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58w, 5dIt's One'a Them Pic-a-tures, See6 comments · 276 views
59w, 1dFollowing Up On The Last Blog6 comments · 149 views
Digital Extremes needs to stop adding new Warframes so I can have a finite number of Tenno moving to Equestria. Srsly. It's getting redonkulous. I can't write in that many major characters! I first thought of the idea before the Nova frame came out and, at the time, there were only seven male Warframes and six female Warframes. So I thought, "Hey, why not make those six female Warframes' personalities synonymous with the Mane 6?" "Brilliant!" I replied to myself, ignoring the stares of confusion and worry of the people within earshot as I gesticulated to thin air. These are the parallels I came up with:
Mag: Twilight Sparkle
Ember: Rainbow Dash
Nyx: Pinkie Pie
Saryn: Applejack (I know, doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but she was all that was left)
(The Clan Dojo is under attack)
Loki: Corpus cruisers off the starboard side! Nyx! Man the defense cannons!
Nyx: (cartwheeling across the room) Okie dokie Loki!!!
Yes, for the EVE: Online crossover, Teeker Renza is the name of my capsuleer. I actually got the idea for the name from a WH40K book... the Enforcer Omnibus, I believe. The book itself may have not been the best, per se, but I do love that name.
As for Armstrong's future romp around Equestria, I've conceived another plot-point for the story. Stephen doesn't write his own speeches. Apparently, he sucks at it, or something. He was a major jock in college, after all. So, he's gonna need a SPEECH WRITER. Who could possibly fill this role? Why, Twilight, of course! She can write uplifting works of masterful wordsmithing, and Armstrong can insensitively critique on how girly they are. I may just have to make this post-coronation, so that means I'll have to actually WATCH the damned show. Grumblegrumble...
Also, I'm set on the title Mr. Freedom for the Armstrong story. I was planning on saving that title for something else, but I don't think I'll be doing that after all.
Aaaand I'm done. Feel free to comment on these status update/spit in my face and demand more Name's Ellis or O.i.E. BUT, I will leave you with this final question: What if I were to write a sequel to The Day Ghost Shipped Rainbow Dash With Everything? Eh? Because I have a few more ideas left in me...
60w, 11hThis Is My Curse16 comments · 287 views
2 comments · 211 views
I feel slightly bad about not posting anything this whole summer. If it makes you feel any better, my poor motivational efforts will probably result in me being a homeless destitute for the rest of my life.
So, to make it up to you, I'll post another preview of The Uncanny Adventures of Lyra the Large, this time focusing on the legendary hero himself.
In addition to this, I'll post yet another story preview later, this one completely unrelated to anything I'm doing currently (don't you just love it when I do this?).
First, there was darkness. The sun did not shine here. The darkness took a moaning breath, its vast cavity echoed throughout. It was cold here. Damp. Harsh, sharp rock jutted from the ground, pairing themselves with more juts from the ceiling. The grey, hard earth that could be found here was chilly and lifeless. Occasionally, a pair of red eyes would flash in the dimness from the craggy canopy. There were many of them. Many unseen.
A spear of light shot into the cave, accompanied by a resonant clank and a grinding squeak. It riled its inhabitants. The creatures hissed and spat at this bright intrusion, damning it for all it stood for, hating it for all that it brought. There was another clank, this time bearing an electric fizzle. Anger turned to fear as the darkness was banished. Light filled the cavernous deep, and the hundreds upon hundreds of beasts took to their leathery wings and fled to a darker part of the cave. Those flapping wings repleted the moaning silence with such a deafening cacophony of shrieks and flutters. Nothing could be heard beyond the shattering uproar of terror, yet it only lasted for several seconds. After it had died down, a small, pithy set of footsteps echoed across the vast room, now filled with objects that were not at all cave-like. An array of monitors hooked up to a large supercomputer, a sleek, black vehicle sat stationary on a rotating platform, and a giant penny stood protrusive and glaringly voluminous, to only name a few.
The wide-shouldered figure made his way down the long stone staircase wordlessly. When he found the bottom, he made his way across the flat surface at a smooth, controlled pace, as if every movement he made was leashed with strict discipline. A stark contrast to the clumsy, blundering party-boy he was mere hours ago. He could still taste the sweet, bubbly ginger ale on his tongue from when he was busy convincing everybody it was champagne. Sometimes he thought he overplayed his guise; acting he was somewhere between tipsy and completely plastered almost all of the time. It made him look like an witless alcoholic. He was the CEO of a corporate giant as well as a frevert philanthropist. This suit-wearing ailis may not have the best judgement or refineness, but he still had somewhat of an image to maintain. Perhaps he needed to tone down the “wild and loose” side of him. The tabloids were getting more creative each and every day.
As he paced across the open space, a pneumatic hiss wheezed from the floor. A section of the ground, circular and about four or five feet across, gradually rose into the air. A glass surface gleamed in the floodlights, revealing the contents within. A black cowl with pointed ears, two holes for eyes, and a section open for the mouth, chin, and nostrils. A shadowy cape, long and reaching down to the boots with pointed ends that emulated the wings of a creature of the night. An ocher belt lined with weighty pouches and compartments. A kevlar-reinforced chestpiece emblazoned with a black bat that stretch across the pectorals, bold and menacing. The man stopped in front of the container as the transparent quarter-cylinders automatically whined and parted, detecting his presence through hidden motion detectors and biometric scans. He stood silent as he gazed into the empty eye-holes of that mask, into his very soul, and they seemed to stare back.
The man’s name was Bruce Wayne, and it has be said before that he could've been better off with a less suicidal “hobby”.
When Alfred first told him the details of the police dispatch, the English butler was met with disbelief.
“Impossible. Giganta is being held at Iron Heights. If she had escaped, I would have known about it within seconds.” Bruce stated as he open the hidden entrance door; the face of an inconspicuous grandfather clock. “Everyone would have known about it. She’s not renown for her subtlety.”
“Perhaps, if you would give me the opportunity to make such an observation, our... massive mademoiselle is not Giganta, but rather another individual of similar ability.”
“You said the police chatter described her as ‘visibly growing in size’. The only other documented meta with that power is Albert Rothstein, and to say he’s even remotely feminine is probably a crime against humanity.”
Alfred smiled. “It seems you’re in a merry mood this night, Master Bruce, if you’re keen on cracking jokes.”
“That wasn’t a joke.” He swung the clock-door open. “I’d probably hunt them down myself.”
The butler’s smile faded. “Well, we may ponder her identity well into the morning, but the issue still stands. There’s a large woman making a mess of Gotham and, I dare say, the local police are pitifully ill-equipped to combat such a problem.”
“I’ll handle it before I go after Maxie.” He clipped and squeezed his broad frame through the narrow entrance. Alfred called after him.
“Before you don your cape and rush off into certain death again, might you consider seeking help from your superhuman allies? Superman, perhaps?”
Bruce turned and shot him a cold stare. “I can handle it.”
Silence reigned for a long moment before the billionaire playboy’s gaze faltered and fell to the ground. The iciness melted as he looked back into his surrogate father’s eyes.
“He’s doing quite well. I checked on him about an hour and a half ago.” He stated, not changing his unflappable demeanor in the least. “You may check on him yourself before you head out, maybe consider giving him a proper burial this time.”
Wayne scowled. “For the last time, the cave is fine. If I had him resting up here, people would be questioning his injuries.”
“Yes, Heaven forbid, should a curious soul come wandering in and scrutinizing every secluded bedroom in this dusty old estate.”
“We’re done here.” He whirled around and tramped down the staircase. “I’m suiting up. Good night.”
Alfred bowed. “Very well, Master Bruce.”
He still considered his butler’s advice, bringing Tim up from this frigid cave, but he knew very well the concealment of both of their identities was top priority. The luxury of comfort and convenience was not a liability he could afford. The hospital bed, visible from where he was pulling on his boots, was adequate enough to meet his medical needs. Bruce could see his exuberant young sidekick’s splint and tourniquet from here, as well as the frightening amount of welts and bruises on his face. His stillness may have alarmed a regular man, but Wayne’s perception had been honed beyond a regular man’s capability. He could see the subtle rise-and-fall of this chest. He was merely resting, and the boy needed all the rest he could get.
It was a stupid mistake. An inane blunder. He told him to wait, to not be hasty, yet Tim charged right into that building without getting a good look at the shadows and the dozen bat, tire-iron, and lead-pipe wielding men hiding in them. It was just supposed to be another hit-and-run mission, to break up another one of Maxie Zeus’s drug trafficking checkpoints. It was a trap. That toga-wearing freak finally got smart. Batman knew there was something amiss when he was scoping out the hand-off. The hired muscle seemed second-rate and lazy. The thugs directing the crates that were being loaded into the truck were too loud, as if they wanted to be found by him. Yet, the narcotics in those containers were very real, as were the pain, misery, and death they would inevitably cause if they got out onto the streets. Batman tracked them to this crucial bottleneck in their drug flow, and he was going to make sure that it would be the end of the line for these needle-peddling scumbags.
He glanced at his faithful prodigy and gave the signal. In tandem, they swooped in and took out the key, gun-wielding cronies. The rest was clockwork. The brainless goons closed in, throwing sloppy jabs and painfully slow hooks and haymakers. The application of blunt-force trauma made them all think twice about choosing their line of work. The boy handled them well, too, albeit with much more wise-cracking banter. By the time the mess outside was taken care of, the “brains” of the operation had fled into a nearby warehouse. Robin was the first to see him enter the condemned building and gave the chase. The first sign that something went wrong was the crack of a shattered kneecap resonating in Batman’s ear, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. He immediately began plowing through the rest of the thugs, heedless, towards the building. By the time he got there and incapacitated almost all of the attackers, some worthless low-life was spitting obscenities while wailing on the boy’s face with a crowbar.
“A little hard to make with the yuks when you’re worm-food, eh Bats? Haaahahahahaha!!!”
...It took him every ounce of his willpower to restrain himself from snapping his neck. He settled for a dislocated elbow to render his crowbar arm useless, a broken jaw to make swearing a great deal more difficult, and a swift punch to the gut followed by a leg-breaking stomp, just because he felt he didn’t cause him enough physical pain. He cradled his sidekick in his arms and rushed him to the Batcave, letting the wailing sirens converge onto the scene and take care of things from there.
He blamed himself for it. It was his fault. He didn’t see all the angles, didn’t pay attention to the obvious signs flashing at him like a neon light. In his arrogance, he rushed in to deny his enemy his filthy method of corralling money from the suffering of Gotham’s impressionable youth. It cost him dearly.
Batman clicked his utility belt around his waist and pulled on his signature cowl. He went over to his armory and exchanged some extraneous tools for sleeping gas and tranq-darts, complete with the palm-sized, but powerful delivery method. He took one last look at the hospital bed. “No more,” he silently promised himself. “After I take care of this rampant meta, I’m coming for you, Maxie, and I’ll make sure you’re going away for a long, long time.”
Again, arrogance. A mere mortal “taking care” of a meta? Batman mentally chided himself. He’s dealt with superhumans before, against impossible odds. He’s defeated the likes of Clayface and gone toe-to-toe with Solomon Grundy. He’s faced impossible odds before and emerged victorious, but not all the time. This never-ending battle against those who would use their abilities for evil served as a constant reminder of just how frail he was. He needed to prepare himself for what could possibly be the fight of his life, perhaps even the last. Every time he put on the cape and cowl, every time he set out to clean up this dying city’s streets of crooks, gangsters, and parasites, he knew that that night may very well be his last. Very few people get to choose how they die, even fewer know when. He could perish at the knife of the Joker or the fists of Bane. He could be crushed underneath some excessively garash pseudo-deathtrap, like a giant typewriter or piano. He could even be snuffed out by some lucky punk with a gun. Dying at the hands of this to-be-named meta was a very likely possibility. He needed to be careful. For justice’s sake For Gotham’s sake. For Tim’s sake. For his parents’ sake.
Batman finished his preparations, having met all the criteria for a night of crime-fighting. With a whoosh of his cape, he turned towards the Batmobile. There was a roar of an engine, the screech of burning rubber as the custom-made supercar took off. The cave rebounded the clamorous noises for a short moment, then, once again, all was silent.
78w, 1dNow... My Pupils...3 comments · 279 views