Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

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Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:00 am

shaydeswhisper: Perspectives July: Please post here
Thanks everyone who has posted thus far in both of the perspectives contest. I really invite everyone to go read what was posted in both of them for some great reading.

In April, we got to take a look at our heroes from the view of another writer.

In May/June, we saw how one of the people we rescued might see our character.

Many of us write stories to show how wonderful and awesome our characters are. Stories of their great deeds and adventures. So this month we are going to take a step in the other direction. Failure. Everyone has an off day. Everyone has tried something and failed. Whether it was a slight failure, or miserable defeat. Your job this month is to write about a characters failure. It can be something that your character should have done, but didn't. Perhaps something that your hero did, against their better judgement. Perhaps during this story they tried to accomplish something, but on that day just wasn't good enough. Whatever the case, let's share!

Also I want to open for discussion, does anyone even care about this being a contest? I've noticed most of the people who are entering are high level, and most of us are level 50s. So, for most of us aren't hurting for influence. I was thinking of making this just a monthly writing excercise and leaving off the judging of people's stories. What does everyone think? Feel free to post here or gportalmail me with your suggestions.

Last edited by Visavis on Sun Apr 21, 2013 1:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:01 am

Black Starbeam: The final push
Muscle strained on muscle as the two men fought to drive each other to the ground. Shoulders hammered into each other, the full force of each man's weight driving into the other. Vincent Bannister glanced back over his shoulder to the man he was striving to protect. The glance filled him with renewed strength of purpose and he redoubled his efforts, being rewarded as the man's feet slid along the earth beneath him. A grin crossed Vincent's face, hidden from his enemy, though intent shone, glowing in his eyes.

His opponent dropped to a knee, unable to easily fight back for the moment. Vincent turned his view back to his compatriots, checking on the man they had sworn to protect. He lay, sprawled on the ground, another man standing over him, smiling in triumph.

Vincent stopped, throwing both hands up to his helmet in anguish before pointing at his opposite measure at the other end of the line.

"What the fuck was that?"

The man he pointed at raised his palms defensively.

"You let him through, dickhead. How the hell are we supposed to recover this game if fumblefingers can't catch and can't hold a line? Am I the only fucking one on this team who is interested in winning?"

The quarterback stumbled back to his feet, before shouting at Vincent for quiet, a request that was met with a single raised finger as the Tight End made his way back to the line for the next play. He adjusted his helmet, shifting the bars over his mouth slowly as he stared down his opposite, and beyond that, the 15 yards to the line.

"Looks like you're the only one interested. Pity you're not good enough." came the mutter from opposite him. Vincent stared upward at him, glaring through the visor of his helmet.

"Let's find out."

The snap came, feet shifted quickly. Vincent dodged around the man in front of him, sidestepping quickly. Muscles in his leg pounded his feet against the ground like pistons. He heard the steady breathing of the man on his tail. Another looked to mark him from side on. He redirected himself, moving away slightly. His hand shot into the air and moments later, so did the ball. He added to his pace, mentally following the path of the ball as it returned to the ground. He crossed the line into the endzone, pushing himself faster and faster. The throw was slightly off. He leapt into the air in an attempt to grab it. The stadium filled with the sound of screaming fans. His hands slid through the air to sit under the ball's path of motion. A sudden pain hit him as he was struck from the side, knocking him to the ground. The fans who were screaming moments earlier went suddenly silent, only to be replaced by the shouts of other fans fans.

A shrill siren cut the air of the stadium, momentarily drowning out the excited screams momentarily.

He grimaced as he tried to sit up, flopping back to the ground as his eyes caught the ball bouncing along the ground, three feet away from where he landed. His palms shot up to his helmet as the realisation hit him. He heard his opposite bring himself up to his feet. He pulled himself to a sitting position and yanked the helmet from his head. He flung it, sending it skittering across the ground as his opposite drew himself to his feet, a snide grin beneath his protective bars.

"Looks like even you didn't want it enough."
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:02 am

Roguish1: When Failure is the Only Option
She watched the blood ooze from the deep gash in the man's throat. She held his head in her lap and looked down into the fading eyes that smiled faintly to her. She ran her fingers through the jet black hair as her tears fell from her eyes and stung her cheeks.

"Te amor, Papi," she whispered as the man went limp.

Fifteen years later, Tegan sat on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the beautiful diamond on her left hand. The man who'd given it to her lay sleeping beside her. She smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Tom stirred slightly, but didn't wake up. Who would have ever thought someone as sweet and wonderful as Tom would ever have chosen someone as brash and harsh as her... He was the one right thing that happened in her life.

Not being able to sleep, Tegan climbed out of bed and went to the closet. Her "unofficial" Reciprocators' uniform had become her favorite--it was one of Tom's shirts that she had Carson alter a bit for her. Every time she wore it, she somehow felt that he was right there with her. She pulled on her fishnets and killer-boots and then slung on her cape and exited the apartment they shared.

She headed for the Citadel and then selected the porter for Peregrine Island. She had a couple assignments there and was just in the mood to smash things. Of course, that was a pre-disposition, most days.

Arriving near Crimson, Tegan just shook her head at the man. His missions had been the worst she'd ever encountered--mostly because she'd get tired just getting to the mission. The man knew how to spread things out... The was the last one from him, so she bounded off toward the warehouse to deal with the Malta infestation.

Inside, she noticed that, perhaps, they'd been tipped off to her arrival. There were about 25 of them guarding the entrance hallway. She hung back around a corner to plot her attack. That's when she noticed the camera. "Shit!" With a leap and a swipe, she knocked the camera off the wall and cringed as it clattered to the ground. She quickly resumed her hiding place.

Finally, she decided that calling into question the morals of certain of the Operatives' mothers was the best way to deal with the situation. Sometimes, it caused them to break down mentally. That was always fun. It gave her power and confidence. Sadistic, but very true. The initial twenty-five were nothing more to her than a warm-up. Especially after she knocked the guy out that had that special Sapper Rifle(R) by Malta. He was her first target. He really didn't stand a chance.

The warehouse was expansive and the deeper she went into it, the number of operatives seemed to double. She was getting tired and the few times the Sapper Rifles(R) hit her, they were very draining. She felt as if her energy had been sucked right out of her. Fortunately, she liked to carry those little energy shots in her belt.

That's when she saw them. Perched up above her, aiming at her. The Gunslingers. She'd heard about these guys. She didn't like these guys. Of course, people could probably name on two hands the people she did like and still have fingers left over. At least the people she admitted to liking...Her mind drifted a moment to her family that was the Reciprocators. She was glad it was her here taking the bullets and not Beth or Yuki...and especially not Tom. Beamer was the only other person she would allow to fight with her--only because he could take a punch. From her. Usually. Sometimes. Maybe. It was best she was here alone. She just wished she had someone like Tom behind her to shoot ice at them and make them fall. Ah, well. Such is life.

She charged into the group and easily defeated the tac-ops specialists and entry-level operatives. That stupid guy with the Sapper Rifle(R), of course, was the first to go. The gunslingers jumped and flipped through the air, crossing their arms and firing at her. A bullet grazed her cheek. It stung like a son of a bitch, but she just growled and charged, tackling the gunslinger to the ground and knocking him unconscious. That left another 'slinger and Paradox Black Omega. He was gonna be a bitch, she just knew it. The Gunslinger vanished from her sight--which worried her slightly--but, Paradox Black stood, leaning against a wall. He was grinning. That grin always worried Tegan.

"Bravo, sweetheart," he spoke as he kicked away from the wall, clapping his hands a few times. "Bravo. You're stronger than we thought."

"...this is a set-up, isn't it..."

"Oh, yeah...see, we told what's his name...Crimson? Yeah, that's it...We told him all about it. He said you were the right one for the job."

Tegan's jaw dropped slightly. She already didn't like Crimson, but to know that he'd set her up? That rat-bastard was going to find himself on the receiving end of a boot up the ass. Sans lube. Tegan growled. Paradox produced his gun and just grinned. "Oh, like that shit scares me..." Tegan said sarcastically.

"Quite the contrary, I don't expect it to. But, I'm not the one you're going to have to worry about," Paradox spoke with a sinister glint in his eye.

From somewhere nearby came the hydraulics of a door opening. Tegan narrowed her eyes slightly and slowly turned around. Her eyes traveled upwards and her jaw traveled downwards. "Shit fucking hell...." she murmured to no one in particular.

"Miss Morris, meet Dreadnaught Red Kronos 02. Have fun. Maybe I'll see you once you've finished with him. I made sure to make him quite difficult...hopefully your skills will match up?"

"Fuck you."

Paradox Black walked toward her, gun still drawn. He placed a hand on her shoulder and stuck the gun in her ribs. His hand moved to her neck and he leaned in, then whispered hotly against her ear, "...only if you survive...then I'll take you up on that offer..."

If anything could make Tegan was the breathing of another person--especially one she didn't like. At this moment, she -really- didn't like Paradox Black Omega. "Get yer hands off me, cocksucker!" She quickly moved her elbow to connect with his solar plexus, but found that his damn vest absorbed most of the blow. His gun pressed against her harder.

"Not smart, my dear. Not smart at all..."

"I ain't smart..."

"This is true...but, this isn't why we've called you here..." He shoved her forward--it was enough for the robotic eyes of the Kronos to flash open.

"Shit!" It was never easy when she was noticed first. A volley of swarm missiles headed toward her. She grimaced as they tore at her flesh, but she pressed forward. The Kronos seemed slightly confused. Most others would go flying with those things. It tried the Gas Swarm missiles, but even those failed to hold the heroine in place.

A single footstomp from Tegan rattled the inner workings of the Kronos. It would take some time, but she finally got the thing broken down enough to hit the on-off switch, shutting it down. Breathing heavily, she dusted her hands and narrowed her eyes at Paradox Black Omega. "Your turn."

He just smiled at her.

...that unnerving "I know something you don't know" smile...

...and then suddenly he was next to her. Tegan blinked. His gun pressed into her stomach. She tried to back up. The other gunslinger was behind her and his gun pressed into her back. "Shit..."

"So, Miss Morris," Paradox Black Omega began. "It seems...that you've walked right into our cleverly designed could say. How does it feel to have come so far...only to fail in the end?"

"I haven't failed yet, fuckwad..."

"Such language...and from a lady!" Paradox Black reprimanded with a chuckle. "And true, you have not yet failed...but, it's inevitable."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"You're going to give us the location of the Citadel, Miss Morris."

Tegan blinked. Is that what this was about?! "I can't give you what I don't have, bozo."

"Hmmm...Jackal? If you would, please..."

Tegan quickly discovered that what was pressed into her back was definitely not a gun. The tazer's blast caught her off guard and she let out a yelp of pain. "You're barkin' down a dry well...lemme just kick yer ass and get this over with so we can all just go home..."

Paradox Black grinned. "Yes. Home. I assume that's where your lover is? Tom MacPhal, was it? We've already sent men to fetch him."

If anything could make Tegan mad, it was someone breathing...if anything could make her livid, it was picking on someone she loved. She took a swing at Paradox Black. A burst of bullets flew into her stomach--from point-blank range. She growled and closed her eyes, ignoring the pain. She grabbed him by the collar. His eyes went large. The other gunslinger replaced his tazer with a pistol and fired off a couple shots, one hitting her in the shoulder. She stumbled forward, pinning Paradox Black Omega to the ground. Someone she hadn't seen enter the room now stood to her right. Using one of the Sapper Rifles(R) by Malta, she felt her energy drain from her. She looked up, her flesh pale and moist with sweat. Paradox took this moment to flip her off of him and onto her back. Her head smacked the ground and she grimaced. She looked up. He was standing over her, smirking.

"I think now's the time to take you up on that offer, Miss Morris..." She took another laboring breath. The ground shook slightly and she closed her eyes. Not another Kronos...she couldn't take on another Kronos...not right now. "You should can't win."

"I can...and I will..." she murmured, the wounds in her stomach now starting to hurt...the graze on her cheek causing her intense pain...the bullet in her shoulder making her lose focus. Damn her thinking...why would she wear a skirt a remote warehouse occupied Paradox Black knelt down and touched her cheek.

"...not after I'm done with you...just tell me where the Citadel is...and I promise we won't go after your lover...or Static Bolter...or Yuki Frost, or Kitsuki Kijuko, or Alexus Apollo..." he started naming off the names of those Tegan felt a need to protect. All of them quite capable heroes, but was the one thing she was good at...

Except now...

" whatever you want with me...leave my family alone..." Tegan mumbled,her eyes shut from the pain. She felt the breath of Paradox against her ear.

" where have I heard those words before," he toyed with her. "Ah, yes...the first time I put you in your place..."

Tegan blinked. Her eyes flew open and she stared into the face of the man who seemed very...gropey. "Mike?!"

"Mm...Paradox Black Omega... who is Mike?" A grin crossed his face as he leaned down to kiss at her neck.

What he kissed was floor.

The mediporter in the Citadel hummed. The AutoDoc stood ready and waiting for the one called Serial Avenger. On the table, she lay on her back,staring at the ceiling. Tears flowed from the outer corners of her eyes.


It was her only option.
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:03 am

Showstarter: Battlefield
Showstarter stared at his opponent intently, sizing up his prey. This one was skilled, their previous skirmishes had proven that much. Through Show’s head ran a series of possible scenarios, listing and categorizing both his and his opponents movements, as well as the probabilities of success and failure. He held onto those scenarios that were either favourable or highly likely, and discarded the rest. Eventually he’d narrowed his choices down to a select few.

During this time, his opponent had not moved, his eyes fixed on Show, almost trying to bore a hole in his skull. It was quite obvious he was performing calculations of his own as well. Show sometimes wondered if his opponent had psychic abilities, such was his luck on the battlefield.

-Knight takes Pawn-

John Smith lifted his cup and took another sip of tea. He may be known as Mr. Mundane on the streets of Paragon, but Show knew there was nothing mundane about his chess skills. Silently, he picked up his chosen piece and made his next move.

-Pawn to Queen Five-

Show surveyed the board, taking in the layout of the pieces. His hand hovered over pieces as he tried to decide on his next move.

“Try that one.” John said, pointing at a pawn.

Show arched an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to distract us are you, John?”

“No, of course not.”

-Knight to Bishop Three-

John’s hand moved quickly and surely, moving the next piece into position in a matter of seconds. He took another sip of tea.

-Bishop-Pawn to Queen Three-

Show mulled over the situation for a moment before carefully choosing his next move. This game was quickly becoming as taxing as taking down a Council cell.

-Pawn takes Knight-

John stopped this time, as if in shock that his knight had been taken out of the game. Show knew better, however. John’s hand reached out and…

-Bishop-Pawn takes Pawn-

Show exhaled sharply. He told himself to relax. It was only a pawn, after all. And he’d just taken John’s knight. But he still couldn’t shake that something was very wrong.

-Bishop takes Pawn-

John stopped for a second and rubbed his chin with his free hand. He brought his cup up to his mouth and finished the rest of his tea in a single gulp. He reached over the table and made his move, a slight smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

-Bishop to Knight Five-

The slight smile had become a fully fledged grin as he spoke.

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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:05 am

Static Bolter: Night out
(( I missed the deadline, and this is TL;DR. DON'T JUDGE ME. ))

"It's determined dear, Kit was kind enough to switch with me."

Yuki sat on Bolter's bed, idly tugging on Tohbi's ears. The rabbit twitched its nose irritably at the indignity of it all as he watched Beth brush her hair. Every now and then a spark would jump up and make bits stand on end, which then had to be smoothed down again. When she eventually finished she placed the brush on the nightstand, drew a rune in the air to keep her hair smooth and turned to scratch gently under Tohbi's chin. "Don't wait up kiddos."

Yuki shrugged and slid off the bed. "Have fun! I'm gonna go through all your stuff while you're gone." She grinned at the disapproving look Beth gave her on the way out.

The shiny silver convertible rolled slowly out of the garage under the Arms and up the street towards the Atlas gate. Beth twitched nervously in the driver's seat, trying to get the hang of steering again. She could barely remember the last time she'd used the car, a present from her father, but this dress was way, way, too expensive to be running around in. Plus...high heels and high speeds was a really bad combination.

Ordinarily Steel Canyon wouldn't be the place to go for the hottest night scene. Paragon City's business district all but shut down in the late afternoon, the skyscrapers empty save for their custodians. Tonight, however, was the opening night for Paradiso, a brand new night club shining in glass, steel and crystal, taking up two thirds of one of the newer Skyscrapers in the area. The owner, Lewis Everett, was a long time friend of Beth's, having been a protege of her mother's and one of the many potential suitors forced upon her by her parents. Romance had been a failure but a mutual love of literature had led to them forming a strong friendship, and so he had sent her a personal invitation to the highly exclusive opening party in the VIP section of the club, 'the Ninth Sphere'. The Ninth Sphere was located at the very top of the building and was a masterpiece of glass and crystal. A glass section in the centre of each circle allowed people to cast their gaze up and down to the surrounding levels, and so from the top one would be able to see each Sphere, right down to the First Sphere, the Moon. Only the most elite of the elite and Lewis' closest friends would be admitted to the Ninth Circle, a lot of people Beth hadn't seen in over a year. She smiled to herself as her car turned into the tunnel to Steel Canyon, musing on the evening to come. It was going to be a hell of a night.

There was something in the road. Something big, and very close. Beth snapped out of her thoughts and yanked the wheel to the side, slamming on the brakes. The brakes of course locked and the shiny but extremely impractical convertible fishtailed, skidding towards what was now clearly the underside of another vehicle. Time slowed down. Beth popped the door latch, and leapt out, back up the lane of the road. The hit the tarmac with a grunt and rolled clumsily to a halt, resting on one knee. The screech of tires filled her ears as the car behind her tried to come to a stop and Beth had to launch herself again, narrowly escaping the path of the vehicle. She stood up with a groan, twitching unhappily and scrutinised the large tear now in the side of her dress.

The tunnel was littered with debris. While the toyota that had been following Beth had managed to stop before hitting her car, the convertible, the last thing her father had ever given her, was most likely a write-off. Speeding over to it she could now see the car she'd hit appeared to be a Land Rover, which after flipping had skidded into an old dodge and someone's city runner. People were screaming and stumbling back towards her, though it didn't look like there was anyone seriously injured.

A flash and a loud bang drew Beth's attention. Further up the tunnel a group of gangers postured at a contingent of Freaks. Several of the gang members waved bats and chains at their adversaries as they cheered on a pair of men half encased in rock who were trying to take down a Tanker. Each punch they threw left a sizable dent in his plated armour, but he returned their blows with those of his own, shearing off slabs of rock with his great bladed arms. Behind him a pair of Juicers hurled licks of electricity at the Rock men, seemingly ineffectually. More Freaks stood around hurling insults at the gangers, or attempted to strip sheets of metal and auto parts from the wrecked cars.

Beth looked around at the scene, jittering distressedly. No sign of any hero support. She looked down at her dress, sighed and kicked off her heels. "Get back out of here. Call the police!" She shouted at some nearby civilians, and bolted towards the pile of cars. A split second jump, a kick off the bonnet of a sedan and she drove herself through the air, bullet speed. She hit the first ganger hard, charged fist outstretched, then allowed the momentum to take her onward to the next and unleashed a volt of electricity at his face. Chaos erupted as both Freaks and and Gangers turned to stop the new threat. The nearest Ganger who wasn't on the floor shouted "This is Outcast turf! You keep your nose out, Cape Bitch!" Beth lifted both fists and brought them down on his shoulders with a burst of high voltage. "Watch your langua--OW!" There was a slicing pain across her back and Beth spun to grab the steel arm of a Freak, releasing enough charge to knock him out cold. The tunnel erupted into a general melee, Freaks and Outcasts against eachother and both against Beth. Off to the side the two Rock encased Outcasts continued their assault on the Tank and Juicer, neither side giving any ground.

The last of the Freaks in the fight shook with an electric volt and fell over and Beth turned her attention to the final two outcasts. A single charged up punch launched one of them into the side of a wrecked car and Beth spun to face the last one. She charged up an arm and shot a concentrated burst of electricity at his chest. It laced over his skin and disappeared, elliciting a laugh from the Outcast. He stepped up and backhanded her hard across the face. Beth fell backwards onto her backside with a split lip. "Don't fight fire with fire little girl," the Outcast sneered. Twitching erratically on the ground she looked up at her opponent. "Oh...okay. How about THIS!" Her fist came up to meet a rather tender area. The Outcast went crosseyed and fell to the side, curling up in a ball of pain. Beth pulled herself to her feet and kicked him. "Jerk."

Behind her the sirens of the PPD and PES wailed as officers tried to clear the debris and check on civilians. Ahead of her the PFD was attempting to put out a fire caused by an oil leak in one of the wrecked vehicles. The Freak Tank had downed one of his opponents and was currently crushing the ribs of the other. The Outcast lashed out desperately with a rock hard fist, punching a large hole in the Tank's side before succumbing to unconsciousness. The Juicer noticed her standing there and hurled a bolt her way. Beth shook painfully, absorbing the charge, then bolted forward. She grabbed the two antennae on his battery pack, forcing him to bend awkwardly as she ducked under a clumsly swing from the Tank, and thrust the two live poles into the hole in the Tank's armour. The world went white and a few seconds later something hard came up to meet Beth's back. She opened her eyes to see the roof of the tunnel, and tried to sit up in the dent she'd created in a car after being thrown back, every muscle complaining with the effort. Her PDA started ringing, the tone sounding a little sluggish. She pulled it out and looked at it. It had been a present from Vince, specifically designed to withstand power surges, though it looked as though it had not gotten out of this one unscathed. She picked up.

"..Lewis? Oh...yeah, I'm really sorry dear...something came up."
She rubbed at her forehead.
"I know dear, I know. I'll come and see it another time. Promise. I hope everyone's having a good time."
A pair of PPD officers were running towards her.
"Hmm? Oh the noise? Yeah...traffic trouble...don't worry about it. You just enjoy your night. I'll talk to you later okay? Bye dear."
Beth hung up and stood shakily, brushing away a tear before giving her attention to the Policemen. She'd need to make a full report, and then it would probably be a good idea to head into the office and write something up for filing at the Citadel. Maybe if she was lucky she'd be able to stop by Runway and pick up this dress again before it went out of season. If she was luckier she might get a chance to use it.
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:06 am

Mr Mundane: Incompetence
John felt like a caricature as he carefully navigated his way through the debris of Grendel's Gulch, decked out in black tights and a Victorian red coat courtesy of Her Majesty's Army. While he found the symbolism entertainingly ironic given the circumstances, dressing to stand out went against every fibre of his being.

After a few moments he spotted a troll wearing the black bandana that marked him out as a member of Ataturk's crew. The troll was canny, pretending he hadn't seen the red-coated intruder - trying to lure him closer no doubt. Well, that was okay - two could play at that game.

John snuck closer. Or rather tried to look as if he were sneaking, while ensuring that he was seen, without letting the troll know that he was letting himself be seen. "'Mr Mundane Defeats Troll Plans Using Panto'," he muttered to himself; Jennifer would have a field day with this one.

This troll had nerves of steel. John had passed directly in front of him a couple of times, and yet the troll had not flinched, had not let on that he had seen the interloper. John felt a glimmer of respect for the man, but put it aside and tried to focus on his mission. He was close enough now; time to bring this to a head.

He stood up, red coat flapping in the wind, poised like a hero, hands on hips, head angled back. He had to reangle his head briefly and blink a bit as he inadvertently stared into the sun, but that didn't spoil the mood too much he hoped. "I am the Redcoat!" he yelled in a strong - and incredibly inaccurate - Cockney accent; he paused for a moment and then decided to just stick to his own voice for the rest of this mission. After all, he was quite legitimately English.

"Stand and deliver! Or ... I mean ... No, that's not right. Oh - In the name of Queen Victoria I arrest you! You ... cad!"

Smooth, John. Real smooth.

John frowned. The troll was still pretending to have not seen him. He was only ten feet away, dressed in cardinal red and yelling at him; holding your nerve was one thing, but this was a bit implausible.

John approached a few steps closer, and waved. "Hello? Hero here. Any response?"

The troll grumbled, then stepped forward, snarling unconvincingly and putting up his fists in an approximation of a boxing stance.

"Ah! Queensbury Rules? I should warn you, I am quite the pugilist you yellow-bellied sea snake! Put up your dukes!"

The two fighters circled each other briefly, John waiting for the troll to move, the troll presumably waiting for John.

Canny, very canny. Fine.

John swung a wide, loose blow which barely connected with the troll's muscular shoulder, glancing off the green brute and leaving John wide open to a counter attack. He braced himself, closing his eyes and ... nothing. Then he heard a thump and when he opened his eyes the troll was lying flat on the ground, out cold.

John cocked an eyebrow and looked around to see if he were on Candid Camera.

No cameras. Okay.

Maybe the troll was trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Perhaps he was waiting for the hero to walk past him so he could leap on him from behind. But that didn't make any sense. The troll had had a perfect opportunity to land a cruelling blow right then, and had opted not to take it.

John knelt down next to the troll, cautiously. He checked his pulse, and his breathing.

"Okay, what's going on?" he asked. He poked the troll a few times. "Come on, I know you're awake. Why are you lying down? We're supposed to be fighting."

The troll opened one eye, glared at him, then squeezed it shut again.

"Oh come on. I barely touched you." He shook the troll, to no avail.

"Go away!" he growled. "You won - now leave me alone!"

John scratched his head. "But ... you're supposed to capture me. I show up, sneaking around; you see me and pounce on me, I fight valiantly but am overwhelmed by the sheer power of your assault, and then you capture me."

"I dun wanna!" the troll snarled petulantly.

"What ... what do you mean you don't want to? Aren't you guarding Ataturk's territory?"

The troll opened his eyes, and reluctantly nodded.

"Well ... I'm a trespasser. You're supposed to ... well, guard. Against me. I'm the reason you're out here."

The troll sighed and sat up, wiping gravel off his face. He looked around, but there was noone else in sight.

"Look," he said in a low voice, "they think I'm incompetent. See?"

"Well, here's your chance!" John said, feeling like a telemarketer. "You can capture me, people will think you're fantastic, you'll move up through troll society, gain confidence, and go on to be a big name in the smashing things industry. It's a perfect opportunity. But wait, there's more -"

"No! I want to be incompetent. I've spent a lot of time being incompetent. I like it."

John paused. "Okay, sorry, you've lost me."

The troll sighed. "Because I'm incompetent, they only ever stick me out here, miles away from the action, where noone ever goes. I can't handle even simple tasks, so they never give me anything important."

"Right ... And that's good?"

"Of course it's good! I never get beaten up by heroes!"

"Oh! I see. If you capture me, they'll think you're not so bad after all and give you some real guard duty to do?"


"And you don't want that because you don't want to get beaten up by heroes."


John plonked himself down on the ground next to the troll. "I'm John by the way."

"Harry." They shook hands. Harry pulled a thermos of tea out from his coat and offered John a cap full, which the hero accepted.

"That's not bad. Dar Jee Ling?"

Harry nodded. "Earl Grey is a little too weak. One thing they don't tell you about becoming a troll is that your taste buds get all messed up."

"Gee, that must be tough."

"It's not too bad. I can still enjoy most of the flavours I appreciated as a human."

"Oh, well, that's good then."

"Yeah. That's good."

They sat sipping tea for a few minutes before John put down his plastic cup and turned to the troll. "Look, I've got to ask: Why are you here? I mean, you don't appear to be much of a troll. No offence."

"None taken."

"You don't want to fight, you drink tea ... What are you doing hanging out with Ataturk?"

"Being a troll's not all about fighting, you know."

"It isn't?" asked John.

"No, course not. There's also vandalism - I'm really rather good at smashing things, and I enjoy that a lot. Plus the guys are a great bunch, we get on famously, have a lot of fun. Troll ale is second to none - you know, assuming you've had the whole taste bud change thing - and the caves are really rather pleasant when you have tough skin, strong drink, good friends and a fire to keep you warm."

"Oh. I see. But aren't you worried that if you're too incompetent they might ... you know ... get rid of you?" John made a nugding gesture with his elbow which almost certainly didn't mean anything to Harry.

"Oh no. No, not at all. What are they going to do, fire me from being a troll?" He let out a deep laugh.

"No, fair point. I guess they can't really do that."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes until the troll turned to John with a quizzical look on his face.

"So let me ask you then: Why do you want to be captured? That's not particularly heroic, I wouldn't have thought."

"No, well, I mean ... Ataturk is holding someone captive, but we don't know where, and we are concerned that if we start raiding the tunnels he'll get wind of it and move her before we can find her. So we thought, 'Hey, if I get captured, they'll take me right to her'."

"Ah right. You must mean Monica. Sweet kid. Real shame."

"Why's that?"

"We're almost certainly going to kill her."

"You ... Oh, you ... you are, are ..." John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Are you okay there John?" asked Harry. His voice was blurring in John's mind. "You don't look so good."

"No, I ... I'm feeling ... dizzy." John slid off his rock, landing awkwardly on the fractured ground of the Gulch. The sky was spinning above him, fading to shades of grey as he watched the clouds merge and separate like a monochromatic kaleidoscope. "I ... I think ... the tea ..." He felt sick.

"Yes, that'll be the toxins working their way through your system."

"The ... wha?" John's head was throbbing, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Harry knelt down beside him, patting him on the shoulder, though from John's perspective it felt like a dull ache. "Johnny, poor Johnny-boy. I'm afraid you're going to die my friend. But hey, at least you got to go out with one last cup of tea, right?" The troll laughed loudly, then walked away.

In the distance, John could just make out Harry's voice, speaking into a walkie-talkie. "Hello boys. They're onto us. Move the girl. We'll have to accelerate our plans. Ataturk out."

John tried desperately to tap his comms into life before losing consciousness all together. He knew Tom and Daphney were waiting for him to report his success or failure. If he could just get a word out, anything, to let them know he was in trouble ... But the world faded into a throbbing, pulsing blackness before he could be sure he had succeeded at even this task.
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:07 am

Langsuirver2: The Tracker hunts.
Markus ran.

Kings Row was quiet today. The Clockwork King's lackeys seem to be keeping to themselves for the most of the day, and the usual gangers and Thorns were either elsewhere or hiding indoors for the night. Rather strange to him, but he preferred the silence. It made tracking his prey much easier.

Running over the rooftops of the Gish, he leapt from roof to roof, easily managing the jumps as long as they were somewhat close together. He had trained in the canyons nearby his village before, and they were about as wide as the spaces between the buildings, so they were no trouble to him. To Markus, an environment was only as different as one made it out to be. He looked down below, at the running, cloaked figure. His target for so many weeks, and only now had he even a first glimpse at him.

He didn't know whether it was actually the person he was searching for, but his tracking led him to the man, and, whether it was him or no, Markus could not let a potential suspect go. He unslung his gladius and ran ahead, skipping over rooftops, before taking a split-second to look for a way down -

- and found a rainpipe. 'It would do,' he thought, and quickly jumped down to catch the pipe and, hopefully, slide down. Of course, that would be assumed in a perfect scenario. Unfortunately, it had, in fact, rained recently, and the surface of the steel pipe was slippery.

He landed, thankfully, in a pile of garbage bags. Although the smell was awful - someone left several pots of casserole for several weeks before throwing them out, he surmised - he managed to recover quickly, and ran back into the path of his prey.

Again, that would assume that it was a perfect scenario. Instead, he found out why the Hellions, Skulls and Thorns were gone.

There were several dozen of them each, right in front of him, lined up, all facing each other in preparation for a fight, all armed. Of course, once the hero ran in the middle of them, their targets shifted very rapidly.

"It's a cape! Get him!"

Markus cursed under his breath, quickly running back and around the block, with a mob of gangers and mages on his tail. A flitter of brown fabric in front of him alerted the location of his target, and he ran after him, heedless of the bullets, crossbow bolts and magic that was shot at him. Running in between alleyways, jumping over fences, and knocking out the more fleet-footed of the ones chasing him, he finally managed to lose the mob out for his blood. And, in a clear construction site, the cloaked figure in front of him stopped.

Markus withdrew his Gladius again, swinging it about and panting. This was it. The one who killed his brother, and so many others. He would take this person in, have them deported to Italy to face justice, and finally do what his brother died trying.

Of course, again, that would assume that it was a perfect scenario.

The figure turned about and pulled the cloak off, revealing a beautiful woman in a white, gauzy outfit, long, black, flowing hair and a very familiar feature. Markus blinked once, hesitating for a split second.


That was all that his opponent needed. In a flash, the figure's skin changed, melting into a featureless, androgynous figure, and sent a pyrokinetic ball of fire. All Markus could do was cover his face with his forearms as he was sent careening into a nearby section of steel pipe, knocking the air out of him. He could hear the maniacal laughter of his target, as it leaped over onto the steel pipe to 'look' at him.


Markus struggled to get up, still having a death-grip on his gladius, panting hard from the sheer force of his first attack. He growled under his breath and pushed himself up with sheer willpower. His left shoulder was dislocated, and he felt a sharp pain in his right thigh, but he was close, too close to his goal. "Are you The Carthaginian?!"

The figure tilted its 'head' to the side, its dull-grey skin shifting, as if it was containing something under it. "I may be. Why don't you catch me first?" Its 'voice' was a haunting, shrill falsetto, which seemed to come from some mouthpart underneath its 'skin'. Markus did not ponder on what it was, though, and jumped up with as much force as he could to try and restrain it. Of course, the 'Carthaginian' dodged, and as Markus barely managed to land safely on his feet, it appeared behind him.

"Gotcha again."

All Markus could remember then was a searing pain in his shoulder where a white-hot beam pierced through, pain blotting out all thought as he fell to his knees weakly, choking back several gasps. The figure then leaped over him, running off into an alleyway as Markus slowly fell unconscious, the tell-tale smell of jasmine wafting into his nostrils being the last thing he sensed.
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:08 am

chazmodeus: I'm sorry Mr. Jonas, it's time.
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow, who waits in the hall
He's cleared all his things and he'd put them in boxes
Things that remind him
Life has been good

The figure sat in silence, his whole body seeming to vibrate as he stared at his desk. The office, usually buzzing like a hive, now seemed to reflect a grotesque memorial though his co-workers were grieving for the man sitting in their midst. Jonas could only nod, his jaw clenched tight as one person after another came by to pay their respects.

He was afraid that his voice would break and tears would flow if he opened his mouth. Besides, speaking might shatter the symbolism of the open-casket cubicle funeral.

His desk was littered with the usual office accoutrement. A small post-modern version of Rodin's Thinker. A Post-It (TM) note holder with a chrome lid that housed a maze for one sad little bb. A tacky picture frame adorned with starfish, a conch shell, and Shamu, which contained photographic proof that he and his ex-wife and daughter had all survived Sea World's Hurricane Harbor.

He quickly snapped open his brief case, a tremulous hand straining to pick up the picture and place it inside. His hand shook so badly that the frame banged on the desk two times before he was able to complete this simple task, and he winced inwardly as Shamu's dorsal fin cracked and fell off. Nonetheless, he felt relieved when the picture was out of sight. He wouldn't be able to maintain his composure over the next month if he was looking at that every day.

The building had gradually gone dark as people clocked out for the day. Looking out onto the field of dimly lit desks and slate gray cubicle walls, the reflected glow of the occasional desk lamp or the flicker of an overhead fluorescent light dotted the seemingly endless columns and rows of white ceiling tiles. The scene was somehow reminiscent of moonlight glimmering from behind storm clouds.

Jonas was still sitting in the predominately darkened office building well after most of his colleagues had gone home. Oblivious to the passing time, his mind's eye was cycling endlessly through still frames in his memory.

Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day

Playing cops and robbers in the school yard. Jonas was always Captain Grimm, and his brilliant playground tactics allowed the PPD to emerge victorious every time. Well, brilliant may have been a stretch. He was captain because he had memorized the Miranda rights by age six, and the good guys always won because he had a knack for knowing where the bad guys were hiding.

Graduating from High School, with honors. By that time he knew that the PPD was not in the cards, but the Modern Arcane Guild of Investigation (MAGI) seemed like it would be a sure thing. Jonas had developed general health problems his freshman year. Constant bouts with bronchitis, strep throat, and any other illness that could keep him on his back for weeks at a time. Nonetheless, his seemingly innate understanding of sorcery, when combined with his remote viewing skills, made him a very attractive college prospect. He was going to Paragon University's Arcane Studies program with a full scholarship.

Receiving his PhD in Arcane Studies. This was a bittersweet memory. The very nearly Dr. Grimm had been diagnosed with what the doctors referred to as “Essential Tremor” syndrome. It was similar to Parkinson's disease, but with a different physiological (or neurological) cause. Neither science nor magic seemed to have an effective treatment. The end result was that he was shaking, all the time. It was mild at first, and may have gone unnoticed to the casual observer; however, he could no longer work with the precision needed to trace a glyph into the air, or to craft an enchantment, or to even copy a spell into a grimoire. His doctorate was purely academic, and Jonas dropped the title shortly thereafter.

His marriage. It would have been a pristine memory if it did not also remind him of his divorce.

Being recruited by the Department of Defense. Through the course of his dissertation and other academic achievements, Jonas' remote viewing skills had been noticed. He had more than a knack for finding the bad guys, he could see them where they lived. With cooperation from MAGI, and his own understanding of the arcane, he could even see past magical barriers. It was nothing he would have imagined, but he was playing a key role in defending his fellow citizens. He felt a deep pride and satisfaction about what he was doing, regardless of the fact that virtually nobody would ever know what he had done.

His daughter's birth. He paused for a moment, and anyone watching at that moment would have seen a glimpse of pure joy and beaming pride.

Being told that the DoD no longer needed his services, at 4:30 pm that very afternoon. The memory was vivid, the wounds were fresh. Sitting in the Director's office, Director Camden's words seemed to be echoing and muffled all at once. The blood had started pounding in Jonas' ears the moment he'd heard the phrase “I don't know how to tell you've been a valuable part of this organization for almost a decade, but...”

Through the auditory fog, Jonas understood that he was becoming a liability. The tremors were severe now, making the simplest of tasks a hardship. He had the strength, he had the will, he had the intellect, but his body had a mind of its own. He couldn't file a report without assistance, and he felt it wouldn't belong until he needed help just feeding himself. Simply put, his body was failing, utterly.

Jonas came back to himself, sitting at his desk, feeling like he might indeed be the last person working at the Pentagon on this night. Naturally, the Director had explained that they were not terminating him due to his disability. “Think of it as an...early retirement.” Camden had smiled, as though he was doing Jonas a favor.

He would basically continue to draw his salary, and might be called upon as a consultant from time to time, but he needed to tend to his health. “We'll have you start training a new guy on Monday, and we're hoping you can bring him up to speed in about a month. After that, you don't worry about coming into the office. You just take care of you, and we'll call you if we need you.”

Looking down at the papers strewn across his desk, realization finally dawned that he was wasting his time, and needed to go the hell home. He shoved the papers roughly off of his desk, many of them managing to land in the waste basket, most of them landing on the floor. As Jonas picked up his briefcase and unsteadily walked away, a member of the cleaning crew quietly moved in to empty his trash.

The young man had been waiting silently in the shadows, feeling a swell of overwhelming sorrow and pity for this stranger who seemed to be locked in his own torment. As he scooped the loose papers into the large gray trash bin, he was bemused to see a jagged scrawl written across each page, over and over again. The ink was blurred in several spots on the last piece of paper, as though droplets of water had been sprinkled over the entire page.

The janitor shrugged his shoulders and put it into the waste bin, having no way of knowing that he had just thrown away pages and pages of Jonas Grimm's signature.

Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesn't look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
He's forgotten but not yet gone
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones

It's time.

((The lyrics are from "Fred Jones Part 2" by Ben Folds. You can listen to it here if you like))
Last edited by Visavis on Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:09 am

shaydeswhisper: Late Perspectives Post
First of, sorry everyone for the delay in my writings. Work's a bitch, blah blah blah.

I've felt a bit bleah lately and haven't been logging on all that much, but I'm hoping to change all that. Anyhoo here is my perspectives for July... only a month late.

Yuki pushed one wool trimmed glove up her arm and glanced down at her watch. It was well past midnight. Her "date" it seems was late. He'd better have something good for her for making her wait or there would be hell to pay.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of a car pulling up and stopping. Her ice blues eyes lifted to look at the car the glow from them reflecting against the glossy black paint. The passenger door opened and she got in without saying a word. The car started rolling down the street.

"You're late." Yuki's voice was quite matter of fact as she said this.

"I got caught up.' The man replied with a shrug, ignoring that the girl was frowning at him.

"Well, I hope you have something good for me." Her voice had the slightest hint of a threat in it. This caused the man to turn toward her and give her an even gaze.

"I have something I'm sure you will be interested in." He said this after taking a moment to study her face. Amazing to think this sixteen year old girl was such a thorn in the Council's side. He knew better than to underestimate her though. He was full aware of the raw power the girl possessed. He handed her a folder studying her reaction as she looked over the contents.

The contents in the folder was a report on experiments carried out by Jordan Daniels, and the disaster caused when he tried the process on his daughter. At the end of the report it gave a location of where the wreckage of the machine and everything else recovered from the scene were stored. Her face lit up.

"I take it, that was worth the wait?" A cocky grin flashed across his face.

"It'll do." She tried to regain her composure, but she wasn't expecting anything like this.

He just gave a nod toward the car door as the vehicle came to a stop.

"Are you expecting any sort of payment for this tidbit of information?" This wasn't like him to give information like this. Most of his intel was about rivals he wanted out of the way.

"No, consider it repayment for everything you have done for me. With the recent arrests of several high ranking council members, I was promoted to Archon." A grin spread across his face, one that Yuki didn't really like that much.

"Congratulations." She said this flatly as she slid out of the car. She gave one last nod to the man, before taking to the air.

She reached up about to switch on her comm to call in some back up, but then she hesitated. She had no idea who was out in the field, and there's no telling how long it would even take them to get here. Impatience got the best of her and she decided to go it alone. At the very least she could verify the information. If the intel was good, she could always bring a team back later to help her extract the wreckage.


None of the guards paid much attention the rolling fog that started gathering outside the warehouse. Founders Fall was often foggy with all the canals that ran through it. They seemed quite bored and unaware of the girl in the middle of all the fog. So far, so good.

Yuki found a window and peeked inside making sure no one was on the other side of it. Everything seemed clear so she slipped in letting her hoverbelt carry her lightly to the ground. Giving a glance around she headed up one of the halls, heading in the general direction where her target was supposed to be.

Hearing the sound of boots on concrete she jumped behind a crate deciding to let the coming patrol move past her. This wasn't her normal style, especially when dealing with the Council. She much preferred to go through blasting everything with a Council uniform. She knew her best option for the moment was to try to be sneaky, in case she had to leave and come back with a team.

She moved at what seemed an agonizing pace through the warehouse. She had a close call or two, but made her way through the warehouse unnoticed. She finally arrived at her goal almost starting to shake with anticipation. She was on the verge of getting questions answered that she had been waiting months to answer.

She quietly moved across the large room, looking around. No guards were in here, which was quite suprising to her. She would've thought perhaps there would be someone in her guarding something like this. Perhaps it was something else her "friend" had arranged for her. She didn't muse over it much, as she was too impatient to find what she was looking for.

Keeping an ear out for anyone who might wander this way she started to look over the crates, scanning the labels that were on them. She was almost ready to give up on finding anything until she finally found a large crate with her father's name on it. She glanced around finally finding a crowbar lying on a nearby crate and grabbed it.

As she wedged the pointy end of the crowbar into the top of the crate her hands started to shake a bit. She pulled downward, throwing caution to the wind as she pried the top of the crate open. She knew she was being loud but right now she was too excited to really care. Finally, the top gave and pulled loose from the rest of the crate. She pushed the top of the crate off and glanced down excitedly inside.

She barely had time to register exactly what she saw in the crate. It wasn't part of the machine her father built at all, but a bomb set to detonate on the removal of the lid of the crate.

She instinctively covered herself in a thick shield of ice, but she hadn't been expecting it at all. The force of the explosion knocked her back across the room. The ice crumbled off of her as she hit the concrete floor, as she was unable to keep her concentration up enough to hold it together.

She shakily got to her feet, her body aching at the effort. Her uniform was torn and she could feel the warmth of blood started to seep from her nose and lip. Her ears were ringing so loudly she could hear nothing else. She had saved herself from the full brunt of the blast, but was late in shielding herself. She could see forms moving her way in the distance, though she couldn't hear them coming.

She knew she was in no shape for a fight, so decided her priority was to get out of here. She reached down and hit the button on her hover belt. The device smoked and sparked, but her feet remained on the ground.

"Ah crud." She couldn't even hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears.

Before she could even think of her next move, the Council soldiers were on her. Shots erupted all around her as she tried her best to shield herself with ice. The machine gun fire chipped away at her defenses as she her eyes darted all around looking for an escape. It was hopeless, she was quite surrounded.

Then she felt an inferno of pain in her stomach. One of the bullets got through her defenses. She gave a whimper as the pain got the best of her and she collapsed on the ground unconscious.

To be continued in the August Perspectives post
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Re: Perspectives: Failure (July '08)

Postby Visavis » Mon Apr 01, 2013 4:10 am

Cyberette: Canned.
((Do not read if you have a problem with sunflower seeds or bad words. Also. This just came to me. I apologize for any quality discrepancies.))

Jess crunched down on the sunflower seed irritatedly, snapping it open with a soft pop, then used her tongue deftly to free the meat of the seed from the salted shell and shoved the remnants of shell bits into her right cheek with the growing community of tightly-packed undesirables. She leaned back in her chair and swiveled from side to side, popping open another seed, staring at the readout on her desk terminal, before glancing to her workbench a moment and sighed. Closing her eyes, she pushed back away from the desk, and leaned back in her chair, her head resting back so that she was now staring at the ceiling. She sat, crunching the numbers in her head, popped open another seed, devoured it, and packed the shell in with the others. She sat this way for some time. Almost motionless aside from her jaw moving to finish off the last four seeds. Finished with them she sat back up, leaned over to grab her small office trash can, and deposited the empty shells into it with a disdainful sigh before setting the can back down in its place. And held the position, still looking to the trashcan as if maybe it might cause...something. The answer was...somewhere. Maybe she needed to think about it differently.

"Tell me, trashcan. You hang out here, a lot, but you never say anything. What.... am I doing wrong?" She asked it with far more serious a tone than she intended. She stared at it.

The trashcan sat there, unresponsive, of course.

She grabbed it up and set it on her desk, turning her monitor to it. She leaned forward on her desk propped up on her elbows, explaining and motioning to the screen in as helpful a way to the can as she could, "See. The threshold for the crystal structure drops ...significantly after reaching this temperature. And practically drops off /completely/ only a few degrees after this point." She explains to the inanimate receptacle, showing the steep dropoff on the graph before them both.

She let that sink in a moment...

"So... how do I keep functionality As we approach sub-zero temperatures? I can't shield it. Then where will it emit, to? It'd crush itself with it's own vibrations!" She flailed her arms lightly in frustrations, grabbing up the small defenseless can and shaking it as she stared into the matte-black paint, "It's Impossible! What'm I supposed to do? Hope for good weather? Maybe the ice dudes will all run out at the same time? WHY. WHY CAN'T I MAKE IT WORK?" She shook the can, again and stared at it intently, her mind crazed and agonized over the math and mechanics of it all.

It was then that she noticed the small imperfections of the metal on the can. It was solid, but there were streaks of...something else. Thin. Whisping streaks. Like... marbled chocolate.....

....marbled brownies....or cake... different... interlocking materials.

"You. Are the best Trashcan, ever. Ever. I love you." She kissed the side and put it back down under her desk, musing to herself and wiping absently at her mouth, ".....I just kissed a trashcan."


It had been eight days. No combination of alternate thermal materials helped keep the structural integrity of the SECSs (Sonic Emission Crystal Structures) below freezing temperatures. She would need to find another alternative. She had barely slept. And while she had been actively engaging herself in her daily hygenic routines, she was still very bedraggled looking. Finally, her idea for a fully crystaline surface emitter seemed to be completely botched. She'd have to set it aside. Hope for an answer later.

She looked under her desk at the innocent can. "You're fucking fired."


Posted note in the Kitchen area from Resistance:

"Registered heroes and guests. Please refrain from putting any solid metallic objects of any size into the organic food waste compactor. It is for food waste, and biodegradables only. Thank you for your cooperation."
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