Authoress Update: Ok, now aren't I the idiot? Here I am, complaining about how it seemed iffy that the planet of Acmetropolis should survive when it's knocked out of orbit. My bad. Maybe if I was actually awake that early on a sat.morning, I would have realized that Zadovia claims it was knocked off it's axis, not orbit. Again, my bad. And none of u pointed it out to me lol. Either you were all totally caught up with what I was doing, or y'all were just as tired as me those mornings!

Either way, what's done is done. In all, it makes no less sense than a planet with advanced technologies carrying on as normal after a massive meteor crashed into the middle of the ocean (I believe the 'Beginnings' episode is meant to take place 1 yr after the meteor, rt?)

Neffie: "I'm A Pumpkin Pie!"

Psychologists: "We've Got A Live One Here!"

Neffie: "WhOooOooooo!"

(Really folks, I'm running out of ideas! A little help?)

A.S.D.A

means flashback

The Future Is Wild!

By Nefertanya dragongurl Ahhotep

Chapter 6: Tales of Sea and Sky

Danger Duck stared at his hands, turning them over and over. Staring for the thousandth time at the brilliant orange feathers that covered them. From his wrists to his elbows the orange flamed out like electricity. The center of his chest also bore a bright orange oval, edged in the same electric pattern. But he didn't know that yet-his midsection had been thoroughly bandaged.

His mind drifted as it tried to make sense of it all. Three hours ago he was a humble pool boy who wanted more out of life, just like everyone else. Three hours ago his world was boring, but safe. Now lounging on a couple of old faded bedsheets in the lobby of a Motel 6, he wondered if he could ever feel that way again.

It had taken the better part of an hour to drain the largest pool, the 'kiddie pool' (as he called it) so he could access the tunnels that housed the filtration units. Technically, he was supposed to drain every drop of water from all the pools before attempting any kind of chemical sanitation, but that took too long for his liking. The managers were more than willing to look the other way, since there were large numbers of complaints by the high-priced clientele if the pools stayed closed for too long. Only when an inspection was threatening was he ever written up for the corner cutting. In five years, that had happened twice. So he felt pretty sure he was safe as used the overloaded key ring to enter the grate. In the discreetly placed caretakers' room (accessible only after draining-Duck was never sure why), he pulled on the bright orange, water-resistant, HazMat suit and squeezed down the narrow tunnel. On his back was a large tank of disinfectant. He hated doing this! Stupid kids! And stupid parents for having them!

The suit was a joke. It was older than Duck, probably older than the hotel itself, and in some places it was worn thin enough that he could feel the disinfectant dribbling down his leg and soaking into his feathers. But at least the respirator worked. A couple of hours later, he finished spraying the last of the screens and pulled off the nearly empty tank.

Now that he was finished and the underground labyrinth was completely silent, Duck realized he was dizzy and…'off'. He couldn't quite describe what was wrong-he was just dizzy and felt heavy, like when one has a severe case of pneumonia. The respirator must not have been as good as he thought. The hotel owners were so cheap they probably slipped in some expired hydro-filters1 to keep from buying new ones. He cocked his head as the sound of screaming drifted down the pool grate. A sense of indignation welled up in his feathered breast.

"What, are they having a party up there now? Doesn't anybody know anything? The pool area's supposed to be closed while I'm cleaning it!" Deep inside, he knew that the big-name guests only had to slip a few extra dollars to his managers to get that rule bent. Status and power were the currency of Los Frisco. He didn't mind it-he just wished some of it would get spread his way.

So he tugged off his hood and stormed up the ladder, snarling and cursing all the while. He wasn't feeling well, and he was still peeved about having to clean the pool in the first place. And he was tired of being pushed around and ignored and…and….and everything! He gathered up a little bit of a speech as he climbed the ladder to the pool floor. One to shame the populace with at the mere thought of thwarting the potential of the great Danger Duck.

"Sheesh, can't a guy make an honest living without all this noise?

Duck sighed and leaned against the wall. He was tired again. He felt weak. And not just the kind you feel when you're ill. Sure, he still felt ill-who wouldn't?-but the weakness of someone without any control. He wished someone had invented a memory remover. But then, he guessed a lot of people felt that way today...

"Well, Quackers! Ya still here? Thought you'd stick around this time, eh?"

Duck grimaced at the old, nearly toothless man and didn't reply. In the hours he'd been there, Duck had managed to end up in the oddest places, and he didn't know how. All he knew was that he'd close his eyes, drift a little, and then when he happened to open them, he'd be somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. The stressed out staff was annoyed with him-they claimed he was a sleepwalker, a menace, a troublemaker. Duck vehemently disagreed, convinced someone in the building was drugging him up and dragging him around, and why were they picking on him when such a demon was running amok?

"I'm not a sleepwalker." Duck said to the bearded, gap-toothed man.

"Sher, yer not, Quackers! Heh hehehe!"

"And for th'last time, my name is not Quackers!"

The old man chuckled and nodded. Then he yawned, snuggled against the wall, and began to snore. Loudly. Duck stared at him, but that had no effect, so he rolled over, closed his eyes, prayed he'd just stay where he was, and entered a troubled sleep.

He was opening the grate. He was all set to rant and rave till everyone at the hotel was pleading to be back in his good graces again. Maybe he'd let them carry him off on their shoulders. Maybe he'd have them kiss his webbed toes.

"Sheesh, can't a guy make an honest living without all this noise?"

His voice echoed, the question repeating and fading away as everything went into slow motion. A black wall was moving towards him, a dull roar filling his ears. Then the wall was over him, swallowing him, dominating him. Water. The wall was made of water. The water felt bad. It tasted bad. It burned his skin and lungs and the back of his throat. He remembered rolling, rolling along wherever the massive force willed him to go. He was nothing to it, a nobody. There weren't going to be any cheers-he was going to end up a forgotten corpse nibbled away by strange fish at the bottom of the sea.

"No! No! I don't want to die like this! I'm scared! I don't want to go! You can't make me go!"

Images floated up in his head. His mother, scolding him for pressing all the elevator buttons. His father, screaming in a panic after a waterfall of water cascaded down the stairs. The joy of seeing his soggy diaper return from the mysterious toilet. The red-caped frame of Duck Dodgers, gallantly posing on the idea of a successful mission. Duck watched as his hero slowly turned to face him, and shake his head in disgust. Then all the images faded away….

The next thing Duck saw was a bunch of people in light blue masks shouting above him. His body was bandaged and already under repair, but his ego was not. Soon after being unceremoniously plopped onto the spot he currently occupied, a group of grungy Marines came in, asking for able bodied help. Many were eager to comply, despite their concussions, internal bleeding, or amputated limbs.

Duck had writhed, moaned, and thrashed until they left. He could not bring himself to go, yet he felt utterly disgusted with his actions. He was a lost little boy looking for someone to chase away the boogeyman. He was no coward. To be called that would be an upgrade.

From his…excursions, he'd pieced together what had happened, more or less, from the snippets of conversations people had around him. A meteor had exploded just outside the planet, and it had sped up the planet's rotation. As such, the water in the ocean sloshed about like when one scoots about in the bathtub. First, massive tsunamis crashed over the islands on the Far East, reaching as far as central Asia! Then it recoiled, and tsunamis flooded the Americas with a mile high wall of water. The 'well-timed' explosion in the stratosphere seasoned the already lethal brew of household cleaners, oil, propane, enriched plutonium, manure, and death with hunks of irradiated debris.

It was this blend Duck had been immersed in. Carried along in the breakneck currents, he would have died, save for one lucky break-a light pole snagged in a pile of stacked hovercars in a narrow alley. The light just happened to be upside down as Duck swirled by, becoming a sort of fish hook. It caught the drowning bird by his neckline, lifting the bird above the rapids. There he swung precariously, until a rescue plane spotted his prone form and took him to the makeshift hospital, where he now slept fitfully.

"MR. DUCK!"

The little black duck bolted upright to find himself staring into the pinched face of a very angry looking nurse. "What are you doing here again! This area is restricted to staff only!"

Oh, Hell….

--o0o--

The Gambling District. That loosely defined area in the upper southwestern United States where thick jungles grow. But these jungles are made of buildings and miniature monuments glitter with the light from dozens of neon flowers; where instead of birdsong, the air is raucous with bells and sirens, of jingling coins hitting the payout trays, of fountains and dealers and gamblers and all the other things that make a casino a world unto its own.

But the jungles are unnaturally silent. Silent, that is, save for the panicked throngs looking for safety. Like any poor beast removed from its natural environment, there was much confusion as the status quo fell apart. Nothing was sacred. Safety was the least of their concerns. If they were going to die, why not in that Lexus that guy next to you had? Never mind that he was still using it-just pull him out of the way. The casino security threw you out for being a public nuisance? Well, it's the end of the world-show her how much of a nuisance you can be.

In the center of one section, not far from the Las Vegas region stands a collection of towers in various stages of despair. This is (was) the Sports Center, the complex of arenas for contests of strength, skill, cunning, and dubious refereeing. It wasn't uncommon for great brawls to develop when a 'sure thing' suddenly fell through at the last second. It was so common; in fact, security only sent the recommended amount of police if an 'A-list' star was in town. This being the gambling capital of the world, it was also common to hear of hard-core veterans placing bets on the star's survival!

But now, strangely, there was an almost other-worldly silence. The plexi-vinyl domes were cracked or else completely decimated. In one, people were strewn about like rag dolls. Debris lay everywhere. But in one spot, there was a scuffling noise, and clouds of dust testified to a life still living…

Raising a mighty war cry, Slam broke free from the thick concrete walls that had enclosed him moments before. He took in great, gulping breaths of air as his body relaxed slowly. He was slightly claustrophobic, the result of too many years in tiny cells. Slam was orphaned at an early age, and the home he was interred in was little prepared for his exuberant tendencies. When he turned sixteen, he'd been duped into believing a man named 'Rocky' was his only friend. Rocky's 'friendship' consisted of him telling Slam where, when and who to use his Tasmanian testosterone on. Slam felt uncomfortable in this, but was too lonely to object for long.

And where did it get him? A three year stint in lockdown. Nineteen hours a day in a five by five foot room, four hours pressing vanity plates for gold-collar2 yuppie teens and an hour for exercise. When the warden offered him entry into a work-release program, he gladly accepted. That was when he found his niche-Professional Wrestling. Imagine a job thrashing the heck out of your opponent, and getting paid! And it was legal! For two years he worked hard to impress the WWF, scrabbling his way up the ladder of notoriety in no-name rooms with other no-name wrestlers. Tonight was to be his big break. All he had to do was ignore that little voice that loved to win. The one that always niggled him that was he was doing wasn't on the level. In the end, he couldn't do it. He wanted in the big leagues, but he wanted to be good. He never wanted to see the inside of a jail again, and what the Blue Thunder wanted was wrong.

Slam grunted and brushed the dust off his costume. Slam was colorblind; otherwise he would've really been amazed that his fur was a lovely shade of violet. But he was, so he didn't care. He was alive and apparently intact. And somehow he'd managed to break thru solid concrete in five minutes. Now that was interesting.

"Uhnn…S-someon there…?"

Slam perked up at the raspy, quiet question. It was coming from the ring. The referee laid in the center, in a small pool of rich, thick, red blood. Growing from his abdomen was a triangular piece of plexi-vinyl. "Help…."

Slam walked around the man in confusion. His was not the most intelligent of species, but he knew that the man needed more help than he was capable of. Problem was there didn't seem to be anyone else around that was.

"Please, son….give us a hand…."

"What Slam do?"

The small man weakly gestured to the foreign object. Dubiously, Slam pulled it out. Fresh blood spurted from the deep gash, but the old man sighed and nodded in relief.

"Help me up…I need to sit up…."

The purple Devil easily picked the broken man and carried him gently over to a folding chair still standing upright.

"Heeehh…you're a good boy, kid. I know what you did….Gasp you had 'im…fair and square. You're a good boy…..good boy…..good boy…"

Slam stared long after the ref's chest stopped heaving. The last, barely audible words echoed in his ears. Now one had ever called him 'good boy'. It was somehow…somehow cleansing. Somehow strengthening. A purpose. A light. A way.

Slam Tasmania was not a mindless thug-no, not any longer. He left the dead man, the dome, the tower, the vice-riddled district behind that day. He was going to be a "Good boy" and help forge a new world. A world where people were happy, and shared stories and food and cages were for carrying materials. Slam Tasmania was going to be a Hero.

Hydro-filters: OSHA-certified filtration systems for respirator masks. A specially made mesh filter fits inside the standard vents you see on modern respirators. The packets are filled with a water-based gel that helps convert 'bad' air into a more breathable form. They are extremely effective; however they last for a much shorter time than traditional filter, and are pricier. As such, businesses that are required to supply them often eke out every last one they have.

Gold Collar: If you're unfamiliar, this is a new delineation in the job market bracket. You know that white collar refers to businessmen, while blue collar refers to those who work in factory settings? Well, gold-collar, as I understand it, refers to the new wave on teens that work McJobs yet wear Jimmy Choo's and Versace bags.

Ok, this took a little longer because a) I didn't want to run in the same errors I had with the last time, and b) Slam gave me grief. He's hard for me cuz he's not my favorite. But I hope y'all are happy with what I wrote for him.