Sky Blue
The Irish Tree
Phase
PaulHaynek
Lucid Dreaming
AzureKnight
The Otter
Kronshi
JewelSerket
NoriWasHereIn the calming cradle of a moonlit night, smooth jazz played on a bedside table from a small, AM/FM radio. In a sheer negligee of violet satin, Johanna H. Wattzon flipped through the pages of a photobook; a dozen pictures of different women - victims of her magnetic charm and generous drink, and unknowing models in her scrapbook of perversion. Across the bedside table were a developing set of pictures; twelve in total, six and six of each of the women that lie, strewn across the floor in her bedsheets and comforters.
Models #18 and #19. A pair of Uveran twin sisters that she'd picked up at the bar; a pair of tourists that didn't know where they'd end up. Nothing in comparison to Model #17, a Grand Duchess of some such place that she didn't get the name of while she was committing royal infidelity. A smirk crossed her lips, and her polymorphed loins reacted fondly to the memory, as she stroked the pictures of the unconscious woman.
However, before she would take a walk down memory lane, the bell to her house and business rang in the dead of night. A displeased look placed her nostalgia, as she got up, and trekked to answer it. As she did, she took a look at her latest conquests, and her mood lightened.
...only to fall back with a hard thud, as she opened the door. Behind it, a tattooed Jotun in pretty standard Enforcer attire stood, his arms crossed, and face set in a scowl. Flanking him, left and right, were four Humans, two men and two women in a different flair; mercenaries from another nation, baring a familiar coat of arms.
"It's too late for this, Bazz," John says, as she was pushed past by the mercenaries rudely. "Sure, c'mon in," drawls the forced hostess, sarcastically, "Pour yourself a drink, if you like."
"It's just business, John. You know that," Bazz says, entering the room.
"Business you could turn down," John says. "Let it go. There's a pair of Uveran twins on my bedroom floor," she says, walking to her receptionist's desk, lighting a cigarette as she traveled, "If you don't mind sloppy seconds, I'm sure you can entertain yourself for a night with twin savages. Even the women can get in on it," John raised a silver flask, and smirked, "Polyjuice Potion. Eight hours of all the unmitigated fun of having a d--"
"Cut the shit, John! Every time you do this, you do something stupider and stupider! You aren't a child!" Bazz says, the door behind him slammed shut. "You burned her face. They can't hide the scars. Eventually, you reap what you sow, John. Take off your glasses..."
"So, we're seriously doing this, then," John asks, blowing smoke with her words. Bazz's expression didn't change. "A'ight, then. Let's dance."
John's right hand suddenly glowed like the sun, and flame consumed the cigarette, as she flicked it - the marble-sized fireball shooting through the air, and into the eye of one of the women. At the same time, her left hand straightened, and the silver flask impacted the throat of one of the men. A chorus of screams and choking drowned out the smooth jazz that played on the office speakers, and took the mercenaries that remained off guard. In a split-second, John was behind the other man, and threw a sharp hook in-between his shoulder blades; the tines of her knuckle dusters digging into his body, and igniting his clothing with a burst of flame upon his back.
"W-What the hell..." stammered the last woman.
"Good question..." John says, before suddenly sweeping out her knee, and driving an uppercut beneath her breasts to reach her solar plexus. "Corpses don't need answers, though..."
"You bitch!"
John tilted her eyes to the side, and saw the man she'd hit in the throat with the flask rushing her with a dagger. His approach was ended with a thunderous boom; his arm blown off by the sawn-off, double-barrel shotgun that was extended from, seemingly, nowhere.
"Where did you --"
Another explosion ripped open his chest. John cracked the shotgun, as she ducked a sword swing, and ejected the shells from the gun behind her with an unnatural force. Each shell would slam into the woman with one eye; one burning her face and the other cracking her jaw. The shotgun would snap into place, and her screams of pain would be traded for begging pleas of mercy, as her leg was blown off, before John caught her with the hot barrel and pumped her stomach upon the walls.
A gunshot rang out behind her, and John shifted to the left - a bullet sailing by her, and into her wall. Looking back, the staggered woman was doubled over, and aiming a pistol at her. Rapidly, she opened fire, and emptied her clip - John evading them all with impossibly fast movements, as she reloaded, and tossed up her shotgun. Snatching the woman's firing arm, she twisted the limb up and back; dislocating the shoulder, and cracking the elbow on her own, as she pulled it down behind her - catching her shotgun, and pressing it to her hips.
John let the bisected woman drop, as she switched gun hands, and spun her weapon to blast off the leg of the man that was recovering from the taser punch. Standing, she cracked her neck, and stepped on his cheek with her bare foot. Lighting a cigarette, she smiled down at him, before heat was expelled from the bottom of her foot and into his skull; muscle seizing on bone, flesh burning under skin, and blood boiling in his vein, as his brain was cooked.
"Still want to carry on this charade, Bazz? Did you think bringing fodder would offer any advantage," John asked, her back turned to him, as she looked back solely - her confidence unmitigated.
"I have plenty of advantages. They were just here for the contract," Bazz says, "I won't ask again, John. Take your glasses off."
"You're serious," John sighed, "Look around you, Bazz. I didn't break a sweat. Don't commit to this bullshit."
"This isn't something I get to turn down, even for you," Bazz says, before his arms were wreathed in flames.
"I guess s--" John's words were cut short, as the electrocuted man beneath her suddenly warmed up, and erupted in a gout of flame and viscera, as he blew up like a landmine.
Thrown into the air, John tried to recover as she cracked against her own ceiling, but Bazz had heaved another body at her, and it detonated, sending her into the floor, and another body. Each of the mercenaries had been booby trapped, and Bazz was able to use their corpses as firebombs with his Pyro Vision. Physically strained from her previous fight, more so than she'd let on, John couldn't speed out of them back-to-back explosions, and with the fourth bouncing her into the ceiling for a third time, she could only watch... as if... disconnected... as her office burned around her, as her house burned around her... her life going up in literal smoke.
All because she was a little too rough with some noble prick's unfaithful wife.
What an unjust world.
The last thing John comprehended was the crack of her glasses from the blazing punch to her forehead, and Bazz saying, “I told you, take them off...”
After that, naught but the sweet, silent embrace of The Sandman, Father of Sleep...
A WEEK LATER...
Comas were tricky bastards, especially if you spent them in a cargo box with no food or water, being transported halfway across the world with not a soul aware of you.
Industrial freight was too common, and John's crate was marked [DO NOT OPEN UNTIL FINAL DESTINATION] with high-ranking seals. They couldn't kill her outright, but they could arrange for her to die at a point beyond their borders. However, a Witch was made of sterner stuff than some paltry Human, and a particularly heavy deposit would stir the beaten and battered woman from her overstayed slumber.
Light cracked in between panes that allowed air to flow in, as well, and kept her oxygen, while damaged, high enough. Said light hurt with a passion, as weak eyes opened to her prison.
That was the first thing her addled brain comprehended. Self-explanatory enough, as bits of her memory filtered in.
That was the second thing her brain gathered, once lucid enough. Likely, a puddle grown of her own bodily waste and sweat from her comatose state.
That was the third thing John realized, and that motivated her to test the limits of her prison. The box was big enough for her to sit in, hunched over, and open the smaller box that she's been curled around.
Inside, familiar things were assembled: her knuckle dusters, her shotgun with half a battery, half-empty box of shells, a fresh battery, a change of clothes, her bra/holster, a wad of cash, and her broken glasses.
Underneath her glasses was a letter taped to them. Opening the letter, she would draw out a piece of parchment and a cylindrical plate threaded with beaded double ended loop - her Vision. It crackled, and came to life in her lap; shining a revitalizing light in the cargo box.
Using her new light, she would read the letter...
<Yo, John.
Look, business is business. You know this. I know this. It's Averton. Nobody gives a shit what you do with your damn, magic dick, least of all me. But, you fouled some seriously royal waters, girl. I'm not proud of how shit went down, but I'm not stupid enough to say no.
Not all Jotuns are meatheads.
Still, I owe you a solid, so I packed a parting gift and rearranged your travel schedule. You'll have a nice layover in some pirate town - Al-Marabar, I think, is the name. I just know, capital-bound cargo is notorious for getting "lost" there, so if you wake up...
No, not if... when you wake up, you'll be far off and safer. Just keep your head in the sand. Let the heat die, and for the love of all that is cash money, keep your dick in that freaky potion of yours.
...or, at least, put it in a good woman for once.
But, know this: 10,000,000 is your fine, John. Those bodies weren't cheap. A lot of hush money went into this cover up. Even with your unnatural life span, you can't hope to pay it off. Your office is ash. The money is all that was in your safe. The only thing I could save, aside from those Uveran girls.
Whatever. That's unimportant. Listen, John. We're even. Hell, you owe me, really, but I won't collect. Settle down. Start a family. Don't make news. Don't come home. In fact, forget home. Stay safe.
And, have a nice life.
- Bazz>
John smirked, as she set the letter down. Shifting her position, she tipped the envelope to return the letter - sitting at the bottom, a long cigarette with writing on it.
"Last one, big sis...."
Sniffling, she thumbed her Vision, and reached behind herself... taking her hair into a low pony, and cinching it against her head using her Vision as a glorified tie. Looking down, she held the cigarette, and tucked it behind her right ear. "Bazz, you sentimental, kind-hearted, little shit..." she wiped her tears, and slipped on her knuckles dusters, before pumping her shotgun with a wicked grin, "Protected by my little brother..."
Supernova sparked, as lightning surged from her battery, and John pulled the trigger - blasting open her prison, and opening the door for a new beginning, as she stepped out...
...reborn from the ashes (metaphorically, and literally from the burning crate) like a Phoenix.
"Alright, Bazz! Just wait for your big sister's comeback!" John beamed.
Models #18 and #19. A pair of Uveran twin sisters that she'd picked up at the bar; a pair of tourists that didn't know where they'd end up. Nothing in comparison to Model #17, a Grand Duchess of some such place that she didn't get the name of while she was committing royal infidelity. A smirk crossed her lips, and her polymorphed loins reacted fondly to the memory, as she stroked the pictures of the unconscious woman.
However, before she would take a walk down memory lane, the bell to her house and business rang in the dead of night. A displeased look placed her nostalgia, as she got up, and trekked to answer it. As she did, she took a look at her latest conquests, and her mood lightened.
...only to fall back with a hard thud, as she opened the door. Behind it, a tattooed Jotun in pretty standard Enforcer attire stood, his arms crossed, and face set in a scowl. Flanking him, left and right, were four Humans, two men and two women in a different flair; mercenaries from another nation, baring a familiar coat of arms.
"It's too late for this, Bazz," John says, as she was pushed past by the mercenaries rudely. "Sure, c'mon in," drawls the forced hostess, sarcastically, "Pour yourself a drink, if you like."
"It's just business, John. You know that," Bazz says, entering the room.
"Business you could turn down," John says. "Let it go. There's a pair of Uveran twins on my bedroom floor," she says, walking to her receptionist's desk, lighting a cigarette as she traveled, "If you don't mind sloppy seconds, I'm sure you can entertain yourself for a night with twin savages. Even the women can get in on it," John raised a silver flask, and smirked, "Polyjuice Potion. Eight hours of all the unmitigated fun of having a d--"
{BANG!!!}
"Cut the shit, John! Every time you do this, you do something stupider and stupider! You aren't a child!" Bazz says, the door behind him slammed shut. "You burned her face. They can't hide the scars. Eventually, you reap what you sow, John. Take off your glasses..."
"So, we're seriously doing this, then," John asks, blowing smoke with her words. Bazz's expression didn't change. "A'ight, then. Let's dance."
John's right hand suddenly glowed like the sun, and flame consumed the cigarette, as she flicked it - the marble-sized fireball shooting through the air, and into the eye of one of the women. At the same time, her left hand straightened, and the silver flask impacted the throat of one of the men. A chorus of screams and choking drowned out the smooth jazz that played on the office speakers, and took the mercenaries that remained off guard. In a split-second, John was behind the other man, and threw a sharp hook in-between his shoulder blades; the tines of her knuckle dusters digging into his body, and igniting his clothing with a burst of flame upon his back.
"W-What the hell..." stammered the last woman.
"Good question..." John says, before suddenly sweeping out her knee, and driving an uppercut beneath her breasts to reach her solar plexus. "Corpses don't need answers, though..."
"You bitch!"
John tilted her eyes to the side, and saw the man she'd hit in the throat with the flask rushing her with a dagger. His approach was ended with a thunderous boom; his arm blown off by the sawn-off, double-barrel shotgun that was extended from, seemingly, nowhere.
"Where did you --"
Another explosion ripped open his chest. John cracked the shotgun, as she ducked a sword swing, and ejected the shells from the gun behind her with an unnatural force. Each shell would slam into the woman with one eye; one burning her face and the other cracking her jaw. The shotgun would snap into place, and her screams of pain would be traded for begging pleas of mercy, as her leg was blown off, before John caught her with the hot barrel and pumped her stomach upon the walls.
A gunshot rang out behind her, and John shifted to the left - a bullet sailing by her, and into her wall. Looking back, the staggered woman was doubled over, and aiming a pistol at her. Rapidly, she opened fire, and emptied her clip - John evading them all with impossibly fast movements, as she reloaded, and tossed up her shotgun. Snatching the woman's firing arm, she twisted the limb up and back; dislocating the shoulder, and cracking the elbow on her own, as she pulled it down behind her - catching her shotgun, and pressing it to her hips.
{BOOM!!!}
John let the bisected woman drop, as she switched gun hands, and spun her weapon to blast off the leg of the man that was recovering from the taser punch. Standing, she cracked her neck, and stepped on his cheek with her bare foot. Lighting a cigarette, she smiled down at him, before heat was expelled from the bottom of her foot and into his skull; muscle seizing on bone, flesh burning under skin, and blood boiling in his vein, as his brain was cooked.
"Still want to carry on this charade, Bazz? Did you think bringing fodder would offer any advantage," John asked, her back turned to him, as she looked back solely - her confidence unmitigated.
"I have plenty of advantages. They were just here for the contract," Bazz says, "I won't ask again, John. Take your glasses off."
"You're serious," John sighed, "Look around you, Bazz. I didn't break a sweat. Don't commit to this bullshit."
"This isn't something I get to turn down, even for you," Bazz says, before his arms were wreathed in flames.
"I guess s--" John's words were cut short, as the electrocuted man beneath her suddenly warmed up, and erupted in a gout of flame and viscera, as he blew up like a landmine.
Thrown into the air, John tried to recover as she cracked against her own ceiling, but Bazz had heaved another body at her, and it detonated, sending her into the floor, and another body. Each of the mercenaries had been booby trapped, and Bazz was able to use their corpses as firebombs with his Pyro Vision. Physically strained from her previous fight, more so than she'd let on, John couldn't speed out of them back-to-back explosions, and with the fourth bouncing her into the ceiling for a third time, she could only watch... as if... disconnected... as her office burned around her, as her house burned around her... her life going up in literal smoke.
All because she was a little too rough with some noble prick's unfaithful wife.
What an unjust world.
The last thing John comprehended was the crack of her glasses from the blazing punch to her forehead, and Bazz saying, “I told you, take them off...”
After that, naught but the sweet, silent embrace of The Sandman, Father of Sleep...
A WEEK LATER...
Industrial freight was too common, and John's crate was marked [DO NOT OPEN UNTIL FINAL DESTINATION] with high-ranking seals. They couldn't kill her outright, but they could arrange for her to die at a point beyond their borders. However, a Witch was made of sterner stuff than some paltry Human, and a particularly heavy deposit would stir the beaten and battered woman from her overstayed slumber.
Light cracked in between panes that allowed air to flow in, as well, and kept her oxygen, while damaged, high enough. Said light hurt with a passion, as weak eyes opened to her prison.
"I'm in a box."
That was the first thing her addled brain comprehended. Self-explanatory enough, as bits of her memory filtered in.
"I'm in a puddle."
That was the second thing her brain gathered, once lucid enough. Likely, a puddle grown of her own bodily waste and sweat from her comatose state.
"There's another box in here."
That was the third thing John realized, and that motivated her to test the limits of her prison. The box was big enough for her to sit in, hunched over, and open the smaller box that she's been curled around.
Inside, familiar things were assembled: her knuckle dusters, her shotgun with half a battery, half-empty box of shells, a fresh battery, a change of clothes, her bra/holster, a wad of cash, and her broken glasses.
Underneath her glasses was a letter taped to them. Opening the letter, she would draw out a piece of parchment and a cylindrical plate threaded with beaded double ended loop - her Vision. It crackled, and came to life in her lap; shining a revitalizing light in the cargo box.
Using her new light, she would read the letter...
<Yo, John.
Look, business is business. You know this. I know this. It's Averton. Nobody gives a shit what you do with your damn, magic dick, least of all me. But, you fouled some seriously royal waters, girl. I'm not proud of how shit went down, but I'm not stupid enough to say no.
Not all Jotuns are meatheads.
Still, I owe you a solid, so I packed a parting gift and rearranged your travel schedule. You'll have a nice layover in some pirate town - Al-Marabar, I think, is the name. I just know, capital-bound cargo is notorious for getting "lost" there, so if you wake up...
No, not if... when you wake up, you'll be far off and safer. Just keep your head in the sand. Let the heat die, and for the love of all that is cash money, keep your dick in that freaky potion of yours.
...or, at least, put it in a good woman for once.
But, know this: 10,000,000 is your fine, John. Those bodies weren't cheap. A lot of hush money went into this cover up. Even with your unnatural life span, you can't hope to pay it off. Your office is ash. The money is all that was in your safe. The only thing I could save, aside from those Uveran girls.
Whatever. That's unimportant. Listen, John. We're even. Hell, you owe me, really, but I won't collect. Settle down. Start a family. Don't make news. Don't come home. In fact, forget home. Stay safe.
And, have a nice life.
Seriously.
- Bazz>
John smirked, as she set the letter down. Shifting her position, she tipped the envelope to return the letter - sitting at the bottom, a long cigarette with writing on it.
"Last one, big sis...."
Sniffling, she thumbed her Vision, and reached behind herself... taking her hair into a low pony, and cinching it against her head using her Vision as a glorified tie. Looking down, she held the cigarette, and tucked it behind her right ear. "Bazz, you sentimental, kind-hearted, little shit..." she wiped her tears, and slipped on her knuckles dusters, before pumping her shotgun with a wicked grin, "Protected by my little brother..."
Supernova sparked, as lightning surged from her battery, and John pulled the trigger - blasting open her prison, and opening the door for a new beginning, as she stepped out...
...reborn from the ashes (metaphorically, and literally from the burning crate) like a Phoenix.
"Alright, Bazz! Just wait for your big sister's comeback!" John beamed.
