“What are we even doing here?” tonight we find ourselves with two fine FREAKS traveling beneath the streets.
“I told you, you don’t have to be here.” green lips hiss she’d rather this powergirl be home in bed.
Graphic pouts, super-powered tits drooping with the rest of her “you said that like an hour into the walk!” tunnel screams echo-
“Shut up!” gripping latex the green glow of our heroine turns the area nuclear. “Keep. Your. Voice. Down.” deep breaths Wicked, deep breaths.
A finger on her lips Graphic awes at the cracking air, nodding rapidly. The green dream releases the costumed airhead-she was right. Wicked creatures rarely admit fear.
The pair trudge on once the lit tail dimmed to a less disturbing glow. Still looking a sight in their… unique clothing. One a near perfect recreation of a long forgotten drawing, the other a figment of Toulouse-Lautrec. The latter lady is of consistent reference. The former an apparent seamstress. Both about to meet The Force.
The females quietly bicker “I don’t know why you are so-” the roof falls in front of them.
On the floor the FREAKS don’t know what they are in for as they look onto two medium sized Tech suits and rainbow six looking fuckers. “Graphic?”
Without another word our comic princess bolts her leg muscles pulsing as the air beings to crack.
Deep breaths, Wicked, deep breath- DON’T. RIP. APART. Memories fuel a long needed release of atomic tension all our FREAK needs to do is keep her body together. Simple.
Graphic is thrown from the perimeter of the scene smiling like a goon she flies on the edge of the explosion-two hour journey in under a minute.
The Force, even dead, now knows our dirty little secret.