Origins, practice, and recaps

[Duke Bushido]

    “All right, young man.  I know it hurts, but I promise you then when this machine is done with you, you’ll be good as new.”
    “How does it work?”
    “It’s kind of like an X-ray, you could say.  We spend a few minutes getting you into position— I know; that’s going to hurt a lot, I’m afraid, but this really isn’t a hospital.  We don’t have any meds for pain.  You look like a strong young man, though, and you’ll be up and walking in about thirty minutes or so; I promise.”  The technician began helping Calvin into position, being as gentle as he could of the broken leg.
    “All right, then.  I’m going to finish moving these projector heads into position, then we’re going to have to strap you down.”
“Strap me down?  I don’t get strapped down for an X-ray.”
    “I said it’s _like_ an X-ray, but what we’re talking about here is a different kind of radiation.  It’s mostly a kinetic stimulator, but it’s one of the more interesting side-effects of the process that we’re going to use to heal that leg.  The problem is that we want to _only_ irradiated the injured tissue.  We can lock the machine in place, but that still leaves you as a variable.  If you move even just a bit, then it’s possible that the damaged parts of your leg won’t receive the correct exposure.  Worse still, healthy parts of you might get more dosage than is safe.  I know it’s unpleasant, but it might help to remember that we won’t have you tied down there more than three or four minutes, okay?”
    Calvin nodded, satisfied, while the technician carefully secured him to the bed.  “They’re kinda tight.” he observed. 
    “Like I said, this is _serious_ business here.  We can’t afford for you to even _flinch_ if we want to keep you safe.”
    “Why am I here?”  Calvin asked, trying to shore us his bravado.  The technician finished securing him and headed back to the control panel.  “Why not a hospital?  Why this high-tech space-program-looking joint?”
    “Because,” barked the technician, sneering at the young man, “your father is a very stupid man who loves you far more than is healthy for either of you.”
    Calvin stared, wide-eyed and suddenly terrified.
    “He had a good life, Kid, “ he continued changing the settings on the machine, throwing switches at random.  “But he gave all that up so that he could have _you_.  God knows why, but he did.  And now he’s stupid enough to contact Defender and to trespass onto contested territory and to break the peace that kept him and your family safe.  He knows that there are places he should never go, and people he can never meet.  But he did it, Kid, and he did if for you.  That makes us concerned.  See, there are things he should never say, too.  And if he’s gone this far for you, then maybe he’s talked too much, too.  Maybe he’s told you more than he should have.  Your old man’s an idiot, Kid, and you’ve been caught up in the fallout.”  With that, he disappeared out of view.  Calvin heard the door slam behind him and he began to scream.

    The door burst open, Melvin and Mike scrambling to release Calvin from his bonds.  The ray stopped as Harmon deactivated it from the remote panel.  He rolled in to check the settings.  Melvin was holding his son to his chest.  Calvin had passed out.  He was alive, but exhausted.  “What—  What is this thing, Harmon?!”
    Harmon was staring at the control panel.  Nineteen and a half minutes.  Well beyond any tested limit for medical application.  “It’s a kinetic accelerator.  It feeds additional energy into already excited particles.  It was originally intended to replace or at least supplement super-colliders for physics research.”
    “Why are you shooting it at my son?!”
    “It was something of a failure for its intended purpose.  But it had a side-effect that was highly desirable.  The energetic fields it created stimulated growth in living tissue.  Healing in particular.  If your son wants to be an athlete without deformed or shortened bones or damaged cartilage in his knee, then this is quite possibly the best thing for him.  If he wants it in two days, it’s the only option on the planet.  Remember, you came to me; I would have taken the boy to a hospital.”
    “My boy can’t get his scholarship on crutches!”
    “Then I hope you can explain to him the risk you took.”
    “Dad?”  Calvin looked up, his eyes far away.  “Dad…  I wanna go home.”
    “Extreme fatigue.  Common side effect.  It’s happened in every subject so far; the worse the injury, the greater the fatigue.  So far, everyone’s been able to sleep it off.”
    Melvin stoop up, cradling his son like an infant.  “Thank you, Mr. Harmon.”  He and Mike turned to leave.
    “Mr. Wright.”
    Melvin stiffened.
    “Take your son home.  Make sure he’s okay.  But we have a deal.”
    “Yeah,” Melvin sniffed, bending his neck to kiss his sleeping son’s head.  “We have a deal.”
    Harmon waited for them to leave before turning his attention back to the control panel.  The beam itself had been set for its widest aperture.  At this range, it would be full-body exposure.  No, more than just full body.  The bed and the floor would have been irradiated, too.  He looked at the powdery flakes on the floor where the tiles had begun to disintegrate.  Worse still, the field strength of the kinetic field had been ramped up.  Way, way up.  Harmon was stunned.  There was no way that the young man laying on that table should have been alive.  Grateful for the happy turn of events, he rolled out of the room, failing to see the corner of the table crumble and cascade to the floor in little rivers of dust.

 

[Duke Bushido]

    Protection breeds its own problems.  The more people are insulated from a particular danger, they less they know of the danger, and the less dangerous they perceive it to be.  In the way that better-handling cars has resulted in a generation of less-skillful drivers, so, too, does any other protection stifle development.

    Melvin had protected Calvin his entire life by following the rules of the peace he had brokered with VIPER.  He never wanted Calvin to follow in his footsteps, and so he went out of his way to teach Calvin “how things should be” and avoided giving him the benefit of his own experience with the criminal element.  He never explained why he “must” do or not do certain things and live a certain why while eschewing multiple chances to improve the lot of his family.  Calvin was left to interpret what he saw on his own, through immature lenses and without guidance.
    Calvin understood that his family was poor, even more so than some of the others in the neighborhood where he grew up.  That was the way it was.  Calvin knew that his father had passed on what seemed like opportunities to get out of poverty, and that he always turned them down.  It would seem that this was the way it was supposed to be: the poor were supposed to be poor.  Calvin knew that there were places and people his father avoided at all costs.  The poor were not allowed to go certain places or do certain things.  His father had told him many times that all this was ‘necessary’ and for ‘protection.’  
    As Calvin got older, he saw a lot of his friends fall into crime and gang activity.  He also saw a lot of them seeming to be rewarded for this.  Perhaps crime was the only way out of poverty.  Crime was the only way to stop feeling left out.  His father kept telling him it was college— education and a high-quality career of some sort.  But no one from Calvin’s neighborhood was doing that.  What they _were_ doing, though, was getting nice cars, expensive clothes, and pockets filled with cash.
    Best of all, they were staying in the neighborhood.  Calvin finally understood his father’s cautions about protection.  The one time Melvin had gone somewhere he shouldn’t have— the one time he went to a place of success and affluence and begged one of the successful wealthy people to help his son—-
    Well, Harmon had helped Calvin, there was no doubt about that.  And Calvin _had_ played football, and he _had_ been seen and solicited, and if he could keep his grades just high enough, then he _might_ get to go to college….
    But Melvin was gone.  Two weeks after that night, he kissed his family good bye and explained that he had to atone for something, to make something right with the man who healed Calvin.  They’d heard on the news later that night that Melvin Wright had been arrested and taken for questioning.  There was no doubt in Calvin’s mind that, no matter what story might be in the paper when it was all over with, Melvin’s biggest crime was asking for help from a place where the poor did not belong.
    On the surface— in his rational mind, he couldn’t really accept that it made sense.  But in his heart, based on everything he had seen and learned in his life, he knew that this was the truth.  He tried, once, to talk about it with Unk, but the conversation fizzled just a few lines in.  It didn’t matter.  Calvin knew the truth.

    In his senior year, Calvin had an accident on the football field.  He didn’t really understand what happened.  He made a leaping catch for the ball, landed at a full run, and tore down the field with two defenders behind him.  From his right he could see a third defender preparing to leap into his path and tackle him.  Calvin pulled his muscles harder than ever, hoping to run past the young man and avoid the hit.  In what seemed like a blink, he had made five more strides, the would-be tackler was laid out on his back behind him, and in spite of being further down the field than should have been, despite running full-tilt and then some, he could _feel_ that his body was slowing down.  It was as though he had been— for just a moment— running even faster, and was suddenly settling down to this pace.  The crowd was going crazy, screaming and cheering, and even the commentators on the loudspeaker were whooping with joy at the amazing speed of the hottest prospect Campaign High had ever seen.
    Running fast wasn’t an accident. Especially not when playing football.  Running fast was the point.  But what happened….  That was an accident.  The other kid was hurt pretty badly: a couple of broken bones, multiple sprains, and vertebral compression in his neck.  It was like he had leaped face-first into a stone wall.  There wasn’t any explanation for that.  And there was that feeling.  Calvin couldn’t shake that ‘I was moving much, much faster’ feeling.  Worst of all, he knew it was the second time it had happened.  
    In practice the week before, he had tripped and fallen running the tires.  He had run the tires for more years than he had ever _not_ done it; he couldn’t have lost the pace or his focus.  But suddenly his timing was off and his feet were tangled and he had that strange feeling that even though he was running full-out he was at a standstill compared to what he was doing just a moment before.  Coach had yelled at him for tripping up, but at the same time nearly danced about the improvement on his time.  “Son!  I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen anyone shave ten whole seconds off their time in one lick!”  Ten seconds?  It didn’t take much more than that from start to finish?  How fast had he run?

    These strange incidents became more and more frequent, and it was driving Calvin crazy.  Sometimes he would actually _see_ it; the world would suddenly rush at him like he was screaming down a roller coast, then just as suddenly things would go back to normal.  He would be running.  Every time, he would be running.

    Two months before the end of school, Unk had come to pick Calvin up.  They were going to see Melvin in prison.  Mike’s car had stalled in the road in front of the school, and he was under the hood fiddling with something.  “Man needs to admit that ’74 is dead.  It ain’t the classic he thinks it is, and it ain’t never gonna be.  Man got four cars and he comes to get me in rollin’ junk.”  he thought to himself, as he started to hop the low decorative brick fence around the school.  Even before he hit the ground, he saw the other car.
    A minivan leaving the school, heading toward Mike, the woman driving it pre-occupied with the small dog bouncing around between her lap and the dashboard.  She had drifted across the street and was on a collision course with Mike, who was still bent under the hood, oblivious to the threat behind him.
    Calvin ran.  He ran like he had never done, even when the scouts were watching.  He could hear the earth shudder at the impact of his feet.  And he could see it— that roller-coaster rush as the universe flew toward and around him.  He didn’t have the mind to study it just then; every sense he had was trained on his uncle.  He strained, and exploded forward even faster.  After crossing four lanes in what felt like an instant, he wrapped his arms around his uncle and kept running.  Everything developed a pale tint, as though every color in the world had added a hint of yellow.  Even as he heard the cars smash together behind him, he was nearly thirty feet away, his uncle staring around in uncomprehending shock.
    It dawned on Calvin that he wasn’t slowing down.  Then he panicked when he realized that he didn’t know _how_ to slow down.  An ornamental stone wall with the large  “Daedalus Park” sign mounted in brass letters loomed ahead, then there was a hollow rumbling and brick and stone work exploded out in front of him and rumbled down behind.  Unk, just beginning to get his composure, became confused again.  Calvin tried simply slowing down his feet and legs.  It seemed to be working, but he kept wanting to fall forward.
    It wasn’t simply that he was off-balance, like he would expect when he stopped up short in cleats on the ball field.  It was as if something was _pulling_ him forward, in spite of himself.  Still, he fought to slow down.  As he slowed, the world returned the correct color palette.  As it did so, he felt the strange “pull” drain away, as if it had given up and run off without him.  Eventually, two hundred yards into the park, he came to a stop and set his uncle back on his own feet.
    “Boy…..” Mike started, as impressed as he was confused, “you sure can _run_!”
    “Unk,” Calvin barely noticed that he wasn’t really winded. “get you a new car.”

    The ray.  It had to be the ray.  What was it that guy said?  Exciter ray?  Something about kinetic energy?  Calvin wasn’t stupid; he was actually a solid student, if not an exceptional one.  But the entire experience had been traumatic, and he had been too gripped with terror to pay much attention.  The only thing he knew for certain was that he had been targeted because of his father’s audacity, because his father wanted help from a place that poor people didn’t belong.  One thing he _did_ feel certain about was that it was his exposure to the ray that had given him some sort of super-speed power.  If he practiced with it, maybe he could turn it to his advantage; use it as another edge toward getting a scholarship.

    And practice he did.  Over the next few months, Calvin learned how to summon his power as casually and naturally as he might reach for a tool or catch a football.  He learned the limits of what he could handle, and then he pushed beyond them.  He found that he was capable of running at speeds of up to one-hundred and twenty-five miles an hour.  It took him a moment or two to get up to speed, but once he did, the exhilaration was indescribable.  He also noticed that about the time he exceeded what had previously been his “normal” sprint, the world took on a slight yellow tint.  Catching his reflection here and there, he discovered that he was enveloped by some sort of energy field that trailed several feet behind him.
    It was this energy field that kept him from getting hurt when he ran through a brick wall saving his uncle.  It took him some time to work up his nerve (and a couple of failures at too-low a speed hadn’t made it easier to try it at higher speeds), but eventually he had tried running through relatively weak barriers— wooden fences, sheet metal over the doors at the abandoned factory a couple of miles from his house.  It seemed that the yellow energy protected him somehow, while at the same time doing considerable damage to whatever he ran into— or through, as it usually turned out to be.  Stopping wasn’t as easy as the superheroes he’d seen on television made it look.  Eventually he made the connection that the force field was somehow related directly to his speed.  It was this field that seemed to “pull” him forward and faster, but to stop or even slow down required him to will himself to gradually uncouple from it.  The field would continue on forward without him, dissipating not-quite-instantly as it went forward in all directions, destabilized without him.
    As he practiced, Calvin remembered that he had carried Unk with him through the brick wall, and Unk had been as unharmed as he was.  Perhaps this energy field protected anything close to him, or at least anything he was touching.  As he experimented with various objects at various speeds, he quickly learned that once the field was active, he was cut off from the rest of the world.  If he attempted to reach out and grab something while the field was active, it was repelled— and often damaged— as if he had rammed into it head-on.  Once he dropped below the threshold that keep the field focused on him, he could interact with the world as he always had.  He also learned that he was physically a lot stronger than he should be.  Stronger than anyone he knew, actually.    And when the field kicked in, he seemed to get ever stronger.

    As Calvin became more and more obsessed with practicing his abilities— the idea that he might be special, might even been invulnerable, like a lot of the super-powered metahumans on the news and in the papers— he fell away from football practice and spent time practicing his powers.  Eventually he lost his place on the team.  He began skipping school and his grades suffered.  But as he watched so many of the other young men from his neighborhood leave school in favor of less-savory but highly-profitable pass-times, he began to realize something.  He had never really had a chance.  The world wasn’t set up for a poor kid to get ahead.  If he really wanted to improve his lot in life, he would have to force the world to give him what he wanted.  If there was something he wanted, he would have to take it.  If there was something that his mother needed— especially since it looked like his father was going to be framed for the murder of some superheroes from before Calvin was born, then he would have to get it for her.  Same for Unk and the rest of his family.  And his friends.  There weren't a lot of people in his neighborhood who didn’t need for something, and Calvin had been handed the means to get it, by the only method allowed to poor people: reaching out and taking it.
    With his mind made up, he decided that the next thing he needed to test was his resolve to take.  It went against everything his parents had ever taught him, but look where his father’s beliefs had landed him.  Nothing was right with this world, and the only thing that seemed universal was that those who had power made the rules.  Well now Calvin had power, and he was anxious to see what sort of new rules he was willing to live under.

    Calvin’s first attempt at crime was quite successful.  It was nothing extravagant; just simple smash-and-grab.  His powers seemed to be perfect for just such an operation.  He was an intelligent young man, and opted only for things he felt would be easy to sell or difficult to trace, and he had a particular preference for cash.   In just a few months, he had already managed to build up a carefully-guarded cash stash of nearly eighty-thousand dollars.  Unlike some of the other young criminals he was familiar with, he was careful not to flaunt his money.  He even took to working full time for his uncle and doing the occasional repair on the side to justify whatever money he might happen to use.  His mother was disappointed that he had not only opted out of college, but had quit high school to “go right to work,” which he justified by his father’s having been attacked and killed in prison, even before his trial.

    Eventually, Calvin was able to buy his mother a home in a better neighborhood, though he himself opted for a small apartment near one of the old industrial districts— a neighborhood far worse than the one in which he grew up.  He wanted to be reminded of what the world expected a poor man to be, and used it to stay motivated, to keep refining his powers and his strategies.  He would take what he wanted from now on, even his name.  After his third smash-through-the-walls theft, he remembered a quote on the news clip from the police officer who first arrived on the scene:  “…like it was plowed through by a freight train…”

    Freight Train.  Maybe not perfect, but it would do, at least for now.

[Duke Bushido]

Okay, nothing  has stirred any interest of late, so I am encouraged to keep going.   

 

I hope no one was expecting great brilliance here-- I haven't had time for a real writing project in -- well, let's say years, and specifically since the kids became teens.

 

So I do this: I write out detailed origins or adventure or campaign summaries.  Again: it's not anything great.  It's just practice.  "Use it or lose it" and all that jazz.

 

 

Next up is Rook, an NPC HERO who I and other co-GMs have used periodically for years.  Originally the PC of a player who moved away at the turn of the century, he had never given her a real detailed origin, save that she tried doing the solo thing, got recruited by The Chessmen (an NPC government-sponsored "Hero team," at least on the public face of things, who show up to meddle and cause problems for the PCs every now and again), quit, and joined the PC team of that time (The Seven, even though none of them were the original Seven; go figure).

 

We have all dropped bread crumbs here and there as to her background when various player characters asked certain questions, so a few weeks ago I took it upon myself to go through all the Rook-related notes and put together something solid-- you know: for practice. 

 

 

 

Enjoy (or don't, as the mood or the taste strikes you).

 

 

Rook

Benita Dayanara Contreras

Latino American of Puerto Rican descent, female, age 74.

Powers first expressed at age 42 during a domestic altercation.

       Benita Contreras, born to parents who were first and second generation transplants from Puerto Rico, was always a “big-boned” girl, even in her youth.  Never truly overweight, she was broad-shouldered and heavier than other girls in her age group, and put on weight easily.  To combat possible weight problems and to improve her self-image, she exercised regularly, and took up practicing high-energy latin dances as a hobby, even while continuing her exercise routine.  As she moved to high-school, she began to dance competitively.  It was dance competitions that led her to meet her future husband, Oscar Dominguez. Benita’s early life was perfectly typical, with no clues as to who she would become.
       Her routine exercise and high-energy hobby gave her pronounced musculature, and at one point in high school, the ladies basketball coach, after Benita failed to make the team, suggested that perhaps weight training would suit her better.  On a lark, Benita, by now a tallish girl, took the inspiration and added light weight training to her routine.  Her musculature developed further, which left her with a confused self-image during her late teens— a time when people are particularly sensitive about their images and what other people think of them.  While she admired her progress on one hand, she was bothered by the weight it was putting on her, and her concern that she might be seen as “butch.”
       Benita’s friends assured her that no one felt anything about her but pride for her success and progress, and jealousy of her self-discipline.  Still, she made a conscious decision to limit her weight training lest she lose her feminine appearance.
       Two months after she graduated high school, Benita and Oscar were wed.  The marriage resulted in one daughter, named, with Oscar’s flair for the dramatic, “Mariposa Dulce (“sweet butterfly”) Dominguez.”  Benita had no second thoughts about foregoing her possible college future (she had earned a weightlifting scholarship to both Daniels University for Technological Studies and to Campaign City College) and settling in to raise her beautiful baby.
       It was at this point that trouble began to brew in the marriage.  Oscar-- charming, suave, cultured, sophisticated— all the things that Benita did not think a “big girl” would find in a man— did not like to work.  He wanted to continue on with his dancing career and his theater work.  Competitions only paid winners, and no one can win consistently; the theater paid only those who were cast (while both Benita and Oscar were born and raised in the USA, and both were raised to be bilingual, Oscar had a pronounced spanish accent that he was not only unwilling to hide when working the stage, but took a great deal of pride in cultivating), and Oscar was not cast as often as he felt he should be.  In no time at all, Benita was trying to balance two full-time jobs, a baby, and a husband with little interest in being a father or a husband.
       As Benita struggled, her stress grew, and by the fourth year of their marriage, she was taking Mariposa to the one place that she felt happy: the  Gymnasium at Campaign City College, which was open to the public for a fee considerably less than a membership at one of the chain places.  She found that exercise reduced her stress and cleared her mind, and allowed her to more ably deal with the problems in her life.  By the time Mariposa turned three, Benita had been approached about being a serious competitive body builder.  She worked hard, as she was able (she still had two jobs, and a child and husband to support) and when she could, but found herself spending more and more time at the gym and less time home.  She didn’t like to be at home anymore.
       It took her some time to admit to herself her awareness that Oscar treated her more like a servant than a wife, and that he had become less attracted to her both physically and emotionally.  Oscar, it seemed, liked proud, regal women, and not servants.  Oscar liked soft, thin women, and not the muscular machine that Benita was slowly becoming.  A year later, she found out about the affairs.  When she brought up to him how shocked and hurt she was, he simply turned it back on her, made it her fault, and painted himself the victim of a wife who did not love him enough to make herself the woman he wanted her to be.  The discussion became an argument, then a shouting match, and then he struck her.  Benita almost didnt notice the black eye, but she suffered deeply a world-shaking shock and the unnamable,  painful sense of betrayal that left her feeling as if she were in an endless freefall.  Knowing no other way to secure herself, she changed her life then.  She fell into a role of servant that kept Oscar from starting arguments and tormenting her about her “manly habits.”  She kept the baby, always, and found sitters for her when she had to work.  Oscar had the run of the house, but wanted no part of making it a home, using it more as a crashing pad between affairs.
       Benita threw herself into her weight lifting.  She had absolutely loved dancing, but could no longer bring herself to do it competitively, even if Oscar had not forbidden her from competing.  Over the next six years, she won two different title events for bodybuilding, and loved her daughter with all her heart.  She pretended to herself and to the world outside her home that everything was fine: she had a husband, a daughter, a home, and two jobs.  She pretended that she and Oscar did not fight, and that he did not hit her, though that was getting harder to do.  As Mariposa grew older, she, too, knew that there was something fundamentally wrong in her home, and Benita would take additional verbal— and sometimes physical— abuse for her attempts to shield Mariposa from her father’s activities.  “What shame is there in a man who demands better for himself?  Let the girl see that her family is entitled only to the best!”
       On her forty-second birthday, Benita’s life changed again, this time forever.  Oscar had, as had become his habit the last few years, not come home for several days.  Benita knew that she was not allowed to question him about it— she had learned that lesson the hard way, enough times that she no longer forgot it.  Still, she had made a decision.  She had had enough.  She had quit one of her jobs, finally, as Mariposa had grown and moved out, and the house was now paid for, and she was, she felt, starting to feel her age.  She had also contacted an attorney, and had an envelope containing a few papers for a simple no-fault divorce.  Most importantly, she had her daughter there for moral support.  Benita hadn’t gone to work that day.  She had spent the day talking to Mariposa, telling her things that she thought she had protected the girl from, only to find out that Mari had known, even before she was old enough to understand.  Mariposa sat at the table with her mother, waiting for Oscar.  Mariposa had come every day for four days, waiting with her mother for Oscar to return.  She stared down at the small-but-solid wooden table where she had eaten every meal until she was twenty-two, when she found her own place and moved out.  Benita, too, thought about the table— the first piece of furniture she and Oscar had bought— from a thrift store— back when times were good.  She wondered what happened, what she had done wrong— and pushed the thoughts from her mind for the ten-thousandth time.  As Mariposa had said; as the lawyer had said: she had done nothing wrong.  She had been the victim the entire time, and it was time to accept that.
       Oscar stumbled in smelling of alcohol (he had taken to drinking quite regularly the last few years, particularly as his dancing slowed and the stage parts were fewer and fewer between) and stale cigarettes (Oscar did not smoke) and perfume.  He saw his daughter and began to make light pleasantries, but Mariposa would have none of it.  “Papi,” she said, “I am here for Mama.  We need to talk, all of us.”  She paused and waited for Benita, who eventually began to speak— nervous, subservient, uncertain…   and all the while, Oscar became angry and grew angrier.
       He denied; he argued; he yelled and he blamed, and it wasn’t long before he drew back his hand and Benita instinctively recoiled.  Mariposa leapt to her feet, aghast.  For all she had suspected-- on some level been aware of-- she had never actually _seen_ it.  She railed against Oscar, shrieking her condemnation, and in absolute fury, Oscar stepped forward and drew back his hand for his own daughter, sending the back of his hand toward her mouth— 
       There was a tremendous crash— Oscar did not touch his daughter.  He lay gasping, unable to breathe, flat on the floor between two halves of the old wooden dining table, Benita’s hand clamped so tightly around his wrist that he could feel the bones within being squeezed out of position.  There was lightning in his shoulder, and he could not move his arm.  He remembered striking his daughter— a recollection that actually did surprise him, but not enough.  More accurately, he remembered _trying_ to strike her.  Then there was….  Nothing.  There was a crushing pressure on his wrist and a snatching jerk so powerful that he felt his shoulder tear.  His feet were in the air, spinning over his head, then there was a crash as something solid smashed against the back of his torso and delivered a blow to the back of his skull that robbed him of his eyesight momentarily while the blow to his back had kicked the wind from his lungs….
 

 

 

 

Yes; I'm still trying to do the "small bites" thing.

 

 

[Duke Bushido]

         Benita, too, was in shock.  She stood there, holding the wrist of a stranger that she had known for over twenty years.  She hadn’t thought; she wasn’t even certain that she had acted.  Mariposa… He was going to strike Mariposa.  Mariposa, who she loved dearly, perhaps even more than she loved herself.  Mari, who was, for Benita, the living embodiment of all that was righteous in the world, all that was beautiful to her.  She sat there, shaking, trying to figure out— to remember— what had happened.  Was this shock?  Was this— the shaking, the anger, the fear— was this adrenaline?  She did not know, but her mind had finished processing and was beginning to play back what had happened:
       Oscar had moved to strike Mari, and without a thought— purely by reflex and the instinct to protect Mari— Benita had reached out as Oscar’s hand flew toward their daughter and seized his wrist, stopping his fierce backhanded slap in an instant.  She pulled him around toward her, away from Mari and toward herself, jerked him off his feet and into the air and slammed him like a rag doll on his back across the table-- slammed him into it so hard that it had split the grain of the wood the length of the table and even the supporting framework underneath, dropping Oscar to the floor, where he now lay, gasping while his stunned diaphragm took stock of itself and tried to resume breathing.
       “Sign this, Papi.”  Mariposa held out a pen and the papers, which rattled slightly in her shaking hands.  Seeing her father come toward her like that—- her life, too, had changed forever.  “Sign this, Papi.  Sign this, and go to wherever it is that you go, go to whatever cheap young actress or dancer you can woo with stories of your ‘used to be;’ go find the woman who matches that sickening perfume— the woman you deserve, and do not come back, Papi.  You will not ever deserve Mama; you will not ever deserve me!  Sign this and _go_, and don’t come back, Papi.”  Benita watched, devastated as the tears rolled down her daughter’s face.  She thought about the years of abuse she had tried to hide from her.  She found herself wishing for “should have done” and “could have been.”  If only she had walked away years ago.  But Mariposa…   she needed a father, so Benita had stayed.  Mari deserved a father.  Benita was heartbroken to realize that it did not matter that she deserved one; she certainly never had one.
       Benita felt light-headed, exhausted, sluggish in body and mind.  She was flushed, and too warm.  She watched with only half her attention as Oscar struggled to his feet, took the papers from his daughter’s hand and threw them on the floor.  Benita could see the coals in his eyes as he turned to face her.  “You do not control me!  This— this _child_ “ he spit as he gestured vaguely behind himself “does not control me!  Does she speak for you?  Are you such an empty puppet now that even your daughter tells you what to do?  What manner of woman are you, Benita?!  Are you even still a woman?  Look at yourself!  You spend all your days making yourself into a man, yet you still do not have what you need!  What is strength without a spine?!  You are no more than a simpering cow!  You will _never_ presume to tell me what to—“ he drew his elbow back, hand clenching into a fist “you stupid bi-“ his attempted sucker punch never landed.  The moment he tried to swing, Benita had grabbed him by his suit coat, turned slightly, and threw him over her shoulder and toward the stairs, where he landed in a crumpled heap.  
       He rose, shaken, less bravado in his voice than before.  “You don’t scare me, you ugly cow!  You manly monster!  I am not frightened of you!  Leave!  Leave my home at once! Begone, before you grow the horns and testicles befitting a bull of your size!”
       Benita turned to him, tears on her cheeks, and making no effort to pretend that his words did not hurt.  “NO!” she screamed, with so much force that she surprised even herself.  “No!  This is _not_ your home!  It is _my_ home!  It is in _my_ name, because _I_ worked to get it!  Two jobs I worked to support you while you did _nothing_!  You _used_ me!  You took my money and my home and lived a life all your own, all to yourself, doing who knows what with who knows who; doing as you pleased, when you pleased—“  She had never allowed herself to admit this before, and while her resolve did not waiver, the tears came faster and harder.   “— when you pleased, with no regard for what I had to do to give you the clothes you wanted and the leisure you wanted, and never once did you have a hand in raising the child that —“ she stopped herself there.  That, she would not say, not aloud, to anyone, ever.  But she knew that she was right, and for the first time she had to admit that, too.  The tears came even harder as her heart broke for her daughter.  “You, Oscar D’vente Dominguez… You will get your slimy, lazy, cheating, using, hateful, dried-up shell of a make-believe man up those stairs, grab what you do not want to see burning on the front lawn, sign those papers, and leave _my_ house and _my_ daughter— _my family_— _alone_!  We do not need you, Oscar Dominguez, and we do not want you, and we will never, ever see you again!”  She started towards him, and wide-eyed, with his mouth agape, he scampered up the stairs.
 

 

 

[Duke Bushido]

       Benita felt even more light headed than before, and was beginning to get nauseous by the time Oscar had left, throwing the divorce papers down on the concrete steps as he left the little house, cursing Benita at the top of his lungs all the way to his car.  “Mama!” cooed Mariposa, “Please, Mama!  Lie down.  Rest.  You look…   your color, Mama; you are so pale…”
       “I am fine, Mari,” Benita spoke with that soft, tired ‘don’t worry about me; it’s nothing’ tone that a parent never truly gets away from when their children fret.  “I have had a very exciting day for an old woman; that’s all.’  She was feeling dizzy, though, and she felt…. Hot.  She could feel her body trying to cope with what felt like a heat overload, and she could feel heat radiating from herself.  She took the excuse of humoring her daughter to drop unceremoniously on the couch.
       “Mama!  You would have scolded me for ten minutes for doing that!  Do you hear how the couch complains?!”
       Benita giggled.  She was right, of course.  The furniture took time to pay off; it wasn’t impossible to treat it properly.
       “Mama!  Look!  Look at yourself!  You are shaking!”
       Benita looked at her hands.  They were trembling, slightly.  How foggy was her vision, now?  Her hands did not belong to her.  These were large, powerful hands.  Certainly she had gained considerable muscle over the years, but the gains had stopped as she started getting closer to forty.  Still, these hands— had she really become so strong?  So big?  She stared at them as they twisted and turned against the spinning room.  Then she noticed the tear in her dress.  The _tears_ in her dress!  perhaps, because she had moved so quickly, and with such adrenaline, she had flexed far harder than intended?  The sleeves of her autumn dress were split, and her muscled arms were visible.  The shoulder stitching had torn loose as well; one shoulder had separated completely as her powerful trapezius bulged through it.  She was not flexing now.  She was barely conscious now.  So…. why were her shoulders still bulging through her dress…?
       She got up and walked carefully to the full-length mirror next to the hallway, light-headed and unsteady.  When she was finally able to comprehend what she saw, her eyes opened until they strained her face, and she didn’t blink again until her eyes were so dry they felt they might crack and peel.  She was an extremely muscular woman; twenty years of bodybuilding will do that.  She had gotten used to having to have her clothes altered, and given her budget, had gotten in the habit of modifying patterns and making her own clothes, which fit and hung better anyway than anything she would buy and have “let out.”  But her dress— she had worn her favorite light autumn dress; the dress with the small, faintly-colored roses patterned across the fabric, to make herself feel more comfortable, more confident for the talk with Oscar-- had split at the seams and torn through the light fabric.  Her neck and shoulders strained against it, and there were tears where her movements had caused her muscles to bulge rapidly.  The neckline was torn into a modest but noticeable “V.”  More alarming was the reflection of the room: it was… off, somehow.  As if— if her viewpoint had changed— had she…  was she taller?!  The confusion was too much for her exhaustion, and she began to swoon.  
       Mari helped her back to the couch, whereupon Benita relievedly poured herself, looked around, and passed out.  When she came too, Oscar was gone.  The signed papers had been picked up from the scatter on the stoop and placed on the china cabinet outside the kitchen (the small simple house had no defined “dining room,” but an open area that flowed from outside the kitchen to an area that a patterned rug defined as the “living room.”).  Mariposa saw her mother stir and was upon her instantly.  “Mama!  I was starting to worry!” she said, her faltering grin making a poor showing at hiding her concern.
       “Mariposa….” Benita said, weakly, but with the warmth of a mother’s love and the tranquility of one who has awakened and seen that the nightmares were not real.   “Sweet Butterfly.  You worry too much about your Mama.  I am fine.  I am a big strong girl, and I can take care of myself, Mariposa.  Relax.  I am fine.”
       “Mama…  what happened…?”
       “I suppose I had enough, Mari.  I have had more than enough for many years.  But…  I don’t know, _Pollita_; I suppose you just… get used to it, maybe?  But to see it… to see it when it was you, I…  I was—  there was so much, so much inside me, Mari, and it just came out…  To see you in danger, it was more than I could stand.  I just— I remember what I lost when…..  I wanted to protect you, _Pollita_—“
       “No, Mama!  To you!  What has happened to you?!  You were so pale and unsteady-- when I tried to touch you, you were burning up!”  Mari studied her mother’s face, looked closely at her eyes. “_Chinita_.” She finished up and spoke.  “I don’t know what happened to you, Mama, but it has made you very tired.  I think…   I have a friend; she saw something on the news about a clinic—“
       “I will be fine, Mari.  Your fa—  _Osca-- _….  He is gone; he has signed the papers?”
       “_Si_, Mama; he has signed the papers, but I am talking about what happened to _you_, Mama!  Now come; _priso; pronto_, Mama.  We have to get you to a doctor.”
       “Mari, stop!  I have just— I have just had a very emotional day; I just need some rest—“
       “_Deja ya de gufear_, Mama!  I have already made the phone call!  The doctor is a specialist, and he will see you.  Either way, there is no charge for this—“
       “A doctor with no charge?  And you tell me _I_ am _gufear_?”
       “Please, Mama; just come in the car with me.”
       “Let me rest, Sweetie; Please.  Let me rest, and I will come with you in the morning” Benita promised groggily.  Mariposa called her boyfriend and told him she was staying with her mother that night.
 

[Duke Bushido]

    The clinic, based on what Mariposa had told them, had indeed called for a specialist, who, after his initial assessment, directed Benita directly to Daniels Institute of Biological Science for additional testing and confirmation.  The bigger relief to Benita, though, was that there really was no charge.  More importantly, she had gotten Mariposa to agree to stop for a meal; Benita had never been more ravenous in her life.  The testing revealed what Mari had thought: Benita was very much a superhuman. Something in the scene the night before had triggered her powers to express; in an instant, she had become incredibly strong, and in the span of a minute or two had grown two inches (on top of her already-impressive six-foot stature) and her musculature had shredded and rebuild itself: she weighed a full sixty pounds more than she had the previous morning.  It was no wonder that she was exhausted and ravenous.  

    The specialists at Daniels— who had dealt with many types of superpowered individuals over their history— were at a loss to explain why this had happened so suddenly, or just what had triggered it.  They speculated that something within Benita herself had been suppressing the development of her powers on a more natural timeline, but could not explain what that might have been.  Benita suspected that she knew just what it was— or more specifically, _who_ it was, and why, but said nothing to anyone.  She vowed to herself that the dark part of her life, no matter how little remained to her at this age, was over.  The biologists all agreed that whatever it was that triggered her to release her power had been powerful enough to undo instantly whatever deep psychological or physiological blocks that had been within her, and her powers rebounded as if they had been pressurized, nearly killing her in the process: even as big as she was, she showed classic signs of advanced malnutrition and electrolyte imbalance, as if her body had somehow _eaten_ every part of her that was not already sinew and bone.  She was put on an electrolyte drip for nearly two days and fed a steady (if bland) high calorie protein diet until she was discharged with the orders “eat, drink, and rest.  You will know when you feel right.”

 

The next few weeks were a whirlwind for Benita: she couldn’t satiate her hunger and her muscles positively _ached_.  The doctors at Daniels were at a loss as to why her initial transformation hadn’t been cripplingly painful, but rationalized that it was likely the distraction of whatever stressor had triggered her to drop the psychological block in the first place.  The ache she felt, though— it wasn’t from overwork or muscle fatigue or the cramps of electrolyte deficiency.  Her body _burned_ for exercise.  Against the advice of the specialists and the protestations of Mariposa, she went to the gym.

    Benita stayed in the gym for several days, stopping her workout and leaving only to eat and fetch fresh clothes, though that did entail a shopping trip with Mari, as almost none of her clothes could be stretched over her now.  After three weeks of intense working out, nearly non-stop, she finally felt relief.  Feeling genuinely, comfortably tired and still flush from the exercise, Benita finally went home.

 

    It wasn’t too long before she became a small-time celebrity.  Unable to continue competitive bodybuilding (she felt that having developed the ability to lift nearly ten tons of weight gave her an unfair advantage), she decided that, as part of changing her life, she would become a professional wrestler.  Certainly her power would allow her to dominate if she wished, but if she stayed to the script, there shouldn’t be any problems, and no actual reason that anyone would have to know about her ability.  

    Benita wrestled under the name “The Amazon,” and was given the backstory of having left a jungle tribe of warrior women to become an eco-warrior against the illegal mining and lumber industries, and that she had come to America to become a wrestler in order to raise money for her cause and to raise awareness of the problems of the Amazon rain forests.  “Whatever,” she thought.  “I just want to have fun and work out a bit.”  The timing of the backstory, the costume (the same green dress-like costume she would eventually use for her fledgling career as a crime fighter), her incredible size and physique, and the fact that, owing to her stature, she would only wrestle men, made her insanely popular on the circuit, and it wasn’t too long before she was picked up by the National Wrestling League, who recognized that her popularity and her warm, subtle beauty made her extremely marketable.

    The NWL signed Benita and kept her as The Amazon, and made sure that she only fought men, and Benita stuck to the scripts, winning and losing as she was supposed to.  Meanwhile an entire toy line and a children’s cartoon series were launched.  The cartoon wasn’t great fare, but it was colorful and exciting, featuring “actual stories of The Amazon and her struggle to save the rainforest from evil developers.”  Benita didn’t mind, though: the message was solid and just peeked out from under the action, and she still receives royalties from the reruns to this day.  Besides, it was way better in story, message, and overall scripting than the Ned Taylor Network’s infamous “Planetman and the Junior Geologists.”   What kind of a power is “heart,” anyway?

    It would be a few more years, still, but eventually, Benita would come to learn that it was _her_ power.

[Duke Bushido]

        As all things do in professional wrestling and other entertainment fiction, the popularity of the programming— and in particular, the popularity of the actors— have their ups and downs.  After six years in the NWL, Benita’s popularity had dipped as the novelty wore off.  To regenerate interest in her character, she was offered a Heel Turn, and declined it.  She decided she would rather leave a good guy, particularly now that, thanks to the cartoon, thousands of children at least thought they knew who she was, than to continue on as a villain.  (It may well be this decision that saved the The Amazing Amazon cartoon from losing popularity, allowing it to spin off into a new toy line— one from which Benita received generous royalties— and three separate comic book series.  Out of print now, all three ran for several years, and the royalties helped Benita to spend more time with her now-pregnant daughter.
    
        Benita’s life changed again the day she walked out, for the last time, of the NWL Studio Arena.  Still in costume— she had asked to keep it, and realistically, it wouldn’t fit anyone else who would actually want to wear it, she walked out of the studio and onto the busy downtown streets.  She paused a moment, taking a minute to enjoy, as always, the shady miniature park in the square across the street.  Downtown Campaign was filled with them: places where the early developers had foregone  traditional intersections in favor of large, wide, squarish traffic circles, in which the original trees were left to grow in landscaped glory amongst benches and fountains.  It was almost jarring to walk out of a multi-million dollar arena and television studio onto the busy sidewalk, and jarring again to see what amounted to a diorama of the early days of the city.  Almost at once, she became aware of the sirens, and could tell they were close.  
       She looked around, trying to find the source and the cause of them, and just as she stepped onto the road (downtown traffic wasn’t ever too heavy around the park squares, simply because there were so many newer, straighter roads to handle the volume of traffic the city had grown to include) to get a better view, a dark blue car roared around a corner- an older car, a muscle car of some sort, with a large white chevron painted boldly down it’s side, with a man leaning out of the passenger side window, aiming a pistol behind them.  The sight shocked her so badly that she did not realize until it was too late that it was bearing directly at her, and the driver's focus was screwed tightly onto the rearview mirror.
       The tires had howled as the car slid much-too-fast around the corner, and the driver had corrected with an unthinking, automatic reflex that suggested both great skill and familiarity with the vehicle.  The small handful of people on the sidewalk leapt to the sides, hugging buildings or skittering to the other sides of the large concrete pedestals that supported the street lights.  Everyone was aghast, confused— then she heard the scream, and snapped her attention back to where it belonged.  It was too late to run.  Instinctively, she protected herself, leaning hard to her left, grabbing the front bumper of the car and shoving it hard to her right even as it barreled at her.  She completed her roll to the left, and the tires of the car howled again as it heaved over hard to her right.  The driver, confused by the sudden input, looked back toward the windshield in time to see the massive old basswood tree directly in his path.  He stood instantly on the brakes, but it was far too late…
       The police arrived seconds later, pulling up to a scene of a crashed getaway car and thirty or so people clapping, cheering, and carrying the lady wrestler from TV wrestling.  By the time they had called the situation in, television crews were on their way, and they interviewed several excited citizens who had witnessed the event.  No one knew who Benita Dyanara Catreras was, but _everyone_ knew The Amazon.
       The event caused a brief resurgence of interest in The Amazon— old wrestling matches became available on pay-per-view, her cartoon surged in popularity again, and four different comic book companies negotiated for the right to do a book around her.  Eventually, she agreed to a twenty-four-issue pre-scripted start-to-finish series; she wanted no cliffhangers from a cancelled series, feeling that children were “cheated” when that happened.  The new series published within a month.  It wasn’t very good, having been thrown together to hastily cash in on a flashy human interest piece, and was called “The Amazon: Tales of the Savage Land.”  It featured the title character prowling the night streets of New York, fighting crime.  It wasn’t very good, but it made her giggle.  
       The event also caused a lot of panic and chastising from Mariposa, which made Benita smile with a genuine, complete warmth that she had not felt since Mariposa was a toddler, and things with Oscar were still—-  Well, best to put that out of her mind.  The royalties were steady, but she would need a job soon, and needed to start looking.  Even at that, the new comic book had put a thought into her mind— a potentially dangerous thought, and certainly one Mari would not approve of.  What did that matter?  Benita was approaching fifty (though, perhaps due to a quirk of her power, didn’t look a day over thirty) and, given her powers and her experiences, was far more capable of looking out for herself that Mari would even understand— far more than anyone she ever knew, really.  Her mind made up, Benita cleaned the Amazon costume, and wondered who could make something that looked the same, but perhaps offered some kind of protection?  She was about to test the waters of masked crime fighting.  Though she probably wouldn’t use the mask.  She was six-four and more muscular than any of the men she used to wrestle.  Surely it would take more than a mask to hide who she was.

       Over the next four years, Benita did her best to wage a war on crime, but truth be told, she wasn’t very good at it.  Unlike the comics and cartoons and movies and television dramas, crime did not simply walk up to her and dare her to stop it.  Certainly she stumbled across the occasional robbery or mugging or carjacking, and had no problems at all stopping and capturing the perpetrators, but in the end, she had no real chops for investigation or detective work, and her outgoing personality kept her tangled with every person who would speak to her.  Still, she felt that there was more to being a hero than just beating up onerous people.  There was no end to the number of cats she retrieved from storm gutters and trees, or tires she changed for motorists without tools (through the simple expedient of lifting the car up with one hand and screwing the lug nuts on and off with the other) and other “civic heroics.”  The Amazon was well-loved by the city, and she loved the people right back.

       In her fourth year as a superhero, Benita was recruited by the Chessmen, an elite group of costumed government agents who handled high and low-profile cases that required an “outsider” group that could be disavowed as necessary.  She was to be the new White Rook, as the previous one had been promoted to Black team following the loss of the previous Black Rook.  Benita was in love with the jet-setting lifestyle and the travel and missions— both covert and overt, and learned a considerable amount about detective work, investigation, forensics, and other skills useful to actual crime fighters.  Best of all, she got to use her powers, regularly, and often in real battle.  She was enamored with this new life, and her powers grew, little by little.  She developed lasting, caring relationships with her teammates, but eventually grew disenchanted; she had become deeply unhappy with the way politics worked into the decision to take or decline certain missions, and she had begun to miss her neighborhood, her little house, and her family.  Her granddaughter was nearly nine, and filled her thoughts more and more.  Benita left the Chessmen on good terms amid a tearful goodbye.
    Back in Campaign City, she worked hard on her family bonds and repairing the damage that costumed adventuring had done to the relationship with her daughter, while her granddaughter seemed quite delighted that her _Tita_ could pick her up and leap to the roof and show her the sun setting on the whole world.  Benita loved her girls, but her granddaughter Clarita…  Clarita became her whole world.  She promised herself that she would be, for ‘Rita, the mother that Oscar had not let her be for Mari.

       Benita couldn’t help herself; she loved being strong, and she loved helping people, and delighted in the amazing ways they would repay her kindness, to her and to others.  She had a slightly larger costume made, and again took to the streets (though less frequently than before) to deter crime.  This time, she adopted the name Pilar.  Unfortunately, her by-now decidedly androgynous build, unusual height, and incredible musculature made the name confusing.  It didn’t help that only spanish-speaking individuals recognized the pun as both a girl’s name and one of several words alluding to great strength.  Non-spanish speakers heard it as “pillar” with an accent.  As much fun as she was having being a street hero again, constantly correcting people was becoming a bit tedious.  
       During her time as Pilar she was approached by the Seven.  While most of the world assumed that Martin Power was the strongman for the group, few were aware of what an on-again, off-again relationship he actually had with them, and that for the most part, the Seven were trading more on the _belief_ of his presence than his actual presence.  Complicating matters further, he had left one day with a ranking officer from the Frontier Corps and a costumed agent who dressed in tattered robes and a hood.  That was a year ago, and no one had seen him since.  The Seven had, they said, “been watching The Amazon,” even during her time with the Chessmen, and were impressed with her improvement.  They wanted her to consider being their permanent “strong man.”  Bursting with excitement, she accepted without hesitation.
 

[Duke Bushido]

        Once on the team, she was determined to relieve herself of the problems her new name had caused her, and crafted a new costume and rebranded herself as Titan.  Jetstream, amused by her stories of being Pilar, suggested a directly-feminized name, and Titania was born.  With her skills better-honed from her time with the Chessmen, Benita proved an excellent addition to the team.  Her time with the team would be short-lived, however, as, thanks to the work of the shape-shifting Doppelganger, she would find herself cast as a criminal, and hunted 
by the police, the government, and The Seven themselves.
        The problem with not being able to maintain a secret identity is that it’s not terribly difficult to find out who you are.    Benita spent eleven months in the super-powered prison Lockdown, secured in a well-alarmed cell by means of the power-dampening boots and gloves developed for them some years before by Willoughby Daniels himself.  The Chessmen held undeniable proof that Titania had been framed by Doppelgänger, but as the entire case had been classified by the government, The Chessmen had to work their way through appropriate channels to gain Benita’s release.  The powers that be, however, had  agreed to remand Benita into the custody of the Chessmen during the expectedly short time it would take to clear her name.   They were arriving in Campaign City that afternoon to pick up Benita in person; she was to be taken by ferry from the island prison to the mainland and then transported to the airport, where the Chessmen would assume responsibility for her.  The dampeners, however, and the shackles (less than decorative without the dampeners) had to stay on until she was formally released to the Chessmen.  The ferry ride had been agonizingly long, with little to do but watch the water go by outside the window.  Even with the power dampeners, her guards would not let her walk the deck.
        When she arrived at the dock, everyone in the ferry terminal was abuzz— something about a massive flying machine and an attack on the financial district in Campaign City.  An untold number of agents and robots and poisonous gas; talk of missiles and airplanes strafing the citizens— people were on the verge of panic, and everyone was glued to the various televisions, all programming preempted for live reports from the scene.  What Benita saw was unimaginable.  An honest-to-God war had broken out in the financial district.          The media reported the speculation that the villain known as Master Mind was behind the attack, but there were so many—- dozens— over a hundred— villains of various power levels, and easily a hundred planes in the sky, and what seemed to be two hundred or more agents and robots waging a war of extermination in the streets and in the beautiful and enormous grounds of Daedalus Park, just the other side of which was Campaign University.  There were hundreds of defenders as well: it seemed every known superhero from Campaign and the surrounding cities had arrived, as had policemen and SWAT and even some National Guardsmen— then she saw them.
        In the background of a shot of the gigantic airship of Master Mind, she could recognize the unmistakable sight of the Chessmen’s transport jet.  Those aboard her who could fly carried those who couldn’t; the Chessmen poured out of the jet and joined the battle, adding to the confusion, but knowing they had to do anything they could to help.
        “You have to let me go!”  She thrust her shackled arms toward her guards.  “Take these off!  I have to help!  I have to help them!”
        “Sorry, Ms. Contreras.  You’re being released to the Chessmen, but you’re still a prisoner.  The dampeners stay.  Just sit tight.  It’ll be over soon enough; you just watch."
        More than half the people alive today were alive that day, and most people remember watching it, in person or through the television reports, live or aired for weeks afterwards,  and above all else, they remember the absolute slaughter that day.  The heroes, unwilling to risk the lives of thousands of innocent bystanders, were at a serious disadvantage, and most were hampered by their efforts to ensure that even the villains were not killed.  They were slaughtered almost in waves.  Again and again, the cameras would try to shift away from a hero clearly in mortal danger, only to inadvertently focus on one being killed.  Betina screamed.  “You have to let me help them!  You have to let me help them!  _Dios misericordioso_, you _have_ to let me _help them_!”  But her pleas fell on deaf ears.  Likely it was not that her guards were unfeeling, or even, at that point, unwilling. They, too, were horrifically hypnotized by what they saw on the screen, aghast, and unable to turn away, to tune it out.
        The Black Knight fell, a powerful beam of energy emanated from the great flying ship and burned a two-foot hole straight through his torso.  “RANDY!!!” Betina screamed, tears slicking her face.  “RANDY!”  She and Randal Marshall had been extremely close— not as lovers, but as substitute family for one another.  She had been close to all of them; she had loved them all, deeply, as her closest friends and confidants early in the days when she was truly free to be herself.  The Black Queen clutched her temples, face grotesquely contorted into a soundless scream, and she fell from the sky.  “SIOBHAN!”  Benita sobbed uncontrollably.
        She fell to her knees, her body wracked with sobs until she spasmed and choked.  Nothing but pure desperation showed on her face as she looked up to the guards and begged a gurgled “please…  please, _Signor_, please!  You have to let me help them… you ha—- you have to….”
        She glanced back at the television, almost blinded by the tears in her eyes, but through the blur, she could make out the words “…White King….” on the blurb at the bottom of the screen and what was clearly a stock photo in front of charred remains that still bore half of a Chessmen uniform.  Emilio Clary.  Emilio, whom she had loved dearly, fixated on, and for whom she had guarded a secret unrequited passion.  The first man she truly loved the way that she had once loved Oscar.  She dropped her head and her tears pooled on the floor.  She loved all these people.  She would not let them die for nothing.  More than anything she had ever wanted, even if it killed her, too, she would not let their killer go unpunished.  She sobbed, and her body trembled, and she screamed in piercing, soul-chilling agony--

        ...and she could hear the jumpsuit she was wearing tear.  
        “_Dios..  Por favor Dios…  Por favor, Dios! Liberame!  Liberame, para que pueda salvar a mis amigos_!”  Her heart burned to save her friends, to avenge them, and her jumpsuit tore, the dampening boots cracked and groaned, her fingers tore through the ends of the dampening gloves, and the sick smell of an electrical short filled her nostrils— and she felt the power.  She felt her strength return in an instant, and knew that she was stronger, more powerful than she had ever before been, and without waiting to see if she was okay, without stopping to figure out what happened, she raced outside and leaped, headed for the financial district of Campaign City.
 

 

 

[Duke Bushido]

        History today, and that day in particular, is well-recorded.  It is known— and can even be watched, if, ever after all this time, someone has the stomach for it— that Benita Dyanara Contreras arrived in time to lead the last charge of the heroes, now less than a third of their former numbers.  She led the charge that turned the tide of the battle, ripping her way through robots and machinery, grabbing whatever she could lay her powerful hands on and throwing it at the planes that strafed from above.  Carried by Jetstream, even as he was dying of his wounds, to the airship above, she had set her mind that this ship would come down.  Lucky camera work from a brave chopper team shows the moment he released her, opened his visor to kiss her cheek, and fell to the earth.  Benita, now larger and more powerful than ever, set to work tearing through layers of steel armor even as the final warheads of gas were launched, even as Tree, last of The Seven to give his life to the people of Campaign City, began to stretch and grow and to snare the warheads and filter their toxins through his own body.  It was Benita herself that ripped through the master computer and sent the massive ship into its spiraling dive into the waters of Lake Campaign.  
        After the battle was won, and the last of Master Mind’s agents were being rounded up, Benita was seen standing over the badly-burned body of Emilio Clary, the White King.  She had kneeled down, spoke unheard words, and wiped her hand across his brown.  The light breeze blew her long hair into her face as she spoke to him.  Finally, as she turned to rise, she studied the ragged tatters of his costume, and reached forward, and tore a lengthy strip of blue fabric from over his heart.  She stood then, and looked down to him, pulled her hair back behind her and tied it with the same strip of fabric.  Then she said her last good-bye, and turned to find the other Chessmen.  The battle truly over now, survivors— civilians and heroes, police and reporters, began to gather.  One reporter stepped forward and, obviously struck with grief herself, thrust a microphone toward her, cautiously.  “I don’t think we know you, Sir, but on behalf of this city— this nation— I want to thank you, you and everyone else who risked and gave their lives to defend us.”
        “Ma’am.”
        The reporter waited for the gravel-voiced giant to finish his question.  When nothing else was coming, she spoke.  “Yes..?”
        “Ma’am” she explained.  “I’m a woman.  I’m just really strong.”
        “I am terribly sorry, Ma’am; I am— it’s just…. “ she looked Benita up and down, and finally followed up with “what do we call you, then?  The City— the world— would like to know.”
        Benita glanced at those of the Chessmen she could see— her mentors, her first real friends in her new life.  “Rook.  My name is Rook.”  She smiled, lovingly, unashamed of the tears that still ran down her face, then turned and walked away.

 

        Benita spoke at the memorial service two days later.  It was held there, in Daedalus Park, even though cleanup efforts would take several more months to complete.  She was dressed simply, perhaps even appropriately.  There had been no time to find a dress that would fit her; she had selected a plain black leotard that would stretch to accommodate her massive physique, then, after some thought, she put on the power dampeners that had kept her from arriving in time to save her friends.  Perhaps they were a reminder that she could be humbled, but for her, they were a sign that she could overcome any obstacle; a sign of her own strength— her inner strength— that she desperately needed for reassurance.  She pulled her hair back and braided it into a serious-looking ponytail and, with great forethought and solemnity, again tied her hair with the strip of fabric that once lay over her dear friend’s heart.  Finished, she examined herself in the full length mirror, marvelling at how much bigger she had become, and waited for the car that was to take her to the ceremony.

        Her speech was soft, genuine, and radiated warmth and sincerity in every word.  There were, to the best of the abilities of those who had organized the event, organized on easels and tastefully decorated with flowers, photos or news stories of each hero who had been identified as having given his life in the battle against Master Mind, to include the hundred and more policemen and firemen and medical responders— all who risked the danger to help.  At the center was a simple podium, which Benita’s new stature of six-foot nine inches nearly dwarfed.  To her left, closest to the podium, were the press photos of The Seven.  To her right, photos of the Chessmen.  Pictures and news pieces continued outward on both sides, and seemed to completely circle the packed-beyond-capacity Daedalus Park.  “I was loved,” she began, her throat catching as she gestured to the portraits on both sides of her “by all of these people.  And I, in turn, loved them back.  They were my friends; they were my family.  They all had incredible abilities, incredible powers, and the world loved that about them.  No one questioned why they did what they did— why we did what we did.  We did it because we loved each other— they taught me, by loving me, that it was okay to love myself; I thanked them by loving them back.  But the things they did— the risks they took, the lives they lost….   They gave all that willingly.
        “They didn’t do it because they had reputations.  They didn’t do it because they had to.  They did it because they loved _you_.  We all loved you.  My friends….”  she broke into tears and waited for her silent sobs to pass so that she could speak.  “They are gone now, but I still love them.  If they were here, they would probably give you a better speech.  They couldn’t tell you this, but they would do it because… well, because they loved you.  I love you.  I will always love you, enough for all of them.”  Her face twisted as she choked back her sobs again, and tears flowed so freely as to pour in streams rather than drops.  She managed a genuine but tight-lipped smile, waved, and left the podium.  
She spent nine silent hours, walking the perimeter of the park, stopping to stare at each photo, share a memory with those she had known, and touch the left cheek of each photo, remembering each time how Jetstream had kissed her a final good-bye.  She read each article posted for those who had no photos, and made a point of hugging each police officer, each fireman, each medical responder-- kissing the cheeks of those family members come to say goodbye to their loved ones who had given everything in defense of the city.  When everyone had gone, and the moon was high in the night sky, she sat on the ground, surrounded by her friends, at least in her memory and in her heart.  She spoke to them at great length, made promises to them, thanked them for what they had done for the people of the city and of the world, and for what they had been for her.  Before leaving, she stepped back to the photo of Emilio Clary--younger and deadly-serious face above his military uniform--  and looked at it, longer and harder than the others. 
        She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and held the ribbon before her face, as if showing it to the photograph of the serious-looking man trying so hard-- and not quite succeeding-- hide a proud, beaming smile.  The corners of his mouth were barely turned, of course; this photo was from a serious occasion: it was after Emilio had passed qualifications for inclusion in the Chessmen program, and would be used for his ID card.  His eyes, though-- his eyes gave away his excitement and his joy.  He was such a warm and excitable, caring, wonderful man.  Everything fascinated him, and he saw only the best in the people around him.  Benita stared at the photo a little longer.  “_Yo te amaba; Te necesitaba en mi vida. Gracias, Emilio. Gracias por ser parte de mi_.”  She raised the ribbon slightly, to her face, and kissed it lightly.  She prayed for her friends; she prayed for her family and her city.  When she was done, the sky had begun to tint grey, and the slightest hint of red showed on the eastern horizon.  Only then did she turn to walk home.
 

[Duke Bushido]

         Benita spent the next few months out of the public eye, with her family.  Mari, having been given a limited power of attorney over Benita’s affairs since she joined the Chessmen, had done well with the small royalty checks that dribbled in from old wrestling matches, comic book reprints, and the cartoon that, amazingly enough, still aired in syndication, and the investments turned dividends that, while they would not make anyone rich, freed Benita from the need to find a job, allowing her to devote more time to her daughter’s family.  Clarita was in high school now, and in just a few weeks, she would meet her second granddaughter, whom Mari and her husband decided would be named “Evangaline,”  Benita was quite excited, and giggled delightedly when told that the name— “bringer of good news—“ was selected as an honorific to Benita herself.  

        A few months later, Benita felt both ready to move on, and antsy for something to do.  She remembered her promise to the people of Campaign City, and decided it was time to show that she meant it.  She casually twirled the strip of blue fabric in her hair and made up her mind.  She pulled her mourning suit, hastily pulled together for the memorial service, from the closet, where it had remained since the service.  This would be her final costume, for she would never truly get over the loss of so many of her friends, and would not let anyone forget their noble sacrifice.  She rummaged through her sewing kit and set about embroidering a small, plain white rook on the chest…..

       “Mama!  That suit! You— you cannot be planning on being a superhero again?!  The danger is _real_, Mama!  You have seen it!  We have _all_ seen it!”
       “I have to, Mari.  I love the people I have met in this city.  They are all so wonderful and warm.  They are my people as much as are you, Rafael, and the girls, _Pollita_.”
       “Why, Mama?  What makes them your people?  What makes them worth the risks?”
       “I am a Contreras, Mari.  ‘Of the region.’  I am not just a super powered woman, Butterfly.  I am Benita Dyanara Conteras.”  She grinned, an expectant shine in her eyes.
       “Oh no, Mama.  Please, don’t say it.  Not again. Do not tell me how it means ‘warrior woman of the land’ even one more time.  _Es ridícula_.”
       Rafael— the warm and loving husband that Benita had always hoped Mari would find, walked in, looking for his wife.  “Say what, Mari?”
       Mari adopted a pre-emptive wince and Benita turned to Rafael and grinned wider.  “I am just Beni, Rafael.  Beni from the block.”
       Mari groaned and walked out, leaving Rafael alone with his mother in law, who giggled to herself and resumed poking needles through a black leotard.
 

 

 

 

 

 

And that's that.

 

Might as well test out the horrors of the TOS    I don't know what it costs to sue someone, but their only reward will be a twenty-year-old pickup truck that is starting to cost enough in repairs that it needs replacing anyway, so here goes:

 

 

(I, uh...  I couldn't get the little white rook on the chest.  Sorry. )

 

[Duke Bushido]

Well, I did say "practice" in the thread title, so...

 

 

I am going to do something I haven't done a lot of recently- well,_two_ things I havent done a lot of recently: I am going to get a little writing practice in, and I am going to relate a recent event- last weekend, in fact.  As is my custom for relating real-life events, all names but my own have been changed for the privacy of everyone involved (No one wants any sort of proof they know me, really.     )

 

 

I did not go in to work Monday.  This is extremely unusual for me- I am not a workaholic or any such thing, but I very much enjoy eating food and sleeping indoors, so it's just better if I don't miss any work that I don't have to miss.

 

My phone rang about one-thirty Monday afternoon.  It was on the little table by the couch, where my wife was sitting. She grabbed it up, looked at it, turned to me an announced "it's your brother" in a teasing and not-especially-helpful kind of way.  (I have several brothers, some of whom are still alive and therefore able to make phone calls every now and again.)  She tossed the phone to me so that I did not have to dight my way out of the broken recliner that we all pretend is still a very comfortable place to sit and rest and relax because the long-term damage to our joints and posture is far less immediately-expensive than replacing it.  Besides, it has aged to a nice pinkish color that clashes equally with all the other furnishings, so it's not all bad, right?

 

It doesn't really matter how prepares you are, or how well you gaurd yourself, unless you are standing, anything my wife tosses to you is going to hit you dead in the testicles.  You could be napping, curled up into the fetal position, beneath a full sheet of plywood, and it won't help a bit.  It is one of her very few less-endearing talents.

 

I picked up the phone, coughed rhe screeching out of my voice, and answered.  "Hey, D-!  What can I do to you?"  Yeah; I know it is worn completely out, but at this point, between the two of us, it is something of a tradition,

 

"Hey Duke!  I will be leaving Atlanta in a bit and I have to come right by Vidalia.  What time do you get off?"

 

"As luck would have it, I am off right now."

 

"Really?"

 

"Yeah; I didn't go in today."

 

"What?  You okay?  You sick?  Is it your back?"

 

K looked at me from the couch with a "Oh, this oughta be good" look on her face.  Apparently, I have a tell...

 

"Believe it or not, my back is pretty good" I started, though a couole of hours in the recliner were doing everything in their power to chamge that.  "My ankles are swollen and took tender to walk on, my hips have a dull throbbing ache, and my upper arms are still on fire, by back is pretty good!"

 

"Good God, man!  What happened?"

 

I spent seven very strenuous hours at a South Carolina motel with a gorgeous twenty-six-year_old woman."

 

"What?!!"

 

Then the phone was gone- snatched away as if by magic.  K was standing next to me, turning away from me, with the phone in her hand.  "Okay, D; while your jackass of a brother _is_ 'the best kind of correct,'" she interrupted, referencing an old television gag that we- all three of us- loved and use when any opportunity presents itself, "it's not like it sounds.  You know who he is."

 

"Yes." The earpiece doesn't work well on my phone anymore, and my hearing isn't what it used to be, so my phone stays on speaker.  Remember that if you ever want to call me and spread gossip. "But I also know who he _was_ before he met you, and that makes this... more believable than it should be."

 

"Yeah!" She snorted-- a reaction that is baffling in light of the usual sexy huskiness of her velvety lounge singer voice.  Her laugh is shockingly incongruous. "He's sixty three with a bad heart and the beginnings of a belly to match that Santa Clause beard!"

 

"_Sexy_ Santa!" I defended myself, poorly.

 

"Well, _yeah_," D continued, "but he _is_ just dumb enough-"

 

"_Sexy_ Santa!" I repeated, louder, because that makes it... better?  Somehow?

 

"Anyway, hi, D.  It's nice to hear from you.  Here's your brother back" she finished, and tossed the phone toward me,behind her back.  I panicked and reach for it, missed, and it landed edge-first straight in the usual spot.  Lefty was catching a beating today.

 

I scooped up the phone. "Anyway, as I was saying-"

 

"I am _not_ calling you Sexy Santa." D said curtly.

 

"Nobody does!" K yelled in agreement from the hallway.

 

"Anyway," I resumed to the phone.  "Feel free to drop by-"

 

"Nah...  I think I'll wait till mid-January or so."

 

"Why?"

 

"That's when you stop grooming your beard for that Santa look, right?"

 

"Usually, yeah, but-"

 

 

 

"Hey; this is on you!  I have watched you play Santa for years, but Brother, I don't think I can wash 'Sexy Santa' out of my brain without...  I don't know: direct peroxide injections or something.  Anyway, tell K and the kids I said 'hi,' and that I am really sorry I called.."

 

 

Edited November 24, 2023 by Duke Bushido

[Duke Bushido]

To get to the bottom of this, we have to go back a couple of weeks, but before doing that, we have to go back about six months or so, because it was about six months ago that a coworker and friend approached me with some questions and a request.  Since they were the same guy, it didnt eat up a lot of time.  "Duke..."

 

"Yeah, Rojo;  what's up?"

 

"You ride motorcycles.  Sometimes you teach people to ride motorcycles.  You're teaching Nate right now, and Little Scott (as opposed to Big Scott, Tall Scott, and Other Scott) asks you for mechanical advice for working on his bike."

 

"T-Bone gets a few quesrions in on wrench bending, too."

 

"What are your qualifications to teach someone how to ride?  I mean, I _know_ you can ride; a lot of people can ride, and a lot of people teach other people how to ride, and even, if the guy that taught them jas been riding for twenty years, ...  Well, bad things happen."

 

"Yes; bad things happen because you are not the only person on the road.  That, and most people aren't taught the right things.  Just because you know geometry doesnt mean you can teach it to someone else.  Worse, if you dont know geometry, you cant properly teach someone how to ride a bike."

 

"Wha-  Hunh?  Geometry?"

 

"Romo, even _today_ the intro MSF course mentions the principles of steering a motorcycle aren't well-understood.  That's crap.  They make perfect sense if you understand geometry.  If you don't, then you teach your students 'motorcycles are steered by magic, and if things go sideways, you can always hope for a big puff of magic to save you.'  Does that really seem like you are teaching anyone anything?"

 

"So how does it work?"

 

"Geometry.  Motorcycles are just like any other vehicle: they steer from the rear."

 

Rojo chuckled a bit.  "You mean front."

 

"No; I mean rear, and not understanding that is why the right rear rim on your car is scuffed up so bad."

 

"So how does it work?"

 

 

"Cars or bikes?"

 

"Bikes."

 

"The rake of the forks as compared to the angle of the downtube and the trail of the axle."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"The forks are angled a bit; the dont go straight down.  The angle helps them resist input from the road and helps the bike to feel stable.  However, they aren't angled a lot.  The upshot is that when you give thr bars a push-  turn them one way or another- the steering neck-- the forward-most part of the frame, through which the fork clamps are pinned and where the clamps rotate when you steer-- is pushed a very small amount to one side of center or the other.  The frame is now pointing just a little bit to one direction, which changes the direction of the rear wheel, and makes the bike turn."

 

"Seriously?"

 

"Yes.  That is why the actual instructional courses call it 'counter-steering:'  you turn the bars a bit to the left to turn the bike a bit to the right, and vice-versa."

 

"But What about leaning...?"

 

"Totally unnecessary."

 

"But I always thought-"

 

"Yes; and so do a lot of other people, and they teach even more people, and those people believe them because 'well, ol' Bubba's a-been a-ridin' for nigh on twenty years-"

 

"How long have You been riding, Duke?"

 

"My brothers, cousins, and I got our first bike when we were nine.  Some took to it; some didn't.  I took to it like stupid to a middle-manager.  I haven't been without at least one bike ever since."

 

"How old are you now?"

 

"Sixty-three."

 

"Dang!  That's..." his eyes rolled,up toward some invisible calculator. "Almost fifty years-"

 

"It helps if You know math, too, especially if you plan to bend your own wrenches."

 

"So what are your qualifications to teach how to ride a motorcycle?"

 

In terms of riding experience, I started riding off-road at nine years old.  I did it every chance I got.  I even raced off road for several years, from the time I was 14 up until I was 32.  Without a "seniors" class, I had no real chance of remaining competitve after about 25 or 26, but it took a few years to accept that.

 

"I started street riding at 14, because it was legal when I turned 14.  I don't think any agency in this country outside the tax collector's office has ever considered bikes to be real vehicles.  I started drag racing at 16, because that was the minimum age for the tracks I raced at.  I did that up until I turned 44, when I just couldn't afford the non-stop repairs and constant consumption of engines.  Drag bikes don't last long.

 

"I did some track racing, but not much, since the seasons overlapped offroad and drag racing.

 

"When I was 24, I became an MSF riding instructor for beginning riders, and a couple years later, I passed certification for advanced rider training.  I kept my certifications up until I met my wife twenty-three years ago.  If I had a free afternoon or weekend, I wanted to spend it with her.  Truthfully, though, I was getting kind of tired of the increasing percentages of idiots wanting to learn how to ride thanks to that cable channel with all the ludicrous chopper crap on it.  Every class had become four guys that really wanted to learn, two women that really wanted to learn, and fifteen morons that were already too dangerous on foot. 

 

"In 1988, I was tapped to train motorcycle officers for the city I lived in at the time before their funding fell through (which was just after they bought two gorgeous KZ1000i police bikes in full kit).  In short, I am _reasonably_ qualified to instruct riders.  While I still do teach private, non-certified classes to individuals and small groups, I quit doing professional instruction for a number of reasons, the biggest of which was people listening less and less to instruction and assuming they were ready for racing techniques after successfully learning to shift but before they even understood the concept of threshold braking."

 

He looked at me and thought about the things I said.  It was pretty clear that he, like the majoritiy of people, had never even considered that there might be such a thing as extensive formal training for motorcycle riding. 

 

"So what's up, Rojo?  You want me to teach you how to ride?"

 

"No; no-no-no-no.  Not me."  It was my turn to be confused.  "Not me.  My wife."

 

"Your wife?"

 

"Mm-hmm."

 

"Not you?"  I was a bit surprised.  "Really?"

 

"No; it's not my thing.  But Michelle; she wants to ride.  She asked if I knew anyone who could teach her, and I said I thought I did.  There's a woman at her work that rides, too.  She says she could ask her if I couldn't find anyone."

 

I had to think about this.  I have been teaching people how to ride for decades.  This was the absolute first time I had ever even heard of a wife who wanted to ride and a husband who didn't.  No; that's not accurate.  It was the first time I had ever seen a husband who clearly wanted nothing to do with it, but still being okay with his wife riding.  It was so...  _odd_ that I was almost scares to say 'yes.'  So, I hedged:

 

"This woman at her job: do you know her?"

 

"No."

 

"Have you seen her ride?"

 

"A little."

 

"Do you know what makes good technique and bad technique?"

 

He looked just a bit embarrases, even though there was absolutely no reason to be.  "No."

 

"I am going to level with you, Rojo.  This is a first for me.  I don't have another student right now, so it's kind of awkward doing a one-on-one with a woman and no chaperone.  You _will_ be available, right?"

 

"No; I work two jobs, like you.  But it's okay.  I trust you.  I have known you for five years.  I know you're not going to do anything but teach her how to ride.  I trust you." 

 

"Well, I appreciate that, and I thank you for the trust.  Still, I would like to check out this woman at her job."

 

He gave me his wife's number, and we arranged for her to call me the nexr time the other potential teacher rode her bike to work.  Ten days later, I was sitting in the park in lot at Michelle's job, watching her talk to this other woman at the end of their work day.  She pointed at me (I had brought a helmet and gear ostensibly to give Michelle a ride home) and walked over.  The other woman followed. 

 

Michelle introduced us back and forth and we talked bikes for a few minutes.  The Valkyrie is something of a conversation piece, _especially_ amongst two groups of people: those who know exaclty what it is and thise who don't know much about motorcycles at all, mechanically.  There are a shocking number of people who just assume that all non-sportbikes are V-Twins, and those folks are always curious about the Valk.  "Good God!  Is that engine from a _car_?  What kind of engine is that?"

 

"Damned big.  It's a small category, filled with variants of this engine."  Then we go and talk for a few.  I casually steered the conversation toward gear, technique, and more than just big engines and stylish bikes.

 

We talked for twenty minutes or so, when I looked at Michelle and said "We have to get a move on; I have somewhere to be in an hour."  The other woman left, walked toward her bike, and started strapping on her helmet.  She was riding an older DynaGlide (though I suppose at this point, _any_ Dyna is an older Dyna), which to me was sort of a 'strike against.'  It suggested she had done no real research into her bike.  Certainly one can argue that she bought the best bike she could afford, but the fact is that there are much better bikes for much less money, which shoots the economy model in the foot.  (Anyone who doesn't understand my complaints is urged to look up "Dyna Death Wobble" for more info.  There are several cures, from cheap and easy to complex and correct, but none were evident here.)

 

So far:  a motorcycle known to be unsafe, with no nods towards addressing the problem.  A novelty helmet- ie, a plastic pan with some foam padding and a chin strap.  It doesn't really matter that it wont stay in place in the event of an accident, simply because it offered just as much protection at home on the front porch as it did on her head.

 

She fired up her bike, and the exhaust was deafening.  She played throttle monkey for a few minutes (rather than adjust the choke.  Much cooler to rap the throttle over and over, you see), then finally picked up one foot, dropped the bike into first, and then _set that foot back down_...  

 

After a couole additional gratuitous raps on the throttle, she eased out the clutch and rolled in some throttle and _skied_ across the parking lot.  She never put either foot on the pegs.  She stopped at the road, head-checked thrice (at least _that_ was correct), and _skied_ out in a left and onto the road.  Niether foot went to a perch until she was running easily ten miles an hour.

 

With her out of sight, I took off my helmet so I could talk to Michelle.  (I dont wear a full-face helmet- severely claustrophobic-  but I _do_ wear a 3/4 helmet, and as I have noted elsewhere, my hearing isnt what it used to be,  "How long has that woman been riding?"

 

"I think about two years.  She said her ex taught her shortly after they started dating."

 

"Michelle, if you listen to _anything_ that woman tells you about riding, you are going to get hurt very, _very_ badly.  Maybe not today; probably not tomorrow.  But you will, without the slightest chance of a doubt, get hurt."

 

"What do you mean?'

 

Watch.  Get on, and pay attention."  She mounted the way I told her to mount.  I put my helmet back on, stood the bike up, started it, and adjusted the choke.  I eased it off steadily as the bike warmed.   I pulled the clutch in and dropped it into first, put my left foot back down and put my right foot immediately up onto the peg and the rear brake.  "Do you see a difference here?"

 

"Not Really" she said honestly.

 

"That's okay.  We can go over it later.  Are you ready?"  I got a glimpse of something in the right mirror.  "I can't hear you not, Ma'am."

 

"I'm ready."

 

"Okay.  First, we are going to load a bit of torque into the drame and suspension.  Not much! Just enough to hold us upright until we get moving.  Are you ready?"

 

"Yes, Sir."

 

I eased off rhe clutch and the rear brake just a bit, and the suspension squatted just enough to feel.  "And now we are going to move" I called out loud enough that her young ears should have no trouble hearing me.

 

With that, I picked up my foot while increasing the toeque load in the frame then easing off both brakes, and glass smooth, we were off.  We wound our way in nice crisp turns through the parking lot and soon found yourself at the exit onto the road.  I stopped, pushed the bars right, and put down only my left foot while doing a triple head-check.  Then I repeated the take off process-- foot up before moving-- and we were off.  We made a few turns and twists on the surface streets, then I turned around and took her back to the parking lot.  I don't know if it was natural aptitude, previous practice, or her diminutive five-foot frame, but she was an exceptional passenger.  

 

We parked at the far end of the lot, where she had parked her car, out of view of the main portion of the lot, and talked a bit about the prooer and improper (and downright dangerous!) techniques that her friend and I had displayed, why certain things were important and certain things (like skiing) were incredibly dangerous.

 

Finally, we got to the point:  "have You talked to anyone else about teaching you?"

 

"Well, you and her and one other guy are the only people I know that ride.  The other guy- Nate B-- he said he was only just learning, and didnt feel comfortable teaching someone-"

 

"That's right. I have spent about twelve weeks with him; he's my most recent student.  He is at a point where I cannot effectively teach him anything else until he gets some actual practice under his belt.  He's smart enough to know he shouldn't be teaching someone."

 

There was a pregnant pause.  "So...  Will you teach me, Mr Duke?"

 

"I am willing, but I want you, me, and Rojo to get together and _really_ talk about this.  First, it takes a time commitment, a big one.  Second, you are _going_ to get hurt.  There is no other way to do this: anyone who tells you that you can get through learning without dumping you bike-- _a lot_-- is either lying to you, or they have never learned their limits.  That makes them and everything they tell you dangerous, because they haven't tested themselves to their limits or the limits of their bike.  I need you _both_ to understand that you are _going_ to get hurt, period.  Usually, it's bruises and scrapes, but there can be serious cuts, even broken bones.  It's _very_ rare, but it _can_ happen, and I need to know that _both_ of you understand that."

 

"I understand."

 

I winked and smiled.  "Everyone says that, Ma'am.  But it still surprises the Hell out of them when it happens."

 

"Yes, Sir."

 

"Get with your husband.  Talk about this.  If he is okay with it, we will get together and discuss It, and we will go over appropriate safety gear to minimize the danger to you and all that sort of thing."

 

She looked extremely excited., "thank you, Mr. Duke!  I really, really appreciate it!"

 

"Hold on, Missy.  We have some other problems.  One, I am not certain that I have a bike that you manage-"

 

"I'm pretty strong-"

 

"That's good; it makes picking the bike up easier.  Unfortunately, it doesn't help you reach what you need to reach."  She instantly looked worried.  "Don't worry," I said, grabbing my tape measure off of my belt.  "As soon as I get your hip-to-shoulder, shoulder-to-wrist, and your inseam measurements, I will start puttinf together a list of older bikes that will fit or can be easily modified to fit you."

 

Obiediently, she popped into a standing spread eagle--

 

"Uh...  No, Ma'am." I handed her the take measure.  "I want you to take this home with you.  Rojo can help get your hip-to-shoulder, and you can measure a shirt and a pair of pants to get the others.  Send the tape measure back to me with Rojo tomorrow."

 

It's okay.  I don't mind.  I get measured all the time for wrestling-"

 

Michelle, I appreciate that, but here is the thing:  _I_ mind, because _I_ am not comfortable with it, and that is because it is _unnecessary_ since there are easily-achieved non-personal space violating means to get what we need.  I am more comfortable with that, okay?"

 

While she didn't seem particularly stressed before, she still managed to look relieved at that, and fell into a more normal stance.  "Thank You," she said sheepishly.  I got the feeling that getring measured for wrestling might have more than once been more...  invasive... than was strictly necessary.  I hate people.  More importantly, people like that are the reason I am not comfortable doing _any_ personal space violation if I can help it.

 

She took the tape measure, smiled, we shook hands, and she seemed to float all the way to her car.  I fired up the bike and headed home.

 

 

[Duke Bushido]

[Once again, a glitch has cost me an hour of work, so I am backing up yet again....]

 

Armed with the rough measures of her sitting and reaching requirements and ranges, I began to comb through memories, exposures, and technical manuals to assemble a list of older bikes that should be easy and comfortable for her to operate.  It was just as as well I had suggested getting an older bike to learn on; no one has made a bike for a smaller rider in years.  With that in mind, I further narrowed the list by long-term reliability.  That last bit meant I had to strike one of my favorites-- the Rebel 450.  They only had a 2-year production run in the mid-eighties, and most of them at this point either need or will soon need a new ECM.  The last ECMs were made by a fan of the bike as a cottage industry, and he stopped (died, maybe?) fifteen years or more ago.

 

As always for a new rider of _any_ size, I started with the venerable 250 Rebel, and as always _from_ a new rider, it was shot down immediately.  There is a pervasive conceit amongst new or potential riders that they will quickly outgrow a 250, or a 400, or anything under full-quart, and so they dismiss them even before understanding the recommendation.  First off, it takes two years of focused practice- not just a quick spin, but focused practice- at least twice a week to develop anything resembling real skill.  Because there is nothing more forgiving that the 250 Rebel (even the rare 250 Ninja has more of the 'too bad you made a mistake' cruelty of a more typical sportbike), this means that the Rebel 250 really is a sort of shortcut to gaining genuine skill.  Yet people shoot it down, even when shown the insanely low insurance costs, the almost-never maintenance requirements, the 80+ mpg attainable, and my very old speeding ticket for doing 84 mph on one (to be fair, I really had to _work_ to get it that fast, it was absolutely topped out, and I was taking advantage of both a long slope and a strong tailwind, and drafting ridiculously close behind a semi truck.  Most riders can expect the little 233cc engine to peak around 62 mph under normal conditions), they still spout such nonsense as "I will outgrow it too quickly" and "I want to be able to keep up with my friends--"

 

So let's settle this:

 

Outgrowing is a matter of skill.  When you skill allows you to safely and casually do things the bike you are on will not do.  It is going to take a minimum of two years of _focused practice_ to get there on _any_ bike.  Rebel 250 motorcycles _routinely_ sell for the same price you paid for it, so long as you haven't done additional damage to it or made poorly-consisered modifications (like loud exhaust, "chopping" or "bobbing" anything, or spray painting it).  It really is the perfect first bike for anyone who can fit on it (pretty much anyone under 6'4", if you aren't worried about looking like a circus bear on a bicycle), and any "friend" worthy of the name is not going to run off and abandon you.

 

Still, the answer is always "it's too small; I will outgrow it too quickly."  Considering as how, over the years, I have owned thirteen of them, I _will_ call you out on this, but ultimately, I am not the one buying your bike, so...

 

My next favorite suggestions are the 450 Rebel,and,rhe Kawasaki KZ440 up through the KZ550, but I have shied away from those the last twenty years because parts availability is non-existent any more.  Parts _bikes_ aren't easy to find anymore, either.

 

Anyway, I put together a list of of a dozen potential bikes to scout for.  In the meantime, Michelle practiced a bit on my daughter's VTX and my son's VLX, but, fearing a mishap on someone else's machine, she didn't do much.

 

A few weeks went by, and I would get a call asking about my opinion on a particular bike, but generally there were strong reasons to shoot it down.  Why is it so hard for people to grasp that "ran when parked" means "doesn't run now, and we don't know why"?

 

We missed a few good choices: once by price (the seller wouldn't budge the 150 bucks Rojo and Michelle needed to afford it), but mostly by time: the deal was good, and the bike was fone by the time they found the ad.

 

 

 

[starblaze]

On 5/19/2019 at 9:41 PM, Duke Bushido said:

    Returning to his life was a lot harder than he thought it would be.  He no longer matched any of his ID: his driver’s license showed him to be six inches and roughly a hundred pounds less than what he was now.  Worse, the skinny, pointy-chinned, thin-haired, hook-nosed man with glasses in the picture looked nothing like the broad-chinned square-jawed man he had become.  His landlord didn’t recognize him; the security checkpoint at his job refused to let him enter until someone from higher-up ordered it. None of his clothes fit, not even a little.  He felt ridiculous that first day out shopping for new clothes, poking out of all his old ones. He had gone to see his father later that same day, and that had been a total disaster.

 

    “Hazel!  What you have done to yourself…!  What you were thinking?!”

    “I didn’t do anything, Dad.  I was in an accident, like I said.  The doctors saved me, and what they did— it made me the way I was supposed to be.  It made me… _me_.”

    “Hazel, how you could do this to yourself….  Do you really think we are not loving you as you were?  We are not loving all of our boys?”

    “Dad, I didn’t do anything!  I stopped a thief, like I said, and I got infected with a bunch of experimental medicine, and I came out of it—“

    “Hazel….. We have loved you, always we have loved you.  You are my _son_! My boy! You were the first child and the first son!  My heart is so much full of you, all of the time. It pained me that you were sick so much times, but I loved you.  I did not care that you were not like the others. I was proud of you. You always worked so hard; you studied while your brothers played….  You were such good boys, all of you, and I love _all_ of you, Son. There is no matter that you were different. I did not realize that you were….   ashamed.” Viktor's throat fluttered, and a soft almost-choke accompanied the sudden wetting of his eyes.

    “It’s not like that, Dad.  It’s not like that at all. Or maybe it is.  I don’t know. But _this_—“ he gestured up and down himself  “this is something special. I am more like you and Steffano and Grigory and Lukas.  I am who I was supposed to be, Dad. I was excited. I thought you would be proud….”

    His father shook his head in disbelief.  “My son…. I do not know how you can do this to yourself…”

    “I didn’t do anything, Dad!  It happened to me! I told you!”

    His father was beyond hearing him. “You face….  you little bright smile with the buck-out teeth….  you slender hands— you mother, she hoped you would be pianist, you know.   You have worked so hard to throw away who you were. Do you not know that you were my son?!” he barked at the end, anger welling up from somewhere deep in his heart.

    “I told you, there was an accident; I was exposed to experimental medicines—“

    “There is no medicines that can do this!  This is why you have no car; no home for you own!  All these years— you spend all your money on the surgery for the face!  The hair— you never have thick black hair this way, Hazel; do not deceive me!  How you get so big? You take the hormones! The hormones, they ruin you body. Do you see the news?  The steroids, the hormones— they wreck you heart and you guts! They kill you! They kill you, Hazel!”  Viktor was in a heart-broken frenzy by now, tears running down his face as his voice ran higher and more jagged.

    “Dad….”

    “Why, Hazel…  What I did so wrong, so terrible that you want take away my baby son from me?  Why…?”

    “Dad….  I love you, Dad.”  And with that, Hazel turned and left.

 

    He swung by the gym after that, desperate to release the maelstrom of emotions whirling away inside him.  He had to buy a new membership: no one believed he was the man in the picture on his club card. He started with the speed bag, and worked it like he had never been able to do before, but no matter how hard he hit it, or how fast, it seemed that he couldn’t get it to fall into its familiar blurry rhythm.  Lost in his thoughts and his pain, he was oblivious to the crowd that had slowly formed to watch him. He walked away, unaware of the split seams on the bag or the stretching he had done to the spring. He found a heavy bag and began jabbing it, trying to remember the rhythms and patterns his instructors had taught him.  He danced and shuffled and hopped and poked the bag, harder and harder until he fell up against it and was hammering his fists into it, harder and harder until he managed to tear a hole into it and shoved his gloved hand completely into it. He snatched out his hand, furious over his loss of rhythm, drew back and delivered a haymaker roundhouse dead center of the bag, tearing it loose of its moorings on the wooden beam above.  Everything in the gym stopped.

    All eyes were on Hazel.  He stood, frozen, arm still outstretched with the follow through of his last blow.  Finally, a bow-legged little bald man in sweats walked up to him. “Son, your stance is crap, absolute crap.  But you get good results.”

    “I’ll— I’ll pay for the damage-!” Hazel started.

    “Don’t worry about it.  That was quite a show, Big Fella.  My name’s Dietrich. It’s on the glass where you came in.  If you ever decide you want to train up, go pro…. You give me a call that number on the other side of the window.”

    “Let me pay—“

    “Don’t worry about it.  I was going to replace a couple of those things anyway; they’re getting’ old.  Get outta here; get some quiet. You got a lot on your mind, and I ain’t got a lot a spares around here.  That one came from China, dirt cheap anyway.”  He studied the mess on the floor.  "Kinda surprised." he muttered to no one in particular.  "I for the price, I figured that thing'd be full a' old diapers or somepthin'."  He had already forgotten about Hazel and jerked a thumb toward one of the high school kids that worked the afternoon shift.

    Hazel stammered more apologies as he left the gym.  He _did_ have a lot on his mind. As awful as his life had been, for just a few weeks, it had all seemed worth it: for a few days, he was exactly what he had always felt he was supposed to be: a big, strong, athletically built handsome man, just like his male kin.  He had been surrounded by people who cared about him, and his friendship with Pauline seemed to be growing stronger by the day. He had even gotten to be a hero of sorts, keeping Pauline safe from the intruder and saving the company the massive financial loss that a successful theft would have been.  All he was lacking was the acceptance of his family, and it turned out that the very thing he thought might gain him that acceptance was, simply because the truth was too fantastic to believe, the very thing that instead cost him the acceptance that he never understood he had.

    Lost in thought, Hazel didn’t really notice that he had walked a few dozen blocks beyond his apartment.  There was so much to which he had to adjust, around which to get his head. He didn’t notice the extra footsteps that had fallen in with his, or that they were getting closer.  He barely noticed the young man that stepped away from a porch stoop and stood in front of him, cigarette in mouth, fumbling through his pockets. “Hey, Mister; you got a light?”

    Hazel stopped short.  “Sorry; I don’t smoke.”

    “Yeah,” said the younger man, spitting out the cigarette.  “me, neither.” he said as he whipped a knife from inside his jacket.  Hazel stepped back instinctively, only to find himself pushed forward by two more thugs behind him.  “Your wallet! And your phone! Give ‘em to me. Now, Dude; I ain’t playin’ with you!” He waved the knife menacingly.

    Well this was just great.  All he needed to top everything else off was to be robbed.  “Hey, check it out.” the hood with the knife called to his partners.  “Big man’s looking all scared.” They all chuckled.

    Hazel didn’t want any trouble; he just wanted to go home.  He reached back toward his pocket for his wallet. Then the thug’s words spun a wheel in his mind.  ‘Big man.’ His mind’s eye exploded with a series of images— the testing, his new speed and endurance and muscle mass; his increased perceptive abilities (for all the good they had done him so far) and the heavy bag at the gym torn from its mount.  He didn’t have to be anyone’s target, ever again. Without thinking further, he sprang into action. The hand behind him flew forward as he whipped his shoulder forward, propelling his fist as hard as he could. He twisted his waist and lunged from the knee, they way his boxing trainer had always tried to get him to do.  Even as the young thug’s face had just begun to register surprise Hazel’s fist drove home into his abdomen, pushing deeper and deeper as Hazel followed through for all he was worth.

    The young man curled around Hazel’s fist, and the look on his face told Hazel that he had taken a hit at least as good as a heavyweight boxer might have delivered.  The hood sailed backwards, trailing vomit as he arced through the air and landed on the sidewalk six feet away. Even before the first criminal hit the ground, Hazel spun around, shooting his left arm out and whipping it with his rotation.  He balled his fist and delivered a perfect backhand smash to the side of a head. The hood spun in place, staggered, and began to fall.

    By now, the third man had a moment to begin to react.  He lunged forward for Hazel, reaching as to pin his arms from behind, and his face showed confusion that his target was now facing him.  He was already in motion, lunging forward, over-balanced. With both arms still partially extended, Hazel drew up his knee, counterbalancing by bringing his fists in tight, and delivered a snap kick directly into the younger man’s chest.  He fell backward against a mailbox, but hadn’t gone down like his friends. Before he could react, Hazel darted forward, grabbed him one-handed by the front of his jacket, swung him overhead as though he were a rag doll and slammed him on his back to the sidewalk, while being careful to cushion his opponent’s head with his own foot.  The impact stunned the thug’s diaphragm and left him gasping for air. Hazel noticed, and commented. “Poor little fishie. Look at you… You got too adventurous. You swam too hard and jumped too high, and now you’re all the way out of the bowl. You have to be careful, Little Fishie. That’s a good way to die….” The hood looked terrified.

    Hazel walked back to the first young tough, the one who pulled the knife.  He was cradled in a fetal ball, barely able to breathe, in too much pain to attack, or even to get up and run.  “You.” Hazel demanded. “Give me your wallet.” The thug looked up at him, uncomprehending. Hazel reached down and tore the jacket from him.  Rifling through it, he found eight wallets and six cellular phones. He used one to call the police. In turn, he searched the others. In total, he relieved them of thirteen wallets and nine cellular phones.  The hoods had started to stir, but Hazel kept circling them menacingly.

    He didn’t realize just how long it took the police to respond to some neighborhoods, and by the time they showed he had been seriously considering letting the boys go and turning their ill-gotten gains to the lost and found.  When they did arrive, Hazel told the police what had happened, while each of the three muggers gave radically different stories about being attacked by a crazed stranger. Hazel handed off the wallets and phones to the officers, who told him point blank: “Listen, this is a really good thing you did, hanging around to turn this stuff in.  I wish I could tell you that these kids are going to get locked up, but the fact is I got nothing. It’s a he said / they said kind of thing. We’ll likely have to let them go after we get them there.” Hazel was a bit disappointed. Even though he had always wanted to be a police officer, he had never realized how often even the simplest bad guys got away with it.  The officer could see the disappointment on his face. “Listen, Man; don’t let it discourage you. That’s a mighty brave thing you did; not a lot of people think any good deed is worth getting out of a chair for anymore. Don’t let this get you down. The world needs more people like you.”

 

    The officer’s words rang through his head as he turned and walked home.  By the time he opened the door to his apartment, Hazel Netteldryk Schlipzenskarts knew what he wanted to do with his life.  First though, he was going to have to learn a few things. He called Dietrich’s gym and asked for the owner. After a brief conversation, he thumbed through the phonebook and looked up a few dojos.  His life might turn out to be useful to someone after all.

 

Powers and Abilities

 

    Maximum, through the combination of the radiation and experimental nanotechnology to which he was subjected, has gained extraordinary gifts.  Most of his physical abilities have been raised to or just beyond the absolute peak of human potential. Owing to both his altered physiology and the persistent presence of a large number of molecular RNA nanobots (it took Pauline some time to realize that Hazel would never be completely free of them, as many of them had mutated to become self-replicating or, like the viral model upon which they were based, co-opt Hazel’s own tissues to replicate themselves as needed), he is able to lift approximately one ton, run for hours without becoming unduly tired, and recover energy far quicker than all but the most intensely-trained athletes.  Owing to his altered musculature, he is able to leap roughly twelve feet into the air; up to eighteen feet if he has a moment to prepare.The nanobots also allow him to heal extraordinarily fast from injury, and make him extremely resistant to illness.

    His trebly-replicated nervous system includes uncountable redundancies in his neural map and thousands of neurological ‘shortcuts’ both in his brain and his nervous system in general.  While none of this makes him more intelligent than he ever was (while the public education system failed him, Hazel was always extremely bright), he is able to process and recognize data far faster than most other people.  This allows him to recognize a situation sooner than others, and combined with his augmented reflex system and superior muscle structure, he is able to react faster than most others as well. Testing has demonstrated conclusively that extremely-well-trained combatants are able to react to an attack or an opening an order of magnitude faster than the average person.  Hazel is able to do this as though he has spent his life training in martial combat, but further, he able to do this in _any_ situation, from timing button presses to driving. Without a common experience, he usually explains this as feeling like he can “see faster” than most other people. In times of extreme stress, he states that it is as though “the rest of the world is moving at half-speed.”  An unexpected side-effect, he rarely perceives the “speed blur” associated with viewing rapid repetitive motion. As with his experience with the speed bag on his last night in the gym, he is able to clearly see the object at speeds far above what most others are capable of perceiving.

    Hazel’s movement, too, is faster than that of most.  While his running speed is incredible, it can be matched by a small handful of olympic champions.  It is his “twitch” speed that borders super-human. With his altered perceptions, reflex speeds, and muscle structure, Hazel is capable of orchestrating a dizzying number of movements in an instant, though the faster he moves, necessarily the less refined the movements must be, as is the case with any other human being.  The most spectacular demonstrations of this ability are found in his more complicated combat moves: his signature “Machine Gun Punch,” in which he can deliver up to ten specific, full-strength strikes in one-seventh of a second. There is also his well-known “Flying Smack Down,” an exhausting combination of punches, kicks, and nerve strikes that he uses to gain a bit of breathing space when the fight is going badly, or to quickly take down a powerful threat.  Super-high speed cameras have counted as many as thirty precisely-coordinated strikes in two-sevenths of a second. Perhaps his most impressive move is the one he has termed “the Ambush Reversal,” with which he has been able to deliver serious blows almost instantaneously to a half-dozen targets placed to surround him. He once commented that he could be the world-record champion of typing, if he wasn’t so lousy at spelling.

 

Weapons

 

    Hazel has no special weapons training— in fact, he has very little combat training of any kind, save a decade of amateur boxing lessons and his recent study of Mixed Martial Arts.  While his powers have given him the ability to deliver a staggering offense, they have not made him invulnerable, and striking fifty blows a second hurts a bit. Because of this, he wears a lightly-armored wrap around the knuckles of each fist and carries a pair of wooden sticks that he will often use as weapons to deliver his attacks and block the attacks of others, though he is perfectly capable (even though it is unpleasant) of continuing to fight without them.  He is clever at finding numerous objects durable enough to use as weapons should he lose his sticks, and wears the half-gloves typical of many martial arts schools to wrap and protect his hands. Interestingly, though with his increased strength and perceptions one would assume it would be easy to do, Hazel will very rarely use a thrown object as a weapon, and in fact carries no weapon specifically for that purpose. The reason is surprisingly simple: Hazel has had no sporting experience or even outdoor play that has given him the chance to practice a throwing skill, and his aim and throwing skills in general are sub-par compared to the typical person.  His fears that he might injure someone thirty feet away from his target are well-founded.

 

 

copyright D.E. "Duke" Oliver, 2019

 

 

And that's it, folks.  That's as far as I've ever had time to finish it out.  Like I said: this is about all I get for practice anymore, and the time to do it is scarce.

 

 

I hope you enjoy it, and if you don't, I hope you take a minute to tell me why not: I've _got_ to do something to get the rust off!  

 

 

Duke

I liked it.  I have a brick character named the Palooka that started out as a skinny wimp but became a superhero and took on bullies too.

[Duke Bushido]

Sorry; no post last night:  it was Hammerhead's birthday.  He is now sixteen, and we gorged on Sushi....

 

Apparently we can eat a "sushi combo for three."

 

Each.

 

 

Edited November 28, 2023 by Duke Bushido

[starblaze]

So do any of your character actually want to be Superheroes?  I can't help but notice a reluctance to use their powers or consider themselves a Superheroes.

[Duke Bushido]

Martin Power was a reluctant hero by accident:  I knew (and still mostly do) know diddly/squat (bonus points for naming the reference) about comic books in general and superhero comic books in particular. He was my first character, and I had sense enough to take a back seat and be lead by the other players until I had a rough handle on the tropes.  This was handled in-game by the character being not so much a loner (s loners suck in a group game), but reluctant to take the lead or be in the limelight, etc.  It worked out reasonably well, and still allowed a lot of opportunities to develop the character as a character instead of a tactical piece.  For whatever reason, both the GM and the other players thoroughly enjoyed _the person_ Martin Power became- the background, the personality, the way he thought and conducted himself.  Frankly, I don't think he was exceptional: I think most any of them could have done the same, were they not busy exploring two or three characters per campaign or if they had leaned a bit harder into the roleplaying of any one of their characters--  not that they were bad roleplayers, but they would get bored with concept or unhappy with some aspect of the character and take a do-over.  I didn't.  Not that I _wouldn't_ have, but I didn't have (and still don't, realistically) have a handle on the genre, etc, so I focused on role play and learninf the ropes in a way that they sisnt and didn't have to.

 

As time went by, I was repeatedly pressed into continuing the character, even after I was ready for aomething else.  I am generally a team-player, so I would capitulate.  Put shortly, the other players enjoyed the _character_ of Martin Power so much that they would repeatedly request that I use him.

 

If you compare only the characters of Martin Power as shown in this thread to rhe character of, say, Maximum, you will notice that Hazel isn't really as fully-realized a character: while he hs some things that would be fun to explore- personality and background hooks both-- the character in places substitues characture for character.  I would like to think I am competent enough with a pen that it doesnt show at first blush, but if you look for it, it's there, whereas Power is more of a complete person, making decisions and acting-- and _thinking_ in ways that are at times at odds with his overall concept, but very much in keeping with the person he is.

 

This is because I played Hazel for roughly one summer, twice a week, and the campaign was an action extravaganza.  There was role-playing and character development, but it was mostly on the surface, and the drive was  always getting to the next battle, having the next fight, and sinking the big master villain before class started again in the fall and gaming would be a monthly thing again.

 

Once I got into the groove of things, Power was a lot of fun to play--  right up until he wasn't.  My friends loved him; I was asked to bring him to campaign after campaign after campaign.  The problem was while the other members of my group were prepping their thirtieth character, _I was still dumping XPs into the very first character I had ever made_, for roughly twenty years.  No; not kidding.

 

We joke from time to time about how Superman just doesn't work as a team character-- even the recent movie where the super friends team up to do battle against Bull from Night Court--  it is only exciting before Superman shows up, then it gets easy.  Anything that slows down Superman kills everyone else.  The solution is to have Superman take a bank seat until nothing else works.  That_ was where I ended up with Power: either he was reluctant, or he was a flaming chainsaw in a world of tissue paper.  Fortunately, he had started that way, so it kind of worked to stay that way.

 

Maximum isn't particularly reluctant, though:  he's clueless.  He has spent his formarive years as a target for bullying, even- if not cruelly-intended- from his own brothers.  It has an effect: that _is_ his mind set, and his go-to natural reactions, in spite of himself.  I had created him in the hopes of not only trying something new and different (boisterous and possibly obnoxious on the outside; confused and dighting his own fear on the inside) and growing this character to become comfortable with himself, and to be able to see the silent need in those around him-- to recognize it from his own experience.   Unfortunately, I never really had the opportunity; once that campaign concluded, the friend that invited me and I were back to our regular group (e weren't waiting for a once-a-month game back then! Ha!), and I had to put the Martin suit back on.

 

I _begged_ my friends to let me retire him; begged my GM to kill him off.  Everyone was kind of surprised, and I wished I had done it a decade or more before:  once they took a moment to really listen to my situation from the _inside_, they were all happy to let me retire him: he "disappeared" during an event in our universe known as "Seven Day."  The GM refused to kill him off, though; I have another GM to thank for that blessing when our first GM left and he took over (brieflt; he wasnt cut out for that sise of the screen).

 

They _did_ request that I play another brick, though.  😕   That resulted in Rook, a character I tied in to Seven Day (a then-recent and possibly the most significant event in our universe) thus grounding her into our universe.

 

She was as opposite Power as I could get while still being a brick: a reasonable power level, outgoing, warm, and she _loved_ being a hero and helping people.  Outspoken, witty, and under-educated.  I have to say that she was probably one od my favorite characters of all time (I have had many others, but I really enjoyed Rook).  There was nothing reluctant about her.

 

There was nothing reluctant about Freight Train, either, though he was a villain (there was a thread here a while back; I am pretty sure that if you play Champions long enough, you end up trying a villain campaign).  I enjoyed Freight Train _immensely, but it is no secret that I have a soft spot for non-godlike speedsters.

 

Actually, there was nothing _reluctant_ about Maximum; it just took him some time to realize that he _could_ be a hero: he had chased the ninja theif even knowing in his heart that it would end badly for him, and even tried to help him when it was obviously too late.  The idea of being a superhero, though, was so far from who he knew himself to be at that point in his life that he had to have a bit of time to really accept it, to accept that his amazing new body was really his.

 

 

Actually, I _suspect_ that a lot of what you might see as reluctance is me coming from my "don't really grok superheroes" point of view:

 

If I woke up tomorrow with incredible strength and stamina, my first thought, realistically, would be that this develpment might allow me to work a third job, or a better second job at least, and to be able to do more, faster, around the house, or that maybe there was a way to make money exhibiting these abilities--

 

Spiderman taking to the wrestling ring for quick and easy cash?  From my point of view here in the real world, that makes him the most realistic superhero of all time.   Iron Man building a power suit to take revenge on his captors and reclaim _his_ stuff?  I get it: I can do all things through spite, which strengthens me. 

 

At any rate:  I did not grow up with superheroes; they are not real.  If someone was to get superpowers in this real world, how do they react?  What push does it take to leave your familiar and do something that can get you killed?  What goes on in your head?  That is the way I approach these characters:  sure, super powers happen to some people, but not me.  That can't be what this!   .... can it..?