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I hope no one has ever done a regular FOG story before. Otherwise I will be pretty gutted. Well anyway, I hope you enjoy the first part, I know it hasn't got an ending (yet) but more's in the making.High above the withered clouds, Stryke flew over London 2.5 in his high velocity speeder, the Xzero Prototype that his company, Slick Enterprises, had been working on.
The dirty slums of the very same city Mystique prowled in her kinky S.P.A.M (Super Patrol Anti-Madness) outfit (made by Antz Inc.) dreaming of her love affairs with games.
Loosening his tie, No.2 gently eased his “Tarker 20” pen from his weary hands and let himself fall back into the comfort of his leather bound chair. As it’s pressure pads whirr into action smoothly relaxing his tensed back and neck muscles and stared out across the vast expanse of the city which had become the world centre.
Stryke banked smoothly over a billboard towards the pillar of offices the rose up to his right. The engine spluttered. Three times. He felt the speeder slip away from his grasp and slid his hand over the small, black button behind his left hand.
Mystique eyes darted to the explosion about 15 metres from her, and counted her blessings as a large disintegration unit blocked her from the shards of steaming metal that the explosion spewed, plastering the ground in molten metal. At much the same time, No.2 jumped out of his chair, slamming his hips against his smooth, black, metal desk and knocking over his photos.
Stryke lay on the top of one of the extensions of the offices, his senses slowly falling back into place, and his feeling’s starting to spike him with sharp jolts of pain on most places on his battered body. Slowly he rose from his resting-place and edged to the border of the office roof. Peering over he saw avid faces staring down into the rumble of his speeder. Laying his head on the edge, he cursed himself for having not checked the engine himself, and he let his mind wonder through the tunnels of his thought until it came to the most urgent question at hand, how was he to get down. He looked over his position, as he always did, coming to the conclusion he would have to use the links on his cuffs to attract the people in the office’s attention.
No.2 took a step back from his view of the explosion as a gold link flew past him falling to join the metal below, and looked up to see a face hanging over the roof.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” he caressed the words out of his mouth, “would you send Afro to investigate the office roof, I believe there is someone who requires assistance.” He watched as an SS (sky scooter) flew up from the hangar directly below him and moved to the intercom.
“Afro?”
“S…Sir?” Afro stammered, feeling intimidated as it was highly unusual of No.2 to take any interest whatsoever in any of the Guards, let alone a Lower Guard.
“When you pick him up, bring him straight to my office.”
“Yessir.”
Mystique picked herself off the floor, and walked over to the smouldering speeder and prodded it with her foot to see if there was anything under it. Silence.
“Guess the guy got out…”She mused. She began to tense, and padded to the wall. She listened. Nothing. The chunky sound of mechs drifted to her ears and she dashed to her cover behind the disintegration unit. She cursed herself for not having brought one of her weapons, as she was now totally defenceless against the heavily armoured Mechs (Spamers).
As Stryke entered No.2’s office, closely followed by Afro, a small bug shaped camera hovered just outside the windows, filming everything within.
“Ah!” No.2 leaned back into his chair, “I see you managed to make it here! I hope the journey wasn’t too strenuous. Bu…” Afro’s stifled laughter interrupted him. “As I was saying,” glances at Afro, “I’m glad you made it. How are things at the plant?”
“Everything is going smoothly.” Stryke smiled, it was a long time before he had been inside an office, “I believe Sejemal has nearly completed the experiment. They’re almost ready.”
“Good. And do take a seat.”
“Shall I call Ant?” asked Afro.
“Yes… And tell him to evacuate his forces, he won’t need them anymore.”
“Mystique?” A voice gurgled from the concealed earphone clipped onto her left earlobe.
“Sir.” She whispered.
“Evacuate from the lower levels.”
“Sir,” trying to keep her voice nothing more than whisper, the mechs were less than a meter away from her, on the other side of the disintegration unit. “There are two mechs right next to me.” The microphone bleeped, the transmission had terminated. Mistique gulped.
The dirty slums of the very same city Mystique prowled in her kinky S.P.A.M (Super Patrol Anti-Madness) outfit (made by Antz Inc.) dreaming of her love affairs with games.
Loosening his tie, No.2 gently eased his “Tarker 20” pen from his weary hands and let himself fall back into the comfort of his leather bound chair. As it’s pressure pads whirr into action smoothly relaxing his tensed back and neck muscles and stared out across the vast expanse of the city which had become the world centre.
Stryke banked smoothly over a billboard towards the pillar of offices the rose up to his right. The engine spluttered. Three times. He felt the speeder slip away from his grasp and slid his hand over the small, black button behind his left hand.
Mystique eyes darted to the explosion about 15 metres from her, and counted her blessings as a large disintegration unit blocked her from the shards of steaming metal that the explosion spewed, plastering the ground in molten metal. At much the same time, No.2 jumped out of his chair, slamming his hips against his smooth, black, metal desk and knocking over his photos.
Stryke lay on the top of one of the extensions of the offices, his senses slowly falling back into place, and his feeling’s starting to spike him with sharp jolts of pain on most places on his battered body. Slowly he rose from his resting-place and edged to the border of the office roof. Peering over he saw avid faces staring down into the rumble of his speeder. Laying his head on the edge, he cursed himself for having not checked the engine himself, and he let his mind wonder through the tunnels of his thought until it came to the most urgent question at hand, how was he to get down. He looked over his position, as he always did, coming to the conclusion he would have to use the links on his cuffs to attract the people in the office’s attention.
No.2 took a step back from his view of the explosion as a gold link flew past him falling to join the metal below, and looked up to see a face hanging over the roof.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” he caressed the words out of his mouth, “would you send Afro to investigate the office roof, I believe there is someone who requires assistance.” He watched as an SS (sky scooter) flew up from the hangar directly below him and moved to the intercom.
“Afro?”
“S…Sir?” Afro stammered, feeling intimidated as it was highly unusual of No.2 to take any interest whatsoever in any of the Guards, let alone a Lower Guard.
“When you pick him up, bring him straight to my office.”
“Yessir.”
Mystique picked herself off the floor, and walked over to the smouldering speeder and prodded it with her foot to see if there was anything under it. Silence.
“Guess the guy got out…”She mused. She began to tense, and padded to the wall. She listened. Nothing. The chunky sound of mechs drifted to her ears and she dashed to her cover behind the disintegration unit. She cursed herself for not having brought one of her weapons, as she was now totally defenceless against the heavily armoured Mechs (Spamers).
As Stryke entered No.2’s office, closely followed by Afro, a small bug shaped camera hovered just outside the windows, filming everything within.
“Ah!” No.2 leaned back into his chair, “I see you managed to make it here! I hope the journey wasn’t too strenuous. Bu…” Afro’s stifled laughter interrupted him. “As I was saying,” glances at Afro, “I’m glad you made it. How are things at the plant?”
“Everything is going smoothly.” Stryke smiled, it was a long time before he had been inside an office, “I believe Sejemal has nearly completed the experiment. They’re almost ready.”
“Good. And do take a seat.”
“Shall I call Ant?” asked Afro.
“Yes… And tell him to evacuate his forces, he won’t need them anymore.”
“Mystique?” A voice gurgled from the concealed earphone clipped onto her left earlobe.
“Sir.” She whispered.
“Evacuate from the lower levels.”
“Sir,” trying to keep her voice nothing more than whisper, the mechs were less than a meter away from her, on the other side of the disintegration unit. “There are two mechs right next to me.” The microphone bleeped, the transmission had terminated. Mistique gulped.
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½pint wrote:
And where would I be in that last story? I can be the cyborg cook person who can't cook anything. :)
Did you read it? Thanks... I hope other people appreciate it... And yeah I could probably put you in somewhere along the line.... maybe as a mech (spammers) dedstroyer who turns evil and... Can't give away too much off the plot now can I? ;).
And where would I be in that last story? I can be the cyborg cook person who can't cook anything. :)
Did you read it? Thanks... I hope other people appreciate it... And yeah I could probably put you in somewhere along the line.... maybe as a mech (spammers) dedstroyer who turns evil and... Can't give away too much off the plot now can I? ;).
And where would I be in that last story? I can be the cyborg cook person who can't cook anything. :)
I hope no one has ever done a regular FOG story before. Otherwise I will be pretty gutted. Well anyway, I hope you enjoy the first part, I know it hasn't got an ending (yet) but more's in the making.High above the withered clouds, Stryke flew over London 2.5 in his high velocity speeder, the Xzero Prototype that his company, Slick Enterprises, had been working on.
The dirty slums of the very same city Mystique prowled in her kinky S.P.A.M (Super Patrol Anti-Madness) outfit (made by Antz Inc.) dreaming of her love affairs with games.
Loosening his tie, No.2 gently eased his “Tarker 20” pen from his weary hands and let himself fall back into the comfort of his leather bound chair. As it’s pressure pads whirr into action smoothly relaxing his tensed back and neck muscles and stared out across the vast expanse of the city which had become the world centre.
Stryke banked smoothly over a billboard towards the pillar of offices the rose up to his right. The engine spluttered. Three times. He felt the speeder slip away from his grasp and slid his hand over the small, black button behind his left hand.
Mystique eyes darted to the explosion about 15 metres from her, and counted her blessings as a large disintegration unit blocked her from the shards of steaming metal that the explosion spewed, plastering the ground in molten metal. At much the same time, No.2 jumped out of his chair, slamming his hips against his smooth, black, metal desk and knocking over his photos.
Stryke lay on the top of one of the extensions of the offices, his senses slowly falling back into place, and his feeling’s starting to spike him with sharp jolts of pain on most places on his battered body. Slowly he rose from his resting-place and edged to the border of the office roof. Peering over he saw avid faces staring down into the rumble of his speeder. Laying his head on the edge, he cursed himself for having not checked the engine himself, and he let his mind wonder through the tunnels of his thought until it came to the most urgent question at hand, how was he to get down. He looked over his position, as he always did, coming to the conclusion he would have to use the links on his cuffs to attract the people in the office’s attention.
No.2 took a step back from his view of the explosion as a gold link flew past him falling to join the metal below, and looked up to see a face hanging over the roof.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” he caressed the words out of his mouth, “would you send Afro to investigate the office roof, I believe there is someone who requires assistance.” He watched as an SS (sky scooter) flew up from the hangar directly below him and moved to the intercom.
“Afro?”
“S…Sir?” Afro stammered, feeling intimidated as it was highly unusual of No.2 to take any interest whatsoever in any of the Guards, let alone a Lower Guard.
“When you pick him up, bring him straight to my office.”
“Yessir.”
Mystique picked herself off the floor, and walked over to the smouldering speeder and prodded it with her foot to see if there was anything under it. Silence.
“Guess the guy got out…”She mused. She began to tense, and padded to the wall. She listened. Nothing. The chunky sound of mechs drifted to her ears and she dashed to her cover behind the disintegration unit. She cursed herself for not having brought one of her weapons, as she was now totally defenceless against the heavily armoured Mechs (Spamers).
As Stryke entered No.2’s office, closely followed by Afro, a small bug shaped camera hovered just outside the windows, filming everything within.
“Ah!” No.2 leaned back into his chair, “I see you managed to make it here! I hope the journey wasn’t too strenuous. Bu…” Afro’s stifled laughter interrupted him. “As I was saying,” glances at Afro, “I’m glad you made it. How are things at the plant?”
“Everything is going smoothly.” Stryke smiled, it was a long time before he had been inside an office, “I believe Sejemal has nearly completed the experiment. They’re almost ready.”
“Good. And do take a seat.”
“Shall I call Ant?” asked Afro.
“Yes… And tell him to evacuate his forces, he won’t need them anymore.”
“Mystique?” A voice gurgled from the concealed earphone clipped onto her left earlobe.
“Sir.” She whispered.
“Evacuate from the lower levels.”
“Sir,” trying to keep her voice nothing more than whisper, the mechs were less than a meter away from her, on the other side of the disintegration unit. “There are two mechs right next to me.” The microphone bleeped, the transmission had terminated. Mistique gulped.
The dirty slums of the very same city Mystique prowled in her kinky S.P.A.M (Super Patrol Anti-Madness) outfit (made by Antz Inc.) dreaming of her love affairs with games.
Loosening his tie, No.2 gently eased his “Tarker 20” pen from his weary hands and let himself fall back into the comfort of his leather bound chair. As it’s pressure pads whirr into action smoothly relaxing his tensed back and neck muscles and stared out across the vast expanse of the city which had become the world centre.
Stryke banked smoothly over a billboard towards the pillar of offices the rose up to his right. The engine spluttered. Three times. He felt the speeder slip away from his grasp and slid his hand over the small, black button behind his left hand.
Mystique eyes darted to the explosion about 15 metres from her, and counted her blessings as a large disintegration unit blocked her from the shards of steaming metal that the explosion spewed, plastering the ground in molten metal. At much the same time, No.2 jumped out of his chair, slamming his hips against his smooth, black, metal desk and knocking over his photos.
Stryke lay on the top of one of the extensions of the offices, his senses slowly falling back into place, and his feeling’s starting to spike him with sharp jolts of pain on most places on his battered body. Slowly he rose from his resting-place and edged to the border of the office roof. Peering over he saw avid faces staring down into the rumble of his speeder. Laying his head on the edge, he cursed himself for having not checked the engine himself, and he let his mind wonder through the tunnels of his thought until it came to the most urgent question at hand, how was he to get down. He looked over his position, as he always did, coming to the conclusion he would have to use the links on his cuffs to attract the people in the office’s attention.
No.2 took a step back from his view of the explosion as a gold link flew past him falling to join the metal below, and looked up to see a face hanging over the roof.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” he caressed the words out of his mouth, “would you send Afro to investigate the office roof, I believe there is someone who requires assistance.” He watched as an SS (sky scooter) flew up from the hangar directly below him and moved to the intercom.
“Afro?”
“S…Sir?” Afro stammered, feeling intimidated as it was highly unusual of No.2 to take any interest whatsoever in any of the Guards, let alone a Lower Guard.
“When you pick him up, bring him straight to my office.”
“Yessir.”
Mystique picked herself off the floor, and walked over to the smouldering speeder and prodded it with her foot to see if there was anything under it. Silence.
“Guess the guy got out…”She mused. She began to tense, and padded to the wall. She listened. Nothing. The chunky sound of mechs drifted to her ears and she dashed to her cover behind the disintegration unit. She cursed herself for not having brought one of her weapons, as she was now totally defenceless against the heavily armoured Mechs (Spamers).
As Stryke entered No.2’s office, closely followed by Afro, a small bug shaped camera hovered just outside the windows, filming everything within.
“Ah!” No.2 leaned back into his chair, “I see you managed to make it here! I hope the journey wasn’t too strenuous. Bu…” Afro’s stifled laughter interrupted him. “As I was saying,” glances at Afro, “I’m glad you made it. How are things at the plant?”
“Everything is going smoothly.” Stryke smiled, it was a long time before he had been inside an office, “I believe Sejemal has nearly completed the experiment. They’re almost ready.”
“Good. And do take a seat.”
“Shall I call Ant?” asked Afro.
“Yes… And tell him to evacuate his forces, he won’t need them anymore.”
“Mystique?” A voice gurgled from the concealed earphone clipped onto her left earlobe.
“Sir.” She whispered.
“Evacuate from the lower levels.”
“Sir,” trying to keep her voice nothing more than whisper, the mechs were less than a meter away from her, on the other side of the disintegration unit. “There are two mechs right next to me.” The microphone bleeped, the transmission had terminated. Mistique gulped.
Page: