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Marvel Superheroes - Heroes of Silverage City UPDATED 5/19
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<blockquote data-quote="Dr Midnight" data-source="post: 2825619" data-attributes="member: 69"><p>Across town, about an hour earlier, Donovan Maddox was walking home himself. Unlike Cat, he didn’t concern himself with the world around him as he went, and kept himself focused on his music as he went. Today it was an Iron Maiden mix disc he’d burned that spring. </p><p></p><p>He tuned out everything- playing children, bright green grass, sunshine. Only his basic motor functions were left on autopilot: walk, avoid obstacles. In his head, everything was either black, on fire, or made of gleaming steel as he bobbed his head to the galloping basslines. </p><p></p><p>He didn’t notice at all when a man in a car pulled up and unrolled his window. The man waved at him twice, then honked. That worked. Donovan pulled down his headphones. </p><p></p><p>“Sorry there young fellah, could you tell me the way to Yancy Street?” </p><p></p><p>Donovan nodded. “Yeah, you’re actually right there. It’s that street, there.” He pointed. </p><p></p><p>The man said “Um. That seems to be Acacia.”</p><p></p><p>“What?” Donovan looked. </p><p></p><p><em>Acacia Ave</em></p><p></p><p>“Oh. Uh. I guess I don’t know then.”</p><p></p><p>“Okay… thanks anyway.”</p><p></p><p>The man pulled away. Donovan had lived in this town all his life, he was sure this was Yancy. He put the headphones back on and kept walking. </p><p></p><p>He was a bit more distracted now than he was before, and the next sound to interrupt his world got his attention. It was a high-pitched drone, and it was getting louder. A plane flew overhead. Donovan looked up at it as he walked. Must have been an airshow nearby- it was a slick old WWII fighter, and in really good shape. The british Union Jack was painted on the underside of each wing. The plane flew off over the trees, and Donovan kept walking until he reached his house- a fairly large mansion on the good side of town that sprawled over what could be called an estate.</p><p></p><p>Inside, his dad greeted him. “Hi, Donny, how was school?” </p><p></p><p>“Fine,” Donovan grunted noncommittally, still walking on the way to his room. Donovan’s dad was once “Mad” Max Maddox, an unsuccessful street magician from the seventies. He’d only accumulated his fortune when someone dropped a lottery ticket as a tip into his top hat on one bright 1983 afternoon. Max, now fantastically wealthy, opened the Maddox Amusement & Thrill Park in 1985. It always did great business, and the money kept coming in. Max could provide anything for his family, and strove to always give two things to Donovan: fine private schooling and advice. </p><p>Donovan had not adapted well to the private schools- the other kids saw him as common street rabble and Donovan saw them as spoiled trust fund brats. There were a few fights, and Donovan was finally placed back into public schooling. As for Dad’s advice, Donovan didn’t really care because his father was a failure until he came upon found money- why take his guidance seriously? It seemed stupid to listen to someone who had followed their heart and failed, right?</p><p></p><p>“You had the field trip today, right?” Max asked. “How did it go?”</p><p></p><p>“Fine.” Donovan walked into his room and closed the door, then set the three locks he kept on it. Here in his room, he was in the only sanctuary that rivaled his headphones. He walked past posters of metal bands and a corkboard where he’d pinned up dozens of metal show ticket stubs. </p><p></p><p>He approached an enormous Marshall stack- a speaker head with gleaming knobs sitting atop a wicked 4x12 cabinet. He dropped his bookbag and slung a guitar over his shoulders, hit the power button and waited for the tubes to warm up in the guts of the machine. He was still in a Maiden mood and began to strike some notes from one of his favorites. </p><p></p><p><em>Now I am cold but a ghost lives in my veins</em></p><p><em>Silent the terror that reigned, marbled in stone</em></p><p><em>A shell of a man God preserved for a thousand ages</em></p><p><em>But open the gates of my hell, I will strike from the grave.</em></p><p></p><p>He was getting into the song so much that he only noticed something was different in the room when all the light had gone a sickly green. He stopped playing and felt wind rushing against the back of his neck. He turned, slowly, and saw that his room with the twenty-foot ceiling was filled with a one hundred foot tall graven sphinx. The sphinx’s head bore a distinctive face- a snarling zombie with glowing green eyes. It looked down on him and he screamed. </p><p></p><p>Just before he fainted dead away from terror, a thought went through his head: <em>That looks just like what I think of when I play this song.</em></p><p></p><p>Not far away, in a slightly less upscale section of town, Emerson had gotten home and greeted his parents warmly. His family life was a good one- his mother and father were both scientists that encouraged him in his own scientific pursuits. They were all very close, and Emerson had never had anything to hide from them. </p><p></p><p>“Hi Mom.”</p><p></p><p>“Hi hon- dinner will be ready in an hour.”</p><p></p><p>Emerson went to his room and sat down at his lab table. Here, he was master of a small world of experiments- lately he’d be playing with some ideas on modular particle distribution. He sat down and got sucked into his work. </p><p></p><p>It seemed like only minutes before he was called to dinner. He stood up, stretched, and walked downstairs. </p><p></p><p>Mom gestured at him with an oven mitt. “Emerson, you know the rules- no lab goggles at the dinner table. Take ‘em off.” </p><p></p><p>Emerson reached up and took off his goggles. They didn’t come off with that familiar feeling, though- these were different. He pulled off a form-fitted U of plastic and glass that had been wrapped around his face and looked at them closely. These weren’t his goggles- they were his glasses. That didn’t make any sense, though. They were distorted and almost melted-looking. Whatever had happened, he hadn’t felt a thing. </p><p></p><p>He went and got his spare glasses from the bureau. When he came back, Mom said “Em, you look so tense. Are you okay?”</p><p></p><p>“I’m good. Really.” He considered telling her about the glasses, but didn’t know what he’d even say about them. He was baffled so far. </p><p></p><p>“Why don’t you take dinner in front of the TV for a change? You could stand to relax.”</p><p></p><p>He shook his head. “I’d rather take dinner back up in my lab… science is fun. TV is all crap.”</p><p></p><p>She handed him a plate. “All right, honey, whatever’s best for you. I just get worried sometimes that you push yourself too hard.”</p><p></p><p>Emerson took his plate of food up to his room, anxious to get right back to his findings. He sat down and began reading up on Neutronic Dependence Theory, eating as he did. </p><p></p><p>He put his fork down and reached to turn a page. The fork came with his hand and clunked against the book. Emerson, surprised, looked at his hand. The fork was stuck to it. Intrigued, he wondered if he’d formed some kind of basic seal against the metal with the folds of his hand, or if it was simple moisture cling. The fork wiggled and began to bend around his hand. </p><p></p><p>Emerson shrieked and flicked his hand. The fork hit the wall and fell down, then lay still. He stared at it until he felt something. A paper clip from the table was nudging his hand, moving towards it like an insect. He pushed back from the table and stood up. </p><p></p><p>The chair stood with him. His $75 OfficeMax chair was forming tight against him, and the arms were wrapping around his midsection like it was trying to hug him. Emerson began panicking and hitting the arms, feeling the synthetic leather backing creep up around his neck. The lamp on his table made a <em>ftt</em> noise and a violet spark shot from the wire as the lamp strained towards Emerson. The cord gave way and the lamp rushed towards Emerson, who even in his horror was trying to figure out how this all was working. </p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next:</strong></em><strong> Different, Part III</strong></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Dr Midnight, post: 2825619, member: 69"] Across town, about an hour earlier, Donovan Maddox was walking home himself. Unlike Cat, he didn’t concern himself with the world around him as he went, and kept himself focused on his music as he went. Today it was an Iron Maiden mix disc he’d burned that spring. He tuned out everything- playing children, bright green grass, sunshine. Only his basic motor functions were left on autopilot: walk, avoid obstacles. In his head, everything was either black, on fire, or made of gleaming steel as he bobbed his head to the galloping basslines. He didn’t notice at all when a man in a car pulled up and unrolled his window. The man waved at him twice, then honked. That worked. Donovan pulled down his headphones. “Sorry there young fellah, could you tell me the way to Yancy Street?” Donovan nodded. “Yeah, you’re actually right there. It’s that street, there.” He pointed. The man said “Um. That seems to be Acacia.” “What?” Donovan looked. [i]Acacia Ave[/i] “Oh. Uh. I guess I don’t know then.” “Okay… thanks anyway.” The man pulled away. Donovan had lived in this town all his life, he was sure this was Yancy. He put the headphones back on and kept walking. He was a bit more distracted now than he was before, and the next sound to interrupt his world got his attention. It was a high-pitched drone, and it was getting louder. A plane flew overhead. Donovan looked up at it as he walked. Must have been an airshow nearby- it was a slick old WWII fighter, and in really good shape. The british Union Jack was painted on the underside of each wing. The plane flew off over the trees, and Donovan kept walking until he reached his house- a fairly large mansion on the good side of town that sprawled over what could be called an estate. Inside, his dad greeted him. “Hi, Donny, how was school?” “Fine,” Donovan grunted noncommittally, still walking on the way to his room. Donovan’s dad was once “Mad” Max Maddox, an unsuccessful street magician from the seventies. He’d only accumulated his fortune when someone dropped a lottery ticket as a tip into his top hat on one bright 1983 afternoon. Max, now fantastically wealthy, opened the Maddox Amusement & Thrill Park in 1985. It always did great business, and the money kept coming in. Max could provide anything for his family, and strove to always give two things to Donovan: fine private schooling and advice. Donovan had not adapted well to the private schools- the other kids saw him as common street rabble and Donovan saw them as spoiled trust fund brats. There were a few fights, and Donovan was finally placed back into public schooling. As for Dad’s advice, Donovan didn’t really care because his father was a failure until he came upon found money- why take his guidance seriously? It seemed stupid to listen to someone who had followed their heart and failed, right? “You had the field trip today, right?” Max asked. “How did it go?” “Fine.” Donovan walked into his room and closed the door, then set the three locks he kept on it. Here in his room, he was in the only sanctuary that rivaled his headphones. He walked past posters of metal bands and a corkboard where he’d pinned up dozens of metal show ticket stubs. He approached an enormous Marshall stack- a speaker head with gleaming knobs sitting atop a wicked 4x12 cabinet. He dropped his bookbag and slung a guitar over his shoulders, hit the power button and waited for the tubes to warm up in the guts of the machine. He was still in a Maiden mood and began to strike some notes from one of his favorites. [i]Now I am cold but a ghost lives in my veins Silent the terror that reigned, marbled in stone A shell of a man God preserved for a thousand ages But open the gates of my hell, I will strike from the grave.[/i] He was getting into the song so much that he only noticed something was different in the room when all the light had gone a sickly green. He stopped playing and felt wind rushing against the back of his neck. He turned, slowly, and saw that his room with the twenty-foot ceiling was filled with a one hundred foot tall graven sphinx. The sphinx’s head bore a distinctive face- a snarling zombie with glowing green eyes. It looked down on him and he screamed. Just before he fainted dead away from terror, a thought went through his head: [i]That looks just like what I think of when I play this song.[/i] Not far away, in a slightly less upscale section of town, Emerson had gotten home and greeted his parents warmly. His family life was a good one- his mother and father were both scientists that encouraged him in his own scientific pursuits. They were all very close, and Emerson had never had anything to hide from them. “Hi Mom.” “Hi hon- dinner will be ready in an hour.” Emerson went to his room and sat down at his lab table. Here, he was master of a small world of experiments- lately he’d be playing with some ideas on modular particle distribution. He sat down and got sucked into his work. It seemed like only minutes before he was called to dinner. He stood up, stretched, and walked downstairs. Mom gestured at him with an oven mitt. “Emerson, you know the rules- no lab goggles at the dinner table. Take ‘em off.” Emerson reached up and took off his goggles. They didn’t come off with that familiar feeling, though- these were different. He pulled off a form-fitted U of plastic and glass that had been wrapped around his face and looked at them closely. These weren’t his goggles- they were his glasses. That didn’t make any sense, though. They were distorted and almost melted-looking. Whatever had happened, he hadn’t felt a thing. He went and got his spare glasses from the bureau. When he came back, Mom said “Em, you look so tense. Are you okay?” “I’m good. Really.” He considered telling her about the glasses, but didn’t know what he’d even say about them. He was baffled so far. “Why don’t you take dinner in front of the TV for a change? You could stand to relax.” He shook his head. “I’d rather take dinner back up in my lab… science is fun. TV is all crap.” She handed him a plate. “All right, honey, whatever’s best for you. I just get worried sometimes that you push yourself too hard.” Emerson took his plate of food up to his room, anxious to get right back to his findings. He sat down and began reading up on Neutronic Dependence Theory, eating as he did. He put his fork down and reached to turn a page. The fork came with his hand and clunked against the book. Emerson, surprised, looked at his hand. The fork was stuck to it. Intrigued, he wondered if he’d formed some kind of basic seal against the metal with the folds of his hand, or if it was simple moisture cling. The fork wiggled and began to bend around his hand. Emerson shrieked and flicked his hand. The fork hit the wall and fell down, then lay still. He stared at it until he felt something. A paper clip from the table was nudging his hand, moving towards it like an insect. He pushed back from the table and stood up. The chair stood with him. His $75 OfficeMax chair was forming tight against him, and the arms were wrapping around his midsection like it was trying to hug him. Emerson began panicking and hitting the arms, feeling the synthetic leather backing creep up around his neck. The lamp on his table made a [i]ftt[/i] noise and a violet spark shot from the wire as the lamp strained towards Emerson. The cord gave way and the lamp rushed towards Emerson, who even in his horror was trying to figure out how this all was working. [i][b]Next:[/b][/i][b] Different, Part III[/b] [/QUOTE]
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