PROMPT: A man who has superpowers when he hear music. The power depends on the song.
She rounded the corner at a dead sprint, that goddamned Springsteen song pumping loud through her headphones. Everything around her was a blur, but long practice allowed her to look for the bad guys: there, two armed men in ski-masks waving pistols, a third loading bags of something into a crappy stolen getaway car. She put her head down and powered toward them.
The two men with guns saw her and began to turn the pistols in her direction, but she was across the courtyard faster than they could swing their arms and had the pistols in her hands in an eyeblink. A quick pass around the getaway car allowed her to snatch the pistol out of the waistband of the man loading the bags; then back out of the courtyard, ditch the guns, and back for the big fight scene.
Her stomach clenched as she reached up and clicked three times on the mic-button of her headphones, then three times again. The world slowed to what seemed like an unbearably slow crawl, normal speed, and the short slow-burn opening bars of Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger blared in her ears. She gritted her teeth as the sting hit. That fucking song, for the thousand thousandth time. Adrenaline surged through her, and she felt her feet finding their stance.
The two men on lookout for her moved toward her, letting their companion get on with loading; he wasn’t far from done, the trunk of the crappy car almost full.
She glided toward the two men, angling to keep them in front of her, bobbing and weaving and keeping herself moving. She didn’t have to think about it; as always, something... something in the song took hold of her, moved her body the way it needed to move, made her who she needed to be in order to accomplish the task.
Two swift jabs to the nose, a cross to the cheek, and an uppercut right on the point of the jaw, and the first hoodlum was down; the second closed in, trying to get her front he side, but she turned in time to plant a fist to his jaw, bang-bang-bang and down he went.
The sound of the trunk slamming punctuated the last round of blows, and she heard the car start; she turned just in time to see it blow smoke off both rear tires as it fishtailed out of the courtyard, the driver/loader having wisely decided that his muscle was a write-off.
Two clicks forward on the headphone mic and the unbearable sweetness of the Charriots of Fire Title track actually caused her stomach to clench even as she took off, moving fast enough to keep up but without the blurring, uncontrolled head-on speed of ‘Born to Run.’
For six miles she kept the tail lights of that ridiculous getaway vehicle in sight; it was some sort of eighties sedan, boxy and handling like a brick on skateboard casters but housing some sort of big stupid engine, and shit-brown. It suddenly cornered, skidding sideways before heading down a dirt-road and into the trees.
She caught up just in time to see it plough into a barn, just missing the doorway and instead punching through the side; there was a brief crunch of metal and a lot of shouting inside the barn. More members of the gang? Ridiculous plan, if so.
A little more speed for the big finish, and she prepared to click her way back into Rocky mode for the big finale as she became aware of a pervading sound, so loud and steady that she hadn’t really noticed it until it started ramping up, and then...
The other side of the barn fell away and a medium-sized cargo plane wheeled out onto a short, makeshift runway; one small maneuver to get it in line, and then it was off down the leveled dirt, engine noise suddenly ramping up to ear-shattering whine.
She came to a halt at the edge of the runway, watching the plane speed down the runway. Her hand reached for her headphone mic button; six clicks, forward-forward-forward, would put her in the air. Her stomach clenched; her jaws ground her teeth together.
Her hand hovered there, at the mic, and she couldn’t make it click, just couldn’t. Couldn’t stand one more play of that goddamned song. Just....
She fell to her knees at the end of the runway, crushed by a thousand nights of running and fighting in the darkness, confronting the forces of evil and lawlessness; crushed by a thousand plays of... of.
“God damn you,” she whispered, “God damn you, R. Kelly.”
The plane left the ground in a puff of dust, and she watched its running lights disappear into the night sky, tears of rage and revulsion streaking the dirt on her face.
She rounded the corner at a dead sprint, that goddamned Springsteen song pumping loud through her headphones. Everything around her was a blur, but long practice allowed her to look for the bad guys: there, two armed men in ski-masks waving pistols, a third loading bags of something into a crappy stolen getaway car. She put her head down and powered toward them.
The two men with guns saw her and began to turn the pistols in her direction, but she was across the courtyard faster than they could swing their arms and had the pistols in her hands in an eyeblink. A quick pass around the getaway car allowed her to snatch the pistol out of the waistband of the man loading the bags; then back out of the courtyard, ditch the guns, and back for the big fight scene.
Her stomach clenched as she reached up and clicked three times on the mic-button of her headphones, then three times again. The world slowed to what seemed like an unbearably slow crawl, normal speed, and the short slow-burn opening bars of Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger blared in her ears. She gritted her teeth as the sting hit. That fucking song, for the thousand thousandth time. Adrenaline surged through her, and she felt her feet finding their stance.
The two men on lookout for her moved toward her, letting their companion get on with loading; he wasn’t far from done, the trunk of the crappy car almost full.
She glided toward the two men, angling to keep them in front of her, bobbing and weaving and keeping herself moving. She didn’t have to think about it; as always, something... something in the song took hold of her, moved her body the way it needed to move, made her who she needed to be in order to accomplish the task.
Two swift jabs to the nose, a cross to the cheek, and an uppercut right on the point of the jaw, and the first hoodlum was down; the second closed in, trying to get her front he side, but she turned in time to plant a fist to his jaw, bang-bang-bang and down he went.
The sound of the trunk slamming punctuated the last round of blows, and she heard the car start; she turned just in time to see it blow smoke off both rear tires as it fishtailed out of the courtyard, the driver/loader having wisely decided that his muscle was a write-off.
Two clicks forward on the headphone mic and the unbearable sweetness of the Charriots of Fire Title track actually caused her stomach to clench even as she took off, moving fast enough to keep up but without the blurring, uncontrolled head-on speed of ‘Born to Run.’
For six miles she kept the tail lights of that ridiculous getaway vehicle in sight; it was some sort of eighties sedan, boxy and handling like a brick on skateboard casters but housing some sort of big stupid engine, and shit-brown. It suddenly cornered, skidding sideways before heading down a dirt-road and into the trees.
She caught up just in time to see it plough into a barn, just missing the doorway and instead punching through the side; there was a brief crunch of metal and a lot of shouting inside the barn. More members of the gang? Ridiculous plan, if so.
A little more speed for the big finish, and she prepared to click her way back into Rocky mode for the big finale as she became aware of a pervading sound, so loud and steady that she hadn’t really noticed it until it started ramping up, and then...
The other side of the barn fell away and a medium-sized cargo plane wheeled out onto a short, makeshift runway; one small maneuver to get it in line, and then it was off down the leveled dirt, engine noise suddenly ramping up to ear-shattering whine.
She came to a halt at the edge of the runway, watching the plane speed down the runway. Her hand reached for her headphone mic button; six clicks, forward-forward-forward, would put her in the air. Her stomach clenched; her jaws ground her teeth together.
Her hand hovered there, at the mic, and she couldn’t make it click, just couldn’t. Couldn’t stand one more play of that goddamned song. Just....
She fell to her knees at the end of the runway, crushed by a thousand nights of running and fighting in the darkness, confronting the forces of evil and lawlessness; crushed by a thousand plays of... of.
“God damn you,” she whispered, “God damn you, R. Kelly.”
The plane left the ground in a puff of dust, and she watched its running lights disappear into the night sky, tears of rage and revulsion streaking the dirt on her face.
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