Meet the Chans - A GitMS Short

[Mayabird]

Coming (back) soon: the adventures of Amy Chan and the rest of GitMS, Issue 3. But first, a little flashback to get you back in the mood.

Meet the Chans - A GitMS Short Flashback


It was Saturday morning and the news was on. A long-married couple had slept in (as they considered it) and now were relaxing and seeing what was going on in the world.

The anchorwoman continued, “And now returning to our top morning story, it looks like Atlanta may now have a superhero of its own.” The screen changed to a dark, blurry image of a street corner in a rough part of the city. “This is the security video taken last night outside of-”

“So what do you think, guy in tights?” asked the wife, as the screen showed what had to be a street prostitute approached by a pimp (nobody else would dress so gaudily and tastelessly) and two bodyguards. The bodyguards starting shoving her into the wall, and then the pimp began beating her with his walking-stick.

Just then, a figure in a large metal robot suit came running in from off-screen, chunkily but surprising swiftly. The bodyguards stared in shock as it picked up one of them and tossed him down the street and then backhanded the other into the wall.

The couple exchanged a look of “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

The pimp obviously thought faster on his feet. He dodged out of the way and pulled out his gun. He might have missed, or the suit might be bulletproof; either way, it didn’t stop the metal suit. It raised his arm and out came a blinding white burst of flame that momentarily overloaded the camera with its glare.

They looked into each other’s eyes and grinned.

The pimp wasn’t dead, but his feather boa, cape, and hat were aflame and the pimp ran off hysterically. The robot suit turned around, as if searching for the prostitute, but she had already fled. As it turned, it faced the bodyguard who’d been tossed down the street. He scrambled to his feet and ran off in the opposite direction too. The robot suit looked at the second bodyguard, lying against the wall. It checked, shrugged, and then ran off-screen.

The whole video lasted maybe twenty seconds.

The anchorwoman continued talking, but the couple ignored it. “Complete lack of aesthetics, or even considering aesthetics,” the husband said.

“Didn’t see a single insignia or logo, and I don’t think it was even painted either,” the wife continued, in agreement.

“Reminds me of that senior design project, the exoskeleton legs.”

“Body language. Good enough job to get the body language through, really good job, but too lazy to try to make it all pretty.”

The anchorwoman’s voice cut through, “…don’t know who the suited hero may be, but we do hope to see more of him soon…”

“HIM?” They both screamed in unison at the TV.

“People are so stupid,” the wife said.

“Well, at least it’s a good for maintaining a secret identity. No one will suspect the truth.”

“Still stupid…I should tell her what they’re saying.” Mrs. Chan got up to make a phone call.


Amy Chan was exhausted, sore, bruised, and had a burn on her wrist that she’d hastily slathered with salve before crashing onto her bed. Even her dreams weren’t restful, filled with the replay of the first field test of her suit. An exciting night – scared the bejesus out of some drug dealers (she torched the bags of whatever they’d dropped as they ran off screaming) and rescued a prostitute who was getting beaten up by a pimp. Her mind kept going over and over the pimp shooting wildly, gun sideways, and then the OW and alarms as one bullet actually hit home (not entirely surprising, considering how big of a target she was). It didn’t penetrate, but now her ribs ached on her right side.

Gotta work on the bulletproofing…gotta work on the bulletproofing…hehehe burning pimp. Didn’t actually hit him, just singe a bit, but his pimp suit was really flammable…gotta fix that flamethrower…how bad was that burn…jet boots didn’t work…he shot me! Hehehe he’s on fire. Totally worth the hurting ribs and the burn on the wrist to see…

A phone rang, waking her. For a moment she was confused, before she remembered that she had gotten home and wasn’t on the streets in the suit anymore. Then she groped around, trying to find the phone and wondering what time it was. Amy squinted and saw her alarm clock. It was 7:34 in the morning.

She found the phone and looked at the number. Her parents. If her mind had been coherent enough to form entire thoughts, she would have wondered why they were calling at such a horrible early hour.

With all the effort she could muster after her tiring night and three hours of sleep, she answered, “Bwhuh?”

“Amy! It’s your mother!”

“Oooohuuuuuuugh. Hi Muuuuuuh…”

“Amy, we saw you on TV! Morning news! They were talking about-”

“No, don’t say it!” she heard her dad interrupt in the background. “People could be listening!”

“-something, and we saw you driving a new van.”

“Wuuuuh?”

“It was, the story was about crime in Atlanta, and you were in the background and driving a big grey van.”

“Volunteer fire-fighter!” Mr. Chan yelled audibly. “A big grey van for her volunteer fire-fighting thingy. Tell her that.”

“Did you hear your father?” Mrs. Chan asked.

“Yuuuuuh…”

“We think her volunteer work fire-fighting is really heroic,” her dad continued.

“It’s super what you’re doing,” said her mother.

“Guuuuh…”

“Were you asleep? You were asleep, weren’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Amy. Must have been after all that work last night with the volunteer fire department. Really tired right now. Well, I’ll let you go then.”

“Thaaaaanks…”

“Wait, are you working this weekend?”

“Weeeeeeh, no…”

“We’d really like to see you if you have time. And your van. Your van too.”

“Tell her she can probably fit her new van into her work van,” Mr. Chan interrupted again.

“Did you hear that? Can you come down here and visit?”

“Yeaaaaah. Oooookay…”

“Oh good. We’ll see you tonight, then?” Amy mumbled something in general agreement. “Love you, Amy.”

“Luh yuh too, muuuh.” Amy hung up before her mom could add on five more minutes of stuff at the end.


The Chans gave each other a proud look. “That’s our girl!”

Mr. Chan declared, “I wish I could call her old principals and gloat right now. Psychotic arsonist, pfft!”

“I knew she’d do great things with all her flamethrower know-how,” replied Mrs. Chan.


A part of her mind, a very small and confused part, thought that she should probably be worried or upset or feeling something other than a slight, distant annoyance that she wouldn’t get to sleep all day. But then she shrugged, and Amy Chan slathered more ointment on her wrist, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

[Ford Prefect]

I laughed. They were just so pleased by how their daughter is now a superhero. If I ever build a homemade suit of powered armour and used it to fight crime, I hope my parents would be half as understanding/excited as the Chans.

'I wish we could call up her old principles and gloat!'

[Darth Yoshi]

Hehe. And the best is that the conversation hasn't even really registered due to lack of sleep. That'll make for an amusing double-take.