Thread for The Death of Cornelius T Fistwick the Seventeenth, Part One Index | New Thread | Reply | Close | Stick | Delete  The Death of Cornelius T Fistwick the Seventeenth, Part One FALCON X-0N 7:15am, December 14, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] “SPRICKENFRATZENGLUBENBURGER!” The computer display beeped twice to itself, a red LED light shining abruptly along the side of the colony’s airlock, while a man in a dark maroon, form fitting space suit tugged against the four microfilament wires keeping him from flying across into the vacuum. “What the hell was that?” called out a second man, speaking over the internal radio in an outdated, bulky looking silver space suit, outfitted with a jetpack on its rear. He spun around horizontally, obviously having fun with his newest toy, moving slowly forwards in a spiral in order to get closer to the man in red, who hung against the wires, suspended and limp. “That was our good luck running out, again,” replied the man in red over a similar radio system, dangling against the wall, daring the gravity of the dull looking brown planet below to swallow him. “Really. Because it kind of sounded like a koala having a seizure.” “No. Koala’s aren’t Austrian. I was going for the Austrian.” “Right. I got that. So we’re not getting in?” The man in red gripped one of the four magnetically sealed cables holding him to the side wall of the massive orbiting space colony, it’s walls stretching out over three miles in every direction. Though it’s walls were, technically, a cylinder if viewed from far enough away, when right up against it, it seemed to be a flat surface. “Didn’t say that. Did I say that?” Red took the first cable in his left hand, his fingers dancing over to the second one, slowly pulling himself up and closer to the side of the airlock. His right reached behind him, taking out a small grey bundle, with three green and red striped wires exposed from each side. “How come the answer to everything we do has to be explosive?” asked Silver as Red put the small grey bundle against the airlock. The bomb slid against the metal surface with a swift thunk, heard by no one in the soundless vacuum, as Red unwrapped the bundle and began dialing in on the internal digital readout and display. “Well,” he replied, his eyes focused on the task at hand, his fingers darting about on the display in a hypnotic dance, “I think it’s because that’s the most fun.” “And most flamey?” grinned the second man. “And the most flamey,” replied the first with a smirk, as he pulled himself against the gigantic airlock doors, and then kicked off, watching as the readout on the bundle began to countdown from thirty. “We like the flamey, don’t we?” “Damn right,” Silver spat out as he maneuvered himself upright, tilting the suit to look up against the wall of the colony until it became a floor to him, dull grey metal platelets, interlocked and stretching out into the blackness in every direction. “This is a really bad idea, Slider,” he said. “Well, yeah, Buzz,” the man in red replied to his cohort, again floating lazily and limp, letting the four wires hold him to the colony wall as if he hadn’t noticed the endless abyss behind him, floating away from the charge he had placed. “These colonies got hit hard by that Electro-magnetic Pulse the other week. They’ve been undergoing repairs and re-supply ever since then.” He paused, to slide his suit’s blast visor into place, as he knew the explosion would make a rather blinding flash, if seen from point blank. “Every ounce of cargo space,” he continued, “every tunnel, pockets right beneath bulkheads, even airlocks, are all being utilized for the most basic of necessities- -food, water, air…” “…canned jellies, farfignugen and TV dinners. What’s the plan, Captain?” asked Buzz, still floating in his silver suit, eying the other man with his wary, right, organic eye. “Because,” replied Slider, as the timer reached zero. “That means that to make room for the bare necessities, gold, spice, and other goodies are being stashed in bulkheads and airlocks, just like this one. Stashed, and forgotten.” He grinned, despite the uncomfortable chafing of the space suit. Buzz turned, grinning as well. “Except by us you mean.” “Well, yeah.” Their brief repartee was cut short as the charge went off without a sound nor a hitch, blowing a shaped charge into the side of the airlock about a meter wide, between Slider’s four cables keeping him connected. The colonies rotation, however, turning on its horizontal axis as to simulate gravity, forcibly ejected the airlock’s contents out at the two mercenary thieves. Unfortunately, the contents weren’t riches or gold, but instead 308 cubic meters of water drained from the colonies interior lake and irrigation systems. Coupled with the explosive decompression, Slider was soaked, and Buzz was sent skyrocketing off towards the desert planted that they orbited. Slider floated there, still connected, limply hanging off the side of the colony, for another minute, staring blankly at the hole in the colony wall. Eventually, Buzz flew back up, having regained control of his decent and arrived back at the rendezvous point. “So. Bad plan,” “Well, yeah.” Buzz groaned, slapping himself in the helmet and letting out a short chuckle. “I told you we should have had my ship scan the surface first,” he let out between a bemused chortle. “Nah,” replied Slider, fingering the release on one of the wires with a quick flick before moving onto the other three. “Besides, we would’ve been spotted by security if we’d brought the Spanish Inquisition this close to the wall.” “Still,” Buzz asked, cracking his neck inside the helmet, “we could have been a little less impulsive, don’t you think? I’ll bring the ship around now, it’s still in docking bay 19, and we can- -wait. What are you doing?” Slider undid the last of the safety cables and kicked off what was left of the airlock wall, floating backwards lazily towards the atmosphere of the planet Tatooine in only his space suit, and without so much as a care in the world. “Going for a walk.” “I’m going for a walk!” Cornelius T Fistwick the Seventeenth yelled down the steel and glass hallway of the ultra-secret complex founded by AEGIS only five months ago. A voice yelled down after him, terse and angry, that of the vampire hero Pardamual, who followed down after him in a rush. “The police still want our heads, Corny!” he shouted, using Fistwick’s less than prized nickname, given to him by one of the many girls he had taken in and trained to fight monsters, vampires, and other forces of darkness. Fistwick was a Watcher, one who trains and guides The Slayer, an ancient warrior for good. Pardamual was another warrior, though the side he’d walk was decidedly more dubious. Together, they had founded a paranormal investigation and elimination agency inside the city of Mos Eisley, a city on the planet Tatooine that was seemingly constantly under attack by some dark force or another. Hey had been joined by several of the Watcher’s charges, different Slayers that had come down from various planets to partake of his training, some of which had stayed, others of which had left to do special missions for the Council that Fistwick worked for. Five months ago, they took in a troubled young magic user, whom Fistwick attempted to mentor in the occult. However, they later found out that he was corrupted by a powerful omniscient power known as “The Seepage,” and had used his newfound and disruptive power to influence the Mos Eisley Police Department into a murderous culling. When the two, along with two Slayers, a witch, and a mercenary, attempted to stop these murders, the Police put a hit out on them, citing them as cop killers. Their investigation building was bombed to ashes, and a shady government agency which fought the Seepage, known as AEGIS, offered them shelter- -on the terms that they all became AEGIS agents, and stayed underground. Ever since then, their effectiveness in combating evil from inside a bureaucratic and literal steel cage has been a topic of friction between the group. Nevertheless, Watcher or not, he was going for a walk, and no police force in the world was going to stop him. “Dammit, Fistwick!” Pardamual shouted, losing his temper, “they know our faces!” Cornelius stopped at that, turning to face the vampire, who had already caught up with the deceptively young looking man. He stepped into the light cast by the overhead lights in the hallway, revealing a hideously deformed face. Alongside his left eye, and all across his face, were vicious looking scars, a telltale sign of DME addiction. Though Cornelius was afflicted with a rare form, called DME poisoning, it was just as painful, and decisively fatal. He grinned, his left eye having lost it’s pigment due to the disease, giving his right eye the appearance that it was jetting out at the unaccustomed viewer. “Somehow,” he spoke with a decidedly brutal edge, his upper-class British accent re-enforcing the hiss in his voice, as he hobbled to a stop with his wooden cane, “I don’t think they’ll recognize me all too readily.” Pardamual, the vampire who was known for his compassion, just kind of blinked a few times, and then spoke tersely as the Watcher continued back on his previous path: “Cornelius, you’re not a cat.” The Watcher spun around, pointing the cane at the Vampire and shouting, angrily, his right eye seeming to bug out again. “I am most certainly a,” he stopped, his facial features noticeably falling into confusion has he began to process his statement, “…huh?” Pardamual, to his credit, didn’t seem to be at all perturbed by his comrade’s confusion, merely sighing and walking forwards, glancing to the ceiling quickly as if to think the best way to explain himself. He spoke deliberately, putting his hand against the wall in exasperation. “Cats,” he said, “Die. And when cats know the end is near, they go off to find some place to die. Housecats. I used to have one. You’re not a cat, you don’t have to do this.” For the first time Cornelius actually paused, his eyes betraying his plan for a brief second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, adding “and since when did you have a cat?” “Cornelius, I saw you packing the car earlier,” Pardamual spoke with a bitter edge, ignoring the query. If he was sadder about losing a friend than he was angry about losing a comrade, he wasn’t going to let it show. “What,” he sighed, “am I going to go tell Keira? Or Kathryn?” He spoke of the Slayer, and the Witch, respectively. “Tell them,” Cornelius blurted out, angrily, “that I’ve led enough girls to their deaths. And I’ve cheated my own too many times. They shouldn’t have to be here for this. And neither should you.” “What about Valen?” asked the Vampire, “Or Toxic?” “Toxic’s got his own troubles to deal with,” replied Fistwick, grumbling at the name, but slamming the door to the garage open as he thought of Valen, the misbegotten, gender-confused Slayer. “Valen works for the enemy now, I don’t see a damn reason to tell him anything.” The enemy in question was Wolfram and Hart, Attorney’s at Law. They were a conglomerate of evil, representing the worst the universe had to offer, and run by the forces of darkness. They were the polar opposite of everything that Pardamual, Fistwick, and the Watcher’s Council stood for, and four months ago Valen, who was like a son to the group, had split and signed a contract with them. Valen’s very soul belonged to Wolfram and Hart, and in Cornelius’ mind, that meant he was in no way trustworthy. The two soldiers for good stopped at the garage, Pardamual in the doorway, staying out of the sunlight that was being let in as Cornelius opened the garage door. “You can’t do this alone,” he shouted after the Watcher, who was just getting settled inside the car. “You’re right. I’ll need a pilot”, he replied curtly, before he drove off for docking bay 19.   Impersonating Red 9:42pm, December 15, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] That probably was pretty good.. you know, if i had read it and all. Speaking of which, wtf are you doin' stealing my name?  story Rylee 11:56pm, December 15, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] Okay Zonnish, where's the other half? The Coruscant part and death scene and where Slider and.... all that stuff comes in? *grumbles* to be continueds are such a pain. *paces while waiting for the rest of the story*  Okay... FALCON X-0N 1:47am, December 16, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] Red, what the fuck are you talking about?  The Death of Cornelius T Fistwick the Seventeenth, Part Two FALCON X-0N 1:48am, December 16, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] It wasn’t very long before Cornelius reached docking bay nineteen, parking his car just outside the inner ring and hobbling along on foot. His cane made a clacking noise each time it pressed against the solid rock walkway that elevated a path above the dirt and sand almost an inch. Suddenly, there was a rather disruptive bang sound, akin to a gun blast, startling the old man. He almost stumbled on the rock, cursing his wooden cane; though it had saved his life in the past, it’s wooden make certainly did not suit for life on Tatooine. In the city of Mos Eisley, everything was an ore; either metal, or rock. Wooden buildings had been imported in the aftermath of an invasion years ago, and in a more recent reconstruction effort had tallied more concrete based housing, but neither found to quite stack up to the city’s deconstructive talents for harsh weather and harsher inhabitants. As a result, the slums of the city, called the Old City were a frenzied patchwork of concrete and rock faced walls, smoothed by plaster but worn by bullet holes or scarring blaster marks. Beyond the Old City were the Ruins, where the true poor lived, squatting in wooden, dilapidated houses, most ready to fall down and some already in the process. The New City, however, always gleamed at all hours of the day and night, with it’s center jewel, Shinra Row and it’s Shin-Ra Tower. The Docking bays were mostly in the older part of the city, and while some existed in the more upper class parts of Eisley, Cornelius wasn’t looking for an upper class freighter. He was looking for a man he knew named The Slider. Slider and Cornelius had met while the planet was under siege by a powerful creature of demonic origin known as Thanatos. Thanatos was a god of death, who desired nothing but destruction, and who had grown so powerful that none could stop him. Still, the people on the planet had tried anyways, and Slider had ended up one of the people who gave their lives to stop him. Cornelius had died as well; but when you defeat the God of Death, with Death, you often get a second chance at life. This second chance had haunted Cornelius ever since the fates had awarded them two years ago, and he was often put off by Slider’s nonchalant response to it. “Neat,” he had exclaimed, calling it a “Get out of death free card.” Cornelius had seen it as a chance to put things right, a chance to change, to undo some of the damage he perceived his life had done. As a Watcher, almost every girl he trained had died in battle defeating some vicious enemy and saving humanity. Still, these girls had died, a fact which weighed heavy on his conscious until after his resurrection. Slider, however, had no such reservations, and had mostly continued life after the incident as he did before. Cornelius knew, however, that he was the perfect man for the job. Coruscant was a planet under siege, but it used to be the home of the Council of Watchers, before the Borg had attacked in this last year. This was where Cornelius was born and raised, where he had lived for most of his life before earning such exemplary marks and recommendations from senior Council members, he was sent out into the galaxy to help train Slayers on a “trial-by-fire” basis. His contemporaries had called him “Watcher at Large,” and he was often sent to assist other Watchers, retrain renegade Slayers (on the rare occasion such occurred), or generally troubleshoot during difficult situations. Now he was planning on returning to the planet of his home, in order to make final amends with the graves of the women he had led to doom. In short, he was leaving to die, on his own terms. He knew that Slider would respect that. There was something about that man that was hidden under airs of nonchalance and confidence; a fated personality, someone who lived recklessly because he believed all his cards had already been dealt to him, and that he was merely waiting for it to be his turn to fold. The first lesson that a Watcher learns is to separate reality from fiction, as in the world he would be living and working in, reality can be so easily persuaded. From the moment Fistwick had laid eyes on him, he had known that Slider was a man who did not care if he had lived or died because in his mind, he was already dead. If Cornelius was going to go back to his home in order to die on his own terms, then who better to escort him than a man who lives that conundrum as a lifestyle? Cornelius had also heard stories of Slider by his friend and coworker, Toxic Marsh. Marsh had both worked with Slider’s mercenary pirating group, and Fistwick’s paranormal investigations group. Once, Fistwick was told, Slider had encounter a man from a faction known as the Galactic Sovereignty. He had frozen up, and gotten uncontrollably angry. The only other time, Toxic said, that he had seen that kind of rage out of him was during an incident with what seemed to be an old friend of Slider’s by the name of Saint. Slider had overheard a name of a woman that had something to do with Saint, and after which he had immediately taken off, on a suicide attack on Saint’s location. Buzz had called it “the most serious look that could be on a man’s face” when Slider had left. However, when Cornelius walked into docking bay nineteen, his ears still ringing from the loud and obnoxious bangs he had heard when he first arrived, he began to doubt his reasoning. “You put the lime in the coco-nut and shoot it with a gun!” Slider sang, happily blasting a long line of coconuts, positioned on a ledge generally reserved for repair equipment, with a .45 handgun. Cornelius honestly didn’t know if the man was practicing his quick draw or just very bored, and he doubt that Slider drew such distinctions in the first place. “You put the lime in the coco-nut! And shoo- -oh,” Slider spoke, as he turned, spotting Cornelius, spinning the gun dramatically on his right index finger and blow the smoke from it’s tip. “What can I do ya for, Mr. Magic British Realian?” It wasn’t too long after that when they left on Slider’s ship, the Transcendency, under threat of gunpoint.  The Death of Cornelius T Fistwick the Seventeenth, Part Three FALCON X-0N 3:15am, December 17, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] “He left,” came a voice from the shadows, calm, but annoyed. “We wanted him for the plan.” Despite the wall of monitors, row upon row opposite the man, shadow’s always seemed to stir around him, keeping him from being seen. No one ever knew if it was some type of paranormal ability or just good planning on the part of the CEO of Wolfram and Hart, Lajos Szabo. He had, after all, designed the office. In truth, Szabo was just a moniker, a fake identity he had cultivated over the past few years. His true identity was unknown, even to his underlings, such as Trenton Trenow, the President of the Special Projects division of Wolfram and Hart. Trenton stood in the office, getting a scolding from his boss. All things considered, he was getting off light. He isn’t needed for the plan, though, you old bag, he thought, bitterly chiding himself. His company had too many mind readers for him to risk even thinking badly of the boss. Truthly, he knew he was right, and he knew that Szabo probably thought the same thing. “I’ll see to it right away, Mr. Z,” he grinned, using his usual witty and veracious charm that had won him so many court cases. Now with Tatooine’s primary court being somewhat of a medieval deliberation system with the sophistication of a canned jelly, he found that more and more of his cases were being settled out of court, and his unique way with words was being put to use more in obtaining new clients than arguing with a prosecuting attorney. Trenton still had a bit of clout, and he knew that “Mr. Z” owed him a favor- -it was Trenton who had been used by Wolfram and Hart, and Szabo in particular, to make sure the local heroes kept the apocalypse at bay when it looked as if their holdings would have been threatened. Trenton was chased out of the company against his will, fearing for his life, in order to sincerely earn the trust of the “good guys” before he was brought back into the fold. He had stolen, much to the scenario, a key into Wolfram and Hart, which granted the heroes access to the Firm’s resources without their actually needing to cow down to them and their ideals. In order to save face, Szabo designed a fake apocalypse which never came to pass, warning Trenton of it. Trenton was only told of the truth at the ninth hour, and his orders were to keep the goodies from discovering the truth, and to stop both the fake, and real apocalypse. However, the real threat vanished, and the fake one merely fizzled, the entire situation being resolved without much input or action being taken on Trenton’s part at all. Still, because of his sacrifice (and willingness to come back to work after being screwed over so heartily) on the part of the firm, he had grown bolder, and felt entitled to call the CEO by a nickname. If Szabo had any objections to “Mr. Z” he never showed him, and for some reason that made Trenton very nervous. “I’ll find him, right away, sir,” Trenton continued, his mind already tallying possibilities. Their newest star lawyer, Valen, would be given the job. Not only did he have a history with their quarry, he had the physical and mental skills to track the ship, and thanks to Wolfram and Hart, he had the legal clout and abilities to affect their safe travel and keep the travelers locked in red tape until they could be safely put back into their place. “I’ll send our pet Slayer. He should take care of it.” “No.” Szabo’s word, as always, was final. “What?” replied Trenton, before gathering his wits and rephrasing himself. “Begging your pardon, sir, he’s probably the best qualified, and it would cement his dedication to this firm. Perhaps we could arrange a mishap, and convince him that he was going of his own volition…poison that girl of his, perhaps.” At the end of the summer, Valen had been kidnapped by Wolfram and Hart in order to process his dubious origin. A man who was also a Slayer was unheard of, and as a scientific and mystical oddity, they wanted to dissect him to death. However, Valen’s then-friends launched a recovery attack (though it may have begun as an all out attack after they learned that Valen had been in talks with Wolfram and Hart), and during the fight, Trenton had been stabbed in the heart by the Slayer, Keira Abernathy. Wolfram and Hart had quickly supplied him with a cheap alterative, but he had never been able to fully express his desire for revenge. However, at this firm, revenge was business, not personal, and he had never been allowed to go after the Slayer. She was, after all, a powerful force of good that by that very action, the attempted taking of a human life in cold blood, had started down a less than stellar path. It was the firm’s policy to never rub out anything useful, and with all the other power players in the city (All of which shared the Slayer as a common enemy) and the chance that she could be pushed into their service (as it had, after all, worked for Valen), Trenton was denied any vengeance unless it could be fit into his work schedule. Szabo grumbled and continued. “No, as it could also just as soon cause him to turn and defy us. You will go, Trenow.” Trenton’s mouth went dry. It’s not that he had a problem with field work, he just didn’t like it. He hated traveling, for one. And secondly, field work for those who worked inside Special Projects, not those who ran it. “Are we clear?” asked Szabo, with a hint of grim malice in his voice. “Crystal, Sir,” responded Trenton, leaving out the “Mr. Z” this time around. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” “I hate mornings,” came the disgruntled and disoriented voice from the kitchen as Cornelius walked up the steps and through the porthole. The sound of coffee pirculating in a machine could be heard down the hall, as well as the memorable sizzle of what sounded to be fresh bacon sizzling on the stove. “That’s peculiar,” he remarked, “as it’s nine at night.” The Captain of the passenger, cargo, and freight ship Transcendency blustered at that, momentarily caught without a comeback. Within moments, before Fistwick could get another dig in, he shrugged, taking a sip of the freshly brewed coffee. “Captain’s perrogitive,” he said flatly, setting his cup down, “My ship, I make the hours.” Cornelius groaned at that, settling into a seat, eying the stove. “Is that so?” he dryly asked, turning his attention to the sizzle of what seemed to be, until moments ago, bacon. “What in devil’s name are you making on that thing, Captain?” Slider, glanced offhandedly at the stove, shrugging nonchalauntly as he took another sip of his coffee. “Mongolian Barbeque,” he explained matter-of-factly, either ignorant of, or taking great pride in the blustering confusion among his passenger’s face. “Slider,” Cornelius started, his accent heightening the expression, speaking cautiously as he studied the contents of the breakfast, “a package of ramen, three packets of gum, and water does not a Mongolian make.” Any explanations, however, were left daft of Slider, as he continued to stir his concoction with the handle of a spoon, momentarily stopping to pour some of his coffee into the pan. “Sure it does!” he argued. “Slider,” Cornelius continued, “you didn’t even use a filter for that, did you?” Slider looked to Fistwick confused for a moment, then held he coffee up proudly. “Nah!” he started, “used an old gym sock.” The Watcher’s face went even paler than one would have thought possible. “A…sock?” he said, before being cut off by Slider’s rampant rapport; “Yeah, you want some?” the Captain asked his guest, causing he poor sick man to lose yet another shade of color in his face. Finally, Slider grinned, laughing. “I’m kidding,” he choked out between fits of roareous laughter, “I used a filter. Yes, I did, what do you take me for, a barbarian?” Cornelius slowly regained some of the color in his face, speaking dryly. “Your breakfast would speak otherwise,” he intoned. “What’s wrong with my breakfast?” Slider asked with a grumble. “That you’re actually going to try to eat it,” replied Cornelius. He groaned, turning paler once again as he eyed Slider’s food. “Seriously, what’s wrong with it? It’s…nice! And healthsome!” Slider asked, bemused. Cornelius couldn’t tell if he was honestly convinced in the “‘healthsome” qualities of his cooking chimera, or if his captain was just screwing with him. Cornelius grumbled, pointing at the concotion with a crooked finger “It’s just that...you…uhm…you, ah, need to flip that ramen,” he finally relented, pointing at the block of uncooked noodle that was slowly burning itself in the pan. \“And now for the grand finale!” declared Slider, taking out a bottle of Devorian whisky and pouring about two tumblers into the pan, lighting it up in a flash. “Voila!” he finished, pouring his concotion onto a plate and displaying it in front of Fistwick, placing it on the table. “Breakfast a-la-Slider!” Cornelius wrinkled his brow, and then his nose, at the ineptedly named ‘food’ and glanced up at Slider, deadpanning. “Is that what it’s name is?” Slider looked thoughtful for a moment, as if the other man’s sarcastic remark had triggered some kind of actual mental process. “I call it,” he grinned, devilishly, “Captain’s perrogitive.” “Slider, don’t make me shoot you again,” replied Cornelius, with a hint of humor that lacked his earlier sentiments.  so far so good Rylee 3:49am, December 17, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] Great story so far. Slider and Corny are hilarious... course, I'm realizing by each installment that Kay works for a lunatic. Oh well. *two thumbs up* Can't wait for the next installment. =)  Zon...we need to talk. Buzz 8:35pm, December 17, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] I've got a really cool idea, not for the story, but as to how you can distribute the story...Email me when you can if I don't talk to you soon, I lost yours.  The Death of Cornelius T Fistwick the Seventeenth, Part Four FALCON X-0N 8:18am, December 19, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] “Slider, don’t make me shoot you,” started Cornelius, an hour before they left the planet on the Transcendency, a few seconds after he walked into docking bay nineteen. Slider had lowered his weapon, looking confused for a moment. That was all the moment that Cornelius had needed. His disease, DME poisoning, came from the usage of his realian body. This was an artificial body, that of a combat grade realian. Realien’s were different from androids in the sense that they were, technically, human, only having been grown with different parts, and densities. Essentially, they were equal parts technology and equal parts genetic augments, generally used by more unscrupulous governments for dangerous labor or, in the case of Cornelius’ body, combat operations. However, Cornelius himself was not a Realien, but had his brain transplanted into the body of one. DME Addiction is a disease that effects the mind and body of non-realiens, which occurs when a human ingests the neural matter of a realien. In Cornelius’ case, the opposite was occurring- -realien tissue was eating him. Essentially, his disease was merely a side effect of his body rejecting the brain, and attempting to consume it. The result was fatal, but it did have some increasingly interesting side effects: for one, he still had the enhanced strength and reflexes that combat-grade realians often demonstrate. So when Slider lowered his weapon, even for a split second, Cornelius brought his combat magnum up and fired. To his credit, Slider at first didn’t seem all that worried about the old man in a young man’s body pointing a deadly weapon at him, and even less concerned about the fact that it had just been used to shoot a handgun out of his own fingers rather delicately. “Huh,” he grunted, before coming to the quite logical conclusion that Cornelius had gone completely and utterly insane. Again. “Slider, I mean it. I need your ship,” the Watcher demanded, while Slider merely narrowed his eyes at the other man’s face. “Say, Corny,” Slider started, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, “You’ve gone completely batshit bonkers again, havn’t ya?” he finished with a grin, then deftly dove in a surprisingly spry arc that took the bounty hunter over the ledge he had been using for target practice, and took the british android by surprise. “SLIDER!” Cornelius shouted, anger brewing in his voice, walking defiantly towards the ledge. “I mean it, I need your shi- -SHLOOP!” He was momentarily halted as the remains of a half-shot up coconut splattered all over Cornelius’ face. Slider was grinning, peeking over the ledge and holding another two coconuts that were in similar condition. “Did you just throw a coconut at me?” Fistwick asked, studying the glee on Slider’s face. Slider, who said nothing, merely smiled and launched another two coconuts, one in each hand, at the Watcher. Years of finely tuned instinct and finely trained muscle memory came into play, as Cornelius’ head rocketed to the side and avoided the gooey mellon that had been aimed for his own. However, Slider was a crafty foe, and the second half-splattered coconut hit it’s mark- -Cornelius’ combat magnum. The gun clattered to the ground, covered in juices. Without wasting any time, Slider leaped over the ledge, his arm pumping to brace him weight as he brought his leg up and around to kick Cornelius squarely in the jaw. Cornelius, however, merely stepped forwards, shifting his stance and driving an arm, curved upwards at the elbow, into the incoming leg, deflecting the kick and forcing Slider to roll along his side of he ledge. Cornelius came in with a palm strike, blasting the sand and rockface off of the ledge where, just moments before, Slider had lain. “Damn, if you hit like that, why do you just train the Superhero?” Slider shouted, trying to offset his opponent with a bit of mockery. If it had any effect on Cornelius, the man didn’t show it, merely launching into a side-snap kick at Slider’s new position. Slider quickly took a step back, digging his left heel into the ground while bringing his right hand up to his ear and then swinging it down towards his own knee, dropping his weight and deflecting Cornelius’ kick. Not to be outdone, the Watcher spun with the new momentum gained by the maneuvering, positioning his left foot on the ground and spinning with his right, over the ledge, to try and slam his heel into Slider’s jaw. It connected, sending Slider sprawling to the ground in a mess of limbs, kicking up dust as he landed. “Oh, I don’t know,” Cornelius started, bemused, and walking towards his downed opponent. “I guess you could say I hit like a girl.” He grinned, then drove his fist down at Slider’s face. The man rolled out of the way, however, causing the Watcher to lose balance as his attack connected with nothing. Pressing the advantage, Slider, twisted onto his haunches and spun around a full 360 degrees, kicking his leg out and sweeping Cornelius’ legs, causing the man to fall on his back. Slider came down with a vicious hammer fist just as Cornelius himself rolled out of the way. In a flash, both men were up on their feet, circling each other. “So…crazy again, huh? “No. I just need your ship.” “Well, it is for hire, just not to crazy people!” Then the fighting began in earnest. Slider launched himself towards Cornelius in a full spin kick, which Cornelius dodged by swiftly angling himself backwards, the heel of Slider’s boot sliding gracefully through the air just by his nose. Cornelius pressed the offensive with a jab towards Slider’s back as he finished his turn, but the mercenary sensed it coming and swung his arm against Fistwick’s, twisting locking them together at the elbow. Slider threw the second punch, but Cornelius mimicked his move and locked up the other man’s other limb. They stood there, locked together for a moment, before Slider stepped forwards and slammed his forehead against the combat realien’s nose, causing him to stumble back. He then twisted, shaking his arm free and bringing a powerful uppercut to the stunned Cornelius’ jawline, with an effect that was satisfactory enough that Slider repeated the attack another two times before Cornelius sent a backfist to the mercenary’s face, causing the two to finally separate. Not to be outdone, Cornelius moved in with a fury of attacks, swinging his fist right at Slider’s jaw in a violent roundhouse, which was easily blocked by the other man. It was a feint however, allowing Slider to get in too close, and Cornelius to grab the other man by the scruff of his hair and pull him down into the vicious knee pumping towards his midsection. Slider coughed up blood all over Cornelius’ shirt before the realien threw him down to the ground, wiping the blood from his nose. “Give me your ship,” he demanded, still glaring at the mercenary’s lumpy form “Sure, but you gotta remember to return it with a full tank of gas,” Slider spat out between coughs, “and god help you if I find even one penny missing from the change tray…” “I’m not in the mood for jokes! I need to go to Coruscant, and if you’re not competent enough to handle an old fool like me, then there’s no way I can hire you!” Cornelius screamed, rushing in to kick Slider’s face. This was exactly what Slider wanted, as when the kick arrived, he twisted, rolling down at the sand and underneath the kick, grabbing the ankle and twisting with all his might. The Watcher dropped like a stone. Slider didn’t waste any time, scrambling up and sliding across the sand to recover his fallen .45 1911, aiming it directly at the unarmed Cornelius just as the man began to recover. Cornelius just sat there, grumbling. --- “…well, I thought it was funny,” said Slider, as he held an icepack to his head, later that day, as the Transcendency traveled through space. Both he and his passenger, Cornelius, were in the ship’s cockpit, a room large enough to be coined a bridge, but as the ship contained only three small decks, it had been labeled with the more anarchristic version. “It wasn’t. I don’t even know how you did that,” replied Cornelius, putting ice on his left ankle. “That move was insane. I could have just hit you right in the face if I had been going just a fraction of a second faster, or slower.” “I know, I know, I get it Pops, alright?” groaned Slider, sipping on some coffee, “I were one of your Slayers, I’d be getting a scathing talkin’-to right ‘bout now, sure. Still, it was pretty funny.” “No, Slider,” monotoned Cornelius, “the phrase ‘pretty spry, for an old guy’ is neither comedic, nor does it address the particularly sensitive subject of my- -“ He was cut off, as the entire ship shook, throwing both men to the floor. As they scrambled to get up, Slider slid into the pilot’s chair, desperately flipping switches. Soon, external lights and cameras came back on, along with the emergency power, but they only served to illuminate the situation they were in. They could now, plainly see the attacking vessel, not but ten meters away from their hull, but in a dark black ship at least three times the size of the firefly-class Transcendecy. “What is it? Why did we drop out of hyperspace?” asked Cornelius, steadying himself. Slider drew in a quick breath, letting it out slowly as he eyed the vessel, and issues, dead in front of him. “…Pirates.” Edited 2:19am, December 19 by FALCON X-0N, author.  oooohhhh Rylee 8:40am, December 19, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] *waits for the next installment, totally enthralled* damn this is really good   Red 7:35pm, December 19, 2004 [Edit] [Delete] I'm sure it's great... still too lazy to read it... i'll wait for it to be published. As for the stealing of my name, I was just messin' with ya. But in part one you say : "“How come the answer to everything we do has to be explosive?” asked Silver as Red put the small grey bundle against the airlock. The bomb slid against the metal surface with a swift thunk, heard by no one in the soundless vacuum, as Red unwrapped the bundle and began dialing in on the internal digital readout and display. “Well,” he replied, his eyes focused on the task at hand, his fingers darting about on the display in a hypnotic dance, “I think it’s because that’s the most fun.”" So HA! Index | New Thread | Reply | Close | Stick | Delete