Tales of the Legendary
Superball: Fallout (Staking a Claim - Side Chapter)
* * *
My landlady glared at me as I fumbled with the lock on the door. I turned, bobbing my head and giving a jaunty little wave down the corridor - the sort of thing that said 'Yes, I know the rent's due'.
At least I hoped it said that, rather than what I actually wanted to say...which was more along the lines of 'Go away, you old blender-faced bitch, before I pull your spine through your nostrils and force-feed it to that overgrown amoeba you call a cat'.
But I didn't say that. Wouldn't have been good for the image, after all, or the TV audience at home. Superball is a good boy, kiddies. Good boys don't have frustrated psychotic episodes like that, not if they want to stay good boys and out of prison.
Though, mind you, I was pretty sure I could do it if I really wanted to. Tempting, so tempting.
Self-control's a bitch.
I gritted my teeth, thankful my grimace was hidden by the mask, and pretended to smile.
The door finally clicked, letting me in. I shoved it shut behind me, twisted the lock back home, then slumped against the closed surface.
I inhaled, drawing a sharp breath. It reeked of sweat. The inside of the mask clung to my face.
Suddenly, the damn thing felt all too confining.
Snarling, I ripped it off in one explosive motion, tossing it across the room. The solid eyepieces made a god-awful clattering noise as they bounced off the floor.
Part of me cringed. The costume was expensive. On the other hand, the lenses were hardened for combat. A little temper tantrum wouldn't even scratch the finish.
Besides, I had bigger headaches than my redlined bank account. Oh no, financial woes in this dire economic recession, that's a normal everyday problem. Superball problems, now those are an entirely different kettle of fish. Possibly with an accompanying tea service of other assorted marine life.
All decomposing and stinking to high heaven.
"Fuck," I swore.
Not too loudly. It was an old building, and the neighbours might hear...not to mention the old bat, if she was still lurking in the hallway. But what the profanity lacked in volume, it made up in emphasis.
Sometimes a man just needs to cut loose and use some good old-fashioned profanity.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."
I'm sure if my mother could hear me now, she'd give a sad and disapproving glare. Right before complaining about the sorry state of my apartment, the disturbingly tight outfit glued to my body, and my complete and utter lack of a sex life.
"Thank you, mom," I said, out loud, "God bless your soul."
I shifted my weight, leaning against the door frame - letting the raised edge and hinges dig into my back. Exhaling, I rubbed my face with one gloved hand, fingers and palm running over my eyes.
"Oh yeah, and God, while you're at it...could you tell me WHAT I did to deserve this?"
Silence.
"Right," I muttered, "dumb question."
It was, really. A dumb question, I mean. I know damn well what I deserved. But knowing that intellectually is one thing. Having to actually deal with the crap, that's something else entirely. Especially when life backs up to you with a whole truckload of manure and hits the emergency release in your face.
But it didn't make sense. No sense at all.
I stumbled into the little tiled closet that passed for my bathroom, stepping over the crumpled towel on the floor and palming the light switch. Turning on the faucet, I splashed water on my face until I felt vaguely human again.
Resting my hands on either side of the sink, I looked at my dripping face in the mirror.
Why?
Why in the name of all that's good and holy would anyone ask Superball out?
That wasn't supposed to happen. There was nothing in the contingencies for a woman grinding herself into Superball's crotch.
My crotch.
If it wasn't for the armoured protector, I'd have been an inch from total brain malfunction.
Literally an inch. In expansion terms.
It didn't make sense.
Was she out of her mind?
Well. Possibly. Sell-Sword rated her a psych risk. But Sell-Sword had damn near half of Riot's duty roster flagged as psych risks, so that didn't exactly help all that much.
Besides, nobody could be that crazy.
Right?
God, I so didn't need this.
Giving my mirror self one last glare, I started stripping off the costume. Glove fasteners, then boots - with extra force needed to pull my feet past the reinforced ankle padding. Then the bulk of the suit came off, high-tech fabric peeling from sweat-dampened skin.
It wasn't prudent. Someone might see me with the costume off. I couldn't even remember if the windowshades in the apartment were drawn. The place wasn't in proper lockdown. But damnit, I needed to be out of the suit now, and the mask was already off.
Standard Operating Procedure could go to hell. Just this once. The playbook was out the window anyway. Hell, I wasn't even sure if it was still the same game.
Maybe this was Bizzaro Paragon, latest grotesque discovery of the good nut jobs at Portal Corp, the amazingly wonderful universe where Superball is magically desirable to women.
No.
I shook my head.
Reality couldn't be that perverse. There had to be SOME standards.
Putting the suit aside, I started rooting around in the laundry pile.
A mostly-clean shirt and boxers made me feel almost human again. There's something to be said for underwear that doesn't have integral impervium-weave reinforcement in strategic areas. Hell of a lot more comfortable, anyway, and less likely to chafe.
Alright, I mused, as I pulled my head through the t-shirt, working my arms through the sleeves and yanking it down. Think this through. Break it down.
Where had I gone wrong? The whole persona was supposed to be a turn-off. It should have been a turn-off. Superball flirts, makes stupid gags, and gets smacked down hopelessly. That's how it always goes. Maybe I made a mistake in letting the situation progress to the actual drinks-at-a-bar stage, but I thought it was under control.
She'd try the charm, I'd respond with hard-headed oblivious stupidity, she'd give up or walk out in disgust - leaving Superball's reputation as a clueless idiot intact.
Leaving the bathroom, I staggered over to the couch. It took a moment before I found a patch of cushions not covered with bits of spare costumes or other clothing. Then I sank back and closed my eyes.
It hadn't worked.
Why?
Decay didn't find the persona attractive. She'd shown signs of annoyance and confusion whenever I steered the conversation away from matters of horizontal grinding. That was clear. So why did she keep going?
Was it random? Maybe she just really wanted action, and I was just in the wrong place, wrong time? No...that didn't add up. She'd been waiting in the base when I came in. Riot members had level one access to the Legendary building under coalition terms, but most of them still hung out at their own place when off-duty.
Couldn't rule out the fishing expedition theory. There was a chance, however small, that I was simply the first squirming minnow to fall into her net. Especially if she was getting as desperate as the gossip said...
Or hell, perhaps she knew I was the guy who posted that video of her shaking pirate booty on the Legendary intranet. Some kind of weird payback?
Arr, you scurvy scallywag, upload me booty without me permission, will ye? Yaaar, I'll have to take me some pretties, then! Yer family jewels now belong to the Dread Pirate Decay! EXTEND THE PLANK!
Possible...but that didn't seem right. Yeah, my life was weird, but not that weird.
I was missing something.
After thinking for a while, I lifted the laptop from the coffee table and powered it on, making sure the cell modem was connected.
The screen cast my pale hands and arms into sharp relief. Wearing a full-body suit wasn't doing wonders for my tan, but what's a little melanin against the greater good?
Using the computer always made me feel a little uneasy. Aside from the Superball gear, the machine was probably the most expensive thing in the apartment.
But then this was work equipment too - arranged by Mag Flashlight, no less, who knew better than to ask prying questions about another guy's real identity.
Good man, Mag.
I frowned at the monitor. It'd been a while, so it took a moment to recall what I needed. But a few minutes later, I got into the security server. Wasn't supposed to have that access, but the Legendary system thought I was Terrence Knight for the moment.
Since, for whatever reason, he had more administrative privileges than Keanu Reeves on a sunglasses trip, I didn't expect any problems.
If anyone checked the logs and wondered why Terrence was looking at closed-circuit camera footage of his girlfriend's identical twin, well, that was his problem and night on the couch, not mine.
Alright. From what I could tell, it was pretty clear she'd come looking for me. Even queried my location a few times while waiting for me to enter the base, if the records were accurate.
She WAS looking for me.
Right.
That still didn't explain why.
Getting into the Riot network was harder. Finding out Terry's passwords was easy - no great feat of hacking skill there, just healthy appreciation of the fact the guy came from a world where state of the art involved hitting folks with blunt objects, not high technology. He always appreciated help when he had to work the base computers, and the Superball Tech Support Hotline was always willing to go the extra mile. Or two. Or three.
But I didn't have the same in-route with Riot. A fact I'd probably have to correct eventually.
In the end, I just used my own coalition access, which was ranked as Legendary officer-grade, however minor. There's something to be said for tenure.
Going through my own account wasn't very elegant...but Sell-Sword and Silicon Sabre already had clues about me, so this activity wouldn't ring any more alarm bells. Besides, I needed to know. I'd deal with the costs later.
Okay.
So.
She'd pulled my ally profile, paying particular attention to my known metahuman abilities.
And she'd gotten there from a general search of supergroup members and associates known to possess specific ability perimeters.
Namely, immunity or high resistance to thermal and gamma radiation.
Now, why would she do that? Planning a protest march on Terra Volta or something?
Wait.
Son of a bitch.
And by 'son of a bitch', I mean the end result of activity that interprets 'man's best friend' in entirely the wrong light and is illegal in most states.
Fuck.
Literally.
I drew a breath and held it, ticking off the seconds in my head. Slowly, I closed the laptop shell and set it aside. It wouldn't do to break the thing by accident, not after the pretty sum I'd paid for it. Then, finally, I exhaled - all in a rush.
Okay.
It wasn't about me. Wasn't about Superball at all. Her only interest was what I could do.
First time I'd been hit on simply for being a tough bastard, aside from all the vaguely homoerotic mutant superiority crap back with the old crew.
Right, so all she cared about was the fact...I could shrug off what she put out. I should have guessed.
With all the whispers making the rounds, it wasn't exactly a secret that Terry and his girlfriends gave a whole new meaning to the term 'afterglow'. A normal guy in that bedroom wouldn't experience le petit mort, he'd damn well get the real thing.
Stood to reason that this Lisa, as Gamma's alternate-dimension twin, would have the same...problems. I should have realised that. I should have known that. With that information, maybe I could have figured out some more elegant exit strategy.
Instead, I overreacted.
I went all defcon on her. And the beer trick, though marvellously executed, was still the kind of stupid sitcom scheme spawned from blind unadulterated panic.
Perfectly in character with the Superball persona, admittedly, so it wasn't entirely a bad piece of work. But truth was...soaking her with well-aimed lager was a pure desperation move. I didn't have a plan.
I hate improv. Suck at it.
And now she was pissed off. Completely. Pissed. Off. She'd stormed out of the bar swearing revenge or something. At least that's what I assumed. Pretty sure she didn't mean to get me any other way. Besides, her mutterings included the word 'monkeys', and that's rarely a good thing unless it comes together with 'spanking'. Not a good sign.
Okay.
So. Analysis? Fallout? Well, maybe literal fallout, considering what she could do. But I was more worried about the other consequences.
She was pissed at me now. How dangerous was that? An improvement over the flirting? Maybe, maybe not. She probably wouldn't kill me. Lethal retaliatory action didn't fit her profile.
However, it was a pretty good bet she'd do something. Painful, yes, embarrassing, yes, lethal...no. Still, any scrutiny was bad. Love and hate, no difference, really.
The Superball identity wouldn't hold for long under sustained attention. A lot of the critical information about me was public domain. Hell, City Hall, Freedom Corps, and even the freaking FBSA had my real name and biography on file. No way of keeping that information sealed, not with my record.
None of that was hidden. I just counted on people not looking, because honestly, who the hell would? Superball's a lovable harmless goofball, nothing to see here folks, move along.
But an angry heroine on a revenge trip, out to crucify the jerk who crossed her...hell no, that was exactly the kind of attention I did not need.
This wasn't good.
I needed damage control.
-- Acyl
Superball: Fallout (Staking a Claim - Side Chapter)
* * *
My landlady glared at me as I fumbled with the lock on the door. I turned, bobbing my head and giving a jaunty little wave down the corridor - the sort of thing that said 'Yes, I know the rent's due'.
At least I hoped it said that, rather than what I actually wanted to say...which was more along the lines of 'Go away, you old blender-faced bitch, before I pull your spine through your nostrils and force-feed it to that overgrown amoeba you call a cat'.
But I didn't say that. Wouldn't have been good for the image, after all, or the TV audience at home. Superball is a good boy, kiddies. Good boys don't have frustrated psychotic episodes like that, not if they want to stay good boys and out of prison.
Though, mind you, I was pretty sure I could do it if I really wanted to. Tempting, so tempting.
Self-control's a bitch.
I gritted my teeth, thankful my grimace was hidden by the mask, and pretended to smile.
The door finally clicked, letting me in. I shoved it shut behind me, twisted the lock back home, then slumped against the closed surface.
I inhaled, drawing a sharp breath. It reeked of sweat. The inside of the mask clung to my face.
Suddenly, the damn thing felt all too confining.
Snarling, I ripped it off in one explosive motion, tossing it across the room. The solid eyepieces made a god-awful clattering noise as they bounced off the floor.
Part of me cringed. The costume was expensive. On the other hand, the lenses were hardened for combat. A little temper tantrum wouldn't even scratch the finish.
Besides, I had bigger headaches than my redlined bank account. Oh no, financial woes in this dire economic recession, that's a normal everyday problem. Superball problems, now those are an entirely different kettle of fish. Possibly with an accompanying tea service of other assorted marine life.
All decomposing and stinking to high heaven.
"Fuck," I swore.
Not too loudly. It was an old building, and the neighbours might hear...not to mention the old bat, if she was still lurking in the hallway. But what the profanity lacked in volume, it made up in emphasis.
Sometimes a man just needs to cut loose and use some good old-fashioned profanity.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."
I'm sure if my mother could hear me now, she'd give a sad and disapproving glare. Right before complaining about the sorry state of my apartment, the disturbingly tight outfit glued to my body, and my complete and utter lack of a sex life.
"Thank you, mom," I said, out loud, "God bless your soul."
I shifted my weight, leaning against the door frame - letting the raised edge and hinges dig into my back. Exhaling, I rubbed my face with one gloved hand, fingers and palm running over my eyes.
"Oh yeah, and God, while you're at it...could you tell me WHAT I did to deserve this?"
Silence.
"Right," I muttered, "dumb question."
It was, really. A dumb question, I mean. I know damn well what I deserved. But knowing that intellectually is one thing. Having to actually deal with the crap, that's something else entirely. Especially when life backs up to you with a whole truckload of manure and hits the emergency release in your face.
But it didn't make sense. No sense at all.
I stumbled into the little tiled closet that passed for my bathroom, stepping over the crumpled towel on the floor and palming the light switch. Turning on the faucet, I splashed water on my face until I felt vaguely human again.
Resting my hands on either side of the sink, I looked at my dripping face in the mirror.
Why?
Why in the name of all that's good and holy would anyone ask Superball out?
That wasn't supposed to happen. There was nothing in the contingencies for a woman grinding herself into Superball's crotch.
My crotch.
If it wasn't for the armoured protector, I'd have been an inch from total brain malfunction.
Literally an inch. In expansion terms.
It didn't make sense.
Was she out of her mind?
Well. Possibly. Sell-Sword rated her a psych risk. But Sell-Sword had damn near half of Riot's duty roster flagged as psych risks, so that didn't exactly help all that much.
Besides, nobody could be that crazy.
Right?
God, I so didn't need this.
Giving my mirror self one last glare, I started stripping off the costume. Glove fasteners, then boots - with extra force needed to pull my feet past the reinforced ankle padding. Then the bulk of the suit came off, high-tech fabric peeling from sweat-dampened skin.
It wasn't prudent. Someone might see me with the costume off. I couldn't even remember if the windowshades in the apartment were drawn. The place wasn't in proper lockdown. But damnit, I needed to be out of the suit now, and the mask was already off.
Standard Operating Procedure could go to hell. Just this once. The playbook was out the window anyway. Hell, I wasn't even sure if it was still the same game.
Maybe this was Bizzaro Paragon, latest grotesque discovery of the good nut jobs at Portal Corp, the amazingly wonderful universe where Superball is magically desirable to women.
No.
I shook my head.
Reality couldn't be that perverse. There had to be SOME standards.
Putting the suit aside, I started rooting around in the laundry pile.
A mostly-clean shirt and boxers made me feel almost human again. There's something to be said for underwear that doesn't have integral impervium-weave reinforcement in strategic areas. Hell of a lot more comfortable, anyway, and less likely to chafe.
Alright, I mused, as I pulled my head through the t-shirt, working my arms through the sleeves and yanking it down. Think this through. Break it down.
Where had I gone wrong? The whole persona was supposed to be a turn-off. It should have been a turn-off. Superball flirts, makes stupid gags, and gets smacked down hopelessly. That's how it always goes. Maybe I made a mistake in letting the situation progress to the actual drinks-at-a-bar stage, but I thought it was under control.
She'd try the charm, I'd respond with hard-headed oblivious stupidity, she'd give up or walk out in disgust - leaving Superball's reputation as a clueless idiot intact.
Leaving the bathroom, I staggered over to the couch. It took a moment before I found a patch of cushions not covered with bits of spare costumes or other clothing. Then I sank back and closed my eyes.
It hadn't worked.
Why?
Decay didn't find the persona attractive. She'd shown signs of annoyance and confusion whenever I steered the conversation away from matters of horizontal grinding. That was clear. So why did she keep going?
Was it random? Maybe she just really wanted action, and I was just in the wrong place, wrong time? No...that didn't add up. She'd been waiting in the base when I came in. Riot members had level one access to the Legendary building under coalition terms, but most of them still hung out at their own place when off-duty.
Couldn't rule out the fishing expedition theory. There was a chance, however small, that I was simply the first squirming minnow to fall into her net. Especially if she was getting as desperate as the gossip said...
Or hell, perhaps she knew I was the guy who posted that video of her shaking pirate booty on the Legendary intranet. Some kind of weird payback?
Arr, you scurvy scallywag, upload me booty without me permission, will ye? Yaaar, I'll have to take me some pretties, then! Yer family jewels now belong to the Dread Pirate Decay! EXTEND THE PLANK!
Possible...but that didn't seem right. Yeah, my life was weird, but not that weird.
I was missing something.
After thinking for a while, I lifted the laptop from the coffee table and powered it on, making sure the cell modem was connected.
The screen cast my pale hands and arms into sharp relief. Wearing a full-body suit wasn't doing wonders for my tan, but what's a little melanin against the greater good?
Using the computer always made me feel a little uneasy. Aside from the Superball gear, the machine was probably the most expensive thing in the apartment.
But then this was work equipment too - arranged by Mag Flashlight, no less, who knew better than to ask prying questions about another guy's real identity.
Good man, Mag.
I frowned at the monitor. It'd been a while, so it took a moment to recall what I needed. But a few minutes later, I got into the security server. Wasn't supposed to have that access, but the Legendary system thought I was Terrence Knight for the moment.
Since, for whatever reason, he had more administrative privileges than Keanu Reeves on a sunglasses trip, I didn't expect any problems.
If anyone checked the logs and wondered why Terrence was looking at closed-circuit camera footage of his girlfriend's identical twin, well, that was his problem and night on the couch, not mine.
Alright. From what I could tell, it was pretty clear she'd come looking for me. Even queried my location a few times while waiting for me to enter the base, if the records were accurate.
She WAS looking for me.
Right.
That still didn't explain why.
Getting into the Riot network was harder. Finding out Terry's passwords was easy - no great feat of hacking skill there, just healthy appreciation of the fact the guy came from a world where state of the art involved hitting folks with blunt objects, not high technology. He always appreciated help when he had to work the base computers, and the Superball Tech Support Hotline was always willing to go the extra mile. Or two. Or three.
But I didn't have the same in-route with Riot. A fact I'd probably have to correct eventually.
In the end, I just used my own coalition access, which was ranked as Legendary officer-grade, however minor. There's something to be said for tenure.
Going through my own account wasn't very elegant...but Sell-Sword and Silicon Sabre already had clues about me, so this activity wouldn't ring any more alarm bells. Besides, I needed to know. I'd deal with the costs later.
Okay.
So.
She'd pulled my ally profile, paying particular attention to my known metahuman abilities.
And she'd gotten there from a general search of supergroup members and associates known to possess specific ability perimeters.
Namely, immunity or high resistance to thermal and gamma radiation.
Now, why would she do that? Planning a protest march on Terra Volta or something?
Wait.
Son of a bitch.
And by 'son of a bitch', I mean the end result of activity that interprets 'man's best friend' in entirely the wrong light and is illegal in most states.
Fuck.
Literally.
I drew a breath and held it, ticking off the seconds in my head. Slowly, I closed the laptop shell and set it aside. It wouldn't do to break the thing by accident, not after the pretty sum I'd paid for it. Then, finally, I exhaled - all in a rush.
Okay.
It wasn't about me. Wasn't about Superball at all. Her only interest was what I could do.
First time I'd been hit on simply for being a tough bastard, aside from all the vaguely homoerotic mutant superiority crap back with the old crew.
Right, so all she cared about was the fact...I could shrug off what she put out. I should have guessed.
With all the whispers making the rounds, it wasn't exactly a secret that Terry and his girlfriends gave a whole new meaning to the term 'afterglow'. A normal guy in that bedroom wouldn't experience le petit mort, he'd damn well get the real thing.
Stood to reason that this Lisa, as Gamma's alternate-dimension twin, would have the same...problems. I should have realised that. I should have known that. With that information, maybe I could have figured out some more elegant exit strategy.
Instead, I overreacted.
I went all defcon on her. And the beer trick, though marvellously executed, was still the kind of stupid sitcom scheme spawned from blind unadulterated panic.
Perfectly in character with the Superball persona, admittedly, so it wasn't entirely a bad piece of work. But truth was...soaking her with well-aimed lager was a pure desperation move. I didn't have a plan.
I hate improv. Suck at it.
And now she was pissed off. Completely. Pissed. Off. She'd stormed out of the bar swearing revenge or something. At least that's what I assumed. Pretty sure she didn't mean to get me any other way. Besides, her mutterings included the word 'monkeys', and that's rarely a good thing unless it comes together with 'spanking'. Not a good sign.
Okay.
So. Analysis? Fallout? Well, maybe literal fallout, considering what she could do. But I was more worried about the other consequences.
She was pissed at me now. How dangerous was that? An improvement over the flirting? Maybe, maybe not. She probably wouldn't kill me. Lethal retaliatory action didn't fit her profile.
However, it was a pretty good bet she'd do something. Painful, yes, embarrassing, yes, lethal...no. Still, any scrutiny was bad. Love and hate, no difference, really.
The Superball identity wouldn't hold for long under sustained attention. A lot of the critical information about me was public domain. Hell, City Hall, Freedom Corps, and even the freaking FBSA had my real name and biography on file. No way of keeping that information sealed, not with my record.
None of that was hidden. I just counted on people not looking, because honestly, who the hell would? Superball's a lovable harmless goofball, nothing to see here folks, move along.
But an angry heroine on a revenge trip, out to crucify the jerk who crossed her...hell no, that was exactly the kind of attention I did not need.
This wasn't good.
I needed damage control.
-- Acyl