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Offline Lumi Kløvstad

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The Share-Some-Writing thread
« on: February 13, 2016, 03:03:26 PM »
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So this is my new thread about sharing whatever fiction we're writing (Waffle-kun) about pretty much anything that doesn't belong in fanworks, because I enjoy sharing these things of mine and y'all should too.

While I try to figure out my science fiction epic, I just started pounding away at a separate idea I've had for a while, which is to make a story about some rogueish superheroes in the vein of Deadpool and Saints Row.

I call it "The Irreverent Five Stars" and they fit into a larger universe I conceived a while ago but was never able to start. UNTIL NOW. It's being written with minimal editing (or caring, for that matter), and parodies pretty much everything pop culture or gaming related.

Here's the first bit, written in just under an hour and a half.

Warning: naughty language to feature. If you give a shit. ;)



So, you want to hear a story, eh? Probably one with dashing heroes and despicable villains?
Well too bad. This ain’t that kind of story.
This is a story about me, a really awesome villain person. Also some other villains, and the one time they did a good thing and liked it.
Oh, and there’s more villains.
But they don’t do a good thing.
Because they’re bad people.
So this is a story about some bad people and some worse people, and the bad people try to be good people while fighting the worse people and you know what? This is just getting fucking embarrassing so ROLL THE TAPE!


Chapter 1: Angel of the Morning

“Doctor, I think she’s waking up.”
The voice was sweet. Feminine. Sort of young but maternal.
I hated it.
Like, immediately. That sort of hate that happens when you meet your worst enemy for the first time and you’re just sort of destined to hate them and it clicks immediately.
But then, I have that reaction with most people so maybe I shouldn’t read too much into that.
I still didn’t like it.
But, it was also a true thing. I’d been asleep, and I was waking up.
Just call me Angel.
Except don’t, because that’s not my name.
My name is… aww fuck I’ll get back to you on that.
“Oh, excellent! Take it easy, you’ve been out for a while.”
The doctor was paternal sounding, but in a gender bendingly motherly way. Loathe. He was also bald, sort of Greek looking, with a weird nose, and wore funny glasses. Octagonal.
The eighties are over, guy.
“Miss…” the Doctor started by looking at me, but immediately turned to Sweet-nurse-person. “What is the patient’s name? I can’t read this writing.” He whispered, but I can hear it. For some reason, I can hear it.
The nurse looked at the clipboard.
“Oh. I don’t think I can either.”
The doctor nodded.
“This handwriting is totally illegible.”
He turned back to me.
“Well, uh, miss, you’ve been under for quite some time. Now, yes, you probably want to know how long. Please try not to panic. Someone will be along to explain everything important that has transpired since your… incident very shortly. For now, please breathe deeply and calmly as this will doubtlessly be a bit of a shock. I’m afraid it has been… eight years.”
“What the actual FUCK?” I asked, then I grabbed my throat. Why did I sound like Laura fucking Bailey? Did I really sound like that when I went under? Who cares? I sounded just like Laura Bailey, and that means I SOUNDED GOOD.
“Yes, please don’t panic. You were brought in eight years ago, in a rather extreme condition. We’ve been reconstructing you as best we can, but things weren’t exactly… precise given the damage.”
“What do you mean Doc? Are we talking scarring? Missing limbs? I seem to have both my eyes which means no badass eyepatch for me. OH FUCK PLEASE TELL ME MY IMPORTANT BITS ARE STILL THERE.”
“Nononono, nothing like that.” He handed me a mirror, and I practically yanked it out of his hands, desperate to see what lingering horrors from my accident might have been left upon me.
I was, shall we say, nonplussed.
“What’s the problem? I’m still hot.”
“Well, as you can see, you’re a lovely lady of nondescript Asian descent, but... when you were brought in, you were apparently a rather strikingly built black American male.
Oh.
“Guess someone’s playing the sequel before the original.” I muttered.
The Doctor didn’t notice.
“In any case, there are some tests that must be done. We have to make sure your body didn’t atrophy too much during your long sleep.”
“Wait, what was the incident that put me here?”
“You don’t remember? Oh, yes, memory loss is common in cases like yours.”
“Yeah, I hear starting a new game can be rough on a girl’s memory.”
“Please, this is no time for jokes, although a sense of humor will be valuable in the days to come as you readjust, I’m certain. Do you remember being involved in a gang shootout eight years ago?”
“Not really.”
“Aboard Millionaire Gregory Billingham’s yacht?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Which you then blew up?”
“Oh. Right. That. Yeah, I might remember that part.”
The doctor scribbled some notes on his pad. Like a damn FBI agent. I don’t trust doctors at the best of times, but when they scribble notes they look positively shifty.
“Well, it seems much of your body was compromised in the resulting explosion. Extensive burns, shrapnel, punctures and lacerations, internal bleeding… really, when you came in, you almost resembled a well done hamburger.”
“You said I came in as a black man so I’m gonna go ahead and call you a goddamn racist for that remark.”
The doctor continued, unfazed.
“Yes, well, the bill for your reconstructions was both long term and considerable, but it seems to have been covered by a third party who wished to remain anonymous.”
“And the tropes keep rolling, don’t they?”
“Please, this is no laughing matter.”
“Doc, I almost died, but I didn’t. I’m gonna laugh in Death’s smug little shitfaced mug if you don’t mind.”
“Just remember that Death smiles back when we least expect it.”
At that moment, the door to my hospital room opened, and a man clad head to toe in black and badly chosen off-brand aviator sunglasses walked in, raised a silenced pistol, and shot the Doctor and the Nurse. Honestly, given how the interaction was going, I had kind of been expecting this for the past few minutes.
His voice was villainously deep, and seriously how on Earth does hair gel that flat?
Anyway, he pointed the gun straight at me, because of course he does.
“Target acquired. Your call, boss.”
It ended for him about as well as you might expect.
Clearly the doctor’s worries about atrophy of my muscles were well meaning but misplaced. I sprang out of bed, tackled the gunman, and throttled the bastard. He looked quite surprised.
I rifled through his coat and found some interesting things. A couple of spare mags (expecting a firefight but not being strangled by an invalid protagonist? Slopping planning guv’nah), a wallet with a couple hundred bucks in starting cash, and a badge. Homeland Security.
I sighed. It was gonna be one of those stories. Still, fate had behaved as I was expecting. Starting weapon? Check. Couple hundred bucks in cash? Check. Clue to a mysterious government conspiracy? Check.
Race and gender shifting between adventures gangster puckish rogue of a hero? Check.
It was time to get this fucking party started.

« Last Edit: February 13, 2016, 03:35:52 PM by The Bloody Rayne »
How not to be a dark lord: the answer to that is a terribly interesting answer that involves an almost Jedi-like adherence to keeping oneself under control and finding ways to be true to yourself in a way that doesn't encourage the worst parts of you to become dangerously exaggerated and instead feeds your better nature. Also, protip: don't fuck with Alchemy or strike up any deals with ancient Japanese Shinigami gods no matter how tempting the deal or how suavely dressed the Shinigami is.

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