JBonly

PART TWO “Perry the Platypus,” Dr. Heinz Doofenschmirtz says, puzzled. “Have I been standing on my balcony, motionless, for weeks?” Agent P chatters, casting a glance at the rotating cactus. It certainly did feel like everything just froze for over a fortnight. Doofenschmirtz shrugs. “Alright, barring any other unusual breaks in reality, I, Heinz Doofenschmirtz, cordially invite you all . . . TO INFLATE!” He pauses. “Did I say this already?” Agent P chatters. “I’m sorry my memory isn’t as sharp as yours, Perry the Platypus! Give me a break! It’s been over two weeks and my arms and legs are tired. Here. Since you’re soooo keen to move the plot, I press the button.” As sarcastically as possible, he presses the button. * A Different Dimension The sense of great power lured her out to Stonehenge. Apocalypse, an ancient mutant, twisted time and space to force the entire world to his will. Rogue flexed her fingers, smiling grimly. Despite his terrible power, Apocalypse could be

Clarissa Martin stared at the blank Word Document. She'd been writer's blocked for entirely too long. The screen glowing tauntingly, challenging her to put even one word on the page. “Come on,” it seemed to say. “Just one sentence. One word. You can't do it.” The plump romance writer soooooo wanted to. Auburn hair in a messy bun, dressed in her soft fleece jammies, Clarissa was in all ways but one ready to write. EDM played from her speaker, providing a nice healthy beat. Several times in the last couple minutes, she leaned forward, the taste of an idea on her tongue. Yet by the time her fingers brushed the keys, it was gone. It was the life of a writer. Clarissa published a couple short stories in magazines, but those were ages ago. She wanted to write a novel. So many schlocky “spicy" romance novels sat on bookstore displays. Clarissa knew she could do better. But today, nothing was happening. She'd been at this for hours, staring at her screen and trying to catch ideas like

3 ABY The Acclamator-type Star Destroyer spun end over end, smoke no more than a wisp from its dead hyperspace engines. Ahsoka Tano leaned over the controls, reaching out with the Force. “Feel anyone?” Gregor, formerly CC-5576, asked her, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard. “Anything?” “I feel nothing,” Ahsoka said quietly, lowering her hand. “No life signs, nothing connected to the Force. If someone is aboard, they’re hidden well.” “I don’t like that answer,” Gregor muttered. “Neither do I,” Ahsoka agreed. “Are we still going in?” Hera Syndulla asked from the pilot’s seat. “We need to investigate. The Rebellion didn’t clear any raids in this system, so we have to determine if something else is operating locally. Maybe we can make an alliance.” Hera nodded. “Hold on,” she instructed, flipping on the Ghost’s speaker system. “I’m going to be matching the Destroyer’s rotation. Gravity might be silly for a moment.” Agile as a starfighter, the Ghost flipped about, her nose lining

Dublin Like a pair of matches glowing in the night, Ilsa’s eyes scanned the warehouse. For an hour, the package sat on the table. She’d watched the man, in his late twenties, pretend of drop off a meal delivery, his voice echoing. He said things that must have been code words but she ignored them. Freed from MI6 and Solomon Lane, she worked alone. Well, not entirely alone. The IMF counted her among their allies, and she reluctantly did the same. The men, Benji, Luther, Ethan, were trustworthy. The fact they worked for the US Government gave her pause. They were dangerous, somehow almost antithetical to the IMF, their own creation. After several more minutes, Ilsa dropped to the ground. Her boots clunked loudly, making her grit her teeth. Yet, her ears open and hackles raised, she approached the table and the waiting package. ILSA FAUST, the label read. It was coded, looking like an actual meal receipt, but in a code she knew. Biting her lip, she brushed a strand of

I stepped into the garage, swallowing my feelings. This wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I’d made a date with Lauren from my Sociology class. She was hot, there was no other word for it. Athletic and statuesque, she played on the volleyball team and even captained it this season. Blonde, charming in class, quick with a joke. And a stellar rack. I’d asked her for a date over and over. Movie, coffee, dinner, turned down every time. Except Friday, when she finally agreed. She gave me an address and a peck on the cheek. “See you on Saturday,” she whispered, sending goosebumps all over my body. Saturday night, I arrived at the address at the agreed upon time. I had wine in a bag and dressed—well, not as well as I could have, but I don’t really have that many nice clothes. I’d have to change that pretty quickly. The door opened and I strained to keep the smile on my face even as my spirit came crashing down within me. Lauren didn’t stand in the doorway, but April. Look, I have

One Week Later The thralls and heavy cream arrive just as The Duke said. You feel guilty every time you harvest the poor, brain-dead humans, your fellow humans, but it's keeping you from joining them. Over the course of a week, you keep the house, put the food in the proper stores, and hide the heavy cream in the cooler where the raw meat is kept. “Goddamned sons of bitches!” You hear enraged screaming and crashing from the entryway. “Oh fuck,” you whisper to yourself. The journey was a failure in some way. The rumors were false, mistake or outright lies, but that didn't matter. The Dimitrescu daughter was not where she was supposed to be. Frantically, you prepare a cup of wine mixed with blood and the contents of the flask. “Alright, Duke,” you mutter as the goblet bubbles and froths for a moment before settling down. As quickly as you can, you make your way upstairs to see Lady Alcina Dimitrescu standing in the doorway. Her eyes are black pits of rage, veins carrying blood as

You wake up with a start. There's a scratchy bag over your head, and it feels like your hands are chained up. Arms outstretched, you can't move. Chains rattle as you try to pull yourself free. No luck. You're cold and are pretty sure you're not wearing any clothes. “Help!” You call. “Someone help me!” With a rough yank, the bag is removed from your head, fluttering to cover your exposed genitals. You're in a stone room, lit by dim electric lights. They hum quietly. However, they aren't the main focus. A giant woman stands before you. She looks dead, her flesh pallid. You don't have a good sense of scale, but she looks just shy of ten feet tall. She also looks plump and well-fed. A pretty yet severe face regards you, brown hair pinned in a tight spiral. A wide-brimmed hat shadows her face. You know who this is. “Alcina Dimitrescu,” you say, your voice bitter. “I don't believe we are on a first-name basis,” the giant woman says imperiously. She is, as they say, large and in

It's almost eleven in the morning and Danville is busy. People walk down the street on their way to work, cars rumble along, and a platypus in a fedora scales the side of a vaguely pipe wrench-shaped building. Perry the Platypus, AKA Agent P, makes his way up to the lab of Dr. Heinz Doofenschmirtz, the Founder, CEO, CFO, COO, PhD, MD, LMNOP, of Doofenschmirtz Evil Incorporated. The harmonious jingle plays in Agent P’s head as his suction cup wristbands aid his climb. The Doofenschmirtz building bends sharply, a big gap between sections of floors that opens in the scientist’s lab. It’s full of random junk, half-finished inventions and scattered papers of “-Inator plans” and maps of the Tri-State Area with circles and x’s all over. Agent P, on high alert, scurries into the lab, glancing about. Finally, he spies a lanky figure in a lab coat, standing next to a huge power generator. Agent P cracked his little knuckles. “Oh, Perry the Platypus!” Dr. Heinz Doofenschmirtz says, turning

Hey, welcome to “It's Just A Prank Bro" industries! After many requests for our replicating Glitter Bombs and many more complaints about friends and loved ones exploding, we decided to give a tour of our facilities, and show you what we're up to here! Come on! Here, you see a lipstick that makes kissing more interesting! Here, we have a young lady getting bothered by a lovesick young man (don't worry, all volunteers here! They're best friends outside the office!). Lillian sat at the bar, nursing her beer. It's her night off, so she decided to stop here and see what the scene is. No one appears to be interested, their attention on the game. Sighing, she put her cash on the bar and got ready to go. “Hey, hot stuff,” Phil said, appearing in her vision. They wouldn't make a bad pair. Lillian is tall and slim, wearing a nice button-down blouse and pinstriped slacks. Her brown hair is tied in a bun at the back of her neck. Phil is strapping, buff and wide, with close-cropped

34 ABY Following the Battle of Endor and the destruction of the Empire, their remnants were scattered and disillusioned. If the Emperor’s predictions and foresight lead them into destruction, of what use was a galactic empire? The Remnant never truly recovered—they reformed into the First Order, ruling one system but no more. They could have evolved, strengthened into an incredible force like the Empire before them, but losing to the Rebellion shattered them. The First Order maintained the Empire’s rigorous discipline and iron fist, but as the years ticked away, that iron rusted. Now the once-unquestioning troopers chafed against their rulers and desired escape. On the Star Destroyer Finalizer “FN-2187,” Commander Phasma’s voice said over the communicator. “Your shift begins in five minutes.” “Blerg,” FN-2187 replied. “What was that?” “I said, ‘On my way,’ commander.” FN-2187 sat up in his cot. His night shift fellows were making their way into the