Fan Fiction




((Here's what I submitted the last time they asked for fan fiction.))

Mr. Dusk wasn’t sure about many things in his life, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty. He hated Perez Park. The three goons with white face paint and sledgehammers running toward him reminded him of that fact all the more.

“Looks like another freak trying to make it through our territory,” shouted the lead goon. His face was distorted in rage, but his eyes were steady…calculating. Mr. Dusk had a good idea what made the bulge under the thug’s leather jacket.

“Freak? That certainly is an interesting choice of words coming from someone with a skull painted on his face,” said Mr. Dusk as he pretended to brush lint off the shoulders of his black suit jacket. “Might I make a recommendation however?”

The three men closed to striking distance and spread into a semi-circle in front of Mr. Dusk. Normally the sight of his pitch black skin and glowing red eyes caused at least mild trepidation in criminals, but these men had clearly seen more than enough “freaks” to be afraid of unconventional looks.

“Unless you guys are selling sledgehammers door-to-door, I suggest you return them to whatever uncomfortable place you hide them and resume your lives of lethargy,” said Mr. Dusk.

There hands tightened on their weapons. Mr. Dusk smiled politely.

“Gentlemen, this is hardly a fair fight. I do suggest you find more people.”

The leader plunged his hand beneath his left breast pocket. Mr. Dusk’s arms flashed. The gun was halved the moment it appeared, both sides clattering on the pavement. Mr. Dusk’s katana vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The two other goons stood stunned, but the leader’s eyes narrowed. He brought his hand to his mouth and used his fingers to emit a piercing whistle.

The sound was gone so quickly, that Mr. Dusk wondered if had even heard it at all. Then, in the distance, the door of a dilapidated apartment building opened, and more men began to pour out. Mr. Dusk counted 15. Most had knives and bats, but at least two had automatic pistols. They formed a circle around Mr. Dusk. He knew they were too much for him to handle. Three would have been tough, but 18...he hoped the medical center still had the chocolate pudding he liked.

“Only 18? I was hoping to break a sweat today.”

The leader held up his hand, when the men started to close. The thugs seemed to relax a second. A wicked grin spread across his face, and the leader whistled again. This time the doors of two vans in the apartment building’s parking lot opened. Mr. Dusk counted 10 more men as they appeared from the vehicles. Three had automatic weapons.

Two had no weapons. Mr. Dusk recognized their distinctive paint. “Bone Daddies,” he whispered…skull leaders who got their jobs by beating everyone into submission. He’d only faced one before. That one had nearly killed him, and these two looked to be in much better shape.

Mr. Dusk slowly drew his katana. He could feel his familiar energy channeling into the blade. The blade blurred and slowly became transparent. Now it would pass through a body without killing, only damaging. They would likely kill him before he could swing a second time.

“Any last words, dead meat,” the leader asked. His eyes had glazed over and a thing grin had burned across his face.

Mr. Dusk looked at the 30 men surrounding him. “There’s going to be 60 hits. Me hitting each of you, and each of you hitting the floor. Wait a second,” he continued. “There are 60 of you right? Let me get a count. Everyone raise their hand and drop it when I point at you.”

“Shut up and die, freak,” the leader charged. The world exploded. Mr. Dusk only saw the brief flash of his blade passing through the leader’s chest, when a bright orange flash brought him to his knees in agony. He felt a train smashing through his mind as waves of heat rolled over him. From far away he could hear screaming. And then the fire vanished.

Around him, the men were writhing in agony. Only the Bone Daddies were still on their feet, racing off into the distance with flames still dancing on their backs. The leader was unconscious but breathing normally.

“Sorry about that, guy,” Mr. Dusk followed the sound of the voice to a small man hovering 15 feet above the ground. “I was just going to loosen the big guys up for you, and I got a little carried away.”

The man wore a red an orange battle suit which appeared to be a mish-mash of different technologies wired into one unintelligible ball. Mr. Dusk recognized him immediately, but said nothing. The British Bomber was a powerful hero, but his unpredictability usually let him few allies and a large repair bill.

“Just send me the bill for that suit. In any case, have a nice day, or as you Americans say, peace out,” and with that the British Bomber rose into the sky and over the park, fading quickly into the distance.

“I hate Perez Park,” Mr. Dusk said to the few men who were still conscious. In the distance he could hear police sirens.