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Sep 29, 2003

The only true Catwoman is Julie Newmar, Lee Meriwether, or Eartha Kitt.

Alright, dicklords, I'm back and I want youuuuu.


Sep 29, 2003

The only true Catwoman is Julie Newmar, Lee Meriwether, or Eartha Kitt.

An action scene consisting of both fighting and fisting? At the same time, or..?

Sep 29, 2003

The only true Catwoman is Julie Newmar, Lee Meriwether, or Eartha Kitt.

This long and I already cut it down a bunch and it's suuuper late, so here goes!

Playing it straight, just for the chicks.

Suit on Suit (non-erotic)

It's about six in the morning far, far below, and the sunrise line cutting across the dark Serengeti is stunning. Unfortunately, I only have a moment to enjoy my spacewalk, as a swarm of shots shear past me and into void, fired by a madman on the station. I only notice how close they come because the EVA suit deigned to let me know.

Floating out at the nadir spindle, I can't get a good read on anything happening the hundred or so feet down at the station itself. I could have loosed the magnet tethers and went down, but I decided to keep safe up here.

Safe. gently caress, if being suspended out here trying to do repair EVA duty—by myself no less—could be anything close to safe.

At the start I had heard Trev shouting about sabotage, Gurpreet calling out about an intruder, but then the headset died, withered on the vine.

And now here he is, ravenous inside a stolen suit. I see the he's figured out the burst jets, fumbling toward me up the long, long spindle, scrambling past the huge letters spelling Canadarm II.

An errant bit of insight hits me and I realize that he's somewhat competent, and a cold wash hits, despite my suit's thermal underskin. gently caress me.

I move the tether and climb earthward from my spot, down around a mounting dish as fast as I can, which all things considered, is too slow. The vibrations of his clumsy rear end bouncing against the structure are getting closer.

There's a maintenance panel nearby, but there's nothing useful in it. I curse Lisbet for being too sick to come out on assist duty. I check the suit's welder and powerjack, both still hosed from skipped maintenance.

I use what little suit power I have left to burst down and around a forest of antennae, hoping the lunatic is out of rounds. Everything here is delicate and there he is, thrashing along. I wonder why he's fixated on just me, and the only thing I keep coming up with is too horrible to think.

I grab for some ladder rungs sweeping around the array and back to the main strut, but my gloves slip. I can feel the sweat pouring out despite my fine mesh weave. loving nerves. I grab again and hold tight, re-tethering.

Just in time, too, because a wild, primordial scream comes through my ears and freezes me, combines with the maintenance suit full of crazy as it barrels right into me from above.

Somehow he's managed to reverse burst and crash on through some of the antennae spires, grabbing hold at the tip of the spindle. The visor's polarized, but his mad breathing, the arrhythmic cadence of his panting, brings up old movie monsters, killers, psychos.

I've got the pneumatic tool in my belt, and a barely sharpened cutter attached to the suit glove, and I ready both of them. poo poo, the air's on reserve. Breathe normally, you can do it.

I tether in and grab hold of a rung, then another, and psycho boy comes sailing toward me, the backdrop of African morning outlining him from below. He almost comfortably lands in my lap. I swing, miss, swing again with the tool, try to invert and swipe with the tip of the glove's cutter. He just bursts away and bumps us up into the structure, both of us flailing, barely in control of momentum.

I connect with him just once, the tool, but it glances, poo poo I was trying to hit the neck collar, and he hooks up under my knee with one leg and reaches in to give me a grandma hug. Too close, too cl—there's a slight zip sound, then a sigh like a disappointed lover, and then the suit goes crazy.

Motherfucker had a knife. Somehow strapped it to the suit before putting it on, something sharp enough to—the readouts are going crazy, and all I hear is laughing, laughing, and decompression sim was years and years ago and the inner weave can only support so much imbalance and be calm, just calm, there's a minute or so before, before....

Achingly slow, I reach out to grab at his boot. I feint at the other, then disconnect my tether, grab a near rail with both hands, and try to get some force behind my kick. Up and under. I connect, but he barely moves.

I wind up again, but let go with one hand, twist, and come up into his face, knocking helmets, gazing straight into his visor. There's nothing there but a charcoal smudge of abandon, of something sinister.

Luckily he lets go for a second and despite my suit blaring warnings, I find some footing, aim and throw the tool at him, catching him off guard. He slips back a ways to the now-crumpled forest.

I look down at the station, slowly spinning on the axis, and think I can make it in about ten, fifteen, feeling the force of absolute nothingness pulling at my tissue, and then freak crashes into me again.

I adjust, fall-floating down the spindle, using the one good leg jet to burst me over and back to the access panel. A laugh over the comm comes out a garbled ghost-wail, and he's coming as fast as he can.

I pound at the panel as I re-tether, starting to feel the gasps come on, the discomfort, that slow gut punch feeling. One chance. The madman's grin is all I can see, despite the oblong white suit bearing down at me like a floaty cannonball.

The panel releases and I punch a few numbers. He's close. I check the display, wires leading back. Real close. I put my clumsy mitt up and into the crush of cables that I hope is near the quick solder I did last week. Tug. He's right at me, have to time this right.

I jet back to take some of the impact, my one hand grips his arm, the other pulls out of the panel, tearing free the cabling inside. We travel about a foot, him, me, my hand on the too short length of electric, snapping wires. I'm breathing so heavily and nothing's coming through my lungs, nearly full on gasping.

He shouts something in a demon tongue I doubt exists, and I use the last of my suit power to whip him in a balletic arc up and over. As he goes, I hit the emergency release seal on his glove, and by the time he crashes the suit into the panel, I expose a gap in his forearm. Letting go of the station, I roll, hard as I can, shoving his arm fleshfirst into the mangle of live cables, sending volts coursing, sending his body into minute convulsions.

He stays trembling like that for half a breath, more.

I grab the tether and haul myself up, kicking at the man savagely, and he comes off the panel, floats free, voice hitching on the comms. I kick him and his jets fire half-assed and directionless, coughing. I kick once more and off he goes, no resistance, carried off into the black and debris, a stranger.

I take as big a breath I can, look down at the station, un-tether, and push for home.


Sep 29, 2003

The only true Catwoman is Julie Newmar, Lee Meriwether, or Eartha Kitt.

Martello posted:

Haha holy poo poo dude you're so bad at writing.

Aside from the terrible overwriting, writing from first person means the character has to be in the narration, yeah?

At least someone bothered to crit this time! If you buy me another piece of poo poo though, I guess that's some money towards the forums. :tipshat:

Ellipsis Sidenote: I was thinking of number 4 here,
but probably also got all mixed up with Chicago and MLA poo poo.



resolution of obvious suicide
Wha? He's aiming to get back in.

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