AmongHeroes
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ALWAYS SEARCHING FOR THE NEXT GREAT STORY
Most Recent Posts
Justric, I need to get with you because I had an idea for a organic hybrid computer used by Dr. Brock for gene manipulation, and playing old video games. Seems like you would be the relevant person to discuss that with
Yes, LT, yes...Feel the distraction flow through you...muahahaha! Have fun out there!
And I do apologize, dearest GM. I shall prepare to take my punishment with my chin held high in defiant acceptance.
And I do apologize, dearest GM. I shall prepare to take my punishment with my chin held high in defiant acceptance.
Whoops, not sure where I got ten years. My bad.
Haha, like well-aged bourbon.
AmongHeroes approves of this.
What a wonderful start, everyone. I'm excited to see what the rest of this distinguished group spits out.
“Well, bloody hell.” Dr. Gavin Brock muttered as he sat up in his open stasis bed, and awaited the impending wave of violent nausea he was sure was to follow. Several minutes passed, and the only thing that beleaguered the Doc’s senses was the building urge to go relieve his bladder.
His deep blue eyes moved back and forth in the cryo room, noticing the violent retching and loud groans of discomfort from some of Third Shift’s newly awakened. A sideways smile cracked Gavin’s face. He knew that the effects of cryogenic suspension manifested differently with each individual person, and that the vast majority awoke with unpleasant circumstances. But still, as with everything in the natural world, there were always exceptions.
“HA!” Gavin exclaimed victoriously. He was the exception to the rule, apparently.
With a self-satisfied spring in his movements that belied his long chemically induced slumber, Gavin spun his feet out of the bed, wriggled his naked toes, and stood with a grunt to accompany muscles long unaccustomed to bearing his weight. The grunt morphed into a groan as Gavin stretched his arms upward, and arched his back. He was rewarded with several dull pops as his spine cracked with delicious relief.
Taking in a deep breath of the Copernicus’ recycled air, Gavin affixed a pleasant expression onto his face, and took his first step in ten years. As his right foot met the smooth surface of the decking, the smile immediately morphed into a frown, his eyes widened in horrified surprise, and his be-freckled skin turned a distinct shade of green.
“Ah…there it is,” Dr. Gavin Brock was able to say before he bent forward to relieve himself of the contents of his stomach.
♠ ♣ ♦ ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Following his humbling brush with the reality of his biological normalcy, Gavin entered the Auditorium a new man. Freshly showered, his goatee and mustache trimmed, and supporting a large mug of what Gavin believed to be mining-drill lubricant—otherwise known as black coffee—the new day seemed to be looking up.
Wearing his ancient CalTech hooded sweatshirt, Levi jeans, and a beloved pair of low-top, black, Converse All-Stars, Gavin began to descend the pleasantly academic steps of the Auditorium. His gaze alighted upon the large display of lush trees that dominated the main screen of the room. The sight elicited a brief pause of reflection, but only the barest of ones. That was the past, nothing more than a picture upon the desk of the lineage of humanity. The trees from an old neighborhood were nice to look at, but nothing to dwell upon.
As Gavin continued his descent down the steps, he caught sight of Abby speaking with Captain Stanford near the stage. His first thought was to marvel at how the woman could meld the visage of an attractive blond with that of a capable soldier. It was a notion that had stuck with him since the first chance meeting he had had with the Sergeant back at the Mountain, and Gavin supposed he would ponder the pleasant question for the next five years of his shift.
He thought to wave a greeting to Abby, but he refrained. She seemed caught up enough in her official capacity speaking to the captain, and Gavin didn’t want to distract her. Instead, Gavin shifted his attention to another figure he had recognized. Shuffling along a row of seats, Gavin plopped himself down beside a rough looking man in a buttoned work shirt and Redwing boots. He clapped a friendly hand upon the man’s shoulder.
“Owen Reece, as I live and breath,” Gavin said in his jovial, island-spiced British accent, “how are you, you salty bastard?”
He leaned a little closer to the mining pilot, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “How’s the back treating you, eh?”
His deep blue eyes moved back and forth in the cryo room, noticing the violent retching and loud groans of discomfort from some of Third Shift’s newly awakened. A sideways smile cracked Gavin’s face. He knew that the effects of cryogenic suspension manifested differently with each individual person, and that the vast majority awoke with unpleasant circumstances. But still, as with everything in the natural world, there were always exceptions.
“HA!” Gavin exclaimed victoriously. He was the exception to the rule, apparently.
With a self-satisfied spring in his movements that belied his long chemically induced slumber, Gavin spun his feet out of the bed, wriggled his naked toes, and stood with a grunt to accompany muscles long unaccustomed to bearing his weight. The grunt morphed into a groan as Gavin stretched his arms upward, and arched his back. He was rewarded with several dull pops as his spine cracked with delicious relief.
Taking in a deep breath of the Copernicus’ recycled air, Gavin affixed a pleasant expression onto his face, and took his first step in ten years. As his right foot met the smooth surface of the decking, the smile immediately morphed into a frown, his eyes widened in horrified surprise, and his be-freckled skin turned a distinct shade of green.
“Ah…there it is,” Dr. Gavin Brock was able to say before he bent forward to relieve himself of the contents of his stomach.
Following his humbling brush with the reality of his biological normalcy, Gavin entered the Auditorium a new man. Freshly showered, his goatee and mustache trimmed, and supporting a large mug of what Gavin believed to be mining-drill lubricant—otherwise known as black coffee—the new day seemed to be looking up.
Wearing his ancient CalTech hooded sweatshirt, Levi jeans, and a beloved pair of low-top, black, Converse All-Stars, Gavin began to descend the pleasantly academic steps of the Auditorium. His gaze alighted upon the large display of lush trees that dominated the main screen of the room. The sight elicited a brief pause of reflection, but only the barest of ones. That was the past, nothing more than a picture upon the desk of the lineage of humanity. The trees from an old neighborhood were nice to look at, but nothing to dwell upon.
As Gavin continued his descent down the steps, he caught sight of Abby speaking with Captain Stanford near the stage. His first thought was to marvel at how the woman could meld the visage of an attractive blond with that of a capable soldier. It was a notion that had stuck with him since the first chance meeting he had had with the Sergeant back at the Mountain, and Gavin supposed he would ponder the pleasant question for the next five years of his shift.
He thought to wave a greeting to Abby, but he refrained. She seemed caught up enough in her official capacity speaking to the captain, and Gavin didn’t want to distract her. Instead, Gavin shifted his attention to another figure he had recognized. Shuffling along a row of seats, Gavin plopped himself down beside a rough looking man in a buttoned work shirt and Redwing boots. He clapped a friendly hand upon the man’s shoulder.
“Owen Reece, as I live and breath,” Gavin said in his jovial, island-spiced British accent, “how are you, you salty bastard?”
He leaned a little closer to the mining pilot, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “How’s the back treating you, eh?”
The morning sun caressed the green carpet of trees in the Paro valley, some three-thousand feet below the Taktsang Palphug Monastery. The ancient complex stood beautifully upon the precipice of its granite pedestal, greeting the coming day with a splendor and reverence few man-made structures could achieve.
In the cool, still air, the spicy notes of long-burning incense lingered, coalescing with the pleasant mustiness of ancient stone and lacquered wood. The rich smells were accompanied by the sounds of songbirds, the light tinkling of wind bells, the ghostly flutter of prayer flags, and the muffled chants of the Buddhist monks from within the main hall of the monastery.
It was to all of this simple grandeur that Atticus Mac Cleírich greeted the promise of the morn. In a high room of the monastery, the incubus walked out upon the small balcony, and took in all there was to see. The clear mountain sky seemed so pure and bereft of blemish, as if it were being focused by the lens of some divine being, and made to achieve some ethereal level of purity.
Atticus stood in a simple outfit of gray rough-spun linen, and brought the small cup of sweetened milk tea to his lips as he appraised the world around him. With the warm liquid cascading over his tongue, a soft smile came to the demon’s bearded face, and his eyes closed in contemplative satisfaction.
In the year that had passed since Fenrir’s fall, it was mornings like these that had helped to coax peace and hope back into Atticus’ infernal heart. The world, it seemed, was indeed carrying on despite the best efforts of the god of destruction. Even in the face of all the grave sacrifices needed to achieve that end, Atticus finally felt at ease with it all. There was no satisfaction in regret, and no harmony in despising the cast die of fate.
Finishing his tea, a pleasant idea came to Atticus. He retrieved a small walnut lap desk from within the simple confines of his room, along with parchment, and an ancient ink well and pen. Sitting down upon the smooth wood of the balcony, Atticus set to writing.
Over a year’s worth of thoughts and experiences flowed through Atticus’ pen as he wrote a letter to every single one of his comrades that had survived the final wrath of the god-wolf. He told them of his feelings for them, how much he missed their company, and how much he appreciated all they had sacrificed for all the world. Atticus wrote of his time lost in the mountains, of all that that he had found and achieved, both personally and universally. He left nothing out, hoping to leave a true piece of himself with each and every stroke of his pen.
The next several hours were passed in this way, until at last each letter was folded, sealed with black wax, and embossed with a large ‘AM’ monogram. One at a time Atticus took the letters and sent them away to their addressees in a puff of dark smoke, sparks, and brimstone. A smirk came to his face as he envisioned the surprise of each of the recipients, starting at the appearance of a letter out of thin air before their eyes. He very much enjoyed the many adaptations of his new powers.
With his work finished, Atticus set the lap desk aside, and leaned back against the old wood of the balcony’s railing. He regarded the sky above again, and let out a contented sigh. Several long minutes came and went, seeing the incubus sitting in silent enjoyment of the moment, wholly satisfied with the time and space in which he occupied.
His reverie was broken by the sound of a richly accented, and beautifully feminine voice.
“Good morning, Atticus.”
The incubus smiled, and turned his head to peer back into the relative darkness of the room. His golden eyes flared with delight, and he breathed a breath of delicious fulfilment.
“Good morning, petit prédateur” Atticus said. He stood and walked into the room, stepping to the tiny, resplendent vampire, and encircled her in his arms. His eyebrow arched as he looked down into her large and doll-like eyes. “What do you think, my dear? Is the world ready for our return?”
Nastasiya Pavlenko looked back up to Atticus, and offered him a devilishly salacious smile before standing on her tip toes to press her full lips against his own. When she broke away, the glint in her eyes rivaled the glow of even Atticus’ bright pupils.
“Not just yet.”
Ah such wonderful stuff, everyone. Grainy and Dot, that was such an amazing epilogue. I can't wait to see what you come up with Hellis, and you as well TNY. I'll have my own up probably Thursday.
Thomas leapt upward into the tangle of the shroud. His hands gripped and pulled, his back strained, and his legs thrust him skyward in an orchestrated dance of muscle. The warm Caribbean wind pulled at him as he rose, tugging like a taunting hand, threatening to pull him free of the hemp rope upon which he propelled himself.
Below, Thomas could hear the hoots, hollers, and cheers of the crew. Even above the sound of the fluttering sails, the beating of his heart, and the gush of air in his lungs, he could make out the spiced voice of Antonia cheering him on. A smile came to his face as the exhilaration of the contest, and the adrenaline that filled his veins coalesced into a slurry of joy. Captain Thomas Lightfoot let out a wild hoot as he made the mid-point of the main mast.
He had no idea where Jax was. Thomas did not dare look away from his next handhold, but he knew that the sea-artist could not be far behind, if he was behind at all. Even amidst the exertion, the open mouthed smile remained on Thomas’ face. This contest for Thomas was no mere feat of physical prowess, it was a venture of fun, of friendship, and of camaraderie. No matter who made the top first, Thomas would view himself the victor. It took a certain kind of man to challenge a ship’s captain to a chase up the main mast, and Thomas loved Jax for his nonchalant courage.
By the time he made the level of the skysail, Thomas’ legs burned, and he could no longer feel his fingers upon the rope. Above, he could see the crow’s nest plainly, with the youngster Barlow looking down over the railing at him. At this height, the two shrouds closed with one another as they neared the apex of the main sail. Though he could not see clearly, Thomas could make out the swift blur of Jax out of his periphery, and as best he could judge, the two men were neck and neck.
“Damn your eyes,” Thomas muttered to himself between gritted teeth. “Climb!”
With a last burst of speed, Thomas hauled himself upward, grunting with a final effort. His hand slapped hard upon the railing of the crow’s nest.
Huffing like a bawdy woman in a port brothel, Thomas affixed Barlow with a serious gaze.
“Well?” He yelled between breaths. “By God’s wounds, who the hell won?”
Thomas could not see Jax now, as both men were on either side of the square crow’s nest. Barlow looked nervous, glancing about, and stammering wordlessly.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Thomas hauled himself over the railing, and immediately caught site of Jax leaned over the opposite side. Barlow looked to his captain, an anxious and apologetic expression upon his young face. Seeing this, Thomas let out a long sigh, and began to chuckle. He made the short distance to Jax, and helped to heave the helmsman the rest of the way over the railing.
“Well, you wily bastard,” Thomas said with a sideways smile, the perspiration gleaming upon his forehead in the dwindling light. “What do you want to know?”
Before Jax replied, Thomas held up his hand and turned to Barlow, who was standing silently behind them. The boy looked uncertain, and stood pretending that he wasn’t paying attention to what the captain and the helmsman might be saying.
“Get your ass below, Barlow, and inform the crew of the result of the race.” Thomas said sharply.
Barlow gulped hard. “Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain.”
As the boy began to scramble over the railing, Thomas stopped him by placing a firm hand upon his arm. Barlow froze, and looked very near to wetting himself.
“And Barlow,” Thomas leaned close to the boy before finally cracking a smile. “Tell the crew that they are free to drink their fill tonight. Though, do politely advise them that come the morrow, I will grant no quarter for those who are suffering from Irish fever.”
At that, even the nervous and uncertain Barlow grinned before slipping away down the main mast. Thomas turned back to Jax.
“Well, that should make things interesting. Congratulations on the victory, and damn it all, you had better have remembered the rum.” Thomas laughed. “God knows I’ll need to be drunk when I have to face Antonia.”
Below, Thomas could hear the hoots, hollers, and cheers of the crew. Even above the sound of the fluttering sails, the beating of his heart, and the gush of air in his lungs, he could make out the spiced voice of Antonia cheering him on. A smile came to his face as the exhilaration of the contest, and the adrenaline that filled his veins coalesced into a slurry of joy. Captain Thomas Lightfoot let out a wild hoot as he made the mid-point of the main mast.
He had no idea where Jax was. Thomas did not dare look away from his next handhold, but he knew that the sea-artist could not be far behind, if he was behind at all. Even amidst the exertion, the open mouthed smile remained on Thomas’ face. This contest for Thomas was no mere feat of physical prowess, it was a venture of fun, of friendship, and of camaraderie. No matter who made the top first, Thomas would view himself the victor. It took a certain kind of man to challenge a ship’s captain to a chase up the main mast, and Thomas loved Jax for his nonchalant courage.
By the time he made the level of the skysail, Thomas’ legs burned, and he could no longer feel his fingers upon the rope. Above, he could see the crow’s nest plainly, with the youngster Barlow looking down over the railing at him. At this height, the two shrouds closed with one another as they neared the apex of the main sail. Though he could not see clearly, Thomas could make out the swift blur of Jax out of his periphery, and as best he could judge, the two men were neck and neck.
“Damn your eyes,” Thomas muttered to himself between gritted teeth. “Climb!”
With a last burst of speed, Thomas hauled himself upward, grunting with a final effort. His hand slapped hard upon the railing of the crow’s nest.
Huffing like a bawdy woman in a port brothel, Thomas affixed Barlow with a serious gaze.
“Well?” He yelled between breaths. “By God’s wounds, who the hell won?”
Thomas could not see Jax now, as both men were on either side of the square crow’s nest. Barlow looked nervous, glancing about, and stammering wordlessly.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Thomas hauled himself over the railing, and immediately caught site of Jax leaned over the opposite side. Barlow looked to his captain, an anxious and apologetic expression upon his young face. Seeing this, Thomas let out a long sigh, and began to chuckle. He made the short distance to Jax, and helped to heave the helmsman the rest of the way over the railing.
“Well, you wily bastard,” Thomas said with a sideways smile, the perspiration gleaming upon his forehead in the dwindling light. “What do you want to know?”
Before Jax replied, Thomas held up his hand and turned to Barlow, who was standing silently behind them. The boy looked uncertain, and stood pretending that he wasn’t paying attention to what the captain and the helmsman might be saying.
“Get your ass below, Barlow, and inform the crew of the result of the race.” Thomas said sharply.
Barlow gulped hard. “Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain.”
As the boy began to scramble over the railing, Thomas stopped him by placing a firm hand upon his arm. Barlow froze, and looked very near to wetting himself.
“And Barlow,” Thomas leaned close to the boy before finally cracking a smile. “Tell the crew that they are free to drink their fill tonight. Though, do politely advise them that come the morrow, I will grant no quarter for those who are suffering from Irish fever.”
At that, even the nervous and uncertain Barlow grinned before slipping away down the main mast. Thomas turned back to Jax.
“Well, that should make things interesting. Congratulations on the victory, and damn it all, you had better have remembered the rum.” Thomas laughed. “God knows I’ll need to be drunk when I have to face Antonia.”
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