Battle the Universe: The Choice
Jun. 16th, 2014 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeHi everybody! This story was prompted by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ysabetwordsmith and nevacaruso who wanted a headspace adventure and someone being offered a choice and taking both paths. Happy Journeython, everybody!
The Choice
Remote hated improvising hostage situations. Lousy way to get a host; he might get a poor fit, some feeble geriatric. But his primary meatsack had been discovered, which meant the cops might find him at any minute, and his current host had diabetes, which Remote had not known beforehand. God only knew where the insulin was and the dosage; better to just get a new host.
So Remote put the gun to his head and declared, “I am Remote Control, and I have taken this body as hostage. Listen to me, and no one will get hurt.”
Bad. This was bad. The only people in the bank were two middle-aged tellers, an old woman cashing her social security check, and a short man in dirty work clothes. No good choices. At least nobody was playing hero; everyone was silent and still. The situation was still salvageable.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Remote said. “I want your money, and I want an able-bodied host with powers. If you don’t volunteer, then I will kill this body and one of you will become my next hostage. The game continues until I find someone satisfactory. Understood?”
Silence. Remote felt his host start to sweat. Come on, come on, let one of these people have some totally trivial but useful ability—teleporting across the street, minor super-strength, something…
The short man stepped forward. “I volunteer. I’m—I’m Tank. Please put the gun down.”
“The new street vigilante?” Remote glanced at the dirty work shirt. ‘Lorry’ was embroidered on the pocket. Hard to tell, under the baggy clothes and without the mask; plenty of young white men in the street vig business. Powers, what were his powers… “You’re… what, invulnerable?”
Tank—Lorry—looked as nervous as Remote felt. “Just durable.”
Good enough. Remote was in no position to be picky. “Thank you for your cooperation. Catch.”
He tossed the gun to Lorry, who automatically moved to catch it, and hopped to his body.
There was a lurch, impact, flesh. Remote pushed, forced his way in…and found himself in a living room. Hardwood floor. Cheery fire in the fireplace. No windows. The image he was wearing wasn’t his either; it was Lorry’s.
Shit. Normally, Remote’s hosts were just bodies, meatsacks to be filled and controlled. Imaginary landscapes were for children and daydreamers. Whatever, chalk it up as a learning experience, just find the control before the cops caught up…
Where the hell was the real world?
The door slammed open, and Remote found himself glared down by a woman with a wicked knife.
“You,” she snarled, and dived for him.
Remote shrieked and hastily put an armchair between him and her. Oh no, this was bad, he was so not prepared for an imaginary protector right now, fucking fuck—
Oh god she was fast. Stuffing was flying everywhere.
Mind. This wasn’t real, so physics could be bent, and sure, Remote didn’t know the rules of this place yet, but who cared, he could still leave. He reached out mentally, felt the space and shifts around him, twisted—
And now he was in a psychological linen closet with a pile of imaginary towels in his face and a hamper of subconscious laundry wedged between his legs. The position was unnatural and uncomfortable, but at least that madwoman with the knife wasn’t there.
Okay, rewind. What the hell had just happened? Who the hell was that woman? Why was this place so fucking elaborate, he could even feel a cramp in his symbolic calf…
Suddenly an alarm siren went off—on the other side of the door, but Remote still jumped and knocked over a stack of toilet paper. An intercom said, “Lorry’s down; Kara, lock front. Someone find this asshole.” It sounded like the woman with the knife.
Remote tried to calm his racing heart. (Did he even have a heart in here? What the hell was this place?) Salvageable, he told himself, the situation was still salvageable, these people weren’t real. They were just psychological fragments, a defense mechanism; he’d dealt with them before, just never so well organized. Once he found the real world and got control of it, everything should fall into place.
He’d have to be quick about it too; even mentally, he didn’t have time for this shit.
Taking deep breaths (and stubbornly not thinking about what that meant in an imaginary world), Remote forced himself to scan the mindscape, feeling the corners and ripples and warps. The vague consciousness of Lorry tried to resist, but he just stomped it flat and squeezed the information out.
There! Control panel, right at center. Perfectly sensible, really…
Remote reached for that center and yanked himself towards it. Control, everything would be under control…
He found himself in a room filled with screens and control panels. All the screens were black. Hunched over the control panels was a white woman in leg braces, swearing and muttering, trying to get things working again.
A hostage! Oh, thank god. Remote grabbed her by the hair. “Listen to me, and no one will get hurt,” he started.
The woman’s head rotated at an unnatural angle, and he found himself staring into deep, dark, whirlpool eyes. She was smiling. And facing him now.
“Stupid,” she said, and shadows began crawling the walls.
Remote recoiled. It was starting to dawn on him that this situation might not be salvageable.
The woman smiled, and her teeth were filled with nightmares. “This is our house,” she said, and her voice was chthonic terror. “And you’re outnumbered.”
ysabetwordsmith and nevacaruso who wanted a headspace adventure and someone being offered a choice and taking both paths. Happy Journeython, everybody!The Choice
Remote hated improvising hostage situations. Lousy way to get a host; he might get a poor fit, some feeble geriatric. But his primary meatsack had been discovered, which meant the cops might find him at any minute, and his current host had diabetes, which Remote had not known beforehand. God only knew where the insulin was and the dosage; better to just get a new host.
So Remote put the gun to his head and declared, “I am Remote Control, and I have taken this body as hostage. Listen to me, and no one will get hurt.”
Bad. This was bad. The only people in the bank were two middle-aged tellers, an old woman cashing her social security check, and a short man in dirty work clothes. No good choices. At least nobody was playing hero; everyone was silent and still. The situation was still salvageable.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Remote said. “I want your money, and I want an able-bodied host with powers. If you don’t volunteer, then I will kill this body and one of you will become my next hostage. The game continues until I find someone satisfactory. Understood?”
Silence. Remote felt his host start to sweat. Come on, come on, let one of these people have some totally trivial but useful ability—teleporting across the street, minor super-strength, something…
The short man stepped forward. “I volunteer. I’m—I’m Tank. Please put the gun down.”
“The new street vigilante?” Remote glanced at the dirty work shirt. ‘Lorry’ was embroidered on the pocket. Hard to tell, under the baggy clothes and without the mask; plenty of young white men in the street vig business. Powers, what were his powers… “You’re… what, invulnerable?”
Tank—Lorry—looked as nervous as Remote felt. “Just durable.”
Good enough. Remote was in no position to be picky. “Thank you for your cooperation. Catch.”
He tossed the gun to Lorry, who automatically moved to catch it, and hopped to his body.
There was a lurch, impact, flesh. Remote pushed, forced his way in…and found himself in a living room. Hardwood floor. Cheery fire in the fireplace. No windows. The image he was wearing wasn’t his either; it was Lorry’s.
Shit. Normally, Remote’s hosts were just bodies, meatsacks to be filled and controlled. Imaginary landscapes were for children and daydreamers. Whatever, chalk it up as a learning experience, just find the control before the cops caught up…
Where the hell was the real world?
The door slammed open, and Remote found himself glared down by a woman with a wicked knife.
“You,” she snarled, and dived for him.
Remote shrieked and hastily put an armchair between him and her. Oh no, this was bad, he was so not prepared for an imaginary protector right now, fucking fuck—
Oh god she was fast. Stuffing was flying everywhere.
Mind. This wasn’t real, so physics could be bent, and sure, Remote didn’t know the rules of this place yet, but who cared, he could still leave. He reached out mentally, felt the space and shifts around him, twisted—
And now he was in a psychological linen closet with a pile of imaginary towels in his face and a hamper of subconscious laundry wedged between his legs. The position was unnatural and uncomfortable, but at least that madwoman with the knife wasn’t there.
Okay, rewind. What the hell had just happened? Who the hell was that woman? Why was this place so fucking elaborate, he could even feel a cramp in his symbolic calf…
Suddenly an alarm siren went off—on the other side of the door, but Remote still jumped and knocked over a stack of toilet paper. An intercom said, “Lorry’s down; Kara, lock front. Someone find this asshole.” It sounded like the woman with the knife.
Remote tried to calm his racing heart. (Did he even have a heart in here? What the hell was this place?) Salvageable, he told himself, the situation was still salvageable, these people weren’t real. They were just psychological fragments, a defense mechanism; he’d dealt with them before, just never so well organized. Once he found the real world and got control of it, everything should fall into place.
He’d have to be quick about it too; even mentally, he didn’t have time for this shit.
Taking deep breaths (and stubbornly not thinking about what that meant in an imaginary world), Remote forced himself to scan the mindscape, feeling the corners and ripples and warps. The vague consciousness of Lorry tried to resist, but he just stomped it flat and squeezed the information out.
There! Control panel, right at center. Perfectly sensible, really…
Remote reached for that center and yanked himself towards it. Control, everything would be under control…
He found himself in a room filled with screens and control panels. All the screens were black. Hunched over the control panels was a white woman in leg braces, swearing and muttering, trying to get things working again.
A hostage! Oh, thank god. Remote grabbed her by the hair. “Listen to me, and no one will get hurt,” he started.
The woman’s head rotated at an unnatural angle, and he found himself staring into deep, dark, whirlpool eyes. She was smiling. And facing him now.
“Stupid,” she said, and shadows began crawling the walls.
Remote recoiled. It was starting to dawn on him that this situation might not be salvageable.
The woman smiled, and her teeth were filled with nightmares. “This is our house,” she said, and her voice was chthonic terror. “And you’re outnumbered.”
…
Lorry opened his eyes to a crowd of spectators, a superhero in a wheelchair, and a very nervous EMT. He felt groggy and stupid; he really wasn’t supposed to leave the front. No memory of what happened with Remote either; someone would have to fill him in later.
“How long was I out?” he asked internally.
“Not long,” Kara replied. “Don’t pull that again.”
“Are you all right?” The EMT asked.
“Ungh,” Lorry replied.
“Oh good,” the superhero in the chair said, and extended a hand. “All-Seeing Eye, Law and Justice. That was a heroic thing you did, and I have a job opportunity for you…”
Lorry opened his eyes to a crowd of spectators, a superhero in a wheelchair, and a very nervous EMT. He felt groggy and stupid; he really wasn’t supposed to leave the front. No memory of what happened with Remote either; someone would have to fill him in later.
“How long was I out?” he asked internally.
“Not long,” Kara replied. “Don’t pull that again.”
“Are you all right?” The EMT asked.
“Ungh,” Lorry replied.
“Oh good,” the superhero in the chair said, and extended a hand. “All-Seeing Eye, Law and Justice. That was a heroic thing you did, and I have a job opportunity for you…”
Yay!
Date: 2014-06-17 03:06 am (UTC)This is great!
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Date: 2014-09-21 08:14 pm (UTC)--Rogan