blather
subnaught
Rowbes There was a man.
His real name is not important. If we must call him something, let's call him Jon.
An ordinary name.
But this is not an ordinary person, this is a superhero... of sorts.
Perhaps this is misleading. Let's start again.

There once was a man who was dissatisfied. He felt that he was a failure at life, and that life was stupid. He was a 3rd rate player in a game that didn't make any sense, a single chess piece on a monopoly board. He sunk deeper and deeper into depression, and his whole existence became a colossal insult to him.

Long story short: He had to die.

He took a bottle of pills, and chased them with vodka.
Sadly though, nausea took hold of him, and he was forced to deposit the contents of his stomach down the kitchen sink. So he got a rope. Attached it to a crossbeam in his studio apartment and stepped off a chair wearing the opposite end.
This plot was foiled by years of termites and dry rot, and he wound up with nothing more than a lump on the head from the falling beam. Our hero then filled his bathtub and took his toaster for a swim, not knowing that failure to pay his electrical bill had resulted in what may be the most remarkably fortuitous feat of timing in history. For just as he dropped the toaster into the tepid pool of impending doom, the electric company employee outside rendered the device lifeless with the flip of a switch. Alas, our hero was subsequently left in the dark, soaking wet. Walking along a dark road one night he decided being hit by a car would almost certainly prove fatal. So he waited in the shadows for the next fast moving vehicle. Hours he waited, until finally he saw a pair of headlights coming out of the mist. He lept out in front of them, and two motorcycles whizzed safely past him riding side by side into the dark night.
He was humiliated by these failed attempts, citing that if he couldn't even succeed at taking his own life, he must be completely worthless.
It continued on this way for awhile, until the defective bullets and close calls made him finally aware that there was some type of intangible presence protecting and guiding him. For some reason, he was unable to die. Due to his disregard for his own safety and reclusion from society, he decided he could fight crime like some sort of street vigilante. He hid his face from society and lived in the shadows. He roamed the city unnoticed, just as he had his whole life. Only now he was searching for trouble.
He was surprised not only by how easy it was to find trouble should one go looking for it, but also by how easy it was to be heroic rather than ignore a situation one doesn't want to be involved in. He thwarted robbers and muggers, who were so taken aback by his lack of fear, that he disarmed them easily. He broke up street deals and gang wars and left clues for the police so as not to make direct contact with anyone. He became not just the eyes and ears but the fist of a city in turmoil. He let each footstep take him wherever it may, hoping it would eventually lead him to his death. He severed all ties with the former life he despised. He referred to himself not with some egotistical grandiose superhero name, but with a name that truly reflected his feelings of worthlessness.
He was Subnaught.
(If only I could draw comic books)

was here 		030817
...
Rowbes Issue #2 "The Night's Eyes"

click.
click.
The one who called himself Subnaught was perched atop a five story office building like some kind of shapeless gargoyle.
click.
Invisible eyes peered into the dark street below through a pitch black mask with night vision goggles.
click.
The faceless man casually held a pistol pressed against his right temple, seemingly playing russian roulette without an opponant. However his version was played not with one bullet, but with six. For reasons he couldn't dare try to understand, the weapon would not fire as long as he was in the path of the bullet. He was unable to kill himself, try though he might. He was not an invincible superhuman, he had no forcefield or cosmic powers. But he was protected from harm by some unknown unseen source. He cursed this invisible ally every waking moment. Because he longed for death, the release. Life for him felt like an iron cage. He was imprisoned and forced to wake every morning to EXIST, to BE. Just having to breathe and eat filled him with resentment.
BANG!
He shot out a street lamp a block away, partly to feed the darkness that surrounded him, but mostly to remind himself that the weapon did indeed still work when not used for an attempted retreat from life.
click.
Back to his head now. His russian roulette was not a further try at offing himself, but rather a fidgity game he played out of sheer fascination. The physics of so many consecutive misfires were impossible of course. Although somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped that just once his guardian angel would slip up, and allow a bullet to fire off into his skull.
click.
He idly turned his attention to the watch on his wrist. He was still early. He had been tailing a vicious little theif, for a couple of days, eager to nail him. He had memorized his sick little routine, with the help of some handy surveilance equipment. He had been a surveilance expert in his former pathetic excuse for a life, before becoming a full-time gutter-dweller (as he referred to himself). So he had cameras set up in various parts of the city where prying eyes are usually absent. There were also hanging mics which he monitered and recorded back at his new studio apartment (not quite as mysterious as an underground cave, but more feasible).
click.
This time it was not the pistol.
He looked down at the street below and spotted the bastard swaggering down 3rd St, taking a left onto Blanchard and making incessant sniffling sounds. He was alone.
Now was his chance if he ever had one. He lunged off the side of the building, black trenchcoat flying behind him in the breeze, his eyes shut tight as the concrete below rushed toward him. He wondered breifly how fate would interfere with his plummet, when suddenly he crashed through the red awning that shrouded the entrance to Mel's Market. He hit the ground hard, twisting his ankle. Perhaps this was not executed very well. Though incapable of killing himself, he still didn't have a hard time getting hurt.
His target wheeled around and caught sight of him slumped there in pain, and began to run.
He was blowing it!
He bolted to his feet and followed his target in a mad dash, ignoring several shooting pains. He ran hard after the low-life who had disappeared in the old playground, which was primarily occupied by junkies and whores. He stopped in his tracks, noticing the sound of his target's footsteps had ceased.
He was close.

To be continued
(probably not though)

is bored 		030825
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once again Perhaps I am alone in this, but cuold you make more? Please? 030825
...
Rowbes Very well. Just for you.

Issue #3 "Forgotten City"

Subnaught could smell the fear.
Or rather, he could smell sweat and leather saturated with tobacco. He couldn't imagine fear smelling any worse. He moved slowly toward the smell which seemed to be coming from behind a concrete sculpture near the seatless iron swingset, its rusty chain rattling gently. It occurred to Subnaught that this was the first game of hide-and-seek this playground had hosted in years. It was built in a less than respectable part of town, and was now a center for heroin use and gang grafitti.
Breaching his usual protocol, Subnaught called out to his target, "it's no use running." The words tasted bitter and cliched. He only spoke to criminals nowadays, and it made his voice foul and hollow sounding. "I know everything," he added, referring to a string of car theft and regular drug deals to minors. This target moved quickly, and had eluded Subnaught for weeks. It wasn't until he repositioned some cameras that he discovered the chop shop. He then had to wait until he compiled enough video evidence to be sure they would convict the asshole, who now stood 4 feet away, trembling and sweating.
No more stalling. Subnaught climbed the sculpture deftly and silently. Peering over the edge he saw his target gripped with fear, eyes darting back and forth, trying to stifle his heavy breathing. Without a sound, Subnaught dropped down to tackle him to the ground. The greasy little snake was stronger than he thought, especially after his recent hit of blow. A twist of the arm and an elbow to the face, and Subnaught hit the ground flat on his back. He immediately scrambled to his feet as his target took off like a shot. Hide-and-seek was over, and now it was a game of tag.
As he chased his target down 1st ave, they both noticed a loose manhole cover. With one coke-powered yank, it was tossed aside. Just as Subnaught caught up and dove for him, the thief disappeared into the blackness below. Subnaught followed without missing a beat, and plunged into nearly complete darkness. He switched on his night vision and looked around. He was standing in several inches of scummy water at the bottom of an old drainpipe. His target had rounded the corner, given away only by his frantic splashing footsteps. He followed them quietly, trying to keep up without revealing how close he was.
The chase led into the old underground city. A piece of history over a century old, when the city was destroyed by the great fire, and rebuilt above the ruins. He chased his target down the dilapidated brick streets and into a corner.
There was nowhere else to go. He took a step toward his terrified prey who squinted to see him in the darkness.
"You're him aren't you," he yelled at Subnaught, "you're Sub... Subsomethin."
He had no idea what a celebrity he had become. He had no television other than the video moniters which constantly watched the city, and he hadn't picked up a newspaper in months. He had even managed to avoid seeing the cover of this week's issue of THE STRANGER, which featured a rather sinister looking sketch based on the descriptions of several captured criminals. The headline posed the question, "Who is our dark hero."
"Well no matter who you are, you come after Sy and he'll take you apart!"
Sy? Had he missed something? Perhaps this was his target's name and he speaks using the third person. He took another step, and his target began swinging furiously. Subnaught caught his arm in flight and whirled him around shoving his face against the wall. Several cockroaches fled the commotion.
Ignoring his shrill screams of protest, Subnaught bound his hands with a flex-cuff, the heavy duty nylon restraints police use for multiple arrests. He walked toward a slightly lit passage, dragging along his target.
Two time-travelers in a forgotten world. One silent, and one spitting obscene curses. They stopped by an iron ladder under a steel grate. They were directly beneath the police station.
"The sun will be up in a few hours," Subnaught told him while attaching his hands to a rung on the ladder, "if you scream loud enough, someone is bound to notice."
Mostly for amusement, Subnaught slid another flex-cuff through the targets nose-ring and attached it to another rung. That should keep him from struggling too much. He slid the video of evidence in the howling man's belt, and headed off in the direction of his apartment.
Perhaps the underground city would be a good way to get around. There was certainly less risk of being seen. He would have to get used to the stench, however...
His thoughts were interrupted when suddenly his vision exploded in a flood of white light, and pain shot through his skull. He found himself lying on the wet brick looking up at his target. He had pulled the loose ladder rung free, and now held it in his cuffed hands over Subnaught menacingly.
He cackled as blood flowed from his torn nostril...

Tune in next time
same sub-time
same sub-channel 		030903
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once again Nice Ending... pissed me off almost as much as the Matrix: Reloaded ending... which garuntees that I'll be here for the next issue. 030903
...
Rowbes I had wanted to wrap it up better, and lead into the next story. Unfortuantely it got too long.
More to come.

was here. 		030903
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once again we miss you Rowbes 030922
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Subnaught Where did you come up with the Subnaught story. I am Subnaught. 040606
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delial This is fantastic. Rowbes, come back! I could draw this for you!

::waits:: 		040606
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