Artificial Idiot
06-11-2004, 07:41 AM
As you've probably guessed, this is a story based on my RPG. It's focus is on the past of the SSR timeline, when London was still in one piece and brave young heroes, such as Captain Iceland, forged their legends. I hope to do a few more of these in the future, focusing on the other great heroes of the past. But for now, this one is all you fraggers are getting :p
* * *
The revenge of The Bandit!
London. Capital of England. A city that was often said to live and breathe. It was the heart of trade in Neo-England, power-house in global economics, a city for any true, warm blooded Neo-Briton to be proud of! Or perhaps, any other part of London would be. Or maybe it wouldn't, the few remaining citizens of this area could care less. The cold war had taken it's toll here, many of the houses were more or less rubble, and a few figures that did catch the eye cowered in fear. Mutated beyond recognition. It was easy, almost impulsive, to pity these people, and just as easy and implusive to be disgusted by them.
Hooves, unlike any the world has ever seen, clanged down upon the rubble like a hammer on a ceramic plate. Grinding it into nothing but dust. The horse travelled at a slow trot, as the dark figure upon it regarded these mutants, people, with a sympathetic scowl. He passed a half ruined billboard, an old fashioned device that involved pasting paper to a wooden construct. This one had been advertising a new brand of Milk brought out by Wescorp. As the figure recalled, it had turned several people's hair blue and exaggerated certain body parts on some young ladies. It was met by much controversy. Even as he passed, one of those damnable nuclear rats tore away at the Wescorp logo. How fitting.
A small child, with abnormally large eyes and hair that was a yellow so bright, it burned the eyes, stared up at him as he rode past. He causally checked the time piece built, quite cleverly, into the wrist of his costume. He then reminded himself, he had all the time in the world for this. His friend wouldn't be going anywhere. He dismounted from his steed, she'd need polishing soon, his feet crushing an unfortunate over-sized beetle as he landed. He knelt down to face the poor child, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"What is your name child?" He asked, his face barely visible underneath the rim of his hat.
The child simply pointed at her throat sorrowfully. He could see now, as she lifted her chin out of the way, that it had been torn apart. Or perhaps it had not, it wasn't uncommon for new born babies to be born with such defects. Radiation was rife in this part of London, and the fear of a large scale nuclear strike was always at the back of everyone's mind. The black cloaked figure himself was wearing a gas mask, just to be safe. He stroked the long, dirt ridden hair of the child gently, taking a small, plastic wrapped bar from his pocket.
"It is small compensation for what you have suffered, my dear child. But on my honour, I insist you take it." The bar of chocolate passed into her hand, the innocent, gleeful smile only a child could muster was his reward. "Fair well, my dear, sweet rose in the wasteland. May life take a pleasant turn in the future."
With that, the figure risked removing his gas mask to kiss the young lady upon the hand, and then, mask in place, mounted his steed of pure silver and trotted off at a pace so slow, it could be described as grim.
He eventually arrived at his destination, a number 36 Development Street. Ironic at how underdeveloped it had become, when you thought about it. Not that anybody really did think about places like this. The police wouldn't touch it with a barge pole, vigilantes in the area often died of radiation poisoning, although they were often admired for trying. It was just such a shame! The area was teeming with life, innocent life. Even now he was sure about ten different figures were watching his advance to the door in the shadows. And who did they have to protect them? There was no Captain Iceland to save them from peril... and he doubted even the great man himself could take away these people's sorrows. With a sign, his steed trotted closer to the door. He remained mounted, in case his target fled in fear.
He noticed that this was one of the better houses in the area, and he knew why. It had been rebuilt from it's original state a month ago by a wealthy doctor. It served as his little hiding hole. A hole he crawled into whenever he was in debt or trouble. And at this precise moment, he was in a lot of trouble! More then even his "healing hands" could cope with. The figure grabbed the door knocker, and brought it down hard on the door. Chipping the hideous, toxic green paint as he did so. Nobody came.
"Really Sir, I expected better of you." He mused as he maneuvered his horse so it had it's hind legs facing the door. "However, it seems I expected far too much of you, Coward!"
Even as he spat the last word, his horse had raised it's back legs and slammed them into the door. The frail wood shattered, sending the cast iron three and six on the door flying in two separate directions, a cloud of dust and splinters in their wake. The figure turned just in time to see a small, balding man dart out of a back entrance. The chase was on. The horse charged though the house, destroying the few possessions it contained. Even the solid wood of the back door could not stop it's mad gallop. The door gave way to the horse and it's rider as if it was paper, ejecting them into the back ally of the home.
The good doctor was not far ahead. He was still making a panicked run though the alleyway as the horse charged after him. He made a brief turn, huffing and puffing, to see the dark figure on the horse now had a sword dawn, it's blade gleamed in the dull light of the afternoon. The doctor drew his rain coat around his shoulders, trying to quicken his pace, but it was pointless. A stringing pain ran though his leg, sending him spiralling to the ground. He lay flat on his back, looking down at the blade impaled in his leg, it's surface stained with his own blood. It wasn't long before the horse was upon him. He could see his own pained expression in the metallic plates as it reared up onto it's hind legs.
"I apologise for this, however, I can not risk you running again, my cowardly sir."
The wraith like figure on the horse muttered darkly, as the front hooves slammed down on the Doctor's legs. The screaming agony of the doctor echoed throughout the streets of this desolate part of London like a banshee. He felt his bones crumble to dust as the hooves hit the ground. He knew it was over for him. It was what he had feared ever since that cryptic note had entered his letter box. He winced in pain as the figure slid off the back of his horse. The first thing the doctor saw of him were his well made, black boots, he dared not look at the rest.
"It has been a long time, Doctor. I had the vague hope you would at least hold your ground and show a little backbone." The man retrived his sword, dangling it in front of the doctor's face. "I suppose the only bout of bravery you can display comes from when your victim is cold with death. And even then, strapped down to a table... as I recall."
"My dear, sweet God!" The doctor gasped, though whines and small yelps of pain. "Is that... you Blakely?"
"Who else was you expecting? A hired assassin? No, no, no dear Dr. Livingstoke, you dishonoured her!" His blade slashed the side of a nearby dust bin in anger. A sickening stench filled the air as mutated insects oozed (often literally) out of the thin crack in the metal. "You betrayed her, You dishonoured her! I would have no other man come to reclaim the honour you stole from her! I would have no other man slay you like the dog you are..."
"BLAKELY! STOP! You... you don't know w-what you're doing!" Livingstoke pleaded.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, sir. Just as know you deserve what is coming to you." The figure swept aside his cloak in a dramatic movement, revealing his gleaming body armour and black spandex to the world. "Philip Blakely is dead, Doctor. You, and your little band of Co-conspirators killed him long ago. There is only The Bandit now, and you will face justice like the squirming worm you are!"
"NO! OH GOD BLAKELY, NO! PLEASE NO! NO! NO! I BEG OF... NOOOOOOOO- ARRRRGH!!!"
* * *
The revenge of The Bandit!
London. Capital of England. A city that was often said to live and breathe. It was the heart of trade in Neo-England, power-house in global economics, a city for any true, warm blooded Neo-Briton to be proud of! Or perhaps, any other part of London would be. Or maybe it wouldn't, the few remaining citizens of this area could care less. The cold war had taken it's toll here, many of the houses were more or less rubble, and a few figures that did catch the eye cowered in fear. Mutated beyond recognition. It was easy, almost impulsive, to pity these people, and just as easy and implusive to be disgusted by them.
Hooves, unlike any the world has ever seen, clanged down upon the rubble like a hammer on a ceramic plate. Grinding it into nothing but dust. The horse travelled at a slow trot, as the dark figure upon it regarded these mutants, people, with a sympathetic scowl. He passed a half ruined billboard, an old fashioned device that involved pasting paper to a wooden construct. This one had been advertising a new brand of Milk brought out by Wescorp. As the figure recalled, it had turned several people's hair blue and exaggerated certain body parts on some young ladies. It was met by much controversy. Even as he passed, one of those damnable nuclear rats tore away at the Wescorp logo. How fitting.
A small child, with abnormally large eyes and hair that was a yellow so bright, it burned the eyes, stared up at him as he rode past. He causally checked the time piece built, quite cleverly, into the wrist of his costume. He then reminded himself, he had all the time in the world for this. His friend wouldn't be going anywhere. He dismounted from his steed, she'd need polishing soon, his feet crushing an unfortunate over-sized beetle as he landed. He knelt down to face the poor child, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"What is your name child?" He asked, his face barely visible underneath the rim of his hat.
The child simply pointed at her throat sorrowfully. He could see now, as she lifted her chin out of the way, that it had been torn apart. Or perhaps it had not, it wasn't uncommon for new born babies to be born with such defects. Radiation was rife in this part of London, and the fear of a large scale nuclear strike was always at the back of everyone's mind. The black cloaked figure himself was wearing a gas mask, just to be safe. He stroked the long, dirt ridden hair of the child gently, taking a small, plastic wrapped bar from his pocket.
"It is small compensation for what you have suffered, my dear child. But on my honour, I insist you take it." The bar of chocolate passed into her hand, the innocent, gleeful smile only a child could muster was his reward. "Fair well, my dear, sweet rose in the wasteland. May life take a pleasant turn in the future."
With that, the figure risked removing his gas mask to kiss the young lady upon the hand, and then, mask in place, mounted his steed of pure silver and trotted off at a pace so slow, it could be described as grim.
He eventually arrived at his destination, a number 36 Development Street. Ironic at how underdeveloped it had become, when you thought about it. Not that anybody really did think about places like this. The police wouldn't touch it with a barge pole, vigilantes in the area often died of radiation poisoning, although they were often admired for trying. It was just such a shame! The area was teeming with life, innocent life. Even now he was sure about ten different figures were watching his advance to the door in the shadows. And who did they have to protect them? There was no Captain Iceland to save them from peril... and he doubted even the great man himself could take away these people's sorrows. With a sign, his steed trotted closer to the door. He remained mounted, in case his target fled in fear.
He noticed that this was one of the better houses in the area, and he knew why. It had been rebuilt from it's original state a month ago by a wealthy doctor. It served as his little hiding hole. A hole he crawled into whenever he was in debt or trouble. And at this precise moment, he was in a lot of trouble! More then even his "healing hands" could cope with. The figure grabbed the door knocker, and brought it down hard on the door. Chipping the hideous, toxic green paint as he did so. Nobody came.
"Really Sir, I expected better of you." He mused as he maneuvered his horse so it had it's hind legs facing the door. "However, it seems I expected far too much of you, Coward!"
Even as he spat the last word, his horse had raised it's back legs and slammed them into the door. The frail wood shattered, sending the cast iron three and six on the door flying in two separate directions, a cloud of dust and splinters in their wake. The figure turned just in time to see a small, balding man dart out of a back entrance. The chase was on. The horse charged though the house, destroying the few possessions it contained. Even the solid wood of the back door could not stop it's mad gallop. The door gave way to the horse and it's rider as if it was paper, ejecting them into the back ally of the home.
The good doctor was not far ahead. He was still making a panicked run though the alleyway as the horse charged after him. He made a brief turn, huffing and puffing, to see the dark figure on the horse now had a sword dawn, it's blade gleamed in the dull light of the afternoon. The doctor drew his rain coat around his shoulders, trying to quicken his pace, but it was pointless. A stringing pain ran though his leg, sending him spiralling to the ground. He lay flat on his back, looking down at the blade impaled in his leg, it's surface stained with his own blood. It wasn't long before the horse was upon him. He could see his own pained expression in the metallic plates as it reared up onto it's hind legs.
"I apologise for this, however, I can not risk you running again, my cowardly sir."
The wraith like figure on the horse muttered darkly, as the front hooves slammed down on the Doctor's legs. The screaming agony of the doctor echoed throughout the streets of this desolate part of London like a banshee. He felt his bones crumble to dust as the hooves hit the ground. He knew it was over for him. It was what he had feared ever since that cryptic note had entered his letter box. He winced in pain as the figure slid off the back of his horse. The first thing the doctor saw of him were his well made, black boots, he dared not look at the rest.
"It has been a long time, Doctor. I had the vague hope you would at least hold your ground and show a little backbone." The man retrived his sword, dangling it in front of the doctor's face. "I suppose the only bout of bravery you can display comes from when your victim is cold with death. And even then, strapped down to a table... as I recall."
"My dear, sweet God!" The doctor gasped, though whines and small yelps of pain. "Is that... you Blakely?"
"Who else was you expecting? A hired assassin? No, no, no dear Dr. Livingstoke, you dishonoured her!" His blade slashed the side of a nearby dust bin in anger. A sickening stench filled the air as mutated insects oozed (often literally) out of the thin crack in the metal. "You betrayed her, You dishonoured her! I would have no other man come to reclaim the honour you stole from her! I would have no other man slay you like the dog you are..."
"BLAKELY! STOP! You... you don't know w-what you're doing!" Livingstoke pleaded.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, sir. Just as know you deserve what is coming to you." The figure swept aside his cloak in a dramatic movement, revealing his gleaming body armour and black spandex to the world. "Philip Blakely is dead, Doctor. You, and your little band of Co-conspirators killed him long ago. There is only The Bandit now, and you will face justice like the squirming worm you are!"
"NO! OH GOD BLAKELY, NO! PLEASE NO! NO! NO! I BEG OF... NOOOOOOOO- ARRRRGH!!!"