Hello,
In addition to the Dick Tracy fic I've written part of, I've written an Elastigirl fic (focused on a reluc situation with a security guard, whose attentions she comes to enjoy due to his endowment) that I also need to help finishing.
Any takers? Let me put a piece of the story here...and if interested, I'll send you the rest of what I've got so far.
Helen Parr, known to the world as Elastigirl, crouched down behind a set of crates and studied the dilapidated warehouse in which she found herself. One arm reached up, stretching eight feet into the air to stick a small metal ring to the side of the camera monitoring the room above. With a tiny crackle of electricity, the camera began to loop, feeding the last twenty seconds on repeat and leaving Elastigirl free to continue creeping into the warehouse's depths.
It had been a busy several months since the return of superheroes to the world, months filled with supervillains, dangerous criminals, and settling into new routines at school and home. Helen had adapted quickly, her elastic body easily slipping back into the same crime-fighting shape she had been in ten years before. Motherhood had been kind to Helen, as was perhaps not a surprise given her ability to stretch every part of her body into elaborate contortions, and she didn’t have any of the wrinkles or stretch marks that were starting to appear on the bodies of her friends. Her hair was still lustrous and red, her eyes were a bit more mature but sparkled with the same humour as ever, and her nights were still spent fighting crime.
The Incredibles, as the media had named their super-powered family, had stood up against five major villains in the last year and stopped every one of them, but that hadn't stopped new enemies from appearing. Lately, many of these new villains were armed with powerful weapons and robotic devices that allowed them to devastate entire squads of police, all of them bearing the same sleek, jet-black designs. Finding the source of those devices had become the top priority for every super in the region, and when a computer-based hero calling himself the Pixelator finally found a trail to a major shipment being handled by a “Mr. Shade”, Helen had rushed into action.
Unfortunately, it was a school night, and the children were already in bed. She and Bob, her husband, had argued over whether or not to follow the lead, but Helen had ultimately convinced him that she could handle the situation. For secrecy's sake, the mysterious man in charge of these weapon shipments had designed his local lair in the guise of a simple shipping company, hiding his defenses and guards beneath a layer of simplicity. The security, however, was a simple decoy, left in case someone managed to penetrate his extensive defenses. The Pixelator had learned that the actual shipment of weapons was being stored in a quiet, dusty corner of the warehouse, with only minimal guards and no sign of actual valuable present. If she could bypass the electronic security surrounding the building as a whole, uncovering the weapons would be simplicity itself.
“It’s just a fact-finding mission,” Helen had assured her nervous husband. “And you know you always end up smashing through walls on those.”
“I’m quiet!” Bob had protested. “I can be very stealthy! Remember when I found Syndrome’s plans?”
“Bob,” Helen had said seriously, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the cheek, “you are not getting out of watching the kids tonight. We agreed, we each get to take turns having a night off, and no one else is around to keep an eye on them.”
And so here she was, slipping through the warehouse towards the crates in question. The guards were on their patrol, leaving her ten minutes to study the contents, plant a tracer, and escape. After that, she could trace the shipment to its next arrival point, and possibly find out just who was selling these dangerous goods.
Elastigirl slipped through the rows of crates, small feet moving nimbly across their tops as she watched for guard patrols. A guard walked past, fat and stupid, and she crouched low against her makeshit cover, breasts pressing into the wooden surface of the crates and body coiled nearly into a perfect square as she made herself scarce. She could feel the wood grain almost rubbing against her skin, and she wondered not for the first time if there was a way to make her costume just a shade thicker, while retaining its ability to copy her natural stretching abilities. The sensation was... well, pleasurable, to be honest, but not something she needed in the middle of a mission. Below her, the guard paused, and Elastigirl caught her breath. Then, with a shrug, he continued walking, and she let out a slow, steady exhalation, slipping silently towards the far end of the room.
The crates were exactly where they were supposed to be, and Elastigirl slipped across the warehouse towards them silently and easily, stretching and shifting her body to pool from one shadow to the next, smooth and serene. Her red hair, curling around her shoulders, waved out of her face as she moved, helpfully shielding her eyes from any bright lights to keep her accustomed to the shadows, and her red suit obliging toned itself to a nearly-black shade – another improvement made by their costume designer, Edna. Within moments, she was in front of the crates, her fingers expanding into slender, flat wedges that she slipped into the gaps in the crate’s top, easily prying it off without a hint of sound. Instead, as she had expected, were rows of shining steel helmets and jetpacks – weapons for an army of flying goons. Quickly and quietly, studying the gear, Helen reached into her belt, pulling out a set of tracers and affixing one to each jetpack. The tracers would remain dormant until she signalled them, which should make detection impossible.
As she carefully replaced the crate’s lid, studying it intently and using her nimble fingers to slide its nails back into their original places, Helen checked her work carefully, ensuring that there wouldn’t be a trace of her tampering. She was so intent, in fact, that she failed to catch the quiet gasp of surprise from across the room, or the ever-so-soft tread of shoes creeping across the concrete. When she did hear a sound, she spun around, arms already extending to grab her ambusher. She was just in time to receive a face full of purple gas. As she collapsed to the ground, limbs returning to their usual sizes, she had a vague image of a fat, smiling man, and then the world went dark.
In addition to the Dick Tracy fic I've written part of, I've written an Elastigirl fic (focused on a reluc situation with a security guard, whose attentions she comes to enjoy due to his endowment) that I also need to help finishing.
Any takers? Let me put a piece of the story here...and if interested, I'll send you the rest of what I've got so far.
Helen Parr, known to the world as Elastigirl, crouched down behind a set of crates and studied the dilapidated warehouse in which she found herself. One arm reached up, stretching eight feet into the air to stick a small metal ring to the side of the camera monitoring the room above. With a tiny crackle of electricity, the camera began to loop, feeding the last twenty seconds on repeat and leaving Elastigirl free to continue creeping into the warehouse's depths.
It had been a busy several months since the return of superheroes to the world, months filled with supervillains, dangerous criminals, and settling into new routines at school and home. Helen had adapted quickly, her elastic body easily slipping back into the same crime-fighting shape she had been in ten years before. Motherhood had been kind to Helen, as was perhaps not a surprise given her ability to stretch every part of her body into elaborate contortions, and she didn’t have any of the wrinkles or stretch marks that were starting to appear on the bodies of her friends. Her hair was still lustrous and red, her eyes were a bit more mature but sparkled with the same humour as ever, and her nights were still spent fighting crime.
The Incredibles, as the media had named their super-powered family, had stood up against five major villains in the last year and stopped every one of them, but that hadn't stopped new enemies from appearing. Lately, many of these new villains were armed with powerful weapons and robotic devices that allowed them to devastate entire squads of police, all of them bearing the same sleek, jet-black designs. Finding the source of those devices had become the top priority for every super in the region, and when a computer-based hero calling himself the Pixelator finally found a trail to a major shipment being handled by a “Mr. Shade”, Helen had rushed into action.
Unfortunately, it was a school night, and the children were already in bed. She and Bob, her husband, had argued over whether or not to follow the lead, but Helen had ultimately convinced him that she could handle the situation. For secrecy's sake, the mysterious man in charge of these weapon shipments had designed his local lair in the guise of a simple shipping company, hiding his defenses and guards beneath a layer of simplicity. The security, however, was a simple decoy, left in case someone managed to penetrate his extensive defenses. The Pixelator had learned that the actual shipment of weapons was being stored in a quiet, dusty corner of the warehouse, with only minimal guards and no sign of actual valuable present. If she could bypass the electronic security surrounding the building as a whole, uncovering the weapons would be simplicity itself.
“It’s just a fact-finding mission,” Helen had assured her nervous husband. “And you know you always end up smashing through walls on those.”
“I’m quiet!” Bob had protested. “I can be very stealthy! Remember when I found Syndrome’s plans?”
“Bob,” Helen had said seriously, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the cheek, “you are not getting out of watching the kids tonight. We agreed, we each get to take turns having a night off, and no one else is around to keep an eye on them.”
And so here she was, slipping through the warehouse towards the crates in question. The guards were on their patrol, leaving her ten minutes to study the contents, plant a tracer, and escape. After that, she could trace the shipment to its next arrival point, and possibly find out just who was selling these dangerous goods.
Elastigirl slipped through the rows of crates, small feet moving nimbly across their tops as she watched for guard patrols. A guard walked past, fat and stupid, and she crouched low against her makeshit cover, breasts pressing into the wooden surface of the crates and body coiled nearly into a perfect square as she made herself scarce. She could feel the wood grain almost rubbing against her skin, and she wondered not for the first time if there was a way to make her costume just a shade thicker, while retaining its ability to copy her natural stretching abilities. The sensation was... well, pleasurable, to be honest, but not something she needed in the middle of a mission. Below her, the guard paused, and Elastigirl caught her breath. Then, with a shrug, he continued walking, and she let out a slow, steady exhalation, slipping silently towards the far end of the room.
The crates were exactly where they were supposed to be, and Elastigirl slipped across the warehouse towards them silently and easily, stretching and shifting her body to pool from one shadow to the next, smooth and serene. Her red hair, curling around her shoulders, waved out of her face as she moved, helpfully shielding her eyes from any bright lights to keep her accustomed to the shadows, and her red suit obliging toned itself to a nearly-black shade – another improvement made by their costume designer, Edna. Within moments, she was in front of the crates, her fingers expanding into slender, flat wedges that she slipped into the gaps in the crate’s top, easily prying it off without a hint of sound. Instead, as she had expected, were rows of shining steel helmets and jetpacks – weapons for an army of flying goons. Quickly and quietly, studying the gear, Helen reached into her belt, pulling out a set of tracers and affixing one to each jetpack. The tracers would remain dormant until she signalled them, which should make detection impossible.
As she carefully replaced the crate’s lid, studying it intently and using her nimble fingers to slide its nails back into their original places, Helen checked her work carefully, ensuring that there wouldn’t be a trace of her tampering. She was so intent, in fact, that she failed to catch the quiet gasp of surprise from across the room, or the ever-so-soft tread of shoes creeping across the concrete. When she did hear a sound, she spun around, arms already extending to grab her ambusher. She was just in time to receive a face full of purple gas. As she collapsed to the ground, limbs returning to their usual sizes, she had a vague image of a fat, smiling man, and then the world went dark.
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