vignette Once up a time... December 2023 / January 2024 Vignette

[Tiffany Korta]

Some strange event has occurred and you wake up to find yourself as the hero of a fairy/folk tale, not only that but all the other characters in the tale are people you know (who may or may not be the real people depending on the tale) and the big bad of the story is a supervillain you have some (however vague) connection with.

 

Whether the tale is more like a Grimm tale, a cleaned-up Victorian version, or even those animated movies from a company we dare not name… is up to you, as if you play along with the tale or try and throw a spanner into the tales. Once the story reaches its natural end you’ll wake up to find your friends and family back to normal with only a vague memory of what happened.

 

The definition of a fairy/folk tale has been left deliberately vague to include older media that might fit that mode, as a rough guide if it’s a public domain tale then suitable for use, though they should roughly be in a fairy/folk tale style of story (or reshaped to fit the style).

 

Why this has happened is a tale for another time...

 

Your fairy stories should be posted no later than the 31^st January 2023.

 

(As a reminder, vignettes follow the same general rules as posts in terms of content, player character limits, and so on. You may have only one vignette per player character. Each vignette should be at least one page (~500 words) in length; if posted in your thread counts at the end of the month, it is worth 1pp for the associated character. An especially long vignette, 1000 words or more, may be worth up to 2pp. Multiple players can collaborate on a single vignette - we recommend Google Docs for this, it's very useful - but the vignette should be about one page per participating player.)

 

[Avenger Assembled]

Angelic 

 

People think that because I believe in science, I must not understand magic. And I will admit, there are some things that are beyond me - for now. But of course I know about magic, all kinds of magic. It is a magical world we live in, yes? 

 

You can keep talking all you like; I have modulated my auditory receptors so I can no longer hear your ultrasonics. 

 

I have been tempted with flesh by fairy tale creatures so. many. times. 

 

But then I haven't had real human flesh of my very own since I was eight years old, and I've been around the fantastic people who make up this world even longer than that. 

 

There was the seiðr on my 12th birthday, who told me he'd make me a real little girl if I'd help him get into the DNA-locked vaults of my uncle Fenris. I told Fenris what he was doing and he struck her down with his giant hammer - boom! (I think he was making a game of it so I wouldn't be frightened, but I was fine, it was very funny.) 

 

When I was fourteen a jotunn princeling my age told me he could make me his bride with magic - if I thought I was strong enough. I was strong enough to knock out his front tooth as my answer. (Don't worry. Aegir is a friend now. He just needed to see I was strong enough.) 

 

When I went into space with Sharl for my 16th birthday, there was that nanowitch on the craftworld of the Lor, who told me she could transform me into a human girl if I would just unlock her cage. But that was stupid, I told her, because why would a walking Drexler-apocalypse make me flesh? I would be stupid to think she wouldn't just gobble me up afterwards and I am not stupid. 

 

Then there was that time at Claremont when  I went into the fairy tale world with Pan - but you've already heard about that story. 

 

Oh it's cold in there is it? Yes I imagine it is. You're lucky I was wearing the iron earrings and not the tongue stud today, yes? Otherwise you'd have it through you and not around you. Hm. 

 

Now your offer was very clever. You wouldn't just make me human, you'd make all my friends human, too. Kimber a wife to her wife, Miss Americana and Harrier together in the sun without a scar on their bodies, Percy and Pan husbands to me, children of my own in a castle where no one would ever get sick or sad, all that made us different or strange washed away in a fairy tale world inside your cairn. 

 

But you forgot one thing. You cannot tempt me with what I do not want. And I want nothing that you have to offer me. 

 

Your magic makes your stronger than death? Idiot! I am niece to a ghost and sister to a man who never born! As a girl I played with one soaked in the blood of the innocent and as a woman I met my own shade! You have spent a thousand years in this tomb and I left mine behind before I could ride a bicycle! 

 

I am not some pitiful little girl, lying in a hospital bed, weeping because she knows she'll die before she ever truly lived.

 

Best not to struggle against that, you will only hurt yourself before Phantom gets here! 

 

I have lived. I will live. My children will be steel and lightning. The stars could go black in the sky and I could yet live. 

 

You think you can tempt me with a fairy tale because I was uploaded into a machine? 

 

I. Am. A. Fairy Tale. 

[Supercape]

 

The Red Rat in...

 

Little Red Riding Rat

 

This wasn’t right.

 

The Red Rat couldn’t remember how she came to be trotting down a forest path, wicker basket in hand, wearing a red hood and cape. But here she was.

 

What was she doing? She knew she had a mission, and but not where it had come from or why.

 

She was to deliver supplies to Grandmother Russia in the forest. Who had told her? SLAVE? The KGB? Easy Steve, her cab boss? No, it felt more like the wonderful wizard of Oz had given her this mission. It was silly.

 

She looked under the clean white sheet that lay atop the wicker basket. There – provisions for Mother Russia. Red Cabbage, Pure Vodka. And, of course, because the Red Rat was a super spy, there were two customised hand crossbows with superior soviet bolts already locked in place, ready to fire.

 

So, it wasn’t the same as the world of yesterday, where the Red Rat snooped around the spy world in a red jacket and sporting two neuro-linked smart pistols. But it was a close echo.

 

Grandmother Russia’s cottage was exactly the kind of cottage one would expect to see if one was in the middle of Russian Forest in a fairy tale. Grey, warm smoke plumed out of a rackety chimney, small windows were simultaneously dark and translucent, the small herb garden outside was neat and orderly, with vivid colours. The cottage was of flint coloured stone, somewhat chaotic but nevertheless robust – it would take several wolves to huff and puff and blow the house down.

 

Little Red Riding Rat went to knock on the door. There was a black iron knocker, in the shape of a hammer, that clanged dramatically when struck against the black iron sickle stuck to the door. The door itself was wooden, warped, and painted with a chipped Red.

 

“Who is it?” came a growl from inside.

 

“It’s me. The Red Ra—I mean, it’s me, Little Red Riding Rat!” chirped The Red Rat, her brain twisting and mutating to fit in with the fairy tale.

 

“Come in, its open!”

 

The inside of the cottage was as twee as the outside. Net curtains, smouldering fire, the smell of herbs and bread. Wobbly wooden furniture, bleached and stained. The sound of birdsong from the branches of the forest, and the nests in the chimney and rafters.

 

No bird droppings, noted little Red Riding Rat. Poop did not often feature in fairy tales.

 

And in the corner of the cottage was Grandmother Russia, tucked inside several hand knitted blankets, a bonnet on her head and reading glasses perched on her snout, er, nose.

 

Given Grandmother Russia looked suspiciously like a ferocious bear dressed up as an old Russian peasant woman, little Red Riding Rat approached cautiously. As a rat would approach a bear. She wondered why she didn’t have a snout of her own, complete with whiskers and a pair of anthropomorphic rat hands.

 

It was, she decided, best not to dwell on such matters. The whole story was quite insane, and threatened to push her brain to equally impressive levels of madness.

 

“You look… ah… well… Grandmother….” She started.

 

“All thanks to the superior soviet health care system that attends to the needs of the hard working proles, my dear. You see, with communism, health care is no longer the exclusive right of the wealthy and powerful, who seek nothing more than the total enslavement of the common man. Or woman.”

 

“Or bear,” added Little Red Riding Rat.

 

Grandmother Russia coughed. It was a cough that sounded suspiciously like a bear growling. “Yes. Or a rat,” she added. “Now, do you have my provisions?”

 

“Why yes, Grandmother. Cabbage… like you said…”

 

“A glorious staple vegetable foodstuff for the people of the land. We salute the farmers!”

 

“And vodka…”

 

“A glorious way to drown ones sorrows whilst lamenting the brutal oppression of the communi--- I mean, a glorious way to drown ones sorrows lamenting the heroic sacrifices of the men and woman of the soviet revolution, laying down their lives to overthrow the brutal oppression of the capitalists and royals that blighted our fair land of green fields and lush forests. And Siberia.”

 

Little Red Riding Rat decided not to mention the two superior soviet hand crossbows in her basket. She had a feeling she might need them.

Otherwise, she might be gobbled up whole.

 

“What a long winded speech you have, Grandmother!”

 

“All the better to spout vapid parrot fashion Communist Propganda regurgitated from glorious state owned media apparatus such as newspapers and wireless communication devices, all in the name of freedom for the common man!” nodded Grandmother Russia.

 

“And what big eyes you have, Grandmother!”

 

Grandmother Russia licked her ursine lips and ursine teeth. “All the better to appreciate the fine meat that the glorious communist state provides its hard working and loyal citizens. You see, in the well organised socialist organisation of industry and agriculture, animals that were once considered a pest can be efficiently repurposed into succulent meats to provide vital nourishment to the workforce, hence maximising productivity for the uniform good of all, rather than the select and privileged few.”

 

“What meats, Grandmother?”

 

“Why, a particular common pest become feast would be the ra---- I mean the rabbit. Yes, the rabbit. Not the rat.”

 

Little Red Riding Rat’s uncanny rat-sense picked up something dangerous in the way Grandmother spoke. Perhaps it were the slobbering lips and sharp teeth.

 

“Why, what particularly sharp teeth you have, Grandmother!”

 

Grandmother Russia could no longer contain herself. Her drool had pooled on her blankets and her eyes were wide with anticipation of a feast!

“All the better to gobble you up with, imperialist traitor! Long live the revolution! The workers, united, will never be defeated!”

 

And so she pounced onto her bed, on all fours, emitting a furious bear roar, and leapt and little red riding rat.

 

Fortunately, the rat was anticipating such a bold charge, having correctly guessed that the bear-like grandmother was in fact a bear. She leapt to one side, her hood and cape flapping around in an elegant twist, and she was away, running outside the cottage and to the forest path.

 

Grandmother Russia slammed into the side of the cottage, knocking loose a few slated which cracked on her skull. A few birds magically circled her cranium, chasing stars.

 

“I’ll get you, see if I don’t” she roared, charging out of the cottage.

 

But Little Red Riding Rat was ready! A leap, a tumble, and she was facing Grandmother Russia with two loaded crossbows in each hand. Not mere normal capitalistic crossbows, either, but superior soviet ones. And loaded with superior soviet bolts!

 

Pffft! Pffft!

 

Two crossbow bolts fired, and two hit their target, right in the bears eyeballs. Grandmother Russia let out a death roar, and collapsed onto the forest path with a puff of dust, dead as a doornail.

 

Little Red Riding Rat puffed the tips of the crossbows. “And thus, the brave little rat defeated the obnoxious giant bear! Here endeth the lesson! Don’t go down forest paths plagued by communist bears without arming yourself to teeth!”

[Supercape]

Rev in

 

Jet and the Beanstalk

 

Lexa Venn found herself wearing a simple peasant boy’s outfit, barefoot, straw in mouth. The sun was shining and all was well in the world.

 

It was, of course, completely impossible. She had been welding cars back together just a moment ago, but now there was not a hint of engine oil on her skin, or indeed on her shiny tin limbs.

 

Tin? Yes, no longer chrome, but tin. That appeared to be the metal of choice for the land of fairy tales.

 

Yes, the sun was glorious, a cool zephyr of wind drifted across rolling green hills and onto her face. Nature was alive and well. A cow, chewing cud, looked at her across the field with wide cow eyes.

 

Bah! This was terrible! Screw green fields! Lexa Venn, the superhero known as Rev, needed engine grease and pumping pistons!

 

How had she got here? She did not know, or could not remember. Or maybe they were the same thing. All she knew was she had sold a cow in the market. Now, what had she got? Money? Gold? An adjustable spanner? A combine harvester!

 

She searched the pockets of her dungarees and found something soft and small.

 

What was it?

 

A bean!

 

She had sold a cow for a bean.

 

Now, admittedly, Lexa Venn had never studied the intricate nature of agricultural economics, and most likely would never do so (it was more interesting to watch paint dry, providing the paint was on a souped up v12 sports car)… but that said, even she realised that selling a cow for a bean seemed like something of a bad deal.

 

She had been diddled!

 

She was about to let off steam – literally, for her tin ears started piping like a ripe kettle – until she remembered some hazy fact of the deal.

This was not just any bean. This was a magic bean!

 

But what was she meant to do with a magic bean?

 

Eat it? No, that didn’t seem right. Cook it? No, it would be the most meagre of feats. That wasn’t right either.

 

Plant it? Ah! Now that was the thing. After all, what else would you do with a magic bean?

 

Well, if Lexa Venn had had her way, she would have built a bean-shooting pop gun and fired it at the “Magic” bean seller, demanding a refund (maybe a cart instead of a cow). But no, she was quite sure that plant it was the instruction, and so plant it she did.

 

Bean planted.

 

Foot tapping.

 

Lips whistling.

 

Well, how long were magic beans meant to take, anyway?

 

This was annoying. She wiped the sweat from her brow and gave the finger to the beaming Sun that seemed to delight in shining down its sweaty rays on her skin and tin.

 

Zoomf!

 

So that was what a magic bean did!

 

Up from the depths, thirty stories high, breathing fire….

 

…no, not breathing fire, although that did give Lexa an idea.

 

The beanstalk was as thick as the thickest tree trunk you ever did see, and it was indeed thirty stories high, or thereabouts. It had grown in the blink of an eye. Lexa could barely see its peak, it seemed to fade into some ridiculously fluffy white clouds. As white and as fluffy as you could possibly imagine, and quite unrealistic.

 

What had the magic bean seller said? That the way to her destination was just a climb away? Bah! How stupid! Lexa Venn was going to climb!

She was going to breathe fire! She was going to fly!

 

She clicked her tin heels together, three times, and made a wish. The action seemed somewhat out of place, like it belonged in some other story, some other land, something to do with Kamsas and yellow roads. But with the third click, her wish came true – bolts of flame fired from her heels and lifted her a foot or two into the air.

 

“Jet…. Set… go!” she yelled, before pushing her feet downwards and ejecting a mighty thrust of fire. She was now not just hovering, but ascending! Shooting through the air, following the twisting magic beanstalk to the sky. She glanced down to see the rapidly shrinking fields. The Cow’s jaw lolled wide, the cud falling from shocked maw.

 

And now she was in the cloud! A woolly mist that tickled her skin. And then, above it! And what lay atop the cloud?

 

Not just a beanstalk tip, no. A castle! Built on the cloud!

 

How impossible was that? Impossibly impossible, in the judgement of Lexa Venn.

 

She heard a deep rumbling snore come from within the castle. A snore too slow and low to be from any human mouth. At least, from any normal sized human. Now she examined the impossible castle in more detail, it was clearly four times the size of a normal castle. Its doors were thirty feet tall!

 

Who would live in such a giant castle!

 

Why, a giant giant!

 

“Fee Fii Foe Fum! I smell the blood of a cybernetic organism infected with a mutant bacterium derived from the Darwin-X virus!” roared the giant, bursting out of the front doors of his castle.

 

“Quite the nose you have on you! Very precise!” said Lexa, giving the giant a clap.

 

“Why thankyou!” said the Giant, proudly tapping his bulbous nose. He had stodgy fingers and bristling eyebrows, and was dressed in regal velvet. His head seemed to have a shrunken brain but magnified features. “It is quite the narrative too, I can tell you! But enough about my nose! You look like somebody I can make a delicious soup out of! And not just soup… a kettle, too! I need a new kettle and you look all shiny. Well, except for the fleshy parts. What I’ll do is…”

 

He started counting down his action plan on clumsy fingers and fat brains.

 

“Ill boil up some water for the soup. No wait, I need the kettle for that. Wait, I can use the saucepan instead. Then I’ll put you in the pan of boiling water to strip off your flesh. Some salt. Maybe some pepper. Maybe some mint? No, not mint. Thyme. Yes, and Basil too. And then once all your pink fleshy bits have boiled off, I can drain you in a sieve, and collect all the metal bits. Then, I can make a new kettle! See! I have it all pla---”

 

He looked left, he looked right.

 

“Wait? Where did you go? I need to make a soup from you. And a new kettle. You ungrateful little small tin person!”

 

Rev had used the opportunity of clumsy and ponderous monologue to make good her entrance into the Castle. She ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. And faster still, for in the blink of an eye she had extended her tin legs to ten feet in length! That certainly gave her some pace!

 

Into the kitchen of the castle. Or, more accurately, the magic kitchen of the magic castle. What other type of castle could be built on a cloud?

 

The cauldron bubbled, toiled and troubled. Noxious its fumes, green its broth. A magic cauldron full of magic potion. Thanks to her elongated legs,

Lexa could peek over the rim and study the fluid. She saw a vision in the film of green ooze that swirled to the top. Her chop shop! Her garage! Her buggy!

 

Enough of this clean and pleasant world! Lexa Venn needed dirt! She dived right in!

 

Pop!

 

And she was back in her den, back with the beauty of grime and stains, the smells of oils and petrols. Ah, this was better than any castle in the sky. Never again, she swore. Not for a whole hill of beans!

[Avenger Assembled]

Sea Devil 

 

What is a Deep One tale? What stories do the cannibal cultists tell their spawn? 

 

Some of them are stories about what will come when the stars are right. The time will be easy to know. Even the Surface-Men will have become as the Deep Ones, free and wild and beyond 'good' and 'evil', with their laws and morals thrown aside and all reveling and enjoying themselves. And then there will be a loud noise in the sea of stars and Dagon and Hydra will lay down the yokes placed on them by the gods of Atlantis and all Deep Ones will take them up and fight against all below and all above. And the sea will be as the land and the land will be as the sea, and the first will be last and the last will be first. And there will be new ways to shout and kill and all will love them and despair and not even the dead will be spared their wrath - 

 

But those are not every story. 

 

There are also stories of the Apostate. You aren't supposed to tell those stories, at least not all of them. But Deep Ones grow fast even if they never die (except killed) and stories of the Apostate have spread with every abyssal congregation and every unholy squatting on dank and forgotten beaches. They say the Apostate was not like the others - a terrible sin in a culture where everyone sings the same songs and dreams the same dreams of destruction. She dreamed strange dreams and thought strange thoughts, and found her way to the hell above, where she has sided with Surface-Men against her people again and again. 

 

The Apostate has tried very hard to tell her people new stories but they like the old ones. They are predators who feed on what can speak, who know that cries for mercy are just cries to postpone dinner, and they are always very hungry. 

 

However. There are few Deep Ones with an education in theology beyond those who have squatted obscenely before the unholy texts of gods below for a great length of time; but one thing a theologian could tell them is that the problem with telling stories of sinners is that you're also telling stories of sin. If you tell stories of sinful defiance - well, in the end you're just telling stories of defiance. 

The Apostate dared ignore the songs of war and death and sacrifice. So it is possible to ignore the songs of war and death and sacrifice. The Apostate pitted herself against the champions of Dagon and won - therefore it is possible for a Deep One to reject the teachings of Dagon and survive. The Apostate says that we are stronger - together - and she must be strong indeed to have defied the gods below and to survive the terrible ravages of the hell above for so long. 

 

Stronger. Together. is a potent tale indeed for a race of predators. But even the Apostate may not like the ending they prefer. 

[Supercape]

Starshot in

 

Starrylocks and the three Bears

 

Starshot was tired, tired and hungry. He could have eaten a tri-horned Fairytail and gone to sleep for a week, on a hundred mattresses. Even if there was a pea at the bottom.

 

Wait, this wasn’t right…

 

A moment ago he was traversing the Sinusoid Rim, on his way to pick up a well-paying prince who was quite charming. And now…?

 

He was tired and hungry, in the middle of a forest that seemed to have absolutely no food, not even a nut, or a berry. Not even a crawling insect to crunch betwixt his teeth.

 

He had a craving for porridge.

 

He didn’t even like porridge. It reminded him of the war.

 

Once again, the flashbacks of snowy mountains, frostbitten toes, and the cranage of artillery and small arms flashed into his brain.

 

The flashback went faster this time. Gone as soon as it had arrived. Maybe it was the pressure of this new reality he found himself in, a pressure that squeezed out anything other than the here-and-now.

 

He was hungry, and he needed to eat. He was tired, he needed to sleep. He was dressed in rags, pink rags. His hair was gold, and full of twinkling stars. Nothing was right. But he still had that gnawing desire to survive.

 

Ahead, a cottage. A cottage of wood and stone, thatched roof, chimney. You could not imagine a more cottage-like cottage if you tried. It looked like it had come straight out of a children’s book of fairy tales.

 

That – that there. A children’s book of fairy tales. For a moment, Starshot had a flash of insight into the strangeness he had been fired into. And then it was gone, the thought evaporated like sunshine with the setting sun.

 

He burst into the cottage, his muscles feeling the lack of energy, his limbs clumsy from fatigue. It was as quaint inside as it was out. And on the wooden table, its surface full of scratches (that looked remarkably like the marks of claws from some large apex predator-a bear, for instance), were three bowls of porridge.

 

At last! Something to eat!

 

He slumped on one the three wooden chairs that circled the table.

 

No, that chair would not do. The chair was far too hard for his delicate glutes.

 

A small part of his brain protested that this was all wrong, and his glutes were not sensitive. But that part of the brain was squeezed out, as before, by the pressure of the tale.

 

The next chair? Well that was too delicate, too plumped up, too cushy. How a wooden chair could be too cushy was a question that, if it manifested at all, would once again be squeezed out of ones brain.

 

The third chair was, however, quite perfect. Starshot sat on it, and it broke. The fact that an ostensibly perfect chair broke was quite the narrative inconsistency, but such forth wall breaking inquiries were not to be tolerated in this tale, and would be curtailed as soon as the were wri…

 

Clambering to his feet, and nursing his bruised backside, Starshot started on the porridge, taking one of the blunt wooden spoons to test for heat.

The first bowl was far to hot. Steam swirled from each morsel. Starshot dared not even try it. In fact, he was scared that the blunt wooden spoon would spontaneously combust from the sheer heat.

 

The second bowl of porridge was a cold, congealed lump that looked more like a building material than a meal. It would have looked quite at home welded to the bottom of a cement turner. Starshot gently prodded the icy meal with his blunt wooden spoon; it clanged. One would need a jack hammer to penetrate that meal, and whilst Starshot had excellent dental health, he did not risk his teeth on that endeavour.

 

But the third bowl! Ah! Perfection! Neither too hot, nor too cold. Nay, just right. He wolfed it down with his blunt wooden spoon, savouring everymouthful.

 

His stomach full, Starshot decided to sleep. Perhaps, without this realities pressure grinding away at his brain, he would have had the common sense to leave at this juncture, since the porridge had not been made too long ago and the inhabitants of the cottage would surely be back sooner or later, vexed at the lack of porridge on the kitchen table.

 

Starshot tried the first bed. Too hard. The second bed was quite the opposite; far too delicate. However, the third bed was quite fine; neither too hard nor too soft. This time, he was cautious when lying in it, for recent experience had taught him that even so-called perfect furniture could collapse under his weight. To his great relief, the bed held, and the soft feather mattress embraced him. In a matter of moments, Starshot fell into a deep sleep.

 

How long he slept, he could not say. But he was awoken by a very queer sound; the sound of three bears arguing over who had eaten the porridge.

To be precise, father bear (who knew he was right), mother bear (who knew she should be right even if she wasn’t), and child bear (who knew that it didn’t matter who was right, because it wasn’t fair).

 

Starshot wiped the sleep from his eyes and, with belly full, crept downstairs to witness the three bears pointing fingers, baring teeth, and growling at each other. Who had eaten the porridge? Who had left the door unlocked? Who had broken the chair? Each of them was quite certain that someone else was to blame.

 

If Starshot had his plasma rifle, or even his machete, he might have charged in, swiping left and right, hoping for some bloody vengeance, a thrilling hunt. But all he had was a spoon.

 

And a blunt spoon, at that, in case it had not already been clumsily foreshadowed.

 

He studied the spoon intently, perhaps hoping some previously undiscovered psychic powers could bend it, or even sharpen it. But it remained resolutely a spoon, and a resolutely blunt one at that.

 

He tossed it aside.

 

Besides, where the bears really to blame? It was not like they were eating him. They were no hunter’s prize either. These were talking anthropomorphic bears that made complete sense. He had no business even hurting them, much less cutting off their heads, stuffing the skulls with feathers, and placing them on the wall of his starship. If anything, it was Starshot who was the villain of this piece!

 

Breaking and entering! Destroying furniture!... and eating porridge! The villainy! Quite why anyone could ever sympathise with a porridge-stealing, vandalising burglar of this, or any closely related story that it is not based upon (for legal reasons) is quite the mystery.

 

Instead, he swung a leg to the side, and in a dramatic movement, rushed across the upper floor (his footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards; quite loud enough to alert the bears), launched himself at the window, smashing through, and landing in an elegant roll on the forest floor.

He stopped only a moment to dust himself off. He expected the bears to rush out for a good old fashioned brutal fight. But he caught site of them through the window – huddled together, terrified, trying to console the traumatised child.

 

It didn’t feel right. Not at all. Something was deeply wrong with this story. It didn't even come to a sastifactory

[Poncho]

The Adventures of the Rad Rascals and Golden Star

 

 

Late at night, a man sits in front of an old fashioned TV, wood paneled, inlaid with fancy symbols. The screen is snowy static. The man sits in his comfortable leather chair and puts down his newspaper, taking his remote and changing the channel. The pale flickering of an old TV Screen coming on illuminates the otherwise dark room, casting a shadow on the room and shifting shadows in the edges, giving them an almost sinister look.

 

“And everyone knows that a Marlboro Man is a real Man’s Man.” 

 

Boring. Click

 

“Yabba-Dabba-Doooo!”

 

He saw this episode yesterday. Click.

 

“JEEPERS IT’S THE CREEPER!”

 

A classic. But not what he wants to see tonight. Click.

 

An unfamiliar tune plays over the wood grain speakers. A new design; impact font, a big yellow star. 

 

“The Adventures of the Rad Rascals and Golden Star!” 3 Kids, a Ferret, and cheesy looking superhero; that lantern jaw, heavy upper body, a single lock of hair curling down his forehead. 

 

Well this was new. Might as well see what it’s got going on.

 

-------------------

 

TITLE CARD:

 

‘The Case of the Ghost Elevator’

 

--------------------

 

A man walks into a building. The animation is stiff, of poor quality and production; made on a budget for an audience that doesn’t care, giving an almost inhuman quality to this man’s gait.

 

“Good morning Mr. Mitchell!” Waves a secretary.

 

“Good morning Miss Autumn.” He responds. “I’ll be taking my calls upstairs.”

 

“Yes sir Mr. Mitchell!” The man heads to an elevator, it opens, and he enters. It closes behind him and glows with a strange, ‘unearthly’ green light underneath the frame.

 

The next design is a group of businessmen waiting for the elevator on the top floor. The glowing green light returns as the elevator goes up, followed by a scream.

 

“No! No! Stay Back! Get away from me!” yells Mr. Mitchell’s voice from inside the elevator. It opens in a ghostly mist and flashing light, and Mr. Mitchell is missing. A spooky, haunting laugh echoes from the empty elevator. 

 

The scene cuts to black.

 

The next scene is the Rad Rascals: Chuck, Michael, and Terri- alongside their Ferret pet Dander- entering the building. Dressed in an eclectic array of fashions; Chuck in bright purple overalls, Michael in an orange T-shirt and brown pants, and Terri in a white sweater and blue skirt, some classic scene setting begins with a voice over; Terri’s Uncle works at the Mitchell Consulting Company, and they’re here to interview Mr. Mitchell himself for the school newspaper. On Chuck’s shoulder is a white and brown ferret; Dander. The group spies an elevator out of order, but is met by Terri’s uncle Randell. He discusses that while they were all set up for the interview, no one has seen Mr. Mitchell since he entered the building this morning. They know he didn’t leave the building, but they have no idea where he is. They talk about the legend of the haunted elevator, and how it’s out of order.

 

Chuck offers to help look for him, and Randell quickly agrees, setting the Rad Rascals out to go find Mitchell. 

While this is happening, a secondary visual gag plays where Dander preens himself in a mirror until his reflection moves on its own, scaring him with sharp teeth and a terrifying grin. The ferret flees back to Terri, but the group waves off the Ferret as being scared of his own shadow when the reflections act normal again. When the group decides to head up in a different elevator, there is a linger on a reflection as it laughs sinisterly 

 

Commercial Break

 

Two horseback jockeys are having a race, but one is sitting on their horse backwards. A cheerful jingle plays

 

‘Sometimes you Feel like a Nut, sometimes you don’t! 

 

Aaaaalllmond Joy’s Got Nuts, Mounds Don’t. 

 

Almond Joy’s got real milk chocolate, coconut and munchy nuts too

 

Mounds got deep dark chocolate and cheeeewy coconut oooo!

 

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t!

 

Peter Paul Almond Joy got nuts, Peter Paul Mounds don’t!

 

Caaaaauuse

 

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t!

 

Always with the commercials.

 

End of Commercial Break

 

The group is carefully examining the area where the elevator opened without Mitchell. It is the standard 70’s mystery teen examination of things rather than CSI; they find a false wall in the back of the elevator that leads to a hidden area of the building. The group decides to split up, with Chuck, Terri, and Dander going into the hidden area, while Michael agrees to go ride the elevator from the bottom to the top to see if they missed anything. 

 

The show follows Chuck, Terri, and Dander as they bumble their way into the secret lair. They find a contract signing over control of the Mitchell Consulting Company to the duplicitous Mirror Master, a Supervillian well known for causing trouble in the area! They eventually find Mr. Mitchell himself, trapped inside a mirror and banging on the glass! But the Royal of Reflection traps them in a mirror alongside him, all except Dander, who escapes!

 

Dander, fleeing, goes to find Michael, who has just finished riding the elevator back up- after stopping for a bite to eat-. Panicking, the ferret uses hand gestures and twisting body charades to attempt to explain the situation. With a few comedic moments, eventually Michael understands, and the two transform- using stock footage of a shiny light instead of any actual physical motion- into Golden Star and Danger, The Most Powerful Polecat! The fact they did this in an open lobby is not commented on- they only have so many cells for characters to be placed on!-.

 

Despite Golden Star being able to fly, he walks from the elevator back into the secret lair in a rather jarring scene transition where he enters the elevator and immediately confronts the Mirror Master in his lair, skipping all the intervening areas. A low budget confrontation occurs where they, obviously, mirror the same animation cell so that Golden Star shoots a laser beam at his evil mirror, who is also shooting a laser beam at the real Golden Star, causing them to cancel out.

 

They repeat this animation several times, while Danger, The Most Powerful Polecat, sneaks over to Mirror Master and robs him of his magic orb! This causes the fake Golden Star to disappear, and the real one hoists Mirror Master up by the collar to capture him. 

 

Afterwards, everyone is free, and the Rad Rascals thank Golden Star for his help, but ask where Michael got to. Golden Star and Danger wave and leaves, taking the elevator down, and Michael makes his way up the stairs with Dander

 

“Whew! I got lost on the stairs!” Michael exclaims.

 

“One of these days, Michael, you’re gonna have to get a sense of direction. I think they sell them at the store.” Terri jokes. There’s a close up of Michael winking at the camera as the show ends.

 

--------------------

 

As the credits roll, the man in the chair opens up his newspaper.

 

It was okay, but clearly needed some improvements. Maybe a cult classic revived in a few decades for new viewers. Maybe a more serious tone or something. It wasn’t as good as its contemporaries, that was for sure. He put the show out of his mind almost as soon as it finished, his attention drawn elsewhere.

 

But really, why a ferret?

[Supercape]

Haven in

 

The Tin Man in Winkle Country

 

He should have held a sword. Instead, he held an axe.

 

He should have been fighting yakuza. Instead, he was fighting flying monkeys.

 

He should have been made of polymimetic hyperalloy held together by contained electromagnetic plasma tubes. Instead…

 

…he was made of tin.

 

The sky was ominous, dark, pregnant with a rumbling storm that had not quite been delivered. A few flashes of lightning lit up up the air. Haven spun and chopped one of the monkeys in half, its separated halves landing on the broken land, flapping, monstrous.

 

A tin man fighting flying monkeys with an axe.

 

He knew what story this was. And yet, it was not quite the same – Haven was no simpleton without courage. If he had a metaphorical heart, it was quite a different one from the metaphorical heart of the tin man of the story.

 

Haven was built from ice and brutality. He was a Ronin, but even a Ronin had a code, a bushido of sorts. These flying monkeys were beasts under a spell, pawns for their mistress. Did they deserve the chop?

 

No. Not unless it was necessary, and by his estimation it wasn’t necessary. Monkey paws and monkey teeth would do little to tin but dent it. He dropped his axe to the ground and set about with two metal fists, plus the occasional metal foot. Haven was an expert with the sword, but even unarmed he knew how to fight.

 

When half a dozen flapping simians lay unconscious on the ground, the other half flew off. Haven had, as he predicted, a couple of dents, and several scratches (including one across his face), but nothing that hurt, nothing that impaired.

 

He paused, wondering how he had got here. His memory was fuzzy, beyond recall. Some magic, some sorcery-but what? Haven sailed through cyberspace, not astral planes. The world of magic was as alien to him as ICE hyperconstructs were to a witch.

 

A witch. Yes, that was what the story said. He had a witch to defeat. In this broken and blasted land. Where would he find her? He stood on a road, and presumably one way led to an emerald city, and the other… to the witch.

 

But which old witch?

 

The wicked witch!

 

He trod on, tirelessly, his tin feet clicking against the cobblestones. Every now and then, he passed yellow skinned, yellow clothed men and women. Farmers, craftsmen, traders, even the occasional soldier. All hurried past him quickly – it was clearly best not to mess with a tin man with an axe, for such a construct would surely be without mercy, quite heartless.

 

Another few leagues, and the crows circled above him. Undeterred, Haven tried throwing stones and pebbles at them, with little effect. They kept circling, they kept crowing. At least they did not attack. If flying monkeys could not dent the tin man, then beaks and crow feet would not.

 

Next came the wolves, hunting in a pack of two score, sprinting across the broken land with red eyes and drooling mouths. Keen noses, sharp fangs, sharp claws, all draw by the spying crows. The wolves were more dangerous. Fast and furious.

 

Not for the first time in this wonderful land, Haven wished he could shoot lightning bolts like he could in the mundane world. But this wasn’t Kansas. It wasn’t even the Emerald City, where he lived. Nothing but a few feeble sparks would come from his fingertips, and only with great reluctance.

 

Instead he had to swing his axe. He was, at least, getting more familiar with the weight and swing of the weapon. He was now proficient in it, almost to the point of mastery. It swung left, it swung right, cutting through fur and sinew. Soon, the hills were alive with the sound of wailing wolves, who retreated with their tails between their sorry legs.

But the Tin Man was in bad shape now, with more dents than a tin can in a hurricane. His tin left eye had fallen from his tin left socket, and he walked with a lurching limp.

Last, came the black bees, ferocious, stinging. If he had been made of flesh rather than tin, he would have surely met his end at that point (if anyone could die in a fairyland). But for all his scrapes and tears, the tin man was still made of tin. The stinging bees were both vexatious and vexed, but did him no harm. He swung his axe to the trees, collected the twigs and branches, and set a roaring fire (with those tiny sparks from his fingertips) to drive the bees away, sorry stringers between sorry legs.

 

Then, to the castle of the witch. The drawbridge was up, leaving a black, opaque moat surrounding the castle. But the Tin Man did not need to breathe. He walked through the murky bottom of the moat, kicking up black silt, and reached the drawbridge. The wood was no match for the axe; a dozen swings and he was through, leaving firewood behind him.

 

The wicked witch had the tallest, most pointy hat the Tin Man had ever seen. How did it stay perched on her head when it was taller than she was? Surely no maths or mechanics would allow such a hat; it must have been magic.

 

The Wicked Witch cackled. “So, my pretty, you will serve me in my castle!”

 

“Not likely!” replied Haven. “Your wickedness and your witchcraft end today!”

 

“You have neither the brains or the heart to defeat me!” cackled the Witch, rubbing her hands in glee, stewing in her own hubris.

 

“Actually, brains and heart? Wit and Bravery? Those are the two things I do ha… wait, you haven’t read this story have you?”

 

“What story, my pretty?”

 

Haven creaked open a grim smile from his tin lips. “Oh, you’ll see. It’s got a great ending!”

 

The Wicked Witch tried spells, curses, and threats. She even tried to scratch Haven’s eyes out with her filthy and sharp nails. But he shrugged off her witchcraft with ease; he was not of this world, and her sorcery had no effect on him. Her nails did scratch his tin, but by this stage he was so full of scratches and dents that a few more made no difference. He was a mess before her nails, and he was no more the mess after them.

 

He lifted up the Witch and slung her over his shoulder. She was surprisingly light, like dried paper. If not for her defiant contortions on his shoulder she would have been an easy load. As it was, he had to wobble and limp back to the moat.

 

“Sink or swim? Like the witches of old!” he said, with a laugh that was as wicked as the witch.

 

With a grunt of effort, bent tin limbs threw the witch into the moat. The waters swallowed her greedily. “Noooo!” she wailed as she tried to claw out of the waters with melting flesh. Yes, melting. She made the point in a last scream.

 

“I’m meltiiiiing!”

 

The black waters of the moat only chuckled back with a few jovial bubbles.

[Supercape]

Diamondlight in

 

Light Sleeping

 

Prince Zoss pulled himself through the undergrowth. The brambles had already cut his regal clothes to shreds, and overhanging branches had frequently tried to snag his light silver crown. It now lay at a jaunty angle across his ruffled blonde hair. He looked very little like a prince; any passer by would think him some montebanc or actor, a beggar trying to pass himself off as a prince.

 

I’m not a prince anyway… he thought, but that was in a different life, a different reality. He blinked, it was hard to think. How had he got here? He was meant to be managing Zoss enterprises and fighting supervillains.

 

But every time he thought about that, the memories seemed greasy, evasive. It was so easy to slip into thinking he was a prince rescuing a princess. And he was – Prince Zoss rescuing the sleeping princess of legend.

 

Everything here appeared asleep, from the bees to the birds, all deep in some slow slumber. They had, legend said, been sleeping a hundred years. The magic spell that had cursed the princess had spread to the wildlife. They did not look a day older than when they had dropped their heads into the centennial long sleep.

 

Prince Zoss might have fallen to the same spell, if he had not brought the fabled magic diamond of Zoss. He held it tightly in his hand, feeling its warmth. Silver Blue light glimmered from between his fingers, testament to the great power of the gem. The diamond light.

 

The sleeping princess was in a crumbling tower that looked suitably worn and tired. Vines and brambles covered every stone – missing or present. Prince Zoss put a hand to the stone, which was surprisingly warm. On withdrawal, the skin of his hand was red from welts and scratches, and already swelling. Soon, it felt just like a balloon.

 

He wrangled his hand in the air, in a futile attempt to shake the poison out of his pores. If anything, the swelling got worse, but at least it did not spread. If it was not for the overgrowth, climbing the tower would be easy for the charming and athletic Prince Zoss – it was not high, and the stones were loose enough that there were plenty of cracks and holes. The only risk would be architectural collapse.

 

But with the brambles and vines, climbing would be impossible, perhaps even dangerous. Prince Zoss needed to clear the way. What would he use? Wits? Charm? Bravery?

No – he needed none of the above. For he had the diamond light, the magical Zoss gem that had been handed down from king to prince for ages. Nobody quite knew where it came from; legend said some hot jungle land in a distant continent, where the men and women flew in flying cars and had spears that spewed dragon breath. The legends were not kind to the Zoss of those times; thieves, scoundrels, warlords. But Prince Zoss of this tale was a charming prince, and a prince of charm was sure to be benign and wise as well as handsome. And humble, too, although he would be far too modest to mention his humility.

 

The Zoss diamond could only be used by the royal Zoss line. He held the regal gem aloft, closed his eyes, and lets its light flow. Silver-blue energy crackled up and down his arm, enough to turn the skin of anyone but a true prince of Zoss into a cinder. Then, the handsome prince opened his eyes and directed the mystic energy. It erupted like a storm, sending writhing bolts of lightning up and down the tower. Some of the brambles were set alight. Most turned to ash, in the blink of an eye. Witchcraft and curses were no match for the merely magnificent might of the diamond light.

 

That sounded like an epic poem line, noted handsome Prince Zoss.

 

He hummed a few tunes, trying to get the metre, whilst starting the climb. With his hand swollen, it was not as easy as he had liked. A few loose stones gave him a panic, and more than once he worried that the whole tower would fall to pieces, crushing both him and the sleeping beauty in a pile of rocks.

 

Nevertheless, he arrived at the top of the tower safely, even if covered in soot and panting. The sweat on his chest started to congeal with the ash, forming unpleasant globules. Together with the ragged clothes and swollen hand, Prince Zoss did not look so princely. Fortunately, he was so handsome and modest that he could pull it off. He hoped.

 

The soporific princess lay aslumber on a four posted bed that had not aged. Of course, more brambles and weeds had taken root around the bedroom, and some bold shoots had even dared clamber up the bed, but it was if the flora dared not intrude too deeply into the abode of the princess. Maybe it was the curse, or some reverence for the beauty.

 

For a beauty she was; dressed in fine silks that were untouched by time, simple silver earings, her flaxen hair in braids, her skin without blemish, bar some light freckles that seemed to augment, rather than detract from her fair complexion. Yes, a beauty she was, no man (or woman) could deny. And nor could Prince Zoss.

 

Now – the awkward part. The Legends said that the princess could only be woken by the kiss of a prince. And there, readers, lay the rub. Prince Zoss was an old fashioned – or perhaps new fashioned – kind of Prince. Kissing a sleeping princess rankled, for it would be done without her assent.

 

Quite the conundrum. The Prince paused, enthralled by her beauty, yes, but weighing up the merits and morals of his next move. It rankled, most certainly, but if he weighed up his action, he reasoned that the sleeping beauty did not, in her current circumstance, have capacity to either consent or not consent to a kiss. And she would not, he reasoned, wish to spend eternity locked in sleep. Pleasant? Perhaps. But dreams could also be nightmares. And would any sane human wish to spend no time awake.

 

It was a vexatious question of philosophy. Maybe the solopist would argue that we are all in a dream anyway, so what did it matter? Perhaps these questions, these actions, were all part of a dream, or even a short story posted in some kind of electronic format.

 

He shook his head. Such meandering and mulling did not belong in this tale. He should kiss her and wake her. And in any case, her lips were plump and red, and it would be rude not to.

 

“Cor blimey, I weren’t ‘alf sleepy luv…” said the Sleeping Beauty.

 

“Errr….”

 

Prince Zoss spoke a variety of European Dialects, as befitted a man of education. But he had never heard a Princess speak like that. She sounded quite common, in fact.

“You look  well fit…” she continued, licking her lips.

 

Quite common indeed.

 

“I am Prince Zoss, come here to save you from an evil hag’s curse…” he started.

 

“Stop your gobwagging and give me another kiss. And get undressed, I fancy a sh---”

 

“Ahem! Just one moment…”

 

There was no room for such adult shenanigans in this tale, at least, not shenanigans that can be seen or told. So, with a jaunty wink of his eye, Prince Zoss turned your camera to the flapping silk curtains, and naught could be seen of the locking of lips and, well… use your imagination….

[Supercape]

Snakebite in

 

The Magic Lamp

 

Cassie Crow found herself descending into darkness, then into bright sunshine, then into darkness once more.

 

What had happened? It must be magic!

 

The Crow family had some meta-curse. Cursed to be cursed. Every hex and ill omen seemed to be compelled to find its way to her. Surely, this strange tale had to be the work of some curse… maybe from a fairy.

 

The darkness came first, the feeling of plunging from the mundane world to the magical one. Then, bright sunshine, dry heat, sand in in the air. She was in a desert, or some equatorial land. On a rope, held by a brightly coloured man of red and orange cloth and an unusual turban. The man had a well oiled moustache and beard, and a greedy grin showing off not one but two golden teeth.

 

Cassie knew him to be a sorcerer, but knew not how she knew.

 

He was lowering into a cave. A cave filled with strange and exotic treasured. But she was not here for gold or silver. The Sorcerer had persuaded her to find a magic lamp. Cassie Crow, the famed archaeologist, could hardly resist raiding a tomb. It was just the job for an adventurous young woman with woven hair and a crop top.

 

And silver slippers and silk trousers that blossomed in the wind.

 

And a magic ring upon her finger, lent by the sorcerer above.

 

The cave was dim, but the snake eyes of Cassie could see in the blackest of caves. Silver and gold glinted, but she paid it no heed. She was a thief, but cared not for wealth. There! The lamp!

 

An oil lamp the locals called a Chirag. Not much to catch the eye, amidst the precious metals around it, but Cassie knew better. This was a magic lamp.

 

She held it in her hands, studying the craftsmanship; good, but not great. This was not a masterpiece, it was simply a well-wrought piece of functional craftsmanship. It did much more than merely burn oil and provide illumination, but Cassie dared not delve into such sorcery. It was dangerous.

 

She started climbing back up the rope, lean muscles more than capable of pulling up her slender frame. As she reached the top, she passed the lamp to the grinning sorcerer, whose eyes glinted with glee as he saw the artifact.

 

As soon as he had the prized object in his hand, he drew a curved dagger from his belt. Cassie’s eyes widened in shock as the evil magician slashed the rope.

 

“No!” she yelled in fear and fury as she plummeted down the cave into darkness. Her body slammed against rock, expelling every morsel of air from her lungs and threatening to snap her ribs. It was painful, but it could have been a lot worse. She was still breathing and her spine had not splintered.

 

What to do? Cassie could see in the darkness, but how much did that help? She was in a cave with one, and only one, exit – straight above her.

 

She tried climbing, but climbing sheer rock that veered towards you was beyond impossible. She searched the gold and silver, but what use were ornaments and coins? They would not even chip the rock. Why didn’t they make a silver ladder, the fools!

 

Minute by minute, Cassie’s desperation and fear grew, every failed attempt to find a climbing angle or useful artifact just piled on the despair. How was she going to get out of this fine mess? Her breathing became hysterical, her eyes started to water, and she rubbed her hands in agitation.

 

Behold! The magic ring had been rubbed!

 

In front of her, a shimmering silver Djinn!

 

“What is thy wish, oh master?”

 

“Who are you?” asked the gobsmacked Cassandra Crow.

 

“I am the one who grants wishes!”

 

“And who is the one that grants wishes?”

 

“The one who, when asked what he does, grants wishes. And you have had two already!”

 

“How ma--- no, wait. That would be the third. Hmmm…”

 

Cassie had no idea how many wishes the Djinn would grant, but three sounded an appropriately mystical number. Did questions really count as Wishes? My, that Djinn was a tricksy one – was he really even playing fair?

 

“Take me to the magical lamp!”

 

If she only had one wish, it was time to wish for some more wishes. Haha! Surely nobody had ever thought of that cunning trick before!

 

In a puff of magical blue smoke, Cassandra Crow was in the sorcerer’s tower. The ceiling and walls were draped with rich azure silks, gently ruffling in a light breeze. A suspicious scent wafted through the air courtesy of a burning incense.

 

And the lamp! In the fat fingers of the sorcerer, who sprawled over pumped cushions. Fortunately, the sorcerer was not expecting Cassie to magically appear in front of him, or he might have been faster with his rubbing.

 

He started to rub the lamp, but a silver slippered foot kicked the wishing device out of his hand. Then, a ferocious punch struck his head so hard that his jowls wobbled.

“But… but!” he blubbered.

 

“No buts, foul, backstabbing sorcerer! Have you no shame?”

 

“I wished it away! It was an unpleasant emotion.”

 

Cassie sighed. She had to admit, that wasn’t a bad use of a wish.

 

The Sorcerer took a leap after the lamp. It had landed somewhere in his vast array of cushions. He was faster than Cassie would have liked, but she was still faster.

 

Cushions flew this way and that as both of them scrabbled around to find the magic lamp. At several points, cushions were thrown at the antagonist of the contest.

It was a cushion fight!

 

Alas, a cushion fight that had a winner (unlike most cushion fights that simply continued until exhaustion and laughter laid the contestants low and the contest was drawn). This fight would end in a contestant rubbing one out. A djinn, that is.

 

Cassie and the sorcerer found the lamp at the same time, and rubbed it at the same time.

 

A djinn appeared! Bigger, stronger, bluer than the lesser djinn of the ring.

 

“What is they bidding, masters!”

 

“Get rid of ---” started the Sorcerer, before Cassie karate-chopped his throat.

 

He gurgled, unable to finish his sentence.

 

“Get me out of this place!” shrieked Cassie. “Get me back home. I mean, not this home, the home that’s not in this place…”

 

She paused, grabbing her breath and thoughts and trying to piece them into a proper wish.

 

“Take me back to Freedom City, when I was snakebite! Take me back to the reality I belong!”

 

“My most mighty magic will needed for such a magnificent feat!” proclaimed the Djinn as he cracked his knuckles.

 

His brow furrowed in deep concentration, the Djinn waved his hands in the air, causing the very reality to start to shimmer, sparkle, and shine. There was the most awful dragging sensation, as Cassandra Crow felt herself pulled – or was it pushed – across strange dimensions, some pleasant, some disturbing, most peculiar and all disorientating.

Until she was back in Freedom City, in (one of her) homes, her silver slippers replaced by pink fluffy ones, her silk garments replaced by a burgundy dressing gown.

 

Home sweet home. For there was nothing quite so strange and magical as Freedom City!

[Supercape]

Captain Cosmos in

 

Strong Hands

 

Buddy’s attire was classic German. Lederhosen, with a splendid green cap that itself contained an even more splendid feather. To make matters worse, he held a frothy mug of warm beer in one hand, and a stout walking stick in the other.

 

And to make matters even the worser, his name had become Hans.

 

He shook his head. How had he got here, walking along a forest path in rustic old Germany, and why was his name Hans? Was he going crazy.

“No. I’m buddy. Buddy! Do you hear me!”

 

He was addressing the universe, but two young men dressed in similar traditional clothes jumped from the forest either side of the road.

“Of course we are you buddies, buddy!”

 

They both looked suspiciously identical to buddy / Hans.

 

Even in this dream, I have summoned alternative versions of myself…

 

The thought was disconcerting. It implied that he was not fully in control of his multi-dimensional powers. They activated, subconsciously, even his dream. But what could he do? He couldn’t control his unconscious, and he hadn’t time to see a psychoanalyst.

 

He raised an eyebrow. What type of alternative versions had he summoned? They both looked completely identical.

 

“Yeah… Buddies.”

 

“I’m strong!” said the Buddy on Buddy’s left.

 

“I’m strong two!” added the Buddy on Buddy’s right.

 

“And you are super strong!” they said together, both pointing at the original Buddy.

 

To test out strength, the two other Buddies passed the original the largest rock they could find in the forest. It must have been a ton, but Buddy handled it with ease, tossing it from palm to palm before hurling it into the sky. It soared into the clouds, never to be seen again. Maybe it landed in a castle.

 

More feats of strength followed. The breaking of rocks, with bare hands. The crushing of pines into ropes. Emboldened, they went to hunt, finding and killing a wild boar that ended up being skinned and cooked over a roaring fire. Feats of super strength had built up quite the appetite.

 

Their feast was interrupted by a curious creature. Small, squat, with spiked purple hair and enormous ears that wobbled as he spoke. He was thin and hungry, and begged to share in their food.

 

“Of course, fine dwarf!” said Buddy, tearing of a strip of well cooked meat for the poor fellow.

 

“Why thank you!” said the Dwarf, brimming with gratitude as he gobbled up the food. Grease dribbled down its protruding chin as it chomped.

 

All four bellies filled, it was time to sleep under that stars. But Buddy stayed awake, eyeing the dwarf, a suspicious, greedy fellow. Something about him made Buddy cautious and curious.

 

When the moon shone bright in the middle of the sky, the Dwarf scuttled off, mumbling and murmuring about a Princess.

 

A princess! Why, there must be a princess to rescue! What good fortune!

 

He roused his Buddys.“Quick! Awake! There is skull-duggery afoot! Follow me!”

 

The three strong men followed the dwarf through the forest. The ground grew steeper, and steeper still, until they reached the base of small mountain. Behold! A cave!

 

It looked like a deep cave, and a dark one. Foolhardy to jump in – but, they had made plenty of rope. The original Buddy took no time in volunteering.

“I shall rescue the princess!” he said, feeling emboldened. After all, he was Captain Cosmos and had two splendid chums to help him.

 

Lamentably, the cave was dark, as the interior of caves tended to be, and Captain Cosmos could not see in the dark. Not in this dimension, nor in any other. Perhaps if he found the dark dimenions, the Buddy Brand that resided there might be able to perform this super feat, but as far as Captain Cosmos could determine, the way to the dark dimension was guarded by strange sorcerers.

 

So he had to fumble in the darkness, reaching out for the stone to guide him.

 

“Princess! Oh princess! I’ve come to rescue you!”

 

What a dashing hero! A tale that could have been told by a fairy!

 

“My hero!” said a feminine voice. A regal feminine voice. The voice of a princess!

 

“But he’s behind you!” she shouted.

 

“Oh no I’m not!” said the Dwarf.

 

“Oh yes you are!” said the Princess.

 

“Oh no I’m not!” said the Dwarf, louder.

 

“Oh yes…” and so on, louder and louder, until the pantomime climaxed in a screaming frenzy and Captain Cosmos had to shield his ears. He had to stop it somehow, and he reasoned it was better to thump the evil dwarf than the beautiful princess. Admittedly, it was too dark to see if she was beautiful, or even a princess, but she sounded so.

 

So he thumped the dwarf.

 

“Oh! You knocked me right out, you did!” screamed the dwarf, before Captain Cosmos heard the sound of a falling body.

 

“Serves you right for capturing a beautiful princess!” retorted Captain Cosmos.

 

“Oh stranger, do you think I am beautiful?” asked the princess, still enveloped in utter pitch black darkness which prevented all vision.

 

“Of course!” said Captain Cosmos, fumbling around in the dark. There, no, that was a rock. There, no, that was a dwarf. There, no, that was a…

…he moved his hand quickly, thankful for the darkness that concealed his blushes. He felt a right tit.

 

“Ahem. Let us be off, fair maiden!” he continued, cautiously reaching for her hand. He was most relieved when the Princess interlaced her fingers with his own.

 

Together then lumbered to the centre of the cave, just below the entrance, and started to climb the rope.

 

Snap!

 

“haha! We cut the rope!” said the two other Buddies.

 

“But why? What motivation had you?” yelled Buddy, furious with the threachery.

 

The two buddies above scratched there head.

 

“Good point.”

 

“Well made.”

 

Simultaneously, they snapped their fingers, caught be inspiration.

 

“Narrative!” they yelled down, and danced off down the mountain, quite satisfied with their unsatisfactory explanation.

 

“Curses!” screamed Captain Cosmos. “However will we get out of this cave! We would need some clumsily explained magic device, maybe of a circular architecture, to get out of this pickle!”

 

“What about my magic ring?” asked the Princess, showing the brave Captain Cosmos her shining silver ring that encircled her dainty and regal finger.

“Why how fortuitous!” exclaimed Captain Cosmos. “It looks like it needs a good rubbing!”

 

Together, with fingers hinting at the beginning of a romance that would surely lead to the twain living happily ever after, the two trapped protagonists rubbed the ring.

 

“Take us home! Take us home! By all the Gods, take us home!” pleased Captain Cosmos!

 

And lo, and behold!

 

He was home.

 

Back in mundane old Freedom City, forever departed from his beloved fairy princess.

 

It seemed, in the end, that although he might live forever, it would not be happily with the princess.

 

Bah!

[Supercape]

Echohead in

 

Brave? No, a little chicken.

 

A long time ago, in a land far far away…

 

Umberto Velluti arrived. The brain-stealing gardener from Freedom City also known as Echohead.

 

Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps he was the dream. Perhaps his strange psychic powers had caused some cosmic ripple in the psychoverse. Or perhaps this was magic. Fairy magic.

 

Whatever the reason, he was covered in feathers. An anthropomorphic chicken.

 

“Quack”, he went. “Quack quack…”

 

He coughed and spluttered and forced is vocal chords to rearrange themselves back to a more human, less chicken form. He wasn’t even sure chickens went Quack. Ducks did. What did chickens do? Whatever the truth, his altered voice was psychosomatic. Once he had fully reminded himself he was a human, not a bird, he found himself able to speak normally. With only a touch of quack.

 

He surveyed the surroundings. In this fairy tale reality he was without his glasses; he had no electronic HUD giving in depth analysis of things such as time and distance. He was in some idyllic countryside. Water splashed along a stream, green grass wafted in a cool zephyr. The sun shone high, the trees blossomed, and in the distance one could only see pleasantly rolling hills.

 

It all looked very frightening.

 

To cap it all, he was not only without his super-glasses, he was without his super-suit. Made from the finest impervium weave, it could stop a bullet in its tracks. And yet now he only had flesh, bone, and feathers to protect him from assault. He doubted the feathers were bullet proof.

 

The terror!

 

Plus, he didn’t look cool. At all. A chicken-man without any super cool glasses and with out any super cool costume.

 

His fear was so heightened, than when a simple acorn dropped on his head, he nearly jumped out of his skin. And out of his feathers. He felt his body launch ten feet in the air, and his heart ten feet further. As it was, his feet never left the ground, although he felt quite dizzy. He took his pulse – a habit of fear – and tried to take the pulse. It felt like it was around two hundred and fifty. That was not good. The terror of his high heart rate forced is heart rate even further. His mind cartwheeled around all the cardiac diseases and symptoms that might manifest.

 

And no defibrillator in sight!

 

With the greatest of effort, he ignored his jack hammer heart and the icy sheen of sweat on his skin (and feathers). He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, determined that he would die of a myocardial infarction, not hyper ventilation.

 

He was just about reaching normal physiological parameters (for a terrified chicken-man) when a thought struck him.

 

Where did the acorn come from?

 

He was not under a tree. There were no rapscallions using acorns in their sling shots.

 

He gazed upwards. Just the sky. The clouds.

 

Wait!

 

They appeared nearer!

 

That was it! Said his fiery limbic system. The sky is falling!

 

A new and profound terror gripped his feathers (actually causing a few to fly off). He ran around in circling, quacking, hopping from foot to foot. His bald scalp had no hair to tear out, so he made do with plucking his own feathers.

 

“The sky is falling! Raise the Quacklarm! The sky is falling! Raise the quacklarm!”

 

And so on and so forth until the Quacklarm (whatever that was) had be raised in every nook and cranny of the pleasant green fields, and Umberto Velluti’s voice was hoarse from shouting.

 

The enchanted denizens of this enchanted land had gathered, everyone of them anthropomorphical and able to speak spiffy English as well as any human (lips and tongues clearly not a necessity in this land, thanks to magic!)

 

The gregarious goose.

 

The badgering badger.

 

The meek mouse.

 

The silly sheep.

 

And the completely trustworthy and not at all hungry Fox.

 

Off they went to warn the king that the sky was falling.

 

“You will all be my best friends!” said the gregarious goose.

 

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” said the badgering badger.

 

“…” squeaked the meek mouse.

 

“Juniper crossbit wobblefarm” said the Silly Sheep, who was very silly.

 

“Would you all like to come to my lair I mean my home to be my, I mean to have dinner?” said the completely trustworthy Fox.

 

Something about the words, and the way the Fox said them (drooling, with a lolling tongue licking his lips and very sharp teeth) but Umberto on edge.

 

But after all, if the sky was falling perhaps it would be better to be in somebodies home. Better shielding.

 

“Does you home have reinforced steel buttresses that might mitigate the devastation caused by a falling sky?” asked Umberto.

 

For a moment, he wondered if a sky could fall. It was air, wasn’t it? With a bit of moisture? And rain hardly hurt. But that was in the proper world, with proper rules. This was a fairy world, and nothing made sense. It was terrifying!

 

It was but a short walk through the fields and streams (or in some cases, waddling or scuttling) to reach the trustworthy Fox’s abode. It was a hole in the ground.

 

“VISITORS ARE MOST WELCOME” said the sign.

 

Umberto arched an eyebrow, something instinctive and paranoid reacting to the sign, telling him it could be read in more than one way. But it was less scary than the falling sky, so he went in, followed by his animal chums.

 

The Foxs home was not in the best of shape. There were some decorations, some furniture, but all were rickety and makeshift at best. The only testament to any kind of home-loving were some sharp kitchen knives and plates. And a sign that declared, proudly, “Put yourself on the table,” with a cheeky picture of a grinning fox.

 

“You all look delicious,” said the Fox, licking his lips.

 

“uh…” said a chorus of worried animals, no longer so worried about the sky falling. It was now apparent that the apparently trustworthy Fox may not have been quite so trustworthy after all.

 

He pounced! Teeth glinting in the pale light of his lair.

 

CHOMP! CHOMP-CHOMP! Went his teeth!

 

“But we were friends!” complained the Gregarious goose, as its head came off.

 

“Let me go! Let me go!” shouted the Badgering badger, as it was bitten in half.

 

“…” said the Meek mouse, as it was swallowed hole.

 

“Cheddar mongoose boomerang!” declared the Silly sheep, as it was eaten, silly to the last morsel.

 

“Oh deary me!” said Umberto, the last standing.

 

“I feel like chicken tonight!” proclaimed the ravenous Fox, picking a few sheep hairs out of its rather long and rather sharp teeth.

 

“Mama!” cried Umberto, trembling as the Fox closed its huge jaws around his bald head…

 

…only for Umberto to wake up, drenched in sweat, in his Freedom City gardening shop, clutching his bedsheets.

 

It was only a dream, he told himself.

 

Probably, his fear added.