Disclaimer for "The Tales of Sol 87B"
Author: Joe (at3unit3@yahoo.com)
This is a fictional story. It is not intended to imply that any members of the Backstreet Boys, Nsync, or 98 Degrees are gay, or that any other celebrities mentioned are homosexual. If you are not old enough to read these stories, please refrain from doing so. The same applies to those in countries where such content is illegal. For everyone else, enjoy!
Copyright Notices:
• Captain Planet and related characters were created by R.E. Turner and are copyrighted by AOL Time Warner Company and trademarked by TBS Productions.
• Babylon 5 and all related characters and props were created by Michael Straczynski and are copyrighted by Warner Bros.
• Star Trek and all related characters were created by Gene Roddenberry and are copyrighted by Paramount.
• Transformers and all related characters and props are trademarked by Hasbro Inc. and copyrighted by Rhino Home Videos and AOL Time Warner Entertainment Co.
• He-Man, She-Ra, and related characters and props are trademarked by Filmation (1980s).
• Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and all related characters were created by Joss Whedon and are copyrighted by 20th Century Fox.
• Batman and all related characters were created by Bob Kane and are copyrighted by DC Comics and Warner Bros.
• X-Men and all related characters were created by Stan Lee and are copyrighted by Marvel Comics and 20th Century Fox.
Author's Note: To those who've been reading "Tales of Sol," I want you to know that there is sex in this story. However, that is not its sole purpose. I hope the sex scenes are enjoyable, but the story is meant to express hope and show how music can impact our lives. My favorite bands, 98 Degrees, Backstreet Boys, and Nsync, have seen me through some of the hardest moments of my life and offered hope. To them, I say thank you.
I dedicate "The Tales of Sol" to all my brothers and sisters of the US Armed Services, past, present, and future. I also want to thank my friends who helped with editing and inspiration: John Rivera, Albert-Russ Alan Rivera-Odum, Derbe D. Hunte, Yvette Ortiz, and Samuel Diaz Jr.
Special thanks to:
• James, author of "Tales of a Real Dark Knight"
• Blake, author of "Tales of a New Phoenix"
• Jeremi, author of "Tales of Young Mutants"
AI Use Disclosure: I have entered the 21st century of AI editing, using various AI programs to help with grammar checks, clarity, and improvements to my story. This story was edited with the help of GPT Workspace, Grammarly, Microsoft Copilot, and Quillbot AI software.
References:
• GPT Workspace. (2024, January 9). Version 1.0. [AI tool]. GPT Workspace Inc. https://gptworkspace.com/
• Grammarly. (2024, January 9). Version 5.6. [AI tool]. Grammarly Inc. https://www.grammarly.com/
• Microsoft Copilot. (2024, January 9). Version 2.3. [AI tool]. Microsoft Corporation. https://copilot.github.com/
• Quillbot. (2024, January 9). Version 4.2. [AI tool]. QuillBot Inc. https://quillbot.com/
The Tales of Sol 87B
Mall Time
As the day unfolded, the Backstreet Boys were swept away by a flurry of commitments--practice sessions and TV interviews that demanded their presence. Meanwhile, Jake, Dana, and I seized the opportunity to indulge in a leisurely shopping excursion. We extended an invitation to Tela, who eagerly joined us at the mall, splitting our group along gender lines for separate adventures.
Jake and I found ourselves wandering the aisles of a music store, a place where melodies and memories intertwined. He playfully ribbed me about the array of Backstreet Boys CDs on display, assuring me with a wink that I didn't need to add them to my collection on their account. Despite my chuckles and my decision to purchase the albums anyway, a shadow of contemplation veiled my usual enthusiasm. Jake, ever perceptive, picked up on my quieter mood and gently probed, "What's on your mind?"
As we stepped to the side, distancing ourselves from the potential ears of curious onlookers, I shared the morning's unsettling events. Jake responded with a conviction that caught me off guard, "Mike, I don't think the guys truly realize the caliber of person they're walking alongside."
Puzzled, I prompted him to elaborate.
He glanced around, ensuring our conversation remained private, before confiding, "Long before you assumed the mantle of the Guardian, even before you became Sol, you were always there for your shipmates. Your resolve to help others, it always sets you apart."
"But, that's just what we're supposed to do," I countered, struggling to see the distinction Jake was drawing.
"It's true, duty calls us to act, but you... you always went beyond what was asked. You'd be surprised how many continued to speak fondly of you long after your departure," Jake revealed, a tone of admiration lacing his words.
He then shared his personal gratitude, "And I've never properly thanked you for covering for me that time I lost the tool down the intake." He was referencing a nerve-wracking incident from our past--a plane's engine had ignited after I falsely claimed responsibility for a screwdriver found in its duct. While Jake faced some scrutiny, I bore the brunt of the blame, safeguarding him from severe consequences--a truth kept between us till then.
Jake's acknowledgment served as a poignant reminder of the bonds forged not just through shared success but through the willingness to stand for one another in moments of difficulty. It was these unspoken acts of loyalty and sacrifice that truly defined the essence of a shipmate.
"Petty Officer Morow, it was my plane. My responsibility," I stated with a tone of finality, addressing the gravity of the situation in a manner that left no room for contention.
"Whatever you say, Petty Officer Third Class Pennock," Jake replied, his tone dripping with mock solemnity as he offered a theatrical salute, a playful challenge to the somber mood I had set.
"Keep up that attitude and you'll find yourself hiking back home," I teased, the threat light-hearted, yet delivered with a straight face.
Jake feigned terror, his hands trembling dramatically. "Oh, I'm quaking in my boots," he declared, his words punctuated by a mock shiver of fear.
In response, I quickly wrapped an arm around him, securing him in a headlock. My fingers ruffled his hair with a vigorous noogie, drawing peals of laughter from him. "There, that's more like it. Now onto our shopping mission, Mike," he managed to say, still chuckling as he wriggled out of my hold.
A softer moment followed the playful skirmish. "Jake, you were like a little brother to me. It was only natural to look out for you," I shared, my smile warm, tinged with a sense of protectiveness.
Jake's demeanor shifted, the seriousness creeping into his voice. "And you were like an older brother to me. I've still not come to terms with how you took the fall when the blame wasn't yours to bear," he confessed. His words were sincere, reflecting a deep-seated respect. "But here's the thing--you've always had a bigger heart than anyone I know. That's what those guys see in you. And, let's be honest, it's definitely not your looks keeping them around," he quipped, punctuating his heartfelt words with a jab at my appearance.
His teasing remark ignited laughter between us, lifting the gravity of our conversation. As we ventured into a music store, the familiar voices of the boys echoed from the store's speakers. Jake snorted with amusement as I couldn't resist singing along. We browsed the shelves, picking up various CDs and DVDs, the music catalyzing a shared nostalgia and a sense of camaraderie that underscored our bond--a bond built on mutual respect, protective instincts, and an unwavering willingness to support each other, no matter what.
As I navigated the aisles of the music store, my shopping was abruptly interrupted by a young boy bumping into me, his small frame vibrating with fear. He did not halt to apologize; instead, he continued his desperate dash down the aisle, a clear attempt to escape a group of older boys hot on his trail. The reason for his flight was unclear, but instinct urged me to follow and assess the situation.
Rounding a corner, the scene unfolded before me--a group of bullies had the young boy cornered against a wall, their intent clear and menacing in their postures and expressions. The air was heavy with the threat of violence.
"Come here, you little fag. We're gonna make a man out of you," one of the bullies taunted, his voice dripping with malice and mockery.
"Yeah, you like what you see, don't ya?" Sneering, one of them grasped his crotch in an explicit action that emphasized the predatory aspect of their exchange.
It was at that moment, unable to stand idle while witnessing such cruelty, that I stepped forward. "You know, it's amazing how childish some people can be," I remarked, my tone cool yet firm, infusing my intervention with a calm authority. My unexpected presence caught them off guard, their attention snapping to me, a mixture of surprise and annoyance flashing across their faces as they assessed me, a new variable in their twisted game.
The air was charged, awaiting the bullies' response to my challenge. The young boy's fearful gaze flickered between us, hopeful yet uncertain.
The confrontation escalated when one of the bullies, his face marred by zits, snapped with disdain, "This is none of your business." His tone was dismissive, attempting to exert dominance even in the face of opposition.
Unruffled, I stood my ground, countering with a level of calm that contrasted sharply with their hostility. "Given that the boy ran into me, seeking refuge, it very much becomes my concern," I pointed out, then pressed for an explanation, "Now, why exactly are you harassing this kind-hearted young man?"
The largest among them, his face contorting in disgust, spat out his justification, "He's nothing but a little queer. I caught him eyeing me over in the food court."
My response was tinged with irony and disbelief. "Really? Does your self-esteem hang by such a fragile thread that you feel compelled to torment someone smaller? It doesn't speak volumes about your endowments, does it?" My smile served to needle him further, drawing out the insecurity that fueled his aggression.
Enraged, the bully lunged, "I'll show you who's in charge here!" His fist barreled towards me, a clear intent to harm written in his movement.
Jake, who had quietly observed the unfolding drama, barely whispered, "That was a mistake."
In a fluid motion, I caught the bully's incoming fist, the grip of my hand firm. The pressure applied was both a restraint and a message, causing the bully to yelp in pain. "Ever consider anger management classes, bucko? all that testosterone is going to your head." I suggested the hint of a smile playing on my lips as he buckled to his knees, overwhelmed by the unexpected reversal of power.
His companions, previously eager participants, now stood frozen, their bravado evaporating as they witnessed the downfall of their leader. The abrupt shift in the dynamics left them unsure, their eyes wide as they took in the scene of their once confident friend subdued by a single, assertive act.
Holding the bully's fist firmly in my grasp, I towered over him as he knelt, a clear reversal of his intended dominance. "Now, who finds themselves at a disadvantage?" I addressed him with an authoritative tone, brooking no argument. "I expect you to apologize to this young man, promptly and sincerely."
Choked by his own humiliation and the tight grip ensnaring his hand, the bully stammered out a hasty apology, "I... I... I am sorry! I apologize, I apologize!" His voice, tinged with desperation, barely concealed the pain and fear that his bravado had crumbled to reveal.
The young boy, the target of such unwarranted cruelty, couldn't help but smile in gratitude. "Thanks," he said, his voice carrying a weight of relief.
Releasing the bully's hand, I watched as he hastily withdrew it, cradling his hand. "Feeling a bit diminished now, aren't you?" My words, delivered coolly, underscored the irony of his current predicament.
The bully's response was to simply stare at me, his emotions a volatile concoction of anger and newfound apprehension. "You should think twice before tangling with a soldier," I advised, my voice carrying an edge of finality that left no room for rebuttal.
He remained silent, his gaze dropping to the floor, perhaps contemplating the severity of his actions--or the consequences of choosing the wrong adversary. Without another word, I turned to leave, the tension in the air dissipating with my departure.
The boy, previously victimized but now visibly buoyed by the turn of events, hurried to catch up. "Thanks again, mister," he called out, his gratitude palpable.
"You're welcome," I replied, the protective instinct of a soldier never far from the surface. "I've no patience for bullies. They think too much with their testosterone, and too often they're led by misplaced aggression rather than reason." My parting words were a reminder--a call for reflection on the part of the boy and perhaps, if it reached their ears, the bullies too.
The young man's eyes lit up with a glimmer of something indefinable, a response that caught me slightly off guard. Swiftly, I sought to clarify any potential misinterpretation of my intervention. "And before your thoughts veer off course, understand that you are far too young for me. As a soldier, I'm guided by a strict code of morals and honor," I stated, careful to infuse my voice with kindness, aiming to counsel rather than deflate his spirits. The fleeting disappointment that shadowed his features was quickly replaced by understanding as I offered a reassuring smile. "Remember, there's someone out there for everyone, given time. Love, in its own way, always finds a path."
His smile, now restored, was a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in my words.
Rejoining Jake, I found him wearing an eager grin, no doubt awaiting the tale of what had transpired. "You know, I remember you facing down that behemoth back at the hospital. And yet, what you just did felt, somehow... gentler," he commented, a mixture of jest and admiration coloring his tone.
"They're just kids, Jake. It wouldn't be right to handle them with the same severity we'd reserve for an adult," I replied, emphasizing the necessity of proportionality in dealing with youthful folly.
Jake nodded in agreement, his understanding clear. "Oh, definitely. Those fools aren't worth any serious trouble. But, man, watching you stand up for someone, no matter the odds, it's always something to see. It's actions like these that snagged you such an incredible boyfriend," he teased, linking my inherent protectiveness with my personal happiness.
With a light heart and a shared laugh, we continued on our shopping journey, the earlier incident now receding into memory as a moment of swift justice and a reaffirmation of principles.
Upon meeting Dana and Tela at the food court, Jake, unable to contain his enthusiasm, recounted the encounter with the bullies. His animated storytelling, filled with embellishments of my 'song and dance' with the aggressors, brought bouts of laughter and shakes of disbelief from our companions, rounding off the day with a sense of camaraderie and shared amusement at the unexpected turns life often presents.
Our day dedicated to shopping had entirely consumed the light hours, leaving Jake and I to return home with the evening's shadow in our wake. Once our acquisitions were unpacked and briefly admired, a sudden call from Brian saw Jake swiftly departing for the Lair. Meanwhile, the invitation extended to me was to converge at the majestic Spectrum Stadium. Given the unpredictable nature of such meetings--and embracing the spirit of a superhero in training--I decided to equip myself accordingly.
My Fighting Pike, a weapon that combined elegance with efficiency, found its place securely on my belt. By its side, I attached my D'k tahg, a symbol of strength and honor among warriors. Not one to underestimate the importance of being prepared for close encounters, I retrieved my stingers, strapping them to my wrists. Fortunately, the chill that winter's embrace brought with it meant that my choice of attire--a blue and white flannel shirt--served a dual purpose of warmth and concealment for my weapons.
Not forgetting the hallmark of my superhero aspirations, I folded my Guardian Costume with care and placed it into a duffel bag. This, too, made its way into my truck, a silent testament to the night's potential for adventure--or misadventure. Starting the engine, I navigated the roads with a mindful eye, conscious of the treacherous patches of black ice that dotted my route.
The journey to meet up with the Backstreet Boys was one of cautious anticipation. The quiet of the drive allowed for reflection on the day's events and the evening's possibilities. Each turn of the wheel brought me closer to a gathering that promised to blend the ordinary with the extraordinary, encapsulated within the unique camaraderie we shared.
Upon my arrival at the hotel, the vibrancy in the air was palpable, partly due to Nick, who seemed to personify energy itself. He was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. "Come on, Mike, we've got to go!" he urged, his eyes momentarily landing on my duffel bag with curiosity. "What's in the bag?" he inquired, his tone a mixture of intrigue and slight concern.
With a discreet tone, aiming not to draw undue attention, I replied, "I'm bringing some extra security precautions for tonight's events."
Nick processed this information with lightning speed, and his response was immediate. "I doubt you'll be able to bring that into the wrestling ring, but no worries--we're traveling by limo. Your 'precautions' can stay there. Having 'him' there tonight might not be such a bad idea after all," he concurred, hinting at an understanding of the bag's valuable contents.
As we converged with the rest, AJ was quick to comment on my duffel bag with his typical jest. "Planning on falling in the snow?" he quipped, his humor never far from the surface.
Clarifying my intentions, I remarked, "No, I'm planning for more than just a wrestling match at the Spectrum tonight."
Kevin scrutinized my bag, his gaze intense but not unwelcoming. "Mike, I think I speak for all of us when I say that we'll all feel more at ease knowing that our hero has our backs," he expressed, vocalizing a collective sentiment of reassurance and support.
With our spirits buoyed by shared determination and fun, we made our way to the awaiting limousine. As I placed my bag on the floor in front of me, Brian addressed their driver with solemn clarity. "Luke, once we exit this limo, no one is allowed back in except for Mike or any one of us," he directed, ensuring the safety and privacy of our belongings.
"Absolutely, Mr. Littrell. I will lock the doors the moment you all step out," Luke replied, acknowledging Brian's instruction with a nod of professional agreement.
With a moment of privacy afforded to us inside the limousine, I retrieved the D'k tahg from my wrist, stowing it safely in the duffel. The Fighting Pike, however, presented a less obvious dilemma due to its non-metallic nature, making it a silent guardian that wouldn't trigger any alarms or detectors. This strategic balance of caution and preparedness quietly underscored the gravity of the evening ahead, blending seamlessly with the anticipation of witnessing the spectacle of the wrestling ring.
Leveraging the renown of the Backstreet Boys, our entrée into the Spectrum was effortlessly swift, bypassing any semblance of a queue. As we threaded our way through the expanses of the arena, my gaze inevitably wandered to a familiar spot--the very location where, during my last visit, an unexpected encounter with vampires had led to a rather dramatic entrance through the ceiling. Observing the area, it was clear that repairs had been made, erasing the physical evidence of that chaotic night, though the memory lingered vividly in my mind.
The evening promised to unfold in stark contrast to the pandemonium of that previous experience, highlighted by a planned meeting with WWE icons John Cena and Randy Orton. The calm and controlled environment of our introduction couldn't have been more removed from the wildness of vampires and unplanned aerial entrances interrupting a wrestling match.
Kevin, ever the gracious host, made the introductions. "John, Randy, this is a dear friend of ours, Mike Pennock," he said, extending a hand toward me as a bridge between worlds.
Contrary to their formidable stage personas, Cena and Orton exuded a warmth and gentleness that belied their in-ring ferocity. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Pennock," they greeted, their handshake firm yet welcoming.
Laughing off the formality, I replied, "Mike, please. 'Mr.' is reserved for officers; I was just a working sailor," tossing in a bit of humor to lighten the mood and bridge any gap between our vastly different worlds.
Cena, detecting perhaps a glint of familiarity or merely intrigued by my background, inquired as he shook my hand, "You served?" Cena asked
I smile proudly and say, "Four years in the United States Navy,"
"Thank you for your service," Cena sincerely remarked but as we shook hands, he gave me the once over "Have we met before?" His question, accompanied by an inquisitive look, hinted at the small world of intersections and crossings our lives might unwittingly tread, even among those who live in the spotlight and those who serve quietly away from it.
"No, I don't think so," I responded casually, deliberately keeping my reply ambiguous, neither confirming nor denying any prior meeting.
But John wasn't easily dissuaded. "No, I'm certain I've seen you somewhere before," he insisted, his conviction piquing curiosity.
Offering a humble shrug, I deflected with a touch of humor, "I guess I just have one of those faces," hoping to gracefully sidestep the topic without diving into the specifics of my less ordinary encounters.
It was then Cena turned to Brian, his voice heavy with sarcasm, yet not without a hint of genuine curiosity, "What exactly do you see in this guy?"
Brian, ever loyal and quick to my aid, countered with an assurance that left room for intrigue, "You'd be surprised," he stated, a knowing smile hinting at the depth of our shared history and adventures.
In a moment meant for discretion, Cena leaned towards Brian, his whisper intended for his ears alone. "I can think of a way to find out," he suggested, not realizing that my enhanced hearing, a gift from my extraterrestrial experiences, left no whisper unheard, no matter how softly spoken. Cena's playful challenge, unheard by others, brought an unexpected dimension to our interaction, a blend of the mundane and the otherworldly that seemed to define much of my life.
With pleasure, I watched as John gave my man's now-growing dick a light rub with his big wrestler's palm, making Brian shudder. That is when John let go of Brian, who still had a noticeable bulge in his pants. Before his penis decided to deflate a little, Brian had to hastily cover it as best he could..
We continued our conversation until John and Randy ushered us out to prepare for the match.
I pulled Brian back into my arms and said, "John knows I can hear him right?" before he could leave. As I gently squeezed his semi-hard dick, Brian shivered once more.
He put his hand on my palm and ground his dick into it. "I do not think he knows about your super sensitive hearing, love, but there is a wrestling match starting," he said. Brian's voice stayed slightly hoarse.
"Inside the pants or outside on the rink?" I said, running my fingers along the contours of his constricted penis head. I chuckled.
Brian snorted, "You are not helping, both," and I held us back just long enough for Brian's penis to soften enough to walk normally again. I was not going to let my man be embarrassed when there was a real wrestling match to watch.
However, I am already missing seeing his bulge.
I will deal with the wrestling match that is taking place on Brian's penis. But that was for later at home.
As we settled into our seats, anticipation buzzing in the air around us, an unexpected sensation arrested my attention - a distinctive Ping from the Mother resonated within me, forcing me to clasp my head in an effort to comprehend its origin. The task proved challenging; the palpable energy emanating from the arena and its burgeoning crowd clashed with my senses, muddling the signal.
The atmosphere was electric, and the growing audience's excitement was tangible, as they eagerly anticipated the spectacle about to unfold. A half-hour melted away amidst this fervor, until the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, officially welcoming everyone to the eagerly awaited match. As he introduced John Cena and his opponent, setting the stage for the opening bout, the palpable excitement surged to a crescendo.
In that moment, the Earth attempted to assert its message through a more forceful Ping. However, the collective positive energy of the crowd, a living entity in its own right, again proved to be a formidable barrier. Its vibrant interference clouded my ability to receive the message with the clarity needed, leaving me grappling with the significance of this communication amidst an ocean of anticipation and cheers.
As the night enveloped the Spectrum, an unseen menace lurked in the shadows. Vampires, lured by the potent scent of a large assembly of people, stealthily advanced towards the arena. The proximity of so many potential victims, gathered in excitement and distraction, presented an irresistible opportunity for these predators of the night.
Initially, their targets were those on the fringes of the event - vulnerable individuals who would not be immediately missed among the throng of spectators and revelers. Several homeless individuals seeking refuge in the less frequented corners, panhandlers blending into the bustling exterior, and vendors, their attention anchored to the last-minute sales of their wares, were swiftly and silently picked off.
However, the vampires' insatiable hunger swiftly escalated their boldness. Patrons, momentarily separated from the safety of the crowd or traversing more secluded paths, fell victim to the vampiric horde. In a twist of grim irony, two vampires stumbled upon a mugging in progress. In their thirst for blood, they indiscriminately attacked both the assailant and the intended victim, transforming a common crime into a scene of supernatural horror.
The chaos that unfolded on the periphery of the Spectrum's electric atmosphere foretold a night of prolific hunting for these creatures of darkness. With the main event drawing the majority of the arena's security and attention inward, the outskirts became a hunting ground where the vampires operated with terrifying efficiency and discretion.
To be continued
There is a wrestling match about to begin in more then just inside the Spectrum Stadium.
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I also recommend the following stories. It was because of them I got into writing in the first place.
"Tales of a Real Dark Knight" by authorjames
"Marvel Knights" also by authorjames
"Tales of the New Phoenix" by Blake
"Tales of a Superhero Band" by Leo
"Tales of a Young Mutant" by Jeremi
"Tales of a Thunder God" by Tony Justiss