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Literature Text
The Soviet Superwoman stood in the middle of the street and stared down the oncoming semi. She braced for impact, crossing her arms in front of her.
“Nyet, capitalist running dog!” she barked, “You will not spread your chaos onto the workers!”
The machine was a perfect example of a machine aristocrat if ever there was one- it dominated and drove the innocent, unprotected working-class cars before it. And, just like an aristocrat, it utterly ignored anything that stood in its way.
The semi barely even slowed as it plowed into The Soviet Superwoman. The basic physics of the equation were easy to comprehend- a big rig weighing a dozen tons travelling at sixty miles an hour hit a lone woman massed at about 200 kilos and braced with nothing but air and what traction her boots gave her on the asphalt.
Because of the angle, The Soviet Superwoman did not go flying. Instead, she was bowled over immediately prior to being run over. She missed being crushed under the tires by inches, but was smashed and clubbed repeatedly by the oil pan, muffler, various axles, and linkages as the massive vehicle rolled over her. The result was extremely disorienting in addition to being embarrassing, and it was pure luck and just a smidgeon of wounded pride that allowed her to punch up just in time to drive her fist through the rear bumper, causing her to be dragged along, shredding her cape and most of her gray costume.
She used her grip to pull herself up off the ground, inverting herself as she clung to the back of the truck.
Extricating herself from the frame of the trailer still clinging to her arm, she chanced to look back and into the eyes of a little girl in the passenger seat of her father’s car. The girl, maybe eight years old, was wide-eyed and pointing, but did not seem frightened. Perhaps she did not realize her danger, perhaps she was secure in her faith that the communist superhero could save her. Whatever the cause, it renewed The Soviet Superwoman’s determination to save this pretty child.
She released her grip on the truck, activating her flight to avoid being flung away, and floated to the top of the capitalist juggernaut.
Landing on the roof, she ran as quickly as she could, fighting momentum and the swaying of the rig as it sped across the uneven surface of the road. Upon reaching the front, she leapt down and lay spread-eagled over the driver’s compartment on top of the extended cab. From here, she could see and confirm the preposterous report she had overheard- there really were no drivers in these machines.
The Soviet Superwoman did not believe in artificial intelligence. AI was, she was certain, just a matter of advanced programming and did not, even at its best, come close to approximating the true spirit of a roused populace. Her laser eyes flared to life; something was wrong with left eye, and the laser did not focus properly. The eye patch she wore smoldered and there was a smell of burning leather as the incoherent energy burst through the makeshift covering. Her other eye, however, worked perfectly, and she sliced a clean line through the cab, severing the front from the back. The front wheels continued spinning, dragging the engine block over the curb and narrowly missing a pair of pedestrians before the whole thing was embedded in the wall of a bank.
Strangely, the vehicles around her had not stopped in their progression- indeed, they swerved to avoid being crushed against the crippled frame of the truck, but, like good workers, they seemed barely aware that their master had been overthrown.
There was something beautiful in their unity, their solidarity, their unstoppable determination. For a moment, The Soviet Superwoman found herself almost wishing to join them, to actively participate in their pilgrimage. She saw the child pass her, her father still battling the car’s steering and transmission to no avail. This was not the self-determination of a population roused to consciousness; this was the slavery of mindless drones, still following orders long after the logic behind them had been rendered irrelevant.
The Soviet Superwoman frowned. Something must be controlling these vehicles. She needed to sever their master’s control… something she’d heard- the broadcast was controlled through a fuse box in the cab. She punched through the thin metal protecting the compartment, dug around until she found it. A yank and a twist severed the device from the steering column and she was holding the abomination in her hand.
One last look at the deceptive order of the enslaved vehicles, then a saved flex of the muscles in her forearm, muscles empowered with the strength of the working class, and the abomination was no more.
“Nyet, capitalist running dog!” she barked, “You will not spread your chaos onto the workers!”
The machine was a perfect example of a machine aristocrat if ever there was one- it dominated and drove the innocent, unprotected working-class cars before it. And, just like an aristocrat, it utterly ignored anything that stood in its way.
The semi barely even slowed as it plowed into The Soviet Superwoman. The basic physics of the equation were easy to comprehend- a big rig weighing a dozen tons travelling at sixty miles an hour hit a lone woman massed at about 200 kilos and braced with nothing but air and what traction her boots gave her on the asphalt.
Because of the angle, The Soviet Superwoman did not go flying. Instead, she was bowled over immediately prior to being run over. She missed being crushed under the tires by inches, but was smashed and clubbed repeatedly by the oil pan, muffler, various axles, and linkages as the massive vehicle rolled over her. The result was extremely disorienting in addition to being embarrassing, and it was pure luck and just a smidgeon of wounded pride that allowed her to punch up just in time to drive her fist through the rear bumper, causing her to be dragged along, shredding her cape and most of her gray costume.
She used her grip to pull herself up off the ground, inverting herself as she clung to the back of the truck.
Extricating herself from the frame of the trailer still clinging to her arm, she chanced to look back and into the eyes of a little girl in the passenger seat of her father’s car. The girl, maybe eight years old, was wide-eyed and pointing, but did not seem frightened. Perhaps she did not realize her danger, perhaps she was secure in her faith that the communist superhero could save her. Whatever the cause, it renewed The Soviet Superwoman’s determination to save this pretty child.
She released her grip on the truck, activating her flight to avoid being flung away, and floated to the top of the capitalist juggernaut.
Landing on the roof, she ran as quickly as she could, fighting momentum and the swaying of the rig as it sped across the uneven surface of the road. Upon reaching the front, she leapt down and lay spread-eagled over the driver’s compartment on top of the extended cab. From here, she could see and confirm the preposterous report she had overheard- there really were no drivers in these machines.
The Soviet Superwoman did not believe in artificial intelligence. AI was, she was certain, just a matter of advanced programming and did not, even at its best, come close to approximating the true spirit of a roused populace. Her laser eyes flared to life; something was wrong with left eye, and the laser did not focus properly. The eye patch she wore smoldered and there was a smell of burning leather as the incoherent energy burst through the makeshift covering. Her other eye, however, worked perfectly, and she sliced a clean line through the cab, severing the front from the back. The front wheels continued spinning, dragging the engine block over the curb and narrowly missing a pair of pedestrians before the whole thing was embedded in the wall of a bank.
Strangely, the vehicles around her had not stopped in their progression- indeed, they swerved to avoid being crushed against the crippled frame of the truck, but, like good workers, they seemed barely aware that their master had been overthrown.
There was something beautiful in their unity, their solidarity, their unstoppable determination. For a moment, The Soviet Superwoman found herself almost wishing to join them, to actively participate in their pilgrimage. She saw the child pass her, her father still battling the car’s steering and transmission to no avail. This was not the self-determination of a population roused to consciousness; this was the slavery of mindless drones, still following orders long after the logic behind them had been rendered irrelevant.
The Soviet Superwoman frowned. Something must be controlling these vehicles. She needed to sever their master’s control… something she’d heard- the broadcast was controlled through a fuse box in the cab. She punched through the thin metal protecting the compartment, dug around until she found it. A yank and a twist severed the device from the steering column and she was holding the abomination in her hand.
One last look at the deceptive order of the enslaved vehicles, then a saved flex of the muscles in her forearm, muscles empowered with the strength of the working class, and the abomination was no more.
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Okay, this one was not one I originally planned on doing, but then I got started and it was like the Lay's Potato Chips thing: I just couldn't stop at one.
A couple important notes: First, while the story talks a whole heck of a lot about The Soviet Superwoman, it should be pretty clear from even a cursory read-through that this is not, in fact,
. This is the cheap knockoff android clone made by RWD for the Leaderboards. She's a little looney.
I probably ought to also point out that I used the name Soviet Superwoman shamelessly, without provocation, and completely without permission, as that is how the Soviet Superclone thinks of itself.
I had a lot of fun working out how certain powers and stunts would work with SSC's versions of Olga's powers. For instance, I'm fairly certain that SSW could use her flight powers to actually brace herself so that taking a runaway truck head-on wouldn't knock her back or down. SSC's flight is purely antigravity, which does not negate kinetic energy or momentum and, therefore, useless in this situation. I'm not certain how SSW's heat vision works, but SSC's laser vision actually is an incredibly powerful (think multiple petawatts) infrared laser. It can cut through a modern commercial truck like butter.
At any rate, this was one more episode tied to
's When Trucks Go Berserk event. The Soviet Superclone was originally imagined by 
and myself, although her evolution into the nutty wannabe superhero was entirely my fault.
Obviously, I need to give many, many thanks to for letting me abuse her good name with my mechanical mockery of her in 
.
A couple important notes: First, while the story talks a whole heck of a lot about The Soviet Superwoman, it should be pretty clear from even a cursory read-through that this is not, in fact,
. This is the cheap knockoff android clone made by RWD for the Leaderboards. She's a little looney.I probably ought to also point out that I used the name Soviet Superwoman shamelessly, without provocation, and completely without permission, as that is how the Soviet Superclone thinks of itself.
I had a lot of fun working out how certain powers and stunts would work with SSC's versions of Olga's powers. For instance, I'm fairly certain that SSW could use her flight powers to actually brace herself so that taking a runaway truck head-on wouldn't knock her back or down. SSC's flight is purely antigravity, which does not negate kinetic energy or momentum and, therefore, useless in this situation. I'm not certain how SSW's heat vision works, but SSC's laser vision actually is an incredibly powerful (think multiple petawatts) infrared laser. It can cut through a modern commercial truck like butter.
At any rate, this was one more episode tied to
's When Trucks Go Berserk event. The Soviet Superclone was originally imagined by and myself, although her evolution into the nutty wannabe superhero was entirely my fault.Obviously, I need to give many, many thanks to
for letting me abuse her good name with my mechanical mockery of her in .Comments12
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I had to take a moment to compose myself after she got run over by the truck. I found that part to be absolutely hilarious! It was just kinda... unexpected. 
Great work.
Great work.