journal of a hero

[Speedball]

[Editor’s note: the following are the contents of Simon Cooper Windsor’s journal; Windsor was a meta-human who emerged in the first wave, exhibiting super-human strength, resilience, and various wind-based powers. Windsor’s identity as a costumed hero was initially kept secret, though his position as a public figure in his civilian identity lead him to be under consistent scrutiny in both aspects of his double life. It is this editor’s contention that Windsor’s journal provides the historian of meta-human society a unique perspective. His insights, while sometimes profound, are mixed with entries that discuss what we might otherwise describe as the bland, everyday concerns of a normal (if very, very wealthy) young man.]

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #1, dated July 17, 2004

I had Owens take the launch into Naxos [Greece—ed.] today to get me a blank book—something for me to scribble in. Typically, he brought back three for me to choose from and said we could give the other two the children who always seem to follow us wherever we go, always asking for money. Better a book than money for cigarettes or sweets, I suppose.

We’ve been in the Aegean for the better part of the month now and I’ve never felt so relaxed. Exams finished for the last time and a First secured. Funny to think of myself as an alumnus of Christ College rather than as a student, but the next time I play cricket team, it will be as a member of the old boys’ team, not defending against them. Still, while I’ve felt more relaxed, I’ve also felt…strange. There’s no other word for it. Yesterday I swore I felt one the crewmen walking up the gangway toward me as I was sitting with my back towards him. It was the oddest sensation, like he was wading through a pool and I could feel the ripples he was sending out in the water. I’d put it down to the Mediterranean sun, but what happened before breakfast today makes me think twice.

Being Sunday, a couple of the crew were in town at Church (or seeing girlfriends?) and after the storm last night, we needed to shore up our anchorage. I decided to give a hand and told Peter I’d go fore and retrieve the anchor and make sure it didn’t get fouled in the line if he operated the windlass from the cabin where he’d have a better view and be able to steer us towards more solid ground for tonight. Now that anchor weighs a good 500 lbs and the windlass is the only way I should’ve been able to maneuver the anchor into its cradle, but I’ll be damned if the windlass didn’t cut out with me standing there, holding the anchor—in one hand. It was probably in my hand for a good five seconds before I realized it—and promptly dropped the damn thing over the side (scraping the Hell out of the hull, by the way) from shock when I did. I’ve heard of mums lifting cars off their children or grannies knocking out muggers, but I always put those stories down to wives’ tales or some bizarre adrenaline rush, but there was nothing like that here. I just stood there with a 500lb anchor in my left hand like it was nothing. What the Hell is happening to me?

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #2, dated July 19, 2004

I went into town last night, as usual, though this time it was on Patmos, not Rhodes. I had dinner (brilliant, with a decent but not fantastic local wine) and then went for a walk after dark. I needed to be alone. Not to think—I can do that anywhere and I’m sleeping less and less these days (hardly a surprise, considering), so it isn’t like time is short—but to try and find something heavy—really, really heavy. I went to the beach, figuring that I might be lucky enough to find a quiet stretch of beach with some rocks. It took almost an hour.

The beach was crammed with bloody kiwis (Sic—ed.) and Yanks having a camp out of some sort. I stopped to chat, seeing as how they were accompanied by some rather fetching young Greek girls, but only to find out that the girls really were young—too young, in fact. Seeing as how none of the kiwis or Yanks spoke a word of Greek, I translated and told them that unless they were careful, they’d end up with a bunch of 15 year olds in their tents and a village worth of brothers and fathers waiting outside with pitchforks and gaffs on the other end of that little adventure. They were annoyed to learn the girls’ ages, but relieved and genuinely thankful that I’d found out for them before there was any irreparable harm and the girls were subsequently shooed off. I promised to stop by their little camp again, thought about inviting them aboard, but thought again when Owens’ frowning face came to mind. Maybe if they could find themselves some women of legal age…

I continued on the walk and by midnight found a perfect little stretch. Rocks from the size of my head to the size of a Mini and a Range Rover. Looking around, making sure it was just me, I tentatively began grabbing them and lifting them up. The small ones were easy, but I suspected they would be after the incident with the anchor. What really made my eyebrows arch, though, is that even the bigger rocks, the ones that probably haven’t moved in hundred of years of getting pounded by waves, went right up when I grabbed them. I mean, we’re talking TONS here. I’d say I need a doctor, but I feel so damned good! Plus, when I was holding one of these mini-sized rocks, a hermit crab dropped off it and right down my shirt. It scared the crap out of me (this all has me pretty nervous) and I dropped the rock—right on my foot. I yelled—from the shock of the crab and the rock landing on me—but not from pain. When I lifted the rock again I expected to see a mashed pulp that my body was too dumb to realize had been pulverized. Instead, all I saw were some little red marks like the kind one would get from lying face down on a patterned pillow.

I walked back to the launch in a daze. Had to write.

I sent an email to Margaret [Windsor’s younger sister—ed.] asking her to come down but didn’t tell her why. I think she’s still in London.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #3, dated July 20, 2004

I flew. I actually flew.

[Battlestaff]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Pretty good so far. Keep up the good work. I look forward to reading more.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Thanks, Battlestaff. More:

 

Entry #4, dated July 27, 2004

Egypt now: in the harbor at Alexandria. I had the urge to go somewhere really, truly old to get some perspective on what’s happening. No sign of Margaret—she must’ve flown to see her friend Charlotte in the States. The girl knows how to use her summer breaks, sure. I can’t even remember the last time we spent more than a couple of days in the same house.

Well, of course I can: the funeral. That reminds me—Owens gave me granddad’s old journal from the war; he told me dad wanted him to give it to me at the right time. I remember dad talking about what it was like knowing his dad was fighting the Germans up in the air, protecting London in his Hurricane. Other boys at Ashdown House had fathers in the service, of course, though mostly in the Navy. I’m glad that dad didn’t donate everything to the Imperial War Museum; it’s good to have a few things left for the family.

Found this in the journal: “The other Group-Captains were all sitting down to tea, discussing the word that our Hurricanes would be swapped out for Spitfires. I told them all to go to Hades. I’ve flown the Spitfire. She’s a fine plane—a real thoroughbred; Fighting’s no job for a thoroughbred, though. What we need is a shire horse—and the Hurricane’s it. She’s as sturdy as Albion herself and capable of bringing down as many bombers as Jerry wants to throw at us.”

I’m wandering. I’m forgetting to write down what I picked up this journal to get down. I finally found something I couldn’t lift, for God’s sake. Last night, late, after dinner and an evening wandering from one café to the next, I came back to the Saint George [Windsor’s boat—ed.] and made sure the crew knew I was aboard. I waited a few more minutes, grabbed my rucksack and flew off due South. In the dark I hovered over Alexandria a while, listening to the wind carry people’s conversations upwards, like prayers. I could smell the late dinners cooking—or maybe early breakfasts—and then I set off for the Valley of the Kings. I finally found something heavy enough that I can’t lift it: the pyramids. So that puts my strength somewhere between train-car-lifting (Crete was quite an adventure: my God, the women!) and pyramid-lifting. I wonder how much a train weighs, anyway…

[Iuz the Evil]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Very entertaining stuff, I'm enjoying the development. Keep it coming!

[aylwin13]

Re: journal of a hero

 

This is a great way to develop a characters background. I'm enjoying it a lot.

 

I've noticed that all of you from RDU Neil's group (you, Storn, Neil) have a real talent for writing up your characters and adventures. I've found everything you guys have posted to be great reading.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Thank you both. I find that journalling is a great way to discover the character's background and get into his or her head for more realistic or truer gameplay. I'll keep them coming for as long as they seem useful and interesting.

[Storn]

Re: journal of a hero

 

This is a great way to develop a characters background. I'm enjoying it a lot.

 

I've noticed that all of you from RDU Neil's group (you, Storn, Neil) have a real talent for writing up your characters and adventures. I've found everything you guys have posted to be great reading.

 

Not to hijack Speedy's thread, but I will .

 

Necessity was the mother of invention for Neil and me. I moved to Cleveland, he moved to Ann Arbor. PBeM games were the only way to keep the game going. Some solos way back then allowed Neil and me to really hash out what we did and didn't like in PBeM games. When I moved to Ann Arbor, the PBeM had a profound impact on our face to face games. I think it changed the way we gamed forever... allowing for more "stances" and more "metagame discussion" in the FtF stuff.

 

I probably became a better writer (and I cringe, actually, reading the Mavericks stuff) by doing.

 

Speedball was a very good writer before his first entry and GREAT at coming up with very cool, nuanced, personality filled characters. He raised the bar on all of us.

 

Speed, I'm enjoying Windsor's journal. Do me a favor, give him a cousin named Newton . All you painters out there should get the in-joke. You provide a real wordpicture that is Continental.... that's simply fun! Can you tell us a bit more about Windsor's world and the campaign you are in?

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Not to hijack Speedy's thread' date=' but I will . [/quote']

 

Any time you'd like to hijak my thread to compliment me, feel free...

 

Necessity was the mother of invention for Neil and me. I moved to Cleveland, he moved to Ann Arbor. PBeM games were the only way to keep the game going. Some solos way back then allowed Neil and me to really hash out what we did and didn't like in PBeM games. When I moved to Ann Arbor, the PBeM had a profound impact on our face to face games. I think it changed the way we gamed forever... allowing for more "stances" and more "metagame discussion" in the FtF stuff.

 

I probably became a better writer (and I cringe, actually, reading the Mavericks stuff) by doing.

 

I feel the same way Storn does about this--I can see the progress in my own writing for this genre as I look back on old posts--and the old stuff can be tough to read. I'm just glad my students aren't on the boards to point out all the typos, grammatical errors, etc.

 

Speedball was a very good writer before his first entry and GREAT at coming up with very cool' date=' nuanced, personality filled characters. He raised the bar on all of us.[/quote']

 

Blah blah blah Thanks for the complement, again, though I'm not sure it's justified--I think we all pushed each other, in the best kind of creative way. Just keeping up with Neil's eye for detail, Bill's passion for his character's flavor, and Storn's eye for meta-game veractiy was a heck of a task. I only wish we could have kept the game going for longer, but I can understand Neil actually wanting a life. PBEM games are *really* hard for GMs, when they're done right.

 

Speed' date=' I'm enjoying Windsor's journal. Do me a favor, give him a cousin named Newton . All you painters out there should get the in-joke. You provide a real wordpicture that is Continental.... that's simply fun! Can you tell us a bit more about Windsor's world and the campaign you are in?[/quote']

One Newton, coming up. I don't get the joke, but an in-joke that I don't get is just fine with me. As far a portrait of the world in which Simon exists, I can only direct you to the "Seeds of Change" thread on this very site. The game hasn't really begun yet--everything I've written is a prequel to help me 'get into character,' as it were. Without other gamers around to talk through some of the issues floating around in my head, writing is the fallback method for me to understand his motivations, his personality, etc. I'm a firm believer in the idea that you haven't finished thinking until you assign words to the thought process (that's Vygotsky, not my original theory). I will, of course, include more game world flavor as I myself learn it, so for now, I'm keeping Simon in our world--with the minor detail that he has super powers.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #5, dated July 29, 2004.

 

I've just had what has to be one of the all-time oddest conversations. Owens heard me come back aboard last night after a trip into town. I came back at 3 and Owens, always the mother hen, shuffled out of his stateroom in his robe and slippers--the man's only 45 and he dresses like he's a pensioner. He gave me a Hell of a scolding. It was a real hiding--actually the worst he'd ever given me. I don't think I'd realized until he was laying into me (telling me how dangerous the dark alleys of Alexandria can be for a young white man) that he missed my father almost as much as I do.

Even with the realization, I couldn't help but smirk when he asked "and what would you do if someone cornered you with a razor in his hand? Cambridge is a nice place for a certain kind of education, young sir, but I will not have the heir to one of the largest fortunes in Britain dying from a knife wound in a pile of filth!” He took my smile as youthful denial or avoidance. He was about to start in on me again when he noticed I was floating a few inches above the deck. Well, I don’t have to tell you: that shut him up right quick. It was childish, I know, but I’d decided a couple of days before to tell him about what’s been going on and it just seemed like the right moment. Owens, the poor bastard, was totally flummoxed. I’ve never seen him like that. Seems fair, since he’d never seen me fly.

We talked for a few hours. He thought of something that I can’t believe I hadn’t: is there anyone else like me?

[Storn]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Winsor Newton is an British art company that makes paint, brushes... etc.

 

coincidently, the WN rep was in my part-time art supply store yesterday while I was working. The universe works in odd ways

 

I never heard of Vygotsky, but that is interesting. Totally off-topic for gaming, but on topic for creativity....

There are some artworks that I do, where I know exactly what I want and where I'm going. But most are sketches that progress to drawing, then to finished artwork. Decisions made many times along the way. Unfinished thoughts that are polished by "doing'. From a character point of view, I almost always HAVE to have a visual within the first 3 times of playing the character... and in drawing that character, I put more pieces together. Body language, costume choices, all of it frees my mind to put together little histories and background nuances.

 

I think it is the same process, different medium.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Here's something that's been sticking in my craw: how do you write the words for someone who's twice as smart as you are? It's like trying to will yourself to be a better chess player. Very frustrating. Still, a nice puzzle to try and get myself out of.

 

Anyway, another installment in a little while.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #6, dated July 30, 2004.

I flew home this morning ahead of everyone other than Owens, who came with me. I’ve become strong enough to lift a tank (I think) and he’s gotten more protective—I think we’ve found a new definition of irony. Still, it’s a bit of a relief to talk about this with someone. Owens, though he’s been mother hen-ing me near to death, has also been quite good at seeing different angles to this situation; I mentioned to him that I never knew he was smarter than I was before and he said “I’m not smarter: I’m older. That’s the difference between intelligence and wisdom—life experience.” He sounded like my father when he said that, but he said it without smiling—and without a glass of Glenmorangie in his hand.

We spent the trip home (or a commercial flight, no less) on laptops, searching the web for information about other “specials,” as Owens likes to call them. I prefer the term meta-human, myself, but let’s not get picky. We poured over Google news, searching for needles in haystacks and found nothing firm. If I’m not the only one, I’m also not the only one who’s decided to keep these abilities secret. What’s not a secret is what kind of attention this would attract if the press got hold of it. God, as if the paparazzi aren’t all up my bum enough as it is. Owens, of course, keeps a scrap book and pulls the damned thing out every time there’s a picture of me in the Sun or the Mirror with a woman—and he acts like he doesn’t have himself a giggle about it. Bastard.

Anyway, when we arrived at The Croft [the Windsor family estate in Southern Hertfordshire—ed.] we determined that we should begin making some calls to family friends who might be able to make some discreet and effective inquiries. I haven’t spoken to any of them in months—not since just after dad’s funeral, mostly, but most of them owe us favors in one form or another, so I think that if there’s information out there to be found, I’ll find it. And if there isn’t, well, that’s the next bridge we’ll cross.

Speaking of cross—another ridiculous paternity threat. I didn’t even sleep with this one. I don’t understand how they think, that with DNA testing, that we’ll pay child support—or that I’ll just marry some woman who shows up out of the blue. “Barmy gits,” as Saint John-Smyth used to say. That reminds me, actually: it’s been positively ages since I’ve had a proper snog. I should call Lucy—or Cathy.

No—best keep my mind on business at hand, as Owens would say. Time for that later.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #7, dated July 30, 2004

Who the Hell was I fooling? Lucy will be here in an hour.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry # 8, dated August 2, 2004

Wrangled myself an invitation to Lord and Lady Cummings’ for drinks and dinner two days ago to discuss, among other things, Lord Cummings’ work with The Firm [british Intelligence, MI-6—ed.]. It’s an open secret among a number of us that he was heavily involved with The Firm at the highest levels and I always knew that dad had some sort of business relationship with it as well. Lord Cummings and I walked the gardens and caught up a bit; he spoke about my father in glowing terms. They were only a year apart at Sandhurst, which I didn’t know. Apparently he and my father raised a bit of Hell there when they were junior officers. At any rate, my mission (as it were) was to gently prod him for information about other meta-humans. He was either clueless or played that he was exceedingly well. I didn’t let on about my own particular circumstances—I’m not ready for that yet and I’m not sure whether he’d value my life and well-being over duty to Queen and country and maybe hand me over to the SIS in the interests of national security. And it isn’t that I don’t care for England—I want to help, but I want to do it in my own way and in my own time. I have to prepare and make sure I know what I’m getting into. There must be others like me and not all of them will have been raised to believe in right and wrong—or worse: they will have been, but the people who’ve raised them will be off their nut.

At any rate, I left it vague with Lord Cummings; I told him I was doing some research for a book, a typically dilettante-ish thing for me to do. Said I’d keep him on deep background and all that sort of thing. He looked at me slightly cockeyed when I told him the nature of the book—people with strange abilities and the various government attempts to use them—or develop them—in the cold war. I thought that would be far enough back in history not to raise any alarm bells and I checked to make sure there were a couple of books out already on the subject so that I wasn’t doing anything too ground breaking. I made sure to have the whole conversation seem off-hand, but I made sure to get a promise from him to look into it and get back to me. Said he’d call within the fortnight.

I enjoyed the drive back to the Croft in the roadster, top down. Nothing beats an English country evening in August. I got home early and thought about calling Lucy over, but decided against it for the evening. There was business to get to. Owens has been doing a bit of shopping for me—fun stuff. He said he wanted to do it all through channels just to make sure there wasn’t any way for these things to get traced back to me. The take? Well, as I walked into the cellar area we’d cleared out for our purposes, I rounded the corner into the biggest gun barrel I’d ever seen on a pistol. Owens said he was making a point: that if he could take me by surprise, someone else could, too. I swear, I’ve seen shotgun barrels smaller than the muzzle of this revolver. Apparently he wants me to start carrying the damn thing around with me. I don’t know about that.

Owens also came up with a full Kevlar body-suit and some electronics that might come in handy—hands free radio, a new PDA with all sorts of features that even my blackberry doesn’t have, and some handcuffs.

That reminds me—must ring Fiona. She’s called twice and she’s still mad at me for missing Ascot this year.

Anyway, toys aside, Owens and I talked at length about trying to figure out exactly what my abilities are. A good idea, I think. We’ll need some place secluded, but not so far out of the way that I can’t get some medical attention if something goes wrong. We agreed on Canada somewhere, which is perfect, since I have to be in Toronto next week for Tim’s benefit gala anyway. Near as I can tell, I keep getting stronger and the more I fly, the more I feel like it isn’t really like I’m flying as much as the wind is carrying me and I’m just telling it what to do. If that’s the case, then I might be able to make the wind move other things, too, and not just me. Better to wait until Canada, though, to try anything too grandiose.

Margaret comes home tomorrow. Owens and I agreed not to tell her anything for the time being. She goes back to Oxford the following week and this is too much for her to process before she has to leave.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Entry #9, dated August 3, 2004

I’m sleeping less and thinking more. I feel somehow…inactive. I hear my father’s voice in my head telling me to go make something of myself and not rely on reputation and wealth. I was sitting in my bedroom earlier, thumbing through some of my old school books from A levels and came across this passage:

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close up the wall with our English dead!

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of a tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard favoured rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.”

The world is conspiring to tell me something and I am beginning to sense what it is. Dad used to talk about the responsibility we had to help others and I thought it was just some sort of noblesse oblige left over from colonial days, but I think now he was talking about something older and at the same time more modern. I have a chance now to move beyond working in soup kitchens and attending charity balls. If Owens and I are right, there will be other people who are like me and some of them might not be so friendly towards England. If that’s the case, then I’ll need to be ready for them. If not, then there are still other things I can do and ways to help. I don’t want to be part of the government—they can create their own problems sometimes—I have resources enough to work on my own, or maybe with others who will have the same ideas. What’s important is to get started, and soon.

I’m going to tell Owens that Canada won’t wait for next week. We leave tomorrow.

[levi]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Great stuff Speedball!! I share your concern about writing these charactres that are WAY smarter than we are, but it looks like you have a much better handle on it than I do. My character in the Seeds PBeM has Vancouver BC as his hometown...should work in nicely with that Aug 3 04 entry. Can't wait to get this game firing on all cylinders.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Levi--I'll work your PC in if you let me know a little about him or her. Drop me a line or just post something here.

grchunt@hotmail.com

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Journal Entry #10, dated August 5, 2004

These long flights have proven really, really important. Owens and I got to talking, of course, about how we go about making me into what I guess I’m going to have to start calling a superhero. Absolutely hilarious, that, but there it is. I should pick up some comics, or something, to make sure I get all the rules right, not to mention the costume and the secret base. When we get to the hotel I’ll have the concierge send a runner out to get a selection of the Yank comics. I don’t think Judge Dredd would be the right role model somehow.

When we were kidding around (Owens was more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a week) all of this was flying back and forth, we both stopped short at the secret base comment. As laughable as it is to imagine, I’m going to have to come up with some way of maintaining the secret of who I am. The last thing I want is someone coming after Owens—or worse, Margaret. The press is bad enough and it isn’t as though our family hasn’t had to deal with kidnapping attempts in the past. [Windsor and his sister had both been the subject of kidnapping attempts for money; the boy when he was 12 and the girl when she was 15--ed.] Now that I’m in a position to give over more than money, I can only assume that there are some people who might want to make off with someone I care about to get me to do things I wouldn’t otherwise do. Maybe I’m being paranoid—I probably am, but if that’s the case, at least I know Owens is even more paranoid than I am. He not only agreed with the idea of some kind of ‘batcave,’ but he ran along with the idea as well.

We also decided that I’ll need access to money not as Simon Cooper Windsor, but as…whomever I wind up being. That means heading to the Caymans, so Owens will head out day after tomorrow to set up an account to work from. I’ll call the accountants when we land, since it won’t be office hours until then anyway. A couple million pounds to start and then some real money when I get closer to being ready.

Owens is asleep now and I’m stuck here, bored. Right before he dropped off, he made some strange comment about figuring out just how tough I am. What’s he got in mind, I wonder?

I think I’ll go fly the plane for a bit. The crew won’t mind the break and flying always relaxes me. Funny how I’ve stopped needing to sleep.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

OOC: finally--some action.

 

[editor’s note—below we find the first description of Windsor acting to stop a crime. Although he was not in the costume he would come to adopt and had not even settled on a code-name, most scholars agree that this episode was, in fact, the birth of the hero later known as Hurricane.]

 

Journal Entry #11, dated August 7, 2004

Toronto’s a wonderful little city. Owens and I are staying at the Four Seasons, doing a little sight-seeing and attending a couple of fundraisers to cover the real reason for the visit. Of course, I don’t mind attending parties with more gorgeous young Canadian women than I can shake a stick at. The wonderful thing about these Canadian women is their…open relationship to sex. It makes me wonder why England let her leave the Empire. I’ve always heard it said that the Empire was founded by men looking for a better meal and a better class of woman. Now, I’m not complaining about our home-grown women, but I met an Inuit woman last night who absolutely knocked me out. Or she would have if events hadn’t gotten in the way.

I was at the Art Gallery of Ontario for an opening of a new Canadian artist’s show. I honestly can’t even remember the name of the guy whose show it was. I thought the art was forgettable, though he seemed nice enough. Plus, one of the other guests turned out to be Krist Novoselic, and since I’ve been a big Nirvana fan since grammar school, it was a real blast to meet him. Anyway, after half an hour of mediocre wine and truly substandard brie, I decided to sneak off to see the museum’s permanent collection.

I was swinging through the hall of German expressionists when I saw a couple of guys on the cleaning crew taking some paintings off the wall, one of them an Otto Dix oil I’d written a short paper about my first year at Cambridge. I asked the chap to give me a moment to look at it, figuring they must be swapping it out as a loaner to another museum. They shot each other such looks that I immediately knew something wasn’t quite right. I glanced down towards their feet and there were several other paintings rolled up, out of their frames. It was then that I realized that their blue jumpsuits didn’t fit right and as I looked back up to their faces with my mouth open to ask a question or two, one of the men drew what seemed at the time to be a rather large revolver and pointed it at my face, the muzzle not 6 inches away from the bridge of my nose.

Reflexively, I put my hands up and took a step back. The crooks started jabbering at me in an accented Quebecois that would’ve insulted my ears if all my attention wasn’t on the gun. Intermittently they gave me orders to shut up, to tell them who I was—but wait didn’t I look familiar?, to turn around, to sit down. They obviously didn’t expect to be interrupted and their plans went out the window when they were. I decided to make myself as harmless a target as possible and so I knelt down with my hands on my head like I’ve seen in the police dramas from the States.

They liked that as much as they were going to like anything at that point and began gathering up the canvases they’d already rolled, leaving the Dix (thank God) where it was. I looked up, quickly, as they were getting ready to go and the one with the gun spotted me looking at them. He took a step to me as the other started heading for the exit and swung the gun at my head, butt-first. It landed with a satisfying (for him only, I assure you) thud and I winced more from the surprise than from the pain—in truth, it had been a while since the episode with the boulder in Greece [see entry #2—ed. ] and I my mind forgot that I don’t seem to get hurt as easily as I used to. The man wheeled to leave and started walking quickly away, following his partner. For my part, I stayed down, but reached a hand to follow them, like I might have grabbed them if they were closer.

In fact, the oddest thing happened just then. The man who had left first began swaying a bit and then began spinning wildly and within a second dropped the satchel that held the paintings. It was like he’d been spun around like God’s own top. His friend, half a second later, did the same and as he spun around, the gun dropped from his hand and onto the museum’s marble floor.

It was a medium caliber gun, I’ll grant you—a .38, but when it went off, the bullet came straight at me. The only reason that a) I know that and I’m here to write about it is that when the bullet hit me in the right pectoral, it had all the force of a hard poke in the chest. It seems that Owens has his answer about how tough I am—I am fucking bullet proof.

Security came running of course, and as the two men were struggling to get their bearings and figure out what happened, they were jumped by about 10 men. Security eyed me suspiciously at first, too, but it was all sorted out with some explanation and from the would-be crooks’ own admissions. I was just someone who stumbled onto their theft and they’d been unlucky—slipping on a newly polished floor or somesuch. The morning edition of the Toronto Star covered it on the society page, just noting that I’d been there to witness the whole thing and not that I’d stopped it, thank goodness.

What a rush—my first act of heroism! I was shaking a bit after it was all over—not out of fear, as everyone thought, but from excitement over the things to come: this is the sort of thing I would do from now on. I’ll keep the bullet as a souvenir, of course. It’s the least I’m owed after ruining a perfectly good dinner jacket.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

OOC: I'd love to pause here for a moment. For those who're reading, I'd like to hear some constructive criticism. If you could think of this as a "character for review" post, it would help me out a lot. Feel free to comment on either writing style or on character development--both could use some work. Thanks in advance for any guidance you all can give.

[Northstar]

Re: journal of a hero

 

Here's something that's been sticking in my craw: how do you write the words for someone who's twice as smart as you are? It's like trying to will yourself to be a better chess player. Very frustrating. Still' date=' a nice puzzle to try and get myself out of. [/quote']

 

You're doing a great job of it.

 

I know very much what you mean. One of the most challenging characters I ever wrote for (in a pbem) was a sorceress who was the story's primary antagonist. She was a complex, sophisticated, genius level personality... and female into the bargain. It definitely stretched my literary and creative skills (in a good way) to write for her... but she was maybe the most rewarding character I've ever written too.

[Speedball]

Re: journal of a hero

 

You're doing a great job of it.

 

I know very much what you mean. One of the most challenging characters I ever wrote for (in a pbem) was a sorceress who was the story's primary antagonist. She was a complex, sophisticated, genius level personality... and female into the bargain. It definitely stretched my literary and creative skills (in a good way) to write for her... but she was maybe the most rewarding character I've ever written too.

 

First off, thank you for the kind words.

Second, when you think back to your complex, genius-level sorceress, how did you get into her head? How did you find yourself thinking differently? I mean, presumably we all operate with some level of GM understanding that these heroes we play are the 'better' than ourselves--higher int, ego, pre, etc., and I'm still wondering how, independent of that fiat, we do our best job of fitting into those moulds.

Anyway, thanks again for any insight you can give.

 

 

Still hungry for critiqies of the posts from everyone else, too...