Number: 58 Title: Life Type: Original fiction ---------- Cast: ---------- Three people, a Russian sharp shooter, an African-American telepath, and your average whiteboy who's the master with a katana and knows Aikido like the back of his hand. They stop a string of criminals and meet the master of their world, learning quickly that the "normal" world is but a behavior model warped and twisted to teach them to be the ultimate soldiers against an ultra-lethal race of aliens trying to wipe out mankind. A few double-crosses later, and these heroes must decide for themselves if they should even bother picking a side. ---------- Scenes: ---------- So here we were, riding down the highway in a stolen car. My family and the house that sheltered and protected them gone in a hundred-foot-tall fireball. Everything began then, I just can't get my mind off it all. The phone call... The explosion... The nut in the McDonalds. And here we are, the physic chick, the Russian who's a marksman capable of out-shooting God, and me. I've never held a sword of any kind in my entire life, but this guy, with a bunch of hostages behind him and a gun in hand starts mouthing off to me, and suddenly I go Yo-Jimbo on his ass. Weird. I mean--WHAT THE FUCK?!! My fucking _house_ is GONE, family DEAD! Some asshole tries to shoot-up the fastfood joint down the road, which I prevent Die fucking Hard style thanks to a timely phonecall from a psychic... I mean, what do I gotta do to make some sense of all this shit?! "Mister Payne? Hey, Don!" What does she want? "Yeah." "You aren't doing that internal monologue thing from that video game again, are you?" Uncomfortable pause. Look out car window. "No." "Good." Really, I'm just plain at a loss for words. ---------- "They're called Replicants." This is so fucking Sci Fi. I tell the man what's on my mind. "Well, they are close to clones, but modified to enhance various traits... abilities. Things like that. Of course, you three are Replicants too." "Didn't see that coming." "Me neither." "Nope." "Ha ha. Well, the only reason you three are standing here is because we need to kill them." "Grab three random people from God knows where and send them after clones with weird powers... waitaminute, _we_ are Replicants too?" "It's an overused plot device, Don. Okay, Mr. Suit--" "I have a name." "And to me, it's Mr. Suit. Mr. Fifty Caliber says your name is Mr. Suit." "Very well." "Mr. Suit, why, really, pick the three of us. Even if we are Replicants?" "Because without formal training, the Replicants can't predict you." "Care to tell me why they would be able to predict the movements of a highly trained military strike squadron?" "I think you can figure that one out for yourselves." Shit. Shit! ---------- "Now, Donald, we've removed your memories. Selectively, of course. You still have your reflexes and sword skills, but they're mostly latent. They were before we begain, so no big loss. You told us, repeatedly, that you had nothing worth remembering in that thick skull of yours, so it's all gone now. I mean gone as in physically _gone_, in the totally permanent way. Do you want to know what you were before?" Might as well tell me now, fucker. I know this isn't going to be pleasant if my sword-swinging badass self didn't want to remember it in the first place. "Uh, yeah. Sure." ---------- It starts with this alien race that attacked the earth. They wanted the solar system and we were in the way. We had to go. A desparate plan was hatched by the space forces of earth--create a race of super-warriors to fight the aliens off. Most were liquidated after the war was over. Many went insane, none escaped.... But the battles had raged to far for too long. Their flesh had caused biological contamination of the whole human race. Some began to mutate. Billions died. Homo Sapiens dwindiled to a handful. Then, at their most desparate hour, they blossomed. Now, there's a group of revolutionaries who don't want a new order to rise, who don't want to see mankind evolve, who want to hold on to their power. They hatched a plan to use these newtypes, the "Replicants" against their own bretheren. Three people are pulled from the past of alternate dimensions (time travel is impossible, but this is the next best thing). They are fed a convincing story, but only trust one another. They fight, they learn, and their powers grow. Finally, they are pitted against what should be their ultimate enemies--the new human race, which comes visiting carried by a olive branch. The one of the three recovers a scrap of memory from his past. The three turn against both their masters and the newtypes, igniting an interstellar war. After a lot of back and forth, they leave through one of the dimensional devices. .... only to land in this other story that does have giant mecha and seifuku. I've been dying to write a story like this forever. ---------- "You're smoking." It wasn't a question. If a guy had said it, I wouldn't care, but when a woman uses those kind of words, you stop and pay attention. She said it like I'd just executed a man with a gumbi doll. "Uh, yeah. Figured I won't last the week anyway." Actually, I'm pissed, and feeling like shit calms me down. "You know, those things slow you down, even the slightest, in a fight, they'll get you killed in a hurry." "Funny. Here I was thinking I only had to worry about cancer." "Fuck cancer and give me one of those." "You're smoking." It is kind of funny. We're both halfway to actually laughing there for a moment. God I wish moments like these could last forever. ----------