Usual Disclaimers to Ward Off Lawsuits: I don't own Calvin, Hobbes, Susie Derkins, Moe, Miss Wormwood, or Calvin's parents. All those characters belong to Bill Watterson. Spike Speeder however, is my copyrighted property, and you have to ask first before using him.
His name was Spike. Spike Speeder, net runner. He dashed across the cold concrete streets of the Sprawl in a panic as the Wormwood Corporation's hit team fired upon him. Spike was rather easy to pick out of a crowd; wild yellow hair emerged in an array of spikes from his head, while his face was marked by bright orange cybernetic eyes covered by mirror shades and three different dataplugs. His right ear was decked out with three metal studs, and over his frame he wore a thrashed black leather jacket and gun metal grey pants. Jutting out from his jacket's left sleeve was a metal hand, an obvious cybernetic implant. Spike was one of the hardest and and fastest to ever step foot into the Sprawl. But even he couldn't dodge bullets. And so he ran for his life.
Shots rang out and crashed into the grafitti covered brick wall behind Spike, sending bits of metal and brick flying. Thus far Spike had managed to be one step ahead of the bullets, but the Wormwood strike team just kept unloading their submachine guns in Spike's direction. Their bullets flew into a few bystanders, but Spike didn't have time to worry about that. He just kept running, even though he had no where to go. Spike's salvation came in the form of a rusted old delivery truck. It had been parked in front of him, blocking his access to an alley he had escape through many times. If he could just dodge the strike team's bullets just a little further, he might just make it out of this mess alive.
He had reached the opening stretch with sweat trickling down his brow. A burst of gun fire crashed against the brick wall, and the shooter cursed. This was followed by a second burst of gunfire that likewise missed Spike. One volley after another missed Spike, and judging by the curses Spike was overhearing, his pursuers were running out of ammo. Grinning to himself, Spike bounded across the pavement, so close to the alley's mouth. The last and meanest of the hitmen leveled his weapon at Spike and aimed carefully, just as Spike inched towards freedom. The bullet fired, but Spike wasn't fast enough to avoid this round.
The dodge ball smacked Calvin on the side of his head. He groaned as he went down, hitting the gym's floor as he heard the gym teacher's whistle.
"This's still fun even in middle school," Moe gloated to his equally oversized friends. Already Moe was growing noticable facial hair, and he was nearly the size of an adult. Puberty had been very kind to Moe and his friends, granting them size, strength, and power over the smaller kids. Kids like Calvin, who had suffered the banes of acne and self-doubt, but with none of the benefits.
Susie Derkins meandered over towards Calvin, who was still laying in a heap on the floor. She stooped down carefully
"Calvin, get up so the girls' gym class can begin,"
"Call a med-tech. My Nippon headware just got scragged by solos," Calvin said between groans.
"You're still a weirdo Calvin," Susie said with a sigh. She helped Calvin to his feet before heading into the girls' locker room. Calvin limped over to the boys' locker room himself.
"Dodge ball is murder," he muttered to himself.
Thankfully, the rest of the day was dull and slow, a welcome change from dodgeball. Calvin spent most of the day as Spike Speeder, great literature and complex formulas lost in a sea of fantasy. At the end of the day, Calvin timidly approached the bike rack outside the school, his backpack over stuffed and slung over his shoulders. Despite the fact that he and his ricketty and rusted bike were still at odds with each other, they had come to something of an understanding; namely that Calvin needed his bike to get to school without taking the now dreaded bus, and that the bike needed Calvin to take care of it. Mutual dependence now defined their relations, and Calvin was reminded of this as he removed the chain he left on his bike.
"Easy there bike," he said timidly. The bike just growled softly. Calvin crammed the chain into his already overstuffed backpack. He then mounted the malign machine and started pedaling. Heading towards home and Hobbes after dodgeball day was probably one of the most difficult trials Calvin faced on such a regular basis.
His name was Spike. Spike Speeder, net runner. He dashed across the cold concrete streets of the Sprawl in a panic as the Wormwood Corporation's hit team fired upon him. Spike was rather easy to pick out of a crowd; wild yellow hair emerged in an array of spikes from his head, while his face was marked by bright orange cybernetic eyes covered by mirror shades and three different dataplugs. His right ear was decked out with three metal studs, and over his frame he wore a thrashed black leather jacket and gun metal grey pants. Jutting out from his jacket's left sleeve was a metal hand, an obvious cybernetic implant. Spike was one of the hardest and and fastest to ever step foot into the Sprawl. But even he couldn't dodge bullets. And so he ran for his life.
Shots rang out and crashed into the grafitti covered brick wall behind Spike, sending bits of metal and brick flying. Thus far Spike had managed to be one step ahead of the bullets, but the Wormwood strike team just kept unloading their submachine guns in Spike's direction. Their bullets flew into a few bystanders, but Spike didn't have time to worry about that. He just kept running, even though he had no where to go. Spike's salvation came in the form of a rusted old delivery truck. It had been parked in front of him, blocking his access to an alley he had escape through many times. If he could just dodge the strike team's bullets just a little further, he might just make it out of this mess alive.
He had reached the opening stretch with sweat trickling down his brow. A burst of gun fire crashed against the brick wall, and the shooter cursed. This was followed by a second burst of gunfire that likewise missed Spike. One volley after another missed Spike, and judging by the curses Spike was overhearing, his pursuers were running out of ammo. Grinning to himself, Spike bounded across the pavement, so close to the alley's mouth. The last and meanest of the hitmen leveled his weapon at Spike and aimed carefully, just as Spike inched towards freedom. The bullet fired, but Spike wasn't fast enough to avoid this round.
The dodge ball smacked Calvin on the side of his head. He groaned as he went down, hitting the gym's floor as he heard the gym teacher's whistle.
"This's still fun even in middle school," Moe gloated to his equally oversized friends. Already Moe was growing noticable facial hair, and he was nearly the size of an adult. Puberty had been very kind to Moe and his friends, granting them size, strength, and power over the smaller kids. Kids like Calvin, who had suffered the banes of acne and self-doubt, but with none of the benefits.
Susie Derkins meandered over towards Calvin, who was still laying in a heap on the floor. She stooped down carefully
"Calvin, get up so the girls' gym class can begin,"
"Call a med-tech. My Nippon headware just got scragged by solos," Calvin said between groans.
"You're still a weirdo Calvin," Susie said with a sigh. She helped Calvin to his feet before heading into the girls' locker room. Calvin limped over to the boys' locker room himself.
"Dodge ball is murder," he muttered to himself.
Thankfully, the rest of the day was dull and slow, a welcome change from dodgeball. Calvin spent most of the day as Spike Speeder, great literature and complex formulas lost in a sea of fantasy. At the end of the day, Calvin timidly approached the bike rack outside the school, his backpack over stuffed and slung over his shoulders. Despite the fact that he and his ricketty and rusted bike were still at odds with each other, they had come to something of an understanding; namely that Calvin needed his bike to get to school without taking the now dreaded bus, and that the bike needed Calvin to take care of it. Mutual dependence now defined their relations, and Calvin was reminded of this as he removed the chain he left on his bike.
"Easy there bike," he said timidly. The bike just growled softly. Calvin crammed the chain into his already overstuffed backpack. He then mounted the malign machine and started pedaling. Heading towards home and Hobbes after dodgeball day was probably one of the most difficult trials Calvin faced on such a regular basis.