02-17-2016, 03:36 PM
Omni said I could conjure anything I want, so I literally pull some rope out of thin air and tie Mr. TR-8R’s ankles up with it. This whole ordeal seemed like total bullshit until that happened. Now, post-magic rope, it only seems sort of like bullshit.
I know, I know. Punching the dude may have been a rash decision. But I mean, can you really blame me? I got sucked away from New York City and dropped in this random-ass extra dimension like place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to weird—my city did get attacked by an army of hostile extraterrestrials who got in through an interdimensional portal and everything—but this just seems excessive. So I may not exactly have all of my actions in check like normal. This is a high-stress situation, you get me?
Especially to deal with alone. Ugh, where’s Trish or Carol when you need them?
So next thing I know, I’m dragging this guy along behind me. I have to admit, the guy’s much heavier than I expected him to be. Maybe it’s all that armor. It does look like it’s made out of a material that isn’t exactly suited to travel long distances. I vaguely catch glimpses of other people hanging out at the fountain, but I tell myself not to dwell on them. Wouldn’t wanna get caught by one of TR-8R’s buddies.
Is this hurting him? I don’t really know and I don’t really care, but I can’t shake the subtle sounds of his helmeted head bopping against the super white floor of this weird, large room as he slides along behind me. I figure it can’t hurt any more than it did when I punched him in the face, so despite that little tickle in the pit of my stomach, I keep on dragging. And he keeps on bopping.
Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
“Ughhhhhh.”
Of course he fucking wakes up. The noise stops me in my tracks, and I turn around and aim his blaster rifle—which I have stolen, yes—straight for him. Killing him, I know, would solve absolutely none of my problems, but that doesn’t mean I can’t threaten him, right? I mean, how else am I supposed to get any dirt on this place?
“…ughhhhhhh,” he groans again. He sounds like me after a particularly lucrative date with one of my main men, Mr. Jim Beam. Probably has the same throbbing headache, at least. Hope he isn’t as prone to vomiting as hungover Jessica is. That would certainly make for a mess on this nice, pretty white ground. I wonder if Omni would want me to make a mop out of this omnilium shit and clean it up? In case you can’t tell, I’m not really the type of girl that revels in that kind of labor.
The guy’s tinted visor—which sort of reminds me of the windows on one of those fancy Escalades cruising through downtown Manhattan—makes it pretty hard to tell when he’s opened his eyes and really taken stock of the situation, but eventually, his body language seems to communicate that he knows he’s gotten himself into some pretty deep shit. Or, at least mildly deep shit. Well, his body language and:
“I’m in some deep shit, huh?”
“Mildly,” I snark back.
He sighs. I hate it when people sigh. It’s so defeatist. I much prefer it when people scream and kick in rage; it seems like a much more appropriate response to any given situation. But this guy, he sighs.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I ask him point-blank, shaking his gun at him. That’s threatening, right? Sure. I don’t know, I’m a fucking superpowered P.I. It’s been a while since I’ve threatened anyone with a gun. I might not have ever done it. I certainly am not keen to try it again any time soon. I barely even know how to hold the damn thing. Still, I keep demanding. I play it cool. “Right now! Or… else.”
He slides backward a little bit, fidgeting nervously. “It’s just… well, that’s kind of a big question. And doesn’t Omni explain everything to primes?”
There’s that word again, I think. “What the fuck does that mean—prime? Is everyone here not a prime?”
“Um, no,” he says as if should already know that. I don’t appreciate his tone. “I’m a secondary. You’re a prime. It just means Omni brought you here directly.” My eyes narrow on him, and I lower my gun. This information’s good enough for me to stop threatening him.
“And that gate,” I ask pointing absentmindedly with the laser rifle (laser rifle?!), “where does it go?”
I’m pointing to the one that’s literally just an archway of ice. In retrospect, I probably should have gotten directions to one that led to a more comfortable-looking place, but hey, I was in a high stress situation, can you blame me? This one’s the closest now, though, and I feel an immense desire to get the fuck out of dodge. What if one of those other guys who appeared tries to fight me? What if one of TR-8R’s friends shows up and wants him back? None of these options sound as good to me as walking into the blizzard I see just beyond the icy archway, so that’s the decision I’ve made.
Still, a little more information wouldn’t hurt.
“That goes to the Frozen Fields,” the stormtrooper explains, leaning over to get a better look at the case. My voluptuous midsection apparently is too big for him to see past. Heh, yeah right. Asshole.
“Sounds divine,” I scowl, picking up his rope and turning around, beginning to yank him across the floor once again.
“Wait—you’re taking me with you?!” he scrambles, trying his best to claw his way out of my reach. It obviously doesn’t work. Like, dude, you’re trying to play tug of war against a woman with superhuman strength and you really thought that was going to work? I’m starting to not even feel sorry for punching him anymore. I spin around, tightening my grip on the rope and drag him back toward me with just a little bit too much force.
He sails toward me, skidding along the floor of the big white place, and I have to hop to make sure he slides underneath me instead of colliding with my legs. Hopefully he’ll just stop on the other side of me—
—no, yeah, there he goes, off into the Frozen Fields, screaming his helmet off all the way.
This time, I sigh. What a douchecanoe.
I know, I know. Punching the dude may have been a rash decision. But I mean, can you really blame me? I got sucked away from New York City and dropped in this random-ass extra dimension like place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to weird—my city did get attacked by an army of hostile extraterrestrials who got in through an interdimensional portal and everything—but this just seems excessive. So I may not exactly have all of my actions in check like normal. This is a high-stress situation, you get me?
Especially to deal with alone. Ugh, where’s Trish or Carol when you need them?
So next thing I know, I’m dragging this guy along behind me. I have to admit, the guy’s much heavier than I expected him to be. Maybe it’s all that armor. It does look like it’s made out of a material that isn’t exactly suited to travel long distances. I vaguely catch glimpses of other people hanging out at the fountain, but I tell myself not to dwell on them. Wouldn’t wanna get caught by one of TR-8R’s buddies.
Is this hurting him? I don’t really know and I don’t really care, but I can’t shake the subtle sounds of his helmeted head bopping against the super white floor of this weird, large room as he slides along behind me. I figure it can’t hurt any more than it did when I punched him in the face, so despite that little tickle in the pit of my stomach, I keep on dragging. And he keeps on bopping.
Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
“Ughhhhhh.”
Of course he fucking wakes up. The noise stops me in my tracks, and I turn around and aim his blaster rifle—which I have stolen, yes—straight for him. Killing him, I know, would solve absolutely none of my problems, but that doesn’t mean I can’t threaten him, right? I mean, how else am I supposed to get any dirt on this place?
“…ughhhhhhh,” he groans again. He sounds like me after a particularly lucrative date with one of my main men, Mr. Jim Beam. Probably has the same throbbing headache, at least. Hope he isn’t as prone to vomiting as hungover Jessica is. That would certainly make for a mess on this nice, pretty white ground. I wonder if Omni would want me to make a mop out of this omnilium shit and clean it up? In case you can’t tell, I’m not really the type of girl that revels in that kind of labor.
The guy’s tinted visor—which sort of reminds me of the windows on one of those fancy Escalades cruising through downtown Manhattan—makes it pretty hard to tell when he’s opened his eyes and really taken stock of the situation, but eventually, his body language seems to communicate that he knows he’s gotten himself into some pretty deep shit. Or, at least mildly deep shit. Well, his body language and:
“I’m in some deep shit, huh?”
“Mildly,” I snark back.
He sighs. I hate it when people sigh. It’s so defeatist. I much prefer it when people scream and kick in rage; it seems like a much more appropriate response to any given situation. But this guy, he sighs.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I ask him point-blank, shaking his gun at him. That’s threatening, right? Sure. I don’t know, I’m a fucking superpowered P.I. It’s been a while since I’ve threatened anyone with a gun. I might not have ever done it. I certainly am not keen to try it again any time soon. I barely even know how to hold the damn thing. Still, I keep demanding. I play it cool. “Right now! Or… else.”
He slides backward a little bit, fidgeting nervously. “It’s just… well, that’s kind of a big question. And doesn’t Omni explain everything to primes?”
There’s that word again, I think. “What the fuck does that mean—prime? Is everyone here not a prime?”
“Um, no,” he says as if should already know that. I don’t appreciate his tone. “I’m a secondary. You’re a prime. It just means Omni brought you here directly.” My eyes narrow on him, and I lower my gun. This information’s good enough for me to stop threatening him.
“And that gate,” I ask pointing absentmindedly with the laser rifle (laser rifle?!), “where does it go?”
I’m pointing to the one that’s literally just an archway of ice. In retrospect, I probably should have gotten directions to one that led to a more comfortable-looking place, but hey, I was in a high stress situation, can you blame me? This one’s the closest now, though, and I feel an immense desire to get the fuck out of dodge. What if one of those other guys who appeared tries to fight me? What if one of TR-8R’s friends shows up and wants him back? None of these options sound as good to me as walking into the blizzard I see just beyond the icy archway, so that’s the decision I’ve made.
Still, a little more information wouldn’t hurt.
“That goes to the Frozen Fields,” the stormtrooper explains, leaning over to get a better look at the case. My voluptuous midsection apparently is too big for him to see past. Heh, yeah right. Asshole.
“Sounds divine,” I scowl, picking up his rope and turning around, beginning to yank him across the floor once again.
“Wait—you’re taking me with you?!” he scrambles, trying his best to claw his way out of my reach. It obviously doesn’t work. Like, dude, you’re trying to play tug of war against a woman with superhuman strength and you really thought that was going to work? I’m starting to not even feel sorry for punching him anymore. I spin around, tightening my grip on the rope and drag him back toward me with just a little bit too much force.
He sails toward me, skidding along the floor of the big white place, and I have to hop to make sure he slides underneath me instead of colliding with my legs. Hopefully he’ll just stop on the other side of me—
—no, yeah, there he goes, off into the Frozen Fields, screaming his helmet off all the way.
This time, I sigh. What a douchecanoe.
Quote:To be continued in The Frozen Fields.