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Interlude: Casino Showdown

An intergalactic police officer finds himself in over his head with an unusual alien suspect.

Christian walked into the Rushti Interstellar Bar and Casino, eyes peeled. The colorful lights and decorations of the casino glared off the chrome of his blue exo-suit. He fingered a button on the side of his earpiece to soften the din of the slot machines.

He narrowed his brilliant green eyes and scanned the crowds as he walked towards the bar. If the suspect was here, they were well hidden. He sighed, sitting down on one of the less questionable stools.

The bartender, a slightly blob-like creature with pale yellow skin, wondered over to the Interforce officer. He slung a grimy towel over his shoulder. “What’s your choice, mister?”

“Nothing on the clock, I’m afraid.”

“Then go get lost, deef.” The bartender turned to leave, shaking his head, his jowls wiggling.

“I’m looking for someone.” The bartender paused. “I’m sure an upstanding citizen such as yourself could make time to help an officer out?”

The bartender turned slightly. “Possibly?”

“A rather rough-looking Andeluvian was spotted coming in here earlier. He would have had a glowing yellow pendant on his chest.” Christian made a triangle with his fingers and thumbs on his own chest to demonstrate.

The bartender sniffed, considering the officer. He finally shook his head. “No. Hard to keep track of so many.”

Christian quietly placed a gold coin on the bar. “How hard, would you say?”

The bartender eyed the coin greedily. “Very difficult.”

Two more coins appeared. “I’m sure you’re concentrating, now.”

“Yes. I’ve just recalled.” The bartender snatched up the coins. “Your friend is relieving himself just now.”

“Interforce appreciates your cooperation, citizen.” Christian stood up. The bartender grunted, pacing down to the other end of the bar.

Christian settled near a card game by the restrooms, feigning interest in the action. A gray-skinned, demon-like alien emerged a short time later. A long scar cut across his face, squinting one eye. One of his pointed ears was half-missing. A yellow pendant glowed dully on his chest.

The officer kept the alien in his periphery. The suspect drifted towards the middle of the casino. Christian followed, putting a healthy distance between them.

The alien sat down at a seemingly random slot machine. He inserted a player’s card and pulled the handle twice in rapid succession. He took no other action. He sat and stared at the screen.

A minute later, another of his species sat quietly beside him. Like his compatriot, he inserted his player’s card and pulled the handle twice. The suspect nodded his head. His companion passed him something at waist level.

The second alien stood and walked away. As much as Christian would have liked to take down both of them, he had to remain focused. The suspect stood up and walked away from the machine.

Christian tapped the side of his earpiece. “Suspect identified.” He quickly closed the distance between them. He reached out and grabbed the alien’s arm. “Interforce. We need to talk.”

The alien growled in response, shaking off Christian’s hand. He spun around and shoved the officer to the ground. He ran into the gasping crowd, shoving unsuspecting patrons aside.

“Damn it!” Christian shot to his feet and reached for his earpiece. “Suspect is…” There was no earpiece. He sighed. “Great.” He spotted the alien and broke into a sprint.

It was easy to track the suspect’s movements by the groaning casino-goers left crumpled on the ground. “Interforce! Stop that man!” People stepped clear of the suspect, much to his chagrin. “Perfect,” he spoke under his breath.

The suspect turned left, heading for a nearby exit onto the promenade. A server-bot chose that moment to push a large rack of prepared food into his path. The alien slowed, but couldn’t stop completely. The rack shook violently, sending plates and platters crashing to the ground.

The server-bot began babbling angrily. The suspect cursed at it in his native language. Christian caught up, breathing heavily. He held up his phase-caster pistol. “Time’s up! Render yourself!”

“Not today, officer!” The suspect grinned, speaking in a gravelly voice. He smacked the yellow pendant on his chest. It glowed brilliantly. The alien’s body grew and stretched, turning a reddish-orange.

The massive alien howled, shaking the air. “Oh, shit…” Christian opened fire on the suspect. The alien seemed unfazed by the blue blasts of energy. He swung one large fist at the weapon, knocking it from the officer’s hand.

The suspect flailed out with the other hand, sending Christian tumbling several feet to the side. He rolled over, groaning. “I… said… render yourself!“

Christian stood and knocked his forearms together. He brought them down sharply to his sides, fists forward. The sound of whirring motors and sliding machinery issued from his exo-suit. The chrome panels on the suit extended out, expanded.

The officer stood facing the alien, now at an even height, fully encased in heavy armor. A blue helmet wrapped itself up and over Christian’s face. The eyes lit up yellow. He spoke through the helmet’s intercom. “Your move, punk.”

The alien screamed, charging at Christian. The officer swung an armored fist into the creature’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. The alien’s eyes flashed surprise. He smashed the suspect’s face into his knee.

The suspect shoved blindly, knocking Christian back far enough to allow the alien to regain his bearings. “Come get me, scum.” The alien spit before turning and running.

Christian sprung to his feet. He sprinted after the alien, his armored feet booming with each footfall. He lunged onto the alien’s back, sending them both tumbling forward into a row of slot machines.

“Graaahhh!” The alien shouted, shoving both of his fists into Christian’s chest. The officer stumbled backwards, his armor dented. Alarms screamed in his ears.

Christian thrust first one arm, then the other at the alien. Two small missiles fired from each arm and crashed into the alien. One missed it’s mark, hitting a slot machine and exploding.

The alien fell back into the slot machines, groaning. He shook his immense head and shot Christian a dark look. He spun around and ripped one of the slot machines free from its base.

He swung it around and smashed it into Christian like an oversize baseball bat. Christian crumpled. The alien brought the twisted remains of the machine down on top of the officer, smashing it to pieces.

Sparks and hydraulic fluid poured out of Christian’s exo-suit. He retracted his helmet. He struggled to move. “Will you just render, already?”

The alien blew out a guttural laugh. “Not today, officer.” He smacked the yellow pendant on his chest. The alien shrunk down and inwards, his body forming into a perfect hourglass shape.

The alien tossed her ebony hair away from her olive skin. She winked a bright yellow eye at the officer and smiled. “Maybe next time.” She turned and bounded out onto the promenade behind her.

Christian watched her go, helpless. He looked over his broken exo-suit. “This, is going to be expensive.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, blowing his breath out at the ceiling above.

Interlude: The Blackened Yellow

A young man makes a bid to save his village by searching for a legendary water source.

This is the first time this story has been published outside of the “Interludes” collection. It was originally written exclusively for the book. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

– John Prescott

Tired. So tired. So thirsty.

It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. Doesn’t matter at all. He’ll find it: The promised land. A lush, green, fertile land with all the water he could stomach.

The land of the Blackened Yellow. He examined the empty bottle in his hand. He’d swim in his next water source. Then he’d fill this with legendary water.

He ran his dry tongue over withered lips. He could nearly taste it. Nearly. He thrust the empty bottle into his satchel and pressed on.

His feet betrayed him, fumbling in the deep sand. He crashed to his knees, then collapsed into the scorching sand. It stung his torn and sun-burnt skin.

The pain only brought clarity. He lifted his head, first grimacing, then grinning. He looked up at the hill of sand before him.

It would be over this crest, just on the other side. This time. He knew it. He absently lapped up the blood that spilled from his split lower lip.

“We must do something.” It was the same young man, a number of days ago. He was gazing into a deep well.

“Of course, friend Ezra. But what? We have tried to appease the gods. They will not cry for us.”

Ezra could just make out the glint of sunlight weaving on the thin pool of water at the bottom of the well. He could clearly see the earth below it. Never in his life had he seen the bottom before.

“Perhaps they do not listen. What if they want us to move on?”

Ezra’s companion scoffed. “Do you speak of your grandfather? Surely you don’t believe such crazy stories.”

“I tell you, friend Gerald… I could see it in his eyes. Such vivid descriptions… He was there again, even as he described it to us.”

“The land of Blackened Yellow. What does it even mean?” Gerald kicked at the earth. “A bunch of nonsense.”

“I will speak with the council. They will see the truth in my words.”

Gerald snapped his head up. “The council? Surely the drought has robbed you of your senses!”

“No.” Ezra smiled. “It’s made everything that much clearer.”

The lowering sun painted all it touched in a peaceful golden glow. It was at odds with the increasingly brutal heat that it cast upon the small village each and every day. Ezra turned from it, switching his attention to the creature before him.

A cow, barely alive, returned his gaze with pleading eyes. The sickly creature’s dried tongue hung limply from its mouth. It trembled slightly from the effort of standing.

Ezra shook his head. He placed gentle hands on either side of the beast’s head. “You poor creature.” The cow mewled weakly. “I know. I cannot bear to see you suffer any longer.”

He stroked the creature’s fur. “I will speak with Mother. She will see.”

The young man sat with his mother a short time later. He chewed at the charred lizard meat that was the day’s meal. Difficult to eat on the best of days, it was especially bitter this evening.

He placed his plate to one side and gazed into the fire. He somehow hoped that the answers he sought would manifest within the flames. Perhaps the face of Father would emerge with words of guidance.

The fire would not speak with him tonight. He closed his eyes and hung his head. Ezra’s mother took notice, setting aside her own meal.

“You are troubled, child.”

Ezra did not open his eyes. “We are all troubled, now.”

“Of course we are. Never before have the gods tested us like this. That’s not what bothers you, though.”

Ezra finally opened his eyes. “No.” He raised his head. “I wish to end our last cow’s life.”

His mother froze, eyes locked on his. She quickly turned her head away. “She hasn’t been well for some time. The look in her eyes…” The fire made her own eyes glisten in the dark.

“So it is agreed, then.”

“No!” The woman whipped her head back. “She’s her last hope! We need to keep her! We’ll sell her when she…”

“When she what, mother? Dies? Wastes away to nothing? You’ve seen her suffering!” The growing sorrow painted on his mother’s face cut him like a knife. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Her voice was a trembling whisper. “No, you are right. She suffers.” She lowered her head. “The gods will frown if we prolong it.”

“She was our best…”

“Speak no more of it.” Ezra’s mother stood and stalked away.

Ezra walked slowly home, turning two small clay discs over and over in his left hand. In his right were scraps of beef to be cured. Both represented what remained of their last cow.

He dropped it all as he approached the small mud hut that he called home. Two elders were bent over a woman just outside the entrance. He broke into a sprint, eyes growing wild.

One of the elders stood as he approached. The old man held up a staying hand. Ezra ignored it and plummeted to the ground beside his mother.

“Ezra! You shouldn’t be here. She…”

“Where else would I be! Mother…” He began to weep. His eyes fell on the dagger jutting from her chest. Anger flashed up inside him. “Who did this!”

The other elder turned heavy eyes on the young man. “She did.”

Ezra shook his head. “No… NO!” He scrambled to his feet. “She wouldn’t… Who could have…”

The standing elder firmly grasped his arm. “Ezra, it’s true. She felt herself a burden… We tried to save her. I’m sorry.”

The young man tried to pull away. The elder pulled Ezra to him and embraced him. The young man screamed in grief.

So it was, the sole survivor, his family devastated by the curse of the great sun god. The thought was foremost in his mind even as His golden rays painted themselves over the body of Ezra’s mother. Such cruel mockery.

He approached the funeral pyre. She looked serene to him, as if she were enjoying some secret dream. Ezra placed his hand on hers. It felt so cold. The illusion was shattered.

From somewhere behind him came the sound of a fire roaring to life. The sun that had seen the final hours of his mother’s life passed below the horizon. Another glow grew behind him.

A gentle hand pressed on his back. “It is time, Ezra.” It was the elder that had stood to meet him earlier.

The young man lowered his head and closed his eyes. His mouth worked through a silent prayer. His gaze returned to his mother. “I am ready.”

He turned. The other elder held a torch. He held it out with both hands and bowed his head to Ezra. The young man bowed in turn and took the torch from him.

Ezra stood before the pyre. The light of the fire danced off of his mother’s skin. He felt he couldn’t move. His mind knew this was right, but his heart pulled back on his hand.

Inch by inch, he stretched towards the base of the pyre. It caught fire at last. He numbly stepped back as the flames slowly climbed their way towards his mother’s body.

He turned away as the fire reached the body of his mother. He lowered his head. Fresh tears stained his cheeks. He did not look up when the elder approached, but held out the torch. The elder took it from him and quietly walked away.

Ezra’s friend Gerald stood beside him a short while later. “Why do you turn from your mother?”

“That is not my mother anymore.”

“Still… Why do you….”

“I could have saved her!” Ezra looked upon Gerald in rage. “I should have left sooner!” He lowered his gaze to the ground, his face contorting in sorrow, his eyes red.

It was Gerald’s turn to become angry. “After all this, are you still so eager to throw your life away!”

“I will do no such thing!”

“If you still intend to walk out into the desert, you will. The council will never…”

“I am through with the council. I am through with this village! I will leave tomorrow.”

Gerald shook his head. “No, Ezra. You can’t…”

“I will…” Ezra stormed away.

“I tell you again, friend Ezra… This is madness!” Despite his words, Gerald handed Ezra two bottles of water.

Ezra hesitated. “Where did you get these?”

“The council.” Ezra’s jaw dropped. “I… borrowed it. I suppose you are not the only one who is crazy.”

“Borrowed it.” Gerald nodded. Ezra smirked. “I suppose they won’t want it back when I’m done with it. They’ll be grateful for your thievery once I come back.”

“Ezra… Do you really think you’ll find the Blackened Yellow?”

“I must.” He reached into his satchel and produced a small circular device. Inside of it was a needle which appeared to float. Four markings adorned the bottom of the case.

Gerald’s eyes grew wide. “What is it?”

“It belonged to my grandfather. He called it his ‘calmness’. He said he used it to find the Blackened Yellow.”

“How does it work?” Gerald watched, transfixed as the needle inside turned this way and that, seemingly of its own accord.

“This needle, when the painted end faces the three lines, will point the way to the Blackened Yellow. I only need to keep it pointed in that direction.”

“So why didn’t he ever return, if it was so easy?”

Ezra smiled sadly. “He was too weak to go by himself, and the council wouldn’t allow anyone to accompany him.”

Gerald looked puzzled. “How could the elders claim this Blackened Yellow doesn’t exist?”

“That was always my grandfather’s point. Everyone always laughed at him when he talked about it, yet nobody was ever willing to prove him wrong. He said they were too scared.”

“Scared of what, though?”

Ezra shrugged. “Of being wrong? Of being lost in the desert, I suppose. I don’t know…” He hoisted his satchel and winked. “I’m not scared.”

“I can’t help but think that you should be, friend Ezra.” Gerald kicked at the sand. “I won’t try to stop you, though.”

“Thank you for that. I’ll see you soon.”

“Soon!” Ezra’s voice was as dry and cracked as his lips. A stunted laugh turned into a coughing fit. He hugged his ribs with one blistered arm and struggled to his feet.

Each step came with sheer force of will. His breathing came in ragged, tearing breaths as he fought to find purchase in the loose sand. He never took his eyes off the top of the hill. He was certain the Blackened Yellow would be on the other side.

Ezra fell to his knees half way to his goal. He was breathing in great gasps. His weary eyes saw two hilltops when he looked up. He dug his hands into the hot sand and clawed his way higher.

Gravity claimed him. The hot sand burned his cheek, but he did not feel it. He was only vaguely aware that he was atop his hill.

The world was slowly spinning, or was he? His eyes sagged shut. It felt good. The darkness. It felt… warm. Inviting. He could just let go.

“No.” It was more of a croak than a word. Ezra opened his eyes. He lifted his head with great difficulty, and peered down the other side of his sandy hill.

He saw dark green. He fluttered his eyes, willing them to work just a little longer. Slowly, painfully, the treeline came into view.

“Grandfather,” he wheezed. The sight and excitement brought forth energy from the very depths of his soul. He pressed himself to his hands and knees and plunged forward.

He stumbled and fought his way down the far side of the sandy hill. Momentum took over, sending him tumbling to the bottom. He came to a stop with half his body lying on cool, green grass. It was a sensation wholly alien to him.

He sucked in a deep breath, eyes wide in wonder. They turned towards the massive, gnarled trees that stood just beside him now. He grabbed at the grass with his hand. It was real.

Ezra willed himself back to his knees. He breathed deeply through his nose. The smell was fresh, organic, damp.

There, in the distance. Water. Standing water, waiting for him to drink. He forced his body forward, gleefully pawing his way through the lush green grasses that grew at the base of the trees.

He allowed himself to collapse at the edge of the water. It was nothing more than a puddle, really. It could have been a great ocean, as far as Ezra was concerned.

The cool water stung his torn and bloody lips. The feel of the the life-giving liquid flooding his parched mouth washed away the pain. He pulled in so much water that he gagged on it, and began to cough.

Still, the water gave him renewed vigor. He leaned forward and lowered his face into the cool water. He rubbed at his eyes. His vision cleared, revealing an amazing sight.

Small, white mushrooms dotted the grass before him. They had the faintest green glow to them. Beyond, he could see a clearing. In the middle of it was a pond.

Somehow Ezra found his feet. He stumbled through the puddle he had drank from. The cold water flooding his threadbare moccasins made his tired feet cramp. He ignored the sensation and forced himself into a jog.

He half-fell, have-dove into the crisp, clear water of the pond. All of his pain washed away along with the grime and the dirt of the desert. He emerged at the far end of the pond, eyes wide.

Ezra had found it: the Blackened Yellow. His grandfather had been right. Here was an oasis, not only of water, but of life. The otherworldly water tingled on his skin, penetrated it.

Burned it.

He looked at his arms. They were covered in rapidly growing blisters. He felt it all over his body. The burning threatened to overwhelm him. He found it increasingly hard to breathe.

Ezra began to grin. He wasn’t dying. He was changing, growing! It would make him something more! He focused his rapidly diminishing vision on the relic before him, standing at the foot of the pond.

It was a paper-thin steel barrel. Faded black paint still clung to it in spots. In the middle of it was a bright yellow circle. In the middle of that was a black circle with three black marks fanning out from it.

“Blackened… Yellow…” Ezra’s lips split apart as his grin widened. He stretched a skeletal arm towards the barrel. The metal split where his fingers graced it.

Brilliant glowing folds of white and green filled his failing eyesight. In the light, he beheld his smiling grandfather. Ezra suddenly found the energy to stand. “I found it, grandfather!”

Ezra’s grandfather smiled, but his eyes were heavy. “Yes, my boy. Come.” The young man did as he was asked, leaving the beauty and pain of the Blackened Yellow far behind.

FlashFic: The Storyteller

A simple scribe weaves an epic tale for a too-proud hero.

“Are you ready to venture forth, scribe Belvedere?”

“Quite! Quite…” A small, balding man emerged from Zoran the Brave’s domicile. His large, flat feet were wrapped in sandals that constantly threatened to capture his flowing brown robe.

Zoran frowned. “You are certain you are up for this venture? I heard you are the best scribe available.”

“And so I am! Shall we begin?” The scribe removed a leather-bound journal and a golden quill from inside his robe.

“So we shall!”

“Let’s see… Zoran the Brave stood facing the unknown…” The golden quill glowed brightly as he wrote. “The wind blew his long hair back behind him. His loincloth…”

“Loincloth…” Zoran looked down. He yelped, discovering that he was indeed now only wearing a loincloth. “Oh, my!”

“Is that a problem, sire?”

“You! That… loincloth!”

“Well, you did say you were going for a ‘sword and sandals’ vibe…” The scribe shrugged. “Okay then, how about: Zoran the Brave stood facing the unknown, his armor gleaming in the sunlight.”

Certainly enough, Zoran found himself donned in shining silver armor. He lifted his visor. “Can we drop the helmet? I liked the hair thing.”

Belvedere smirked. “Of course, sire. Ahem… His hair flowed in the blowing winds as he faced his perilously long journey.”

Zoran looked at the quill. “Um… Brief journey.”

“Okay… His brief journey.”

“And he had a large sword.”

“He wielded a beautiful longsword…”

“And he had a beautiful maiden…”

Belvedere narrowed his eyes. “You’re quite the piece of work, aren’t you? Look… I can help here and there, but don’t you think your story should at least be plausible?”

Zoran grumbled. “Don’t think a beautiful maiden would have me, do you? Well… What if I faced great peril!”

The scribe grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Grand idea! Zoran the Brave turned to face the approaching dragon…”

“Now just a minute, scribe. I think…”

“The immense, fire-breathing dragon swooped down at the mighty hero…”

“Scribe! I really don’t think…” Zoran turned to see a large dragon descending from the skies, indeed blowing fire from its open maw.

“Yes, too simple, isn’t it? Let’s see… The hero’s sword broken, he faced the dangerous creature with but a simple dagger…”

Zoran went white. “Forget it! Forget it all!” He ran off in the opposite direction of the quickly approaching dragon. “I’m done with heroing!”

Belvedere licked the tip of the quill, a sly smile on his face. “…And the shamed hero never returned to his disappointed village.” The scribe closed the journal and placed the book and quill back in his robe.

The sizable dragon touched down with a mighty thump near the scribe. It talked with a deep, rumbling voice. “Gods! You cleared this one in record time!”

“That I did, friend dragon. He was… more brawn than brains, to say the least. He was also quite rich!” Belvedere pointed to Zoran’s abandoned home. “We’ve a few months of gold coin to be had in there.

“It almost seems unfair, doesn’t it?” The great dragon chortled.

Belvedere shrugged his shoulders. “All I did was tell his story!”

Partners

Both the hunter and the hunted are not what they first appear to be.

The dark-haired woman worked with amazing precision. She calmly picked through the shelf of jewelry before her even as the security alarm screamed in her ears. She looked towards one corner of the store, brushing a lock of hair from her inquisitive face.

A black figure peered back at her from beneath a hooded sweatshirt. The figure held up a gloved hand and extended three fingers. The sound of sirens drifted in through the storefront. Two of the fingers fell away.

The woman nodded. She shifted her priority to securing the satchel she had been filling with stolen goods. She looked up as she slid the satchel over her shoulder.

Tires squealed on the pavement outside. The light-bar on the police car painted the walls of the jewelry store red and blue. The hooded figure nodded. “It’s time. Go.”

Both the dark-haired woman and hooded stranger ran silently to the back of the store. Flashlight beams cuts into the murk inside the store a moment too late. The two thieves cut into the alley that ran along the building.

At least one of the police anticipated just such a move. “FREEZE! New Wave PD!” Another officer joined him, leveling his plasma pistol.

The woman looked at the hooded figure, who nodded. The figure ran into the night as the woman turned her own plasma pistol on the police and opened fire. One brilliant yellow blast of energy hit the first officer, dropping him immediately.

The woman ran off down the alley, quickly gaining speed. Yellow bursts of energy from the other officer’s pistol chased after her, but never found their target. “Damn!”

The officer made to chase after her, but was caught short. “STOP!” A man in a black trench coat and sunglasses stepped up behind him. He held up a badge. “I’ll handle this. Stay back.”

The officer nodded numbly and stepped aside. The trench-coated man stepped forward scanning to the back of the alley. A black blur rounded the corner. He broke into a dead-run in the direction the young woman had traveled.

He reached the end of the of alley. All three directions were empty. The man stopped and listened. Footfalls pattered to his left. He turned and sprinted down the side alley.

The trench-coated man erupted into the middle of a quiet street. A quick sweep revealed he was alone. He took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes with faintly-glowing turquoise irises.

The Synthetic officer scanned the street. A lone tabby cat mewed on the corner of North Avenue. He raised his sight higher. A vagrant sitting on the steps of a fire escape saluted him with one finger.

He ignored the gesture and looked higher. His eyes flitted from one rooftop to the next, straining to pick up on any heat signatures. There… A bobbing head.

“Nimble little thing…” The officer ran into the alley adjacent to the building and ran up to where the vagrant was. He leaped into the air and grabbed the hand rail of the fire escape.

He pulled himself up and over. The vagrant scrambled back against the building, a wild look in his eyes. “Pardon,” the officer said as he slid past.

He continued up the stairs, going from landing to landing. Yellow blasts of energy greeted him as he crested the top of the building. He returned fire and ducked back down.

There was no return fire. The officer peeked back up cautiously and scanned the roof of the other building. Clear. He hopped onto the hand rail of the fire escape and leaped.

The Synthetic easily cleared the gap, landing on the roof of the far building with hardly a noise. He quickly found his pistol and held it out in front of him. Three quick bursts of plasma fire headed his way.

One blast found its way through his open trench coat as he turned. He snapped back and fired at a ghostly shadow sprinting across the rooftop. “Don’t make me kill you!”

The figure dropped below the roof-line on the far side of the building. “Of course.” The officer sighed, dropping back into a sprint.

He dropped to one knee at the edge of the building and looked over. Nothing. He looked along the alley below and followed it out to the street.

“There you are.” The officer swung over the side of the fire escape. He let himself drop level by level, grabbing each hand rail in turn as he fell.

He ran into the middle of the street and scanned his surroundings. The woman ran down yet another alley. He shook his head and ran.

The woman stood waiting for him at the far end of the alley. Her hands remained at her side. She was not holding her weapon. “Give it up, robot.”

The Synthetic officer’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not making things any easier for yourself, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? How polite. Are you going to ask me to ‘please come here’?”

The officer shrugged. “Would it help?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.” She disappeared around the corner.

“Oh, come on, lady!” The officer chased after her once more.

He turned the corner onto the street and looked in the direction the woman had run. He spotted her nearly a block away. “That’s impossible, unless…”

“Give up, robot!” She ran down another alley.

The officer beared down and ran with superhuman speed. The wind whistled past his ears. He rounded the corner and ran into a parked car.

He dented in the front end and caved the hood. The Synthetic allowed himself to roll up and over the car and kept running. The alarm went off. A balding man in a white wife-beater leaned out a window. “HEY, YOU!”

“New Wave PD!” the officer shouted, even as he accelerated away.

He burst onto another street. This time, yellow plasma blasts greeted him. He turned and fired blindly, barely missing the woman. She disappeared into another alley.

The officer turned to pursue. He made it about halfway before plasma shots landed on either side of him. They came from somewhere behind him. “What, the…”

He turned to find the woman half a block behind him. He fired back, missing her by a wide margin. She flashed him a smile and a wink before disappearing behind a building.

“All right, what’s going on…” The officer retreated to the middle of the street and attempted to look in all directions at once.

A shrill whistle came from the top of the building in front of him. There was the dark-haired woman, smiling down from above. “Wonderful evening, isn’t it?”

“You’re a Synthetic! You have to be!”

“I don’t have to be anything, but I assure you that I am not a Synthetic. Now her…” She pointed down.

The officer lowered his gaze just in time to see the woman, the same woman, drop down right in front of him. “Hello, robot.”

He raised his plasma pistol. The woman expertly kicked it from his hand, making it discharge into a nearby wall as it spun through the air. She punched him twice in the chest, then aimed for his chin.

The officer caught the fist and squeezed. The woman did not flinch, but punched him in the face with her other fist. The officer returned the favor.

The skin tore slightly where he had hit. Titanium glittered underneath it in the streetlight. “There’s the Synthetic.”

“Here I am.” The woman went at him with a series of successful punches and kicks. The officer backed up rapidly. He needed time to respond, but also to scan for the real target.

She was gone. He zeroed back in on the Synthetic. He ran at her. She braced for the hit and rolled him onto the ground.

He followed the roll to where his pistol lay on the ground. He snatched it up and popped up on one knee. He turned and fired, but the woman was gone. He scrambled back to the end of the alley.

She was already halfway down the block. A shrill whistle came from the opposite direction. He turned to see the real woman boarding a city bus.

She blew him a kiss before pulling the hood of her black sweatshirt back over her head. He whipped back around the other way. The Synthetic woman was gone from sight.

“Damn it!” The officer angrily kicked a can across the street. Someone inside an apartment building shouted at him to shut the hell up.

He sighed, rubbing at his chin. “The boss ain’t going to like this one bit.”

DEEP THOUGHTS: Superman and his woman

A treatise on the possibility of Superman and Lois Lane making a Superbaby.

A couple of days ago I asked on Twitter:

Superman. Lois Lane. Can they pop a kid?

Here’s the results of the poll:

It’s the question that pubescent boys and sexually repressed men have been asking since time immemorial(ca. 1978.) Just what would happen if Supes and Ms. Lane played plug in the hair curler? It turns out that the majority of voters agree with me and have great taste in comedy.

Nine percent said “Nah, son.” These are the no-nonsense peeps. This is also probably the most realistic answer. The fact is that Superman and Lois Lane are different species. A cat and dog cannot make a cog, and a Superman and Lois Lane cannot make a… Super Lane? Anyway…

In reality, Superman may not even be humanoid, let alone a hunky piece of white male ass. Even if he WAS something cute enough (or Lois was drunk enough) to hit, the undoubtedly vast difference in physiology and DNA structure would prevent babyage.

Another nine percent said “DUH!” and got their nerd rage on. This is justified. After all, the 2006 movie Superman Returns explains to us that not only did Superman and Lois crush it, but the booty call resulted in an asthmatic weakling boy with the creative name of Jason(spoilers for a thirteen-year-old movie, I guess.)

Of course, this movie also has Superman being a moody douche that abandoned everyone for a number of years. That’s not to mention that the big-bad in the film is an irradiated land mass. That, coupled with the fact that most red-blooded Americans have tried to repress the memory of this film make this weak proof at best.

The second-highest chosen response was “Sure.” They most likely just wanted to participate/see the answers. I question their commitment to the scientific rigorousness of this poll, but value their opinion nonetheless.

The big winner this time around, with a crushing sixty-four percent of the vote, was DEATH BY SNU SNU! I mean, because duh, right? Just think about it…

You got the candles, the Warren G, the fact you’re Superman… It’s time to take dainty Lois to Pound Town. The problem is that I can only see this going one of two ways. Our superhero could be extremely careful and go extra gentle, inexorably leading to proof that not every part of Superman is bulletproof. If you get my meaning. Flaccid. His man of steel would be flaccid.

OR.

Superman would lean into his darkest, dirtiest desires and go at it faster than a speeding locomotive. At worst? A puddle of bloody mashed potatoes where there used to be an attractive naked woman. At best?

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