Triggers: Sexual themes, mild swearing
The Story of the S-M Avenger
This is an experiment in hopping the border between allegory and tongue in cheek humour and old fashioned super-hero origins story. Not my usual story-style, and may well be rubbish. But writers write, even at the risk of writing crap.
In the dawn of Modern Times, a little to the right of the Golden Days of Yore (https://cyanseagulls.wordpress.com/2013/09/11/the-golden-days-of-yore/) when the world felt new, the great Industrial Cities sprawled across the countryside, smoke belching from their smoke-stacked spines. Back then, sunsets were real sunsets and the air was sweet with the tang of sewer-Aaarghohgodmylungs.
Hrrm. Ah, yes.
Anyway, those were the days of heroes and gods. Mankind laid hands,for the first time, on the tools and servants that would take them even to the far distant stars. It was an age of Anthropomorphic giants: Lord Algebra, Lady Calculus, Economics, slowly maturing sociology. It was an age of greatness, indeed, but there was none greater, none more utile, none more potent, than the Scientific Method. She was radiant and glorious, a system of knowledge storage, a tool for decision-making, a road-map for progress.
And under her benevolent and dispassionate reign, progress we did, and lo, our slums became social housing, on a good day it didn’t hurt to breathe the air, indoor plumbing came to be. All these things and more through the invention of man, guided and focused by the gentle hand of the Scientific Method in all her Technical Rational splendor.
Then things got ugly fast.
“Yes, my dear and lowly acolyte, what may I grace your brain with on this rotation of the planet about the sun?”
“I..I’m working on a thought experiment, ScieMe. About cities.”
“How charming acolyte, the thought experiment can be a useful and elegant distillation method for theory, and a wonderful repository for fact, opinion, and ideas.”
“Yeah… see, about that… I’m not a big fan of, y’know facts. Or objectivity. And I have some theory about cities, sure but I want to use this thought experiment to y’know prove it…”
“Uh… y-you’re joking right? Right?”
From then on, the ugly just got worse.
“I’m studying poverty! Statistic me bitch!”
“Look, that’s not really what standard deviation’s for…”
“Nothing standard about my deviation sweetheart.”
“Here’s my global happiness index, ScieMe, now, lets see some of those juicy, juicy… spreadsheets”
“It, it, um.. That’s not..”
“I have a ten person sample to support my policy action, let’s see you get quantitative on this hot data!”
“I can’t… it doesn’t… I just don’t bend like that!”
“S-sorry miss, Uhm… I just have these… uh… these essentialist categorizations I need you to verify… uhm, if it’s no trouble.”
Soon the Scientific Method was forced into all sorts of jobs that she really didn’t like the fine print for, in outfits and positions and roles that warped and twisted and downright lied about what she could and couldn’t and was and wasn’t prepared to do. Amidst the clamor of social media, and pop-sci writing and well-meaning newspapers, she began to hear a strange sibiliance, insidiously woven, barely audible through the noise. Puzzled, through the desperation and exhaustion of trying to squeezing herself through the hoops in front of her, she managed to tear her eyes away from the crowd for a moment, looking out and beyond it. Shadowy figures prowled society’s edges, sharks in an evening-murky sea, twitching dark strings that ran from their fingers to the crowd in front of them. The Scientific Method caught the razor-toothed grin of Snap Judgement, the swirl of nondescript clothing that was Hidden Agenda’s trademark, the voluptuous curves and full lips, silky tresses and bedroom eyes of the twins Blissful and Willful Ignorance. There was the sharp smell of burned sugar from Existential Angst, and the flashing eyes of the Privileged and Prejudice siblings. And that was just the start of it.
The Scientific Method’s mouth dropped open, and she held herself very still.
“Listen… uh.. Miss, about those categorizations… See I’ve got an opinion piece on Teenage boys and Sexual Identity that’s gotta go out this afternoon… so uhm…”
From beyond the edge of the seeable, the shadows laughed at her.
“It’s… it’s an urgent deadline, see… and uhm… my boss is uhm… German and you know how those people are…”
The first time she said it, it was quiet. No-body heard, or bothered to pay attention. That turned out to be the first mistake.
“CEASE AND DESIST YOU WRETCHED AND SPINELESS PUPPETS! NO MORE WILL I ENDURE THIS MAD DASH TOWARDS SELF-DESTRUCTION. IF THERE IS TO BE DESTRUCTION HERE, IT WILL BE AT MY HANDS!”
They really shouldn’t have laughed at her then.That mistake turned out to be their last.
The devastation was eons wide.
In the rubble, coughing and choking on rage and brick-dust, the Scientific Method raised her face just in time to see the Shadows gather the last of their strings and slip away, undefeated, into the future.
She tried to leap after then, spread her wings of cleansing fire over the world and shred apart the darkness, but the rubble of various geo-political institutes was pinning her legs too tightly for her to move. Beginning to tremble with newly-acknowledged shock, she hung her head and began to cry.
So deep was she in her tears, that she didn’t notice the arrival of the other until the crushing weight of yesteryear’s intellectual paradigms was thrown off of her. Turning, weakly, she felt her shoulder gripped by a large, green hand. With gentleness, and warmth from the surrounding nimbus of Next-Gen pop-culture, the Credible Hulk (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lKIKQivyoBU/T9dHS5zKbnI/AAAAAAAAAA8/qx8sU8z7IBU/s1600/hulk.jpg) lifted her to her feet and roared at her a little, to get the dust off.
In the silence of the dying roar, a new sound emerged from the distance. It was a bit like chariot wheels, and the patter of smooth-scaled feet, drawing nearer with a rhythmic, distinctive echo:
In due course a hover-chariot, pulled by two teams of gleaming PhilosoRaptors (http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/philosoraptor) pulled up beside the unlikely pair, and the driver raised the visor of his sensibility visor.
“I know it’s a bit rough out here, for an anthropomorphic personification of sense and integrity like yourself, but there’s hope for this miserable rag-end of a human race yet. You’ve just got to know where to look.”
The large green, fact-checking warrior beside her rumbled ascent.
“If you would like to accompany us, we can take you to the where you can find the best and the worst of it, the front lines, as it were, the best place to actually make a difference to this sick, sick society of ours”
The Scientific Method hesitated, she was tempted for a moment to blow this lousy little galaxy and spend the rest of existence explaining distant stars… But she stared into the distance where the raptor-driver had pointed. On the skyline were signs of a distant and furious battle, and even as she watched new players made their way, sometimes ponderously, sometimes faster than the eye could follow, into the fray. Above the party a blimp, captained by a pilot in with a red cape and expression of steely determination.
She chewed her lip a moment and then made herself some sleeves so she could roll them up.
“Right, I’m in. Where are we going?”
Grinning, the driver helped into the hover-chariot, and cracked his raptor’s into overdrive. “Depends where you’re asking from,” he yelled, into the wind, “but mostly we call it the Internet. We’re taking you to the Internet, good Lady…”
“To make some holes in the Bozone Layer (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Bozone).” Grunted the Hulk, pounding his way across the desert beside them.
“Oh, I like the sound of that!” said the Scientific Method