Jan/Feb Story Comp - BRILLIANT PRIZES! (really)

[Heath C Ackley]

A FAN'S LOVE

Si swept an arm across the table, knocking action figures and trading cards to the floor. With a gloved hand on Jessie's green shoulder, he hoisted himself up onto the table-top. Ignoring the stallholder's complaints, Si adjusted his helmet and cleared his throat.

'Well, what do we have here suckers?' He gestured to his girlfriend. 'A Judge with She-Hulk?'

All faces - some painted, some bearded all curious - turned in his direction.

'We've got the Pokemon crew and the Power Rangers in the same room, no beef, no trouble. Look, Master Chief standing shoulder to shoulder with a Titan. There's Wonder Woman, Sailor Moon and Jack Sparrow. Nobody is wasting nobody. We got Transformers and Terminators, Space Marines and Warcraft folk, Potterheads and Whovians, Zombies and Vamps. What we got is an army.'

'You tell 'em Si.' Kate shouted, spraying sausage roll crumbs down her Rorschach raincoat.

'Every production house, network and channel is making our films, our stuff.' He spread his arms wide. 'Every multi-plex and screen around the globe is playing our movies and shows. Millions play video games every day. Fan films are showing Hollywood how it should be done. People everywhere are watching and reading fantasy, horror and science fiction. This is our time.'

He had their complete attention. Everyone was silent and listening to his every word. Even Tom Baker got to his feet, large eyes moist with emotion.

'Can you dig it?'

The costumed crowds roared in approval. Fists thrust skyward. They whooped and cheered. He turned to see Jessie applauding, pink tears smearing her green make-up. Si held his hands high to the gathered followers.

The foam dart struck his helmet with a resounding doink!

The cheering died, replaced by a shocking silence. Hands lowered. There was no injury other than his pride.

'Ha ha!' A voice squeaked from the yellow-skinned party in the corner.

The message was clear; they would not follow him. He had failed. The fans returned to the usual business of the convention. Deals were done and artworks signed. Embarrassed, Si let his hands fall to his sides. Jessie helped him down to the floor.

'Don't worry.' She kissed his lips, painting them green. 'I will follow you from Narnia to Mega-City One.'

''Ere.' The stallholder jabbed a finger into his Judge's badge. 'What about all this?'

Si gazed down at the scattered figures and cards. Green Lantern lay in a compromising position with Robin. He crouched down and began to pick up the fallen stock. The stallholder however, seemed not to be satisfied.

'What the hell were you playing at?' The Battle Of The Planets t-shirt expanded as the stallholder stuck out his chest. 'I should put the law onto you.'

Si looked up at the sour face looming over him. He grinned. His lips parted but Jessie beat him to the line;

'Baby, he is The Law.'

[Bad City Blue]

All great stuff, room for more!

[Bad City Blue]

Nearly time to close the comp. Get scribbling only a few days left

[Echidna]

Trashcon

"Thanks, Jimmy-2!" The juve skipped happily away, his freshly printed sim-sketch tucked under his arm. Humming with excitement, Walter took his place at the front of the queue.

"It's a pwivilege to meet you, Jimmy-2. Could I twouble you for a sketch?"

Jimmy-2, regular art droid for Walter's favourite comic, the Officially Sanctioned Judge Pal Weekly Trashzine, gave no reply. Walter looked enquiringly at the machine's minder, a bored-looking man with a nametag reading 'Bodger'.

"It's running a little slow today," said the man. "Voice module's burned out too. Sorry."

Slightly disappointed, Walter waited patiently as Jimmy-2 thrummed and buzzed. Eventually the art robot beeped and spat out a sketch, a gloriously vivid rendering of a grinning Judge Pal brutally smashing a perp's face in. Gingerly, Walter picked it up.

"Oh, thank you! It's tewwific, just like I... What's this?"

In the corner of the sketch was a handwritten name: 'Kenny'.

The minder scowled at the offending autograph and gave the artbot an angry kick. "You know you're not supposed to sign it, you stupid Jock!" In response came a muffled voice: "Ach, boil yer heid man. Anyway, is it no' teatime yet? I'm parched in here!"

The attendant wandered off, grumbling. Looking nervously around, Walter edged closer to the machine. "Hello? Is there someone in there?"

"Aye, but keep it under your hat," the voice replied. "I'm supposed to be keepin' a low profile."

Leaning closer to the artbot, Walter turned his volume dial to Sotto Voce. "I'm Walter, I love your work," he whispered. A panel slid open and a human hand poked out. Walter shook it, delicately.

"Always nice to meet a fan, Walter. I'm Kenny."

"Kenny Who?"

"Aye, that's me."

"But I thought you were a fellow wobot! What are you doing in this contwaption?"

"Well, I came to the Big Meg a while ago looking for work in trashzines, but I got into a wee spot o' bother with the Judges and had to go back to Cal-Hab. I self-published for a bit, but the suits at Trashco didn't like the competition and made a deal with the Judges so I could work for them — as long as they publish my work anonymously and I don't display any 'anti-judicial sentiment'. That's why I'm on Judge Pal, churning out this propaganda crap."

"Cwap? But..." Walter started, crestfallen.

"Still, mustn't grumble, eh? Anyway, nice talking to you, Walt laddie, but the boss is coming back, and like I said, I'm incognito."

Walter looked up and saw Bodger returning with what was quite clearly a teapot, even if it did have the word 'oil' crudely scrawled on the side. Unscrewing a cap on the artbot's top panel, he poured the steaming hot tea inside and looked at Walter through narrowed eyes. "Refuelling time," he said. "Hop it."

"Don't wowwy," whispered Walter as he waddled off. "Your secwet is safe with me!"

[Echidna]

set in the real world

Just noticed this. Oh well

[The Legendary Shark]

Nobody said which real world...

[Mardroid]

This is a bit more than 500 words, but it is not much more. It used to be three times as much....

Reflection of Fear

Cyril is having a bad time. The costume is too tight and Chloe had wandered away to flirt with Nickolai Dante.  Cyril had decided to flirt with the punch bowl. (It was strange to have a punch bowl at a comic book convention, but he wasn't complaining.)

Standing in the Mens', Cyril feels peculiar. Considering the punch, the feeling of dizziness is understandable but that feeling of intense fear is not.

Cyril removes his helmet.  He is momentarily startled by his own pale face staring back at him from the mirror, then sighs, and splashes it with water. He still feels literally sick with fear. Is this what Judge Fear's victims feel like,  as he reaches for the visor?

Pop! The sound sends his heart jack-hammering.  Is that what a dimensional transporter sounds like when it discharges?

The cubicle door behind him opens and out steps Judge Fear. He can't be real? Fear reaches for his visor.

"Greetingssss mortal," says Judge Fear. "Gaze into the face of Fear!"

Before Fear can open his visor,  Cyril, groans, clutches his chest, and collapses.

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Roger gazed at the fat middle-aged man wearing the similar uniform in disbelief. The man shuddered and lay still.

Seconds later, George crashed into the Mens'. "We've got to leave!" he said. "Lionel let off a fire-cracker in the Ladies'.

George noticed the body. "What happened to him?"

"I think I killed him".

"What did you do that for?"

"I didn't MEAN to!" said Roger. "I heard that noise. I opened the door, and there he was, staring at me. His face was so comical I couldn't resist saying the line, and... We should call an ambulance."

"No time for that mate!" said George. "We've GOT to leave. Security will be here soon!"

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From his position high above, Cyril would have shaken his head, if it wasn't lying below staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. "You can't just leave me," he exclaims. They could.

Now he is sans-body, Cyril no longer feel ill, but that sense of fear remains. And what is that rustling chuckle, like moth wings?

"You would have been dead soon, anyway, mortal. The Dead Fluids had permeated your system."

Hovering near the air vent is a corpse face made of green smoke. It appears to be wearing a black helmet with a portcullis visor.

"Are you going to judge me?" whimpers Cyril.

"No, mortal," replies Judge Death. "You have been judged already."

"We do have a use for your body." says Death. "The Dead fluids mixed into Mortis's potion, are ripening it nicely.  Judge Fear. It is fitting that you take this."

A familiar bat-winged head materialises next to Death. It slides down into Cyril's corpse.

"What now?" thinks Cyril. "Will my own face turn into the thing I fear the most?"

He wants to look away, but he can't help himself. Then it happens. The eyes roll sideways, and lock on to him. No other change occurs, but it is enough.

Cyril gazes into the face of Fear. It is his own.