Topic: Big Time

[Commander La'ra]

Howdy Howdy.  Been working on this for a couple of weeks...too long considering how much I've got written, but action sequences come slow for me as I plan them out more than Andy charts NCC numbers...and figure I've got enough to post this first chapter.

Nope, not a Trek story.  Those of you who enjoyed my previous CoH fanfic...well, I hope you like Commando Bob's second outing as much or more than the first.

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Big Time



I knew I was hooked when I bought a utility belt.

It started with a bottle, a girl named Jill, and a hero named Bytor who wore yellow spandex.  The bottle had turned out to have a pissed-off genie in it.  It was free now, and the wrong people hadn't got hold of it.

Simple enough, right?

The problem was Bytor.  He was a decent guy, and he'd helped me with the whole bottle thing.  So when he called asking me if I wanted to give him a hand with something, I couldn't really say no.  One little thing, I told myself, one more outing as ‘Commando Bob’.  Then we'd be even. 

One bank robbery, two hostage situations, and a whole passel of disarmed gang members later, I bought the belt.  It was leather.  Black leather.  Like a policeman's belt, with the little pouches and loops.  I stocked it with flex-cuffs, a flashlight, first-aid kit, pocket for my cell phone, and other such.  I didn't even notice it'd cost most of what I'd made that month.  I needed this stuff, after all.  I'd probably use it every day.

It dawned on me then that I was getting into the hero gig.

I'd cursed at the thought.  I'd seen it coming and hadn't done anything to avoid it.  I really hadn't wanted to be a superhero. Superheroes run around town in tights making spectacles of themselves. Superheroes spend a lot of time getting themselves in dangerous situations no sane person would involve themselves in.

Like chasing semi-trailers full of stolen vehicles down the freeway at ninety miles an hour in a thirty-year old car while people shoot at them.

"Left left left!"  Bytor hollered from the passenger seat.  I flung the wheel over.  Several baseball-sized objects were bouncing down the asphalt toward our car.  They exploded, little bits of metal raining down like sleet, chipping my windshield and ruining the old Impala's already questionable paint job.

I twisted the wheel right again, just managing to not hit the freeway divider. Ahead of us, the big car hauler rumbled on.  Lights flashed on the trailer.  I let the car drift right as bullets tore up the pavement.

"Can't you do something about them?!" I hollered.

"If you could keep the car still, yeah."  Bytor replied.  He didn't sound angry.  He never sounds angry.  He goes from cocky in a normal situation to downright cheerful when people are shooting at us.

I glared at him.  He grinned.

"Get me closer."  He said.

I rolled my eyes and slammed my foot on the gas.  The old Chevy threw herself forward, speedometer creeping past a hundred.  Old or not, she had a huge engine: she wasn't breaking a sweat yet.

The car trailer grew steadily larger.  We were directly behind it now.  The guys hiding in amongst the stolen vehicles weren't shooting, so they probably couldn't see us very well.

"Gonna go left again."  I said.  The semi was in the slow lane.  There was a wide shoulder to the right, but the idea of being smushed between the tractor trailer and the concrete guardrail was not a happy one.  The city beyond the freeway was a fuzzy blur.

"Heh."  Was all Bytor had to say.  I veered left and put even more pressure on the gas pedal.  Bytor rolled down his window. 

My old Chevy pulled up, maybe an arm’s length from the truck’s giant tires.  I could see the three gunmen amongst the cars now.  They'd been expecting something, but cutting in so close had surprised them. There was a hiss and a crackle from the passenger seat as Bytor let loose a stream of electricity.  Sparks flew from one of the stolen cars and the rearmost gunner ducked for cover.  Bytor cackled and leaned farther out the window, his blonde hair going crazy in the wind as he unleashed another blue-white stream of voltage.

Bullets bounced off the road, zinged the hood, cracked the windshield.  I kept my foot on the gas.  There was a sudden hint of motion from the truck and I swerved left, avoiding the Peterbilt's try for a sideswipe. We were still pulling forward, even with the center of the trailer now...exposed to fire, but at least Bytor could respond.

"Yeah!"  He whooped.  His latest taser-strength lightning bolt caught one of the gunmen.  I could see the guy quiver and lurch and finally drop.  My stomach twisted for a half-second, but the car bandit didn't hit the asphalt or end up under the wheels of the semi.  Bytor was using both hands now, and the other two shooters huddled behind their stolen prizes, taking an occasional half-hearted shot.   Sooner or later, Bytor would nail them, too, but we'd been lucky.  The next guy he hit would probably be road pizza.

"Can you melt the tires?"  I half-yelled.  The engine was roaring.

"Sure thing!"  Bytor announced.

The barrage of electricity ceased as my partner-in-crime-fighting switched gears.  Bytor is a mutant.  He was born with the power to create and direct electricity and had some control over fire.  I didn't really see how the two were related, but I don't think too deeply about stuff like that.  He held his arm out toward the giant truck, brow creasing.  Smoke wisped off the tires, and the stench of burning rubber was suddenly apparent.  But the car-hauler's tires seemed intact.

"Need closer?"  I wasn't as close as I had been;  tough as my old Chevy is, I was pretty sure the semi was more so.

"No..." He started.  He still had his arm extended.  Sweat beaded his forehead and his tone betrayed some rare frustration. "...sh*t.  Something's blocking me."

I frowned.  More flashes from the trailer.  I jinxed the car around.

"Her."  Bytor pointed.  There was a figure climbing from the cab to the car trailer.  It was obviously a woman, but I could see few details.

"Ah crap."  I let off the gas, narrowly avoiding a fireball that splattered against the pavement and threw melted bits of asphalt into the air.  I swung back in behind the car trailer. Bytor laughed.

"What is it with you and chicks that throw fire?"  He asked.  I felt myself grin despite not wanting to.

I took a half-second to think.  There was some lady up there who could match Bytor's lightning.  The Chevy was tough, but there were limits.  Even if he got a hit in first, there was the chance he might knock her, or one of the gunmen, off, kill them.  Superheroes were supposed to avoid that.  I wanted to avoid that.

"Gonna have to get over there."  I declared.

In movies or comics, the companion would object, or say it was too dangerous or something...but I had Bytor.

"Random!"  Was his enthusiastic appraisal.  I rolled down my window.  Bytor grabbed the wheel.  I pulled myself out of the car, Dukes of Hazzard style, holding onto the roof of the car with feet planted firmly on the top of the door.  Chi-enhanced balance is a wonderful thing.

"I got it!"  Bytor confimed.  He was fully in the driver's seat now.  He veered onto the shoulder and the car roared forward.  He was chancing the big smush I'd worried about earlier, but I was very close to the trailer.  I took a breath and leapt.

It was a short jump, easy in terms of distance but hard when the speed of the vehicles were taken into account.  I caught the higher car platform, planted my feet on a support strut, and hung on.  The big truck swerved, trying to smash Bytor and the Chevy, but my yellow-clad partner braked, avoided the maneuver.

The trailer fishtailed.  My stomach lurched.  Incredibly, my hat stayed on.

I pulled myself up, taking cover behind the rearmost luxury car on the top tier of the trailer.  Bytor had hit the one gunman on the lower level.  That meant three people who would like to kill me were on top.  One could throw fireballs, two had guns.  I crept around the right side of the car, staying low.  I caught a hint of motion in the vehicle's window; a blonde guy in a wide-brimmed hat and camouflage pants.  He didn't look stupid, but if he wasn't, why was he here?

There was a flurry of gunfire just ahead of me.   Bytor was drawing attention.  I peeked over the top of the car and saw the shooter.  He didn't see me.  I leapt toward him, left boot first.  Then I flex-cuffed the unconscious car thief and secured him to the trailer.

One down.

A quick look over the next car showed me gunman number two.  He was firing short bursts off the side of the trailer.  Beyond him I could see the fire girl, crouched on the hood of the forward car on the trailer.  Her hands were ablaze, and she yelled and cursed as she pitched fireballs at my Impala.  She was too far forward to take out first, but that was okay.  If I could KO her buddy, she'd have all my attention.

A dozen running steps took me over the next car, but the gunman was more alert than his friend had been.  He brought his little submachine gun around and squeezed the trigger, bullets zipping under me as I leapt forward.  I flew over his head, landing on the trunk of the frontmost car.  It wasn't a pretty landing; I was on my knees, but I spun my leg into a wide sweep anyway.  My boot grazed the back of the car thief's head.  He staggered, but it wasn't enough to drop him and he twisted his gun around toward me.  I threw myself toward him, clotheslining him just below the neck.  His finger clenched on the trigger as we both fell roughly onto the trailer's deck, and a dozen rounds tore off into the sky.

He wasn't frightened enough to not realize his gun was empty, and I took a smack to the head from butt of the empty weapon as I attempted to stand.  I blinked away stars, took a step back.  He was standing, too.  I threw myself forward, driving a knee into his abdomen.  He staggered back enough that I could grab the back of his head.  I forced it down and put another knee into his face.

Unconscious or dazed, he went limp.  I doubted he was completely out, so I grabbed his gun.  I was about to pitch it off the trailer when I felt a wave of heat.  I barely ducked as a stream of fire blew over me, sucking air out of my lungs and blistering the paint on a stolen car or two.

The fiery attack subsided and I sprang up.  The flame-spewing car thief was waiting on me.  Another jet of flame spewed from her outstretched hands and I leapt, forward and up, avoiding the blast. She swept the stream of fire about like a garden hose, following me.  I landed behind her, at the front edge of the car trailer, her flaming pillar a half-second behind me.  I threw her compatriot's gun; it smacked into her upper chest and she lost concentration, flames evaporating.  I jumped toward her.

She blocked a punch. Up close I could see carrot-red hair peeking out from under her ball-cap (worn backwards).  She was all in black, T-shirt and jeans.  She parried my knee.  She wasn't clumsy or untrained, but she wasn't Elmyra, Mistress of the Nine Forms, either. 

Her hands re-ignited and she counter-attacked, first with a fireball, then, when that missed, a flurry of flaming punches.  I deflected them, my arm hair curling and burning away.  She left a lot of openings.  I picked a good one and rammed an elbow into her sternum.  She fell back onto the hood of the car behind us but didn't hesitate a lick when it came to somersaulting herself onto the roof of the vehicle.  She threw her hands out, and flames billowed under my feet.  I hopped up onto the car, and she sent another flamethrower blast toward me.  I ducked, threw myself forward.  My shoulder caught her stomach and we both flew.  I heard glass crackle; my tackle had put us into a windshield.

She wasn't unconscious, but she writhed and groaned.  I rolled her over, bound her hands with flex cuffs.  I doubted they'd hold her, but maybe the fight was out of her.

"Stay put."  I ordered.

"Not dying for this penny-ante sh*t."  She growled.  I couldn't see her eyes, and voice alone is rarely enough to spot a bluff, so I didn't put my back to her as I worked my way forward.

I climbed off the car trailer and onto the cab of the semi.  I took a look around.  We were on a bridge, one of the long ones that crosses the bay, linking Talos Island to the rest of the city.  There was a helicopter keeping pace with us.  Police, probably.  There were squad cars well ahead and behind us, trying to clear traffic out of the way.  The Impala raced alongside.  Bytor gave me a friendly wave.

I took a deep breath and slid off the side of the cab.  I caught myself on that little step just under the driver's door, left hand closing around the door handle.

"What the..." The driver yelped as I whipped open the door.  I cut off whatever expletive he was about to use with a hard right jab into a little-known pressure point.  He gasped, clutched at his chest.  His legs went limp and his foot slipped off the gas.  I wrenched about half my body into the cab and siezed the steering wheel.  I couldn't drive straight, but I could keep the truck from jack-knifing.  The needle on the speedometer dropped, first slowly, then with more determination.

A hard punch to the hip almost sent me flying off the truck.  It was a half-hearted blow, but there was more than normal human strength behind it, and I lost my grip on the wheel, cursed.  The driver was still gasping, but I suddenly noticed his cocoa-colored skin.  He wasn't black, mind...he had the yellow eyes of a superadine addict.  Artificial superpowers.  I rammed my elbow into his face, then did it again, and again, before recapturing the steering wheel.  I eased the truck left, away from the bridge rail we'd been rolling in on.  The speedometer was at forty now.  I got my leg into the driver's compartment and hit the brake.  There was a lazy squeal and the big semi lumbered to a stop about the same time the driver sent me flying with a much bigger punch.

I twisted about in midair and managed to land, mostly, on my feet.  The driver was already hopping out of the semi, advancing toward me as his arms seemed to grow and change, becoming almost like rock. He yelled at me, calling me all the usual names.  I stood up, and he stopped walking.  He regarded me with confusion probably because I wasn't standing in some sort of combat stance. 

There was a sudden understanding in his yellowed eyes about a half-second before the Impala plowed into him.

Bytor braked, and I heard the Chevy's engine change tones, then stop.  My yellow-clad friend threw open the car door and exited proudly.  Down the street, Mr. Muscle was getting up.  Bytor waved a hand that direction, letting loose a torrent of amperage.  The driver quivered and fell.

"Settle down, Beavis."  Bytor ordered.  Mr. Muscle groaned and tried not to move much.

I chuckled and grinned.

I hadn't heard the sirens when I'd been climbing about the truck, but I suddenly became aware of them.  Four dark-grey-and-yellow Paragon City Police cars came screeching to a halt behind us.  Doors opened, officers emerged.

They were tense for a moment.  Then they started clapping.  I pulled my hat down over my eyes and cursed.




*   *   *



"Guess that about wraps it up."  The Sergeant said, snapping his notebook closed.  "Thanks for the assist."

I nodded to the policeman.  He was an older guy, grey-haired.  He seemed friendly.

Around us, a whole posse of public servants had cordoned off a section of highway.  Traffic was moving around us again, though it was slow.  There were lots of curious faces peering at the tractor-trailer, the cops, and Bytor's outfit.

"Not a problem. Know any of these guys?"  I gestured toward the various thieves, who were now being herded into a reinforced paddy wagon.

"Not by name."  He shrugged.  I nodded to him.  The perps were all wearing gang colors I knew real well.  The Outcasts liked to call my home neighborhood their turf, and they tailored their Superadine to give themselves elemental-style powers.  The driver favored a stone motif.

Fire-Girl, on the other hand...

"Might wanna keep an eye on the redhead."  I cautioned.  "Don't think she's a Dyne-head."

"I'll have 'em slap some nullifier bands on her."  The Sergeant replied.  The girl was being loaded into the paddy wagon now.  She glanced up at me for a long moment.  Her gaze was hard and angry.  I didn't look away.  I don't think she would've, either, if an impatient cop hadn't shoved her into the van.

"Might be a good idea."  I agreed.  The cop went off to do his thing. Bytor was walking toward me, smoking a cigar.  He always lights one up after a 'victory', as he puts it.

"We ready to call it a day?"  He asked.

I glanced around.  The paddy wagon was beginning to lumber away.  The guy from the tow truck company had determined that the semi was still safe to drive.  There were only a few cops left.  The helicopter I'd seen earlier still buzzed by occasionally; it was some radio station's traffic reporter, not a cop.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I think so."

[Lara]

I love Bob,

Big Fun!


Lara

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

I know I said I'd reply last night. I apologize for my tardiness.

That said, I'm enjoying this so far. Really liked the pacing of the car chase-- really had a frenetic, chaotic feel to it, as you would expect in... well, a car chase.

Looking forward to the continuing exploits of Commando Bob!

[Governor Ronjar]

As I have already sampled this vintage, I can say little more than I'm glad that our conversation got you a focus on where to send it. I'm not usre where that is exactly... But I am still glad to have helped (if I did).

I'm interested to see which, if any, of my comments took root in this tale. Keep 'er comin'!

--thu guv!

[Scottish Andy]

I like this story. A lot. Which I find surprising because as a general rule I don't like 'superhero' stories. I don't mind films because someone does win there, but in the comics, they're only ever defeated until the next round, so I find them boring.

But Commando Bob is another thing!

I like that when Fire-Girl is blasting her flames around, Bob and the cars feel the effect of her near misses and not just direct hits. Paint blistering, arm hair singing off, Bob getting the air sucked out of his lungs, etc. You never see that in comics/movies. It adds a nice touch of real life physics into fantastical superpowers.

I like now Bob doesn't think too deeply about Bytor's powers and how flame handling and shooting electricity are related. When it's all academic you can literally discuss/argue it untl Rome burns down around you, but when it is real, right in front of you, you don't need to care how it is possible. When it is clearly possible, you only need care how the effects affect you. Any curiosity about how his powers came to be or came to be lumped together is idle at best.

I liked that Bob was embarrassed by the cops clapping, but I wasn't sure about the cops themselves actually clapping in the first place.

I like the concept of "superadine", a drug that can give mere mortals artificial superpowers. I do need more of an explanation as to how it works, especially as it can apparently allow the user to choose what kind of superpowers they want.

You included a "Talos" Island. Is this a tip of the hat to ST, or is this also from 'City of Heroes'?

Lines I love:

I knew I was hooked when I bought a utility belt.

- Ya, me too. 

He didn't sound angry.  He never sounds angry.  He goes from cocky in a normal situation to downright cheerful when people are shooting at us.

There was a sudden understanding in his yellowed eyes about a half-second before the Impala plowed into him.

- Actually laughed out loud at this one.

Good Job, Larry.

[Commander La'ra]

Thanks for the feedback, guys.  Haven't felt 'in the groove' on a story in a while, except for 'Dina, and starting this one has been fun.  Already working on the next section.  And yeah, Guv, your ideas did have some effect, though, as usual for us, they may have been warped and perverted beyond recognition.

Now for Andy's questions:

I liked that Bob was embarrassed by the cops clapping, but I wasn't sure about the cops themselves actually clapping in the first place.

Just sort of seemed like the right thing to happen there.  Superheros are legal in this universe, after all, and they know he's 'licensed'.

I like the concept of "superadine", a drug that can give mere mortals artificial superpowers. I do need more of an explanation as to how it works, especially as it can apparently allow the user to choose what kind of superpowers they want.

I have my own ideas about that and I'll try and throw some into the story just to give you some more detail.  The source material available in CoH doesn't usually concentrate on the ins-and-outs of how things work in their universe.

You included a "Talos" Island. Is this a tip of the hat to ST, or is this also from 'City of Heroes'?

Also from CoH. 

[Governor Ronjar]

And yeah, Guv, your ideas did have some effect, though, as usual for us, they may have been warped and perverted beyond recognition.

All fine and good...

...so long as I don't find you've made any more of my supporting characters into over-weight, hedonistic badguys...
...as in the past...
...I don't need to mention names...

*cough* Tor! *cough*

just kiddin.

Anywho, I like how you depict Bytor. Very well based on the individual we know so well. Have you had him read this one?

--thu guv!

[Commander La'ra]

On a roll, this week...


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I didn't go straight home.  Bytor was in a celebratory mood and while I don't share his fondness for nightclubs, I was too keyed up for a quiet evening with my television.  So I spent an hour or so nursing a beer and watching my still costumed partner dance badly and do his best to impress a pretty large number of college-age girls.  As I left, he was doing little lightning-and-fire tricks for a tattooed girl in tight leather pants. I chuckled, then went out to the car.

The Impala was going to need some work.  There was more than one bullet hole in her, and the windshield was cracked all to hell.  There was some blistered paint from where one of Fire-Girl's blasts had landed, too.  I tried not to think too much about how I was going to pay for it.  I have car insurance, but I'm not sure it covers gunfire, fireballs, and other such exotics. I got in, started the engine.  The Impala doesn't purr.  It rumbles, like an earthquake or a volcano.  The rumble sounded like it usually did, so I pulled out of the parking lot.  I left the radio off until I was satisfied that all the abuse hadn't hurt something important.  I should've left it off all the way home.

"...crazy!"  A caller was proclaiming to the DJ. "And what was the use?  It's just some cars.  The place they boosted 'em was probably insured out the ass!  It's testosterone!  They're like a bunch of teenagers!  They don't think about what they're doing."

"I don't think you're being entirely fair."  The disc jockey was a woman with a low, velvet-toned voice.  "We've had a lot of capes on my show...most of them seem to honestly want to help things.  And wouldn't it send a bad message to let things like ripping off tractor-trailers slide?"

“Well couldn’t the police have handled it?” The caller pleaded.  “Chasing the truck down the freeway…Lord, they were shooting machine guns, bullets flying everywhere…that’s not really conducive to public safety is it?  Isn’t that what superheroes are supposed to be there for?”

“There’s been plenty of high-speed chases that turned ugly when only the cops were involved. The heroes managed to end this one early.”  The DJ responded.

“Yeah, I know that, but…”

“But on my show we talk about love.”  The announcer stated.  “Not high speed chases.  Got a question about sex or something?”

The debate didn’t last long after that.  The sultry-voiced woman played a song.  This was one of Bytor’s stations, so it was modern rock stuff.  I wasn’t really listening; I was thinking about what the caller had said.

We’d volunteered to stop the truck.  It hadn’t been the result one of our little ‘investigations’, and it hadn’t roared by in front of us, obliging us to begin pursuit.  There’d been a news report on the radio.  We’d been close by.  Had we not intervened, the cops would’ve had to chase the thing down themselves.  Nothing they couldn’t have handled, but the gangers had had automatic weapons and a super-strong fella and a girl that could throw fire.  The cops had guns, and if all I had was a gun and someone was shooting at me, I’d probably shoot right back.  So…us helping meant a lot less chance of someone dying.

But there had still been a lot of bullets flying and lots of cars going very fast down a public freeway.

I pulled off the freeway exit into Atlas Park.  Bytor and me getting involved had probably been for the best.  I was okay with that.  It was the whole testosterone/teenager thing I kept mulling over.  I’d used to think the same thing about capes.  To some extent I still did.  Was I acting like that?  I didn’t like the idea that I was.

I pulled into the pay lot where I park my car, locked the Chevy up, and walked toward the checkpoint into the Hollow’s.

I replayed the chase, the fight, in my head.  I couldn’t deny I’d been excited the whole time.  I might even classify some of it as ‘having fun’.  My old master hadn’t taught me what he knew with the idea I’d be using the knowledge for kicks, so I sort fretted over the point as I made my way home.  I might’ve gotten a little depressed over it, but when I got to my apartment, Night Court was on.

Night Court cures many ills.



*     *     *



Woke up stretched out in my Laz-E-Boy, the morning news flickering on the TV screen.  All that was okay.  I was less pleased about the ringing phone.  I answered it anyway.

“Is this Commando Bob?”  A voice asked.  I frowned.  My number has always been unlisted.

“Who’s this?”  I asked.

“Warren Scarpetti.  I work for Hero Corps.  You might know me better as Knightsaint.”

Knightsaint.  Hero guy.  Wore this funky blue-and-white armor.  Couldn’t remember what he could do.

“Yeah…yeah, I know you.  How’d you get my number?”

“From your FBSA file.”  He answered.  It was a quick response.  There was something familiar in his voice, too, a tone I heard often but couldn’t place.  “First of all, lemme say congratulations on saving that truck yesterday.  Hero Corps was pretty impressed.”

It dawned on me where I’d heard the tone before.  Knightsaint…Warren…had the curious, detached manner of a telemarketer.  And, like a telemarketer, he kept right on talking, in what I figured was his ‘hero voice’.

“Thing is, we’re sort of interested in hiring you.  I know a lot of newer heroes are leery of Hero Corps, since we work for pay, but we’d really like to have an opportunity to speak with you, let you know about what we do, what we can offer, our…”

“Wait a second.”

“You had a question?”  Something about the statement made it seem as if he really hoped I had a question.

“Yeah.”  I said.  “You’re reading all this crap off note cards, aren’t you?”

Silence.

“And part of the whole Hero Corps thing is you get bonuses for recruiting people, I’d bet.”  I added.

More silence, then the sound of a throat clearing.

“Well…okay, yeah.”

“Not interested.”  I said.  There was a wail of protest as I hung up the phone.

I stayed in my recliner for a couple more minutes.  It was no use.  I was wide-awake.  I went into the bathroom and began my usual ritual.  The shower felt good;  I’d collected my share of bumps, scrapes, bruises, and burns during the truck thing.  The regen goo the hospitals donate to crime fighters mends wounds real well, but it doesn’t take away the lingering ache of abused nerve endings.  I was brushing my teeth when I realized the phone was ringing again.  I didn’t get to it in time to answer.

“Hey Bob, this is Jill.”  My bookish friend spoke into the answering machine.  “Was trying to catch you before you went off on patrol or whatever you superheros do, thought we might have lunch today.  Call me.”

I smiled.  It’d been a week or two since I’d managed to see Jill.  It’d been a twice a week thing before the hero license, and I’d been noticing the lack.  I started to pick up the phone, call her back.  It rang again as my hand touched the receiver.

“What is this, ‘call Bob’ day?”  I snarled.  I picked the phone up anyway.  It was Bytor.

“You know fire chick?”  He said, then clarified.  “The one we hauled in, not the genie.”

“Yeah?”

“She and her rock buddy escaped!  Cop I know wants to know if we wanna help track ‘em down.”

I frowned.  Fire-girl hadn’t been terribly powerful, as super-powered crooks go, but she’d had a look in her eyes that I hadn’t liked.

“Tell him yeah.  Meet me at the lot.”

[Commander La'ra]

Here's a first:  Wrote it....forgot to post it.

 

-------------

“You sure this thing is safe to drive, man?”

“Not really.”  I said, eyeing the windshield.  The cracks had advanced, blitzkrieg style, through the night.  “But you don’t have a car.”

“Oh yeah.”  Bytor agreed.  “I usually take the monorail.”

I grunted.  My yellow-clad friend chuckled.  We pulled onto the Steel Canyon exit.

The Canyon is Paragon City’s primary business district.  It’s clean, relatively, and safe, relatively.  It used to be more residential, and the outskirts of the area still have little apartment buildings and smaller stores.  Mostly though, Steel Canyon is about skyscrapers.  Big, impressive, skyscrapers, with some fairly nice park areas to break things up.

Steel Canyon is also Outcast territory.  Our girl had been running with them.  Seemed like a good place to start.  Jill’s shop was in the area, too.

“Need to stop by the store today.”  I said, mostly to myself.

“Ya’ll got a date?”

“We’re not dating.”  I clarified.  It was true.  I’d known Jill a long time.  We’d had a few flirtatious moments, some ‘maybe we should…’ encounters.  We’d generally decided that we shouldn’t.  “Just been a week or two since I stopped by.”

“Whichever.”  Said Bytor.  I chuckled.

I pulled the car into the deepest part of the Canyon.  Tall buildings loomed.  People in business dress strolled down the sidewalks.  You had to look down alleys, in rarely visited corners of restful urban glades to find people less concerned with the corporate ladder.

“Ten o’clock.”  Bytor said.

I glanced that way.  Three guys, Outcast colors, and another guy who wasn’t.  The oddball was in a business suit.  The gangers were grouped around him.  They weren’t pushing or shoving yet, but their posture was aggressive.  The suit had a plastic sack containing what had to be a sandwich.  As we watched, one of the gangers, honest to God, took the guy’s lunch away.

“You’ve got to be kiddin’.”  I said.

“Just getting their kicks.”  Bytor shrugged.

“Not for long.”  I said, pulling the car over.  We got out and walked toward the little congregation.

“Ah hell.  Capes!”  Shouted one of the gangbangers.  The guy in the suit broke and ran.  One of the Outcasts, a tall guy with Superadine-blue skin, threw out his hand.  Bytor was faster.  A torrent of electricity assailed Mr. Blue, who staggered, but didn’t fall.  He replied with electricity of his own.

“This guy’s mine!”  Bytor whooped.  I was already running.  Mr. Blue’s buddies weren’t as brave.  They ran fast. We were in a park area.  They dodged tables and trash cans that I bounded over.  I was catching up.

There was a short concrete wall with a little gate ‘round the back of the picnic area.  The two gangers went through the gate, turned.  A decent leap carried me over the barrier, my feet hitting sidewalk right in front of the runners.  They stopped short.  One guy fumbled for something…knife, gun, death ray.   I put a high side kick into his chest and he flew, landing on his back a good distance away.  A fist was flying towards me; I ducked it, brought my shoulder up under the second Outcast’s arm.  A basic throw, and he joined his buddy on the ground.

Both of the kids…they were in their late teens, but the look in their eyes, the way they carried themselves marked them as kids…were groaning, gasping for breath.  Neither looked inclined to offer any more resistance.  Both had pistols, which I took away before I flex-cuffed them.  A quick glance over the wall let me know that Bytor had been triumphant.

“I’m looking for a girl.”  I told one of my new friends.  He snorted in a tough-guy manner, but he was still wheezing for breath.  I pulled him to his feet, let him lean on the barricade.

“Red-hair, shoots fire.”  I clarified.  “In on the truck heist yesterday.”

He shook his head.  I frowned.

“We’re calling the cops.  You’re not getting out of a night in jail.  You talk to me, I won’t find out who your parents are, call them too.”

“They won’t care.”

“Someone will.  Parole officer, social worker, grandparents…”

“Ah man…”

“Up to you.”

“I don’t know her, man.”

“You know of her.”

He considered, looked around.  The guy still on the ground was groaning, still.  He didn’t seem to be listening.

“Yeah.  But I don’t know where she…”

“You know someone who might.”

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

"What is this, call Bob day?" -- LOL, I love that line.

I like it so far. Really not much else I can say until the plot develops more. I really like the atmosphere of the story; it's almost like a pulp mixed with modern superhero kind of feel, if that makes any sense. I got a kick out of Knightstorm, the Hero Corps telemarketer.

As always with your stuff, I will be reading.

[Governor Ronjar]

This bit continues the excellent adventures of Bob and Bytor quite well. Though I really don't see the individual Bytor is based on being scared of riding in the Impala, I love that you throw in his catch phrases.

I also like that the car is continually referenced, somewhat as though it is it's own character. Many stories lack 'the rig'. Star Trek has the Enterprise, Voyager, Defiant, etc... The good Star Wars movies had the Falcon, and part of the reason I don't like the new ones is the lack of 'the rig'. A Team had the van, Bandit had his Trans Am, etc. A hero needs a steady, stable 'rig'. Not something that gets blown sky-high every instalment such as the batmobile in the last series of batman movies or the string of chromed space darts from Episodes 1, 2 and 3.

The comercialization of the hero-business is hilarious. Them tele-scripting Bob was great! I'd love to see how Bytor reacts to such. You need to keep this story coming along. It reminds me of a comic-strip turned sitcom.

Anywho, there is the comment I promissed. Not near as long as I imagined it to be, but then the installments didn't cover that much.

keep 'er cumin'!

--thu guv!

[Scottish Andy]

This is brilliant stuff, Larry. Comedic genius without being screw-ball silly. Still reads as a "real" story instead of being played just for laughs.

“You had a question?”  Something about the statement made it seem as if he really hoped I had a question.

“Yeah.”  I said.  “You’re reading all this crap off note cards, aren’t you?”

I love this. In huge amounts.

[Commander La'ra]

Thanks for the comments guys, especially in regard to the story's humor.  It's not an entirely un-serious tale, but I did want it to cause some chuckles, and I'm glad I'm thus far able to do that and still preserve a little drama.

Here's the next part.


-----------------------------



The kid didn’t know much.  What little I got out of him lead to another fellow, though.  He knew more.  The guy he pointed too was even more helpful.  Save for the first bunch, no one was stupid enough to pull a gun or shoot lightning at us.  It took a couple of hours, but we finally got a name.

Dr. Lynx.  He wasn’t a meta, despite the nom de plume.  He was a doctor.  The stone-skinned guy – thanks to Bytor, I was thinking of him as Beavis - from the truck heist had taken a bullet or two when he and his fiery partner escaped.  Beavis would be needing illegal medical help, and Doc Lynx was the Outcast’s usual guy.

Naturally, no one knew quite where Doctor Lynx was this week.  Bytor phoned a friend of his who he thought might know.  The friend asked us to wait an hour.

So we ate lunch.

“Call glasses girl.”  Bytor reminded me through a mouthful of chicken sub.

“Right.”  I said.  I was unwrapping my sandwich.  I let it sit, got my phone.

“Pandora’s Box.”  She answered.

“Hey.”

“Hey!”  Jill chirped.  "What’s up?”

I grinned into the phone.  “Usual stuff.” 

“Yeah, I saw the news.”  She replied.  “My neighbor’s kid was all impressed that I knew you.  You in town today?”

“Yeah. Eating lunch with Bytor in the park.”  I growled at myself.  She’d invited me to lunch earlier.  “We could bring it over there.”

Jill laughed.  “Don’t worry about it.  Busy today here, too.”

“Gonna try to make it by tomorrow.”

“Bob…”  Jill replied. She sounded amused. “You’re stressing over not making it over here today.”

“Maybe.”

She laughed, lightly.  “I know you gotta save the world, it’s okay.”

“I don’t have to save the world.”  I grumbled.  “Haven’t fixed Ms. Jimenez’s sink yet, either.”

“She understands, too.  Hero stuff bothering you?”

“A little.”  I glanced at Bytor, who was wolfing down french fries and waving to a pedestrian.  He didn’t seem to be paying much attention.  Still…  “Can’t really talk about it right now.”

“Secrecy and deception!  The way of the Ninja.”  Bytor quipped, twisting his hands into some sort of karate pose.  I threw a slice of tomato at him.

“We can eat lunch tomorrow.”  Jill said.

“Yeah.”  I nodded.  I vented a lot of stuff to Jill.  She sometimes returned the favor.  “So why’re you so busy today?”

“Ah hell.  New book.  Some polygamous erotica involving a djinn.  My guest finds it amusing.”  She said.  Her ‘guest’ was the genie I’d freed from the bottle.  “Everyone else just likes the sex.”

“I thought you only did magical stuff.  Since when do you sell porn?”  I teased.

“We’re so going by today.”  Bytor insisted.  I threw a french fry at him.

“Maybe I’m branching out…” Jill claimed in her flirtatious librarian voice.  “Actually the author is a local faery.  She…”

An electronic rendition of a cheesy pop song disturbed me.  Bytor pulled out his cell phone.  Despite his cheerful demeanor, it is possible to tell when he’s semi-serious.  I could tell now.

“Got Lynx’s address.”  He said.

“I gotta run.  Kung fu time.”

[Scottish Andy]

Heh... throwing food at yellow-lycra-electric-boy. Sounds like they're becoming good friends!

Nice little bite, but not much there to comment on. Keep it coming.

[Commander La'ra]

Moving along at a nice, scene-by-scene clip....


-------------------


Dr. Lynx was conducting his practice out of the basement of a low-class apartment building on the fringes of Steel Canyon.  I say ‘low-class’ because there’s no such thing as ‘low-rent’ in Steel Canyon.

“He’s bugging out…”  Bytor’s voice relayed some amused contempt.

“Yeah.”  I said.  I suppose it was possible that there was more than one basement apartment in the building we’d been directed too.  Those guys in Outcast colors could be moving hurriedly packing someone else’s stuff into the back of a moving van.  And didn’t everyone have a gurney, oxygen tanks, and IV racks?

Doc Lynx had clearly gotten word that someone wanted to see him.

“How ya’ wanna do this?”  Bytor asked.  We were parked down the street from the apartments, in the shadow of the mighty Paragon Towers.  We hadn’t gotten out of the car yet.

“Fast.”  I said.  Something about the posture of our gang-banging moving crew said they were almost done.  “Ready?”

“Ohhh yeah.”  Bytor replied.  Electricity danced between his fingers.  I turned the keys; the Impala snarled to life.

The Outcasts – five of them – looked up in shock as the Chevy rocketed into the parking lot.  It was a precious second of surprise.  Old cars are heavy, though, and would’ve been easy to use that second coming to a halt. 

Fortunately, my partner has no problems leaping out of moving car.

Bytor hit the ground running, lighting flying from one hand, a flaming sword appearing in the other.  The Outcasts reacted quickly and clumsily, ice blasts and bullets exploding around a blur in yellow spandex.  I threw the Chevy into park, jumped out…one of the Gangers was already down, three were in close with Bytor, and the meta, the guy with the ice, was yelling for his buddies to let him have a clear shot. 

I charged Mr. Frosty.  I was halfway there when he noticed me.  He gestured, the concrete under my feet turning slippery and cold.  I was in the air before the ground had fully frozen, the chi-charged leap carrying me over Ice-boy’s head, down to the pavement behind him.  I whirled.  So did he.  I ducked a big, icy fist, then put my boot down hard on the arch of his foot.  Something cracked, but my chilly friend stayed upright, rewarded me with a blast of blistering cold.

I gasped for breath, took a step back.  I couldn’t feel my fingers, the tips of my ears.  Frosty set his hands for another icy wave and I threw myself sideways.  Thanks to his previous hit, I couldn’t feel the chill as the stream of semi-solid ice skimmed by me, but there was an agonized yelp behind me.  Whoever it was, Frosty didn’t care; an ill-timed kick barely missed me.  I didn’t have to block it, but I siezed his lower-leg anyway.  He was off-balance;  it was an easy matter to throw him, hard, against the side of the moving van.

Two of Bytor’s opponents were down, one with minor burns and twitching from an electrical blast, the other shivering uncontrollably from his buddy’s badly-aimed attack.  The last one looked from the Spandex-wearing, fire-sword wielding madman, to me.  Then he bolted.

“Let him go.”  Bytor and I said it simultaneously, probably because we’d both seen another guy appear at the top of the basement steps and make his own dash for freedom.  Dr. Lynx was running hard for his silver Lexus.  We took off after him.

“Check the office!”  I hollered.  It was unlikely that Fire-Girl or her companion were still there, but I didn’t wanna chance it.  Bytor clearly agreed…he changed course instantly, disappearing below street level as he vaulted down the stairs.   I stayed with Lynx.  There was a beep from his keyless entry before he ever reached the car.  He got in, slammed the door, fumbled with the ignition, then shrieked – really – when I put my fist through his driver-side window.

“Okay, okay, Jesus!”  He dropped his keys, threw his hands up.  I unlocked the door from the inside, opened it, then brushed the remains of his window off my forearms.  It’d shattered, where I’d expected an arm-sized hole and probably a nasty cut.

I chuckled to myself as I pulled Lynx out of the car.  I knew what I’d done, but I’d never actually used the whole breaking bricks trick for anything practical before.

The Doctor was already calming down.

“Commando Bob, I presume.”  He muttered.

[Commander La'ra]

“I take it you’re looking for Nikki and Kyle.”  Lynx grumbled.  He was sitting on the roof of the Impala, grousing and fretting.  Three police cars were in the apartment building’s parking lot.  Uniforms moved to-and-from, chaining up the other Outcasts and starting an inventory of the van and the apartment.

“Fire-girl and Beavis.”  Bytor corrected lightly.

“Yeah, them.”  I said.

The Doctor nodded.  He was older, but not old.  Brownish hair with artificial streaks of blonde.  He was fit enough to say he was in-shape.

“I patched ‘em up.”  He admitted.  “Kyle took two bullets in his shoulder when they broke out of the police wagon.  Wasn’t too serious.”

“Girl?”  I asked.

He shrugged.

“Not a scratch on her.”  He glanced up at the cops, wondering when one was going to walk over and formally arrest him.  I knew it probably wouldn’t be until Bytor and I’d finished with him.  “She asked a lot of questions, though.”

“Looking for a place to hide out?”  Bytor asked.  It was easy enough getting info out of Lynx;  he wasn’t a hardened criminal.  Once upon a time he’d been legit.  There’d been some minor scandal.  He’d slept with a patient and the wrong superior had found out.  He’d explained to the cops once that he’d always wanted to be a doctor, and little things like licensing weren’t going to stop him.  He’d done time, but never much.  He’d treated some criminals successful enough to ensure some great lawyers.  He’d been doing it long enough that he’d got a street name after someone had decided ‘Dr. Lynx’ sounded cooler than ‘Dr. Lincoln.’

“Her?  No.”  The doctor informed.  “She wanted to know about gene therapy, some stuff like that.  General questions.  Used to hear them all the time when I was at the hospital.  People wanting to know if they could buy superpowers, basically.”

“She’s a meta.”  I clarified.

“Apparently she wants more.”

I frowned.

“I’ll bet Beavis was looking for a place to hide out.”  Bytor said merrily. 

“He was.”  Lynx offered.  I could detect the resistance in his voice.

“Where?”  I asked.

Lynx shook his head.

“I don’t know where.  I told him not to tell me.”  The doctor shrugged.  “Still wouldn’t tell you if I did, but I don’t.”

“Gotta protect the rep.”  Bytor observed.

“Right.”  Lynx agreed.  “If you can find something that’ll help you here, fine, but I’m not ratting on anyone.”

I shrugged.  So did Bytor.  We’d searched him earlier, got his cell phone and other such.

“Bullet wounds need regen or surgery…which you use on Beavis?”  I asked.

“Surgery.”  The doctor stated.

“Need some meds…keep the infection away.”  I said.  “How much of what he’d need did you have?”

“Not enough.”  Lynx replied quietly. 

We prodded a little more, got the list from him.  Pain killers and antibiotics with names that were hard to pronounce.  Bytor gave me a look that said we probably wouldn’t get more out of him;  he’d busted Lynx before.

“Good luck, Doc.”  Bytor said as we started to walk away.

“One more thing.”  Lynx offered.  I glanced back.  Bytor looked surprised.

“The girl…Nikki…watch out for her.”  The Doctor warned.  “She’s…a little different.”

“Different?”  I asked.  I remembered the look she’d had in her blue eyes, the odd feeling I’d gotten as I’d watch the cops take her away.

“Driven.  She doesn’t think like most gang members…she feels they’re a bit small time.  She’s got a dangerous type of ambition, Commando Bob.”

“How dangerous?”  I asked.

The Doctor shrugged.  A uniform had walked over, handcuffs out.

“Well, I’m probably behind bars for a few months because of you.”  He said, meeting my eyes.  “And I warned you anyway.”

I let that thought linger for a moment, and nodded.

[Governor Ronjar]

For little ha-ha stories, these have the best fight scenes you've yet written!

I'd say that, this being rather comic-booky, you've toned down the aspect of violence surrounding Bytor. We both know he'd have left a string of bodies by now, given who he's based on. But then, wanton violence on the part of the HERO doesn't fit in with comic good guys, not even for tough characters like the Batman.

I like these, almost better than your La'ra stories. But, they will never replace the marauding Klingon. He's one of my few sources of new Trek...

Keep it up, my friend!

--thu guv!

[Lara]

And the rest of this is where?

Don't be insulted, but this reminds me of some of my favorite movies...of course, most of my favorite movies have Godzilla in them.

[Scottish Andy]

This is good stuff. Engaging characters, good plotlines, cool action scenes that the Guv rightly points out as being non-comic-booky despite being about superheroes.

And we're setting up an arch enemy or nemesis, if I'm not mistaken. Every good superhero needs one.

Keep Commando Bob coming. I think I'm beginning to like his stories more than La'ra's ones. And did I mention that this is about superheroes?

[Commander La'ra]

Just cuz there's a new La'ra story cooking doesn't mean I'm neglecting Bob.


-----------------



I finally met the cop who'd clued Bytor in on the escape.  She was blonde and thin, and grinned at Mr. Yellow a lot.  Apparently spandex worked for him. 

She was too busy to flirt much.  Cops and such were hunting for Fire-girl too, after all.  We'd had the best luck so far, which didn't say much because Lynx seemed almost like a dead-end.

"I was expecting to be throwing down with Rock-Boy and Fire-Girl."  Bytor chuckled.  We were sitting in front of his cop friend's desk.  She wasn't there;  Lynx wasn't going to officially interrogate himself.

"Yeah."  I answered.

We were quiet for a moment.

"Guy's gonna need some more meds."  Bytor observed.

"Yeah."  I answered.  I had a copy of the list of pharmaceuticals in my pants pocket.  “Or some regen gel.  That‘d clear the problem up a lot faster.”

“Oh yeah.  Basically two places he can get that.”

“Hospital or a superhero’s house.  Or someone who needs continuing goo therapy.”

“Which you figure he’ll knock off?”

I considered the question.  Burglarizing a cape would be risky...unless he knew they weren’t at home.  A lot of heroes worked behind masks, anonymously.  A lot of them, like me and Bytor, didn’t.  It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to assume that Rock-Boy might know were a suitable superhero lived, but how many heroes literally worked out of their house?

A hospital, on the other hand, would be an impossible target.  High police presence, including stuff designed to combat metas, was enough of a deterrent, but a hint that a hospital was being raided would bring every hero with a police scanner down on the burglars.  The third option, someone undergoing long-term regeneration therapy, would be easier than the others, but harder to find.

There were other options.  Metas with the ability to mend wounds.  Magicians who could do the same.  Most people like that were well known though.  I wondered who or what I’d seek out in Rock-Boy’s shoes.  Then it dawned on me that it might not matter.

“We could just ask your cop friend to put out a bulletin or something.”  I said.  “Someone robs a cape or knocks off a pharmacy, they tell us...he’d have to be close by.”

“Maybe watch anyone who can just like, wave their hands and fix him, too.”  Bytor added.  Apparently his thoughts had been along the same lines.

“He probably won’t leave Steel Canyon.  This is Outcast country, and he’s probably got friends here who’ll help him.”

“Yeah.”  Bytor said, sounding pleased.  “Lemme go talk to Detective Sexy.”

He stood and bounced off.  I was alone for a few minutes.  Detective Sexy’s desk was neither messy nor perfectly neat.  She had a mini-aquarium with goldfish and some kind of algae-eating thing.  They seemed happy.

“She’s putting out a bulletin.  They’ll call when they hear something.”  Bytor said as he returned.  “Now we gotta wait though.”

“Yeah.  Probably shouldn’t go too far.”

“I know a place nearby I can hang at. Wanna come?”

“I’ll go see Jill.”

Bytor grinned at me.  I rolled my eyes.



*   *   *



Jill told me over the phone she’d order Chinese for us.  I hung up happy and walked to my car.  The precinct house was busy, with lots of people coming and going.  One of those people looked familiar.  I pulled my hat low and tried to make it to the car, but he noticed me before I could make my escape.

“Hey!’  The big black man in blue and white armor shouted from across the lot.  “Commando Bob!”

I made a noise.  It could've been a growl.  The armored man was approaching.

"Warren Scarpetti, or Knightsaint I s'pose."  He introduced himself.  "How're you doing?"

"Okay."  I said, sort of lying.

"Sorry I bothered you this morning.  Suppose I should've tried to meet you in person."  He kept on.  His voice was rich.  Not like a singer's, more like a guy who was used to addressing the public.  He was bald, and it looked good on him.  His face was wide, stereotypically heroic except for a hint of softness in his cheeks and brow.

"Calling later might've worked better too."

He laughed.  "Yeah.  Sounded like a caught you in a bad mood."

"Sorta."

Big, guileless eyes narrowed for a second.  When he spoke again his voice, still pleasant, had lost it's manly heroism.

"All right.  Sure.  Walking up to the guy you pissed off on the phone and being all friendly probably isn't going to work."

"Lacks subtlety."  I indicated.

He shrugged, armor clanking.  "New at this.  Figure trying is the only way I'll learn.

"New at..."  I didn't know much about Knightsaint, but he'd been a licensed crime fighter longer than I had.

"Recruiting.  Getting people interested in Hero Corps."

"How about I save you some trouble and just say 'I'm not interested' again?"

"See?"  He tossed his hands up in the air.  "They told me to keep trying if they said that, give you the run down on why we're such a good organization and all that...have to convince 'em..."

"Don't need convinced, just don't wanna join."

"Pay's pretty good..."

"Especially the recruiting bonuses?"

"Cut me some slack, man."  He grumbled, his King's Row accent starting to come out.  "Got two kids, wife can only work part time."

"Oh."  I said.

"'Sides.  Was a lucky break for me, starting out, getting hooked up with HC.  Know how it can be starting out, before people want you to do commercials and stuff..."

"I'm not doing any commercials."  I declared instantly.

"You know what I mean...unless you're with Hero Corps this job don't pay."

"I do all right."

He shook his head.  "Just...saying my piece."

I nodded.

"I need to be somewhere."  I said.  "There's a girl ordering Chinese for me right now."

"Yeah...sorry I held you up, man.  Look..."  He popped open a little compartment on his armor, pulled out a business card.  It had the Hero Corps logo on it, Knightsaint's name and phone number.  "...gimme a call if you need some backup, or if you wanna humor me and listen to the sales pitch.  I mean free backup, too, not on the clock."

I examined the card for a second.

"You can do that?"  I asked.

"Have too, man.  Spend too much time heroing for money, you lose your tax-exempt status."  He smiled.  It was a big, friendly smile.  The tax thing was a perk of the license.

"Oh yeah..."

"Sorry to bother ya', man.  I'll leave ya' to your girl." 

He walked off hurriedly, probably thinking I was actually angry.  I looked at his card for a minute, then stuck it into my pants pocket.  I decided I might call him, just to humor him as he'd suggested, but I'd worry about that later.  I got into the Impala and headed off.