Damon and Hawk's Stories

[Creator]

Damon's First Change

"Mom, I'm home," a twelve-year-old Damon called as he walked through the front door of a small mobile home. He listened for an answer, tossing his unnecessarily heavy backpack onto the worn-out couch, which was a soothing plaid of orange and vomit-green. Other than that, the room was decorated with a poorly-nailed-together coffee table and a small television, the antennae of which was bent in a way only the most experienced antennae-adjusters could coordinate. They had never had much money, but Damon didn't complain. He had something none of the other kids had, as far as he knew, the family magic.

"Mom?" he called, walking down the unlit hallway into a musty bedroom, illuminated by the small amount of light filtering in through the windows. The bed was empty, and the car keys gone from their home on the nightstand. Of course, the car was always parked out back, so he had just assumed it was there. She must have gone out for groceries. He navigated past half-finished sculptures and paintings into the living room, where he flicked on the TV. It didn't take more than a few minutes of Oprah to convince him to find something else to do.

Growing more curious by the minute, he crept toward the ever-locked study, which was actually his bedroom, crammed full of his father's things. He didn't mind sleeping on the couch; the study was his favorite place to be. Following a deeply-engraved path of muscle memory, he jiggled the doorknob at just the right frequency, effectively turning the lock on the other end. Making sure to keep the door cracked behind him, he made his way to the large brown book that he read most every day. It opened too easily for such an old book, but he never paid much attention. This magic was all fun and games to him.

"Page 243," he thought, flipping through until he found it. Picking up where he had left off the day before, he read quickly, mostly scanning the roughly-drawn pictures mixed in with the tiny words. Something caught his eye a few pages later, something he had seen his father do on many occasions but was forbidden to learn until he was fourteen. The smoke transformation technique. Childlike wonder lit up his face as he read, taking in the methodology, thought process, all the basics of shifting into a gas. Afterward, he went on to liquids, which turned out to be a very similar process. With a squeal of glee, he slammed the book shut and darted out of the room, taking care to lock it behind him.

"Mom's going to be so proud," Damon fantasized, prancing about the living room with his energy surplus. He calmed down a moment later and stood stock still, going over what he had read in his mind. It didn't seem to difficult, considering the technique supposedly came naturally to members of his family. With a determined huff, he closed his eyes...
For a good ten minutes, nothing happened. Damon was always patient when it came to magic, but his attention began to fail him as the seconds passed by. After a good twenty minutes, he sighed and relaxed. "So much for that," he pouted, kicking the side of the couch in frustration. He scratched his arm, wondering what he had done wrong.

Like your average preteen, he quickly found himself in front of the refrigerator. Though he had scanned its contents moments before, he kept checking, thinking something tasty would have found its way to the back in the past thirty seconds. He scratched his leg, closing the door again. And scratched again. Furrowing his brow, he looked down at his leg. There was a raw, pink patch on his calf, and now that he looked, a few smaller ones on his arm. A fearful whine escaped him, unsure of what to do. He had never had a rash before. But then something caught his eye. A wisp of smoke.

Damon held his arm up to his face, examining the thin stream of smoke rising from the tip of one of the hairs on his arm. It burned the hair away, leaving an itch where it hit the skin. The itches were becoming more intense now, and the raw pink was covering most of his skin. He fought the urge to cry, scratching wildly at the pain that seemed to be tearing him apart bit by bit. He reached up to grip his hair, to offer some other pain than the one plaguing him, and screamed. His hair was gone, save for a few short patches, He looked up, finally noticing the thin purple cloud spreading along the ceiling. But he had changed his mind, this wasn't what he had thought it would be.

Damon's skin was raw and his fingernails gone, leaving unfamiliar indentions on his fingertips. His eyes felt like they had been hit with a full blast of pepper spray, and he could no longer hold back the tears. As they fell, they sizzled and smoked, adding to the cloud above. He crawled to the bathroom, hoping he could wash the pain away, and fell back when he saw his reflection in the mirror. His eyebrows were gone, and he looked like he had a terminal disease, with discolored skin and wide eyes. He let out a scream, the pain overcoming him.

"Mama... mama please!" Damon cried out, looking down at his hands. He could see muscle now, which had already made him vomit twice. "Mama, help me! Mommy..." His body quivered as his skin burned away, the process speeding up as more of him joined with the cloud above. He began to get weaker, his tendons and muscle tissue rising up in a gentle purple mist. Screams echoed through the house, but there was no stopping the change he had started. As veins were exposed, their walls gradually thinned and eventually opened, spilling blood onto the floor and down his sides. Even as it fell, it was hissing, evaporating into this traitorous smoke.

Damon used what little strength he had left to stand, though he could no longer see. Perhaps a merciful loss, as he would have been haunted by his image, had he seen it. As he staggered down the hall, the last of his muscle gave way, and what was left fell to the ground. Bones crumbled, severely weakened by their loss of mass, and the remnants of organs sizzled, offering no mercy in their slow shift to gas. It had taken nearly an hour, but finally, there was no solid matter left, only a dark purple cloud struggling for consciousness near the ceiling. The air vent shuddered to life, blowing a jet of air from just above him. The gas scattered, thinning out until it was visible no more.

Later that night, Damon awoke in a dark house, still aching. He screamed, scrambling around the floor until he could grasp the concept that he was alive, and trembled to his feet. A scribbled note lay on the counter.
Damon, if you come home, stay here. Don't go anywhere. We're trying to find you. -Mom & Dad

[hannah montana]

this is uber cool :3
i really like how you described everything, it's really cool =]

[Creator]

The Six-Bullet Test

With an exasperated sigh, Hawk Mitchell sank into a booth in a smoky little diner, sliding over against the window to stare out at the occasional passing car. He was certainly not in his usual attire; a white, button-up shirt was tucked into a pair of tight blue jeans, and dark sunglasses hid the glow of his eyes. His picture had been posted in several "Have You Seen Me?" ads, and though they were in black and white, people would remember reading "Eye Color: Red." Police had found a forgotten moon clip and several spare cartridges in his bedroom, and thus issued a warning of "a possibly armed and dangerous young man on the loose." He may be armed, but it wasn't likely that he'd be dangerous, unless he found himself in a dangerous situation.

"What'll ya have, sweetie?" Hawk looked up, staring at the clearly unhappy waitress. "Coffee," he grunted, before turning to stare out the window once more. She walked off, leaving him to sit in silence. He didn't really need the drink, but it would reinforce the impression his carefully-picked clothes already gave off - that he was older than he really was. But when he looked up a moment later, there was a letter on his table, with his name in familiar handwriting. He spun around, eyes running across the rest of the tables, but he was alone. A groan escaped his lips as he sank down into his seat once more, realizing what this meant. He hadn't been as careful as he'd hoped. Either that, or this guy just never quit watching him. His hand only hesitated for a moment before he reached over and took the envelope, messily tearing it open and pulling out a slip of paper.


Long time no see, Damon. Well, I suppose we've never actually seen each other, but you know what I mean. I have to admit, I was surprised it took you so long to react to my last letter. So much so, in fact, that I am forced to question your seriousness in the matter. That's why I'm issuing a challenge. A test, you could call it. You get six bullets. Cause as much chaos, pademonium, and death as you can. I'll be watching, as usual. If you reload your weapon, I will kill you. If you get caught, I'm not going to help you. You're on your own. The test begins the next time you hear someone utter a curse word. That way, neither of us knows when the fun will begin. Oh, and if you simply ignore this, again, I will kill you. I hope you understand that I'm not angry, only concerned. And I wish you the best of luck.


Hawk carefully folded the paper back up and tucked it back into the envelope, as he had learned to do. As soon as he wasn't looking, the letter would disappear again. He lifted up his briefcase - or rather, his father's briefcase - and turned the dials to enter his genius code, 1234. The lock popped open, and he glanced down at the contents. A single change of clothes, the Life-Force revolver, and all the bullets he had been able to fit in the empty spaces. He had previously loaded six fresh bullets into the gun, and knew whoever sent the letters knew it too. With another sigh, he closed the case and stood, walking out of the hazy diner.

It was only a few hours later, as he was crossing the street to buy some beef jerky from a gas station, when the challenge started. The light turned green as he was crossing the road, and one poor soul just wasn't patient. "Get out of the fxxkin way, moron!" Hawk spun, hurling his briefcase into the air. He produced his revolver from his pocket as the case landed in the back of a moving truck, and aimed. He could actually see a transparent red line through the air, showing the path of the bullet. He fired, sending bullet #1 through the back and front windshields of the truck and into another car, killing the unfortunate driver instantly. Several cars immediately slammed on the gas, peeling out into the intersection in an attempt to escape the gang shootout they expected. One slammed into the side of the truck, knocking the driver out. Several more collided, causing a major traffic jam. As they realized there was no way to escape by car, many of them abandoned their vehicles and fled out of the intersection, gathering in small groups and retreating in fear. Hawk used the chaos as cover as he climbed into the back of the truck with his briefcase, silent amongst the blaring horns of the more distant drivers and the screams of the closer ones.

Most of the closer drivers had now assembled in one area, watching the road as their fear turned to curiosity. It seemed that no more shots would be fired, but nobody was willing to be the first to approach the scene. An ambulance pulled up, driving along the side of the road to get as close as possible, as quickly as possible. Several people scrambled out of the back, asked a few questions, and quickly located the long-since-dead driver in the car. Hawk peeked over the edge, of the truck, raising his gun up beside him, and took careful aim. A small amount of black magic fed through the gun and into the bullet just before he fired, sending #2 straight into the gas tank of the ambulance. With the magical energy sparking a fire, the vehicle exploded violently, destroying several nearby cars as well. Just as predicted, a shard of glass rocketed forward, giving one of the paramedics a slash to the neck that would soon prove fatal. 'Thank you, MythBusters,' he thought, recalling that a normal bullet couldn't actually cause such an effect. Only a tracer, or in his case, a supercharged bullet could create an explosion such as this one.

The steady rhythm of a helicopter became audible in the distance as Hawk lowered back down into the truck bed. He waited, tuning out the revived and intensified screams of the people as the chopper came into view. He hated to use another shot so soon, but if the chopper spotted him, he'd be out of luck. Bullet #3 tore through the tail of the helicopter, destroying most of the tail rotor. Without it, the torque began to take effect, and with the pilot caught off-guard, the chopper came spiraling down and shredded into a car at the edge of the intersection. Metal and glass flew through the air as it slowed to a stop, the engine finally dying (along with the two people inside.) A twisted sliver of metal clanged into the back of the truck next to Hawk, landing on top of a pile of tools, mixed in with lengths of rope and hose. A thought struck him, and he peeked over the edge of the truck once more. Fire had spread a good distance, and he could finally hear sirens in the distance, but the people had taken a smart move and gotten far away, at least out of his sight.

Quietly, he grabbed the hose and climbed out of the back of the truck, briefcase in his other hand. He crept around to - what else? - the gas tank, and within minutes gas was pouring slowly but steadily from the hose. It gradually drained from the truck as the sirens became more and more clear. Hawk found a wrecked car and opened the back door, closing it as quietly as possible behind him and waiting for the sound of a rush of fire. Car doors slammed and new voices began barking orders to each other, and a quick glance up at the side mirror told him two boys in blue were cautiously advancing through the cars. But they were on the wrong side of the truck, and couldn't yet see the hose, or the trail of gasoline that was pouring out more slowly than expected. Finally, he heard the satisfying fwoom he had been waiting for, but was surprised by the magnitude of the following explosion. 'Must've been a full tank,' he thought, unable to make out the screams of the flaming officers over the noise. Of course, this also sent out a red alert that he was still in the area, and they wouldn't send two guys in alone again. He climbed out of the car, spotting several more helicopters and another ambulance on the horizon.

He raised his arm and fired, bullet #4 hitting a speck of a pilot in the heart and sending the chopper crashing down, right into the police blockade that had been set up. A bullet whizzed past his ear and he turned, spotting another man and woman aiming at him. "Don't move!" the woman yelled, "get down on the ground!" Hawk swung his arm and fired #5, which tore through the side of the woman's neck and continued on to give the man a similar wound on the other side of his neck, and finally shatter a car window. The wounds didn't kill them instantly, but they both crumpled under the pain, and blood loss would have no mercy on them. Hawk glanced around, trying to think of a way to escape despite the odds. Somewhere off in the distance, he heard another explosion. Running in the opposite direction, he came out of the intersection and right into the sight of five or so officers, all of whom raised their weapon. He sighed, seeing the other helicopter was coming over to reassure him that it was over. He raised his gun and fired the last bullet up into the air, then snapped it open, revealing that it was actually a top-break design. Six cartridges popped out and clanged against the ground.

After snapping the gun shut once more, he set his briefcase down and raised his hands, waiting for the officers to count the cartridges on the ground to know that he was out of bullets. "Okay, he's through," one said after a moment, and they began to advance on him. "Wait!" he shouted, causing them all to halt and re-ready their guns. "...should I stand like this, or get on the ground, or what?" But they never got a chance to answer; he had stalled just enough. Bullet #6 came back down, crashing down through the chopper's windshield. There was a muffled scream from within as the pilot clutched his bleeding hand, and the helicopter came spinning down. Hawk dashed out of the way, watching as it crashed into the police car, along with the police. The sound was deafening, but was muffled slightly as he went over a fence and out of sight.


"...police do not yet know exactly what happened, but it is believed that a team of gunmen began firing at approximately 2:05 this afternoon, armed with tracer ammunition, grenades, and knives. So far no one has been named as a suspect, and there are no leads other than a hose, used to siphon gas from a truck. The hose, however, has no fingerprints other than those of the owner of the truck, who was pronounced dead on the scene. Please be on the lookout for any suspicious activity in your area, and if you have any information about this tragedy, please contact your local police station. Right now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to take a moment of silence, out of respect for those twenty-four people killed, and for their families..."