.

 

“Piece of cake, Mr Brand?” offered one of the admin staff, a smile on her face, a paper plate in her hand.

 

“Why not? After all, its Christmas!” said Buddy, hopeful of something remotely sweet to help pass the next five minute stretch.

 

But even the cake was stale.

Edited December 20 by Supercape