Now what’s this then? Can’t see a damned thing...now where’s my monocle?
Generating Characters... Done.
Four beings suddenly found themselves nowhere, able to see one another but nothing else. A synthesized voice came out of the nothing surrounding them.
"Oh, good day, chaps! At least I think you’re chaps. Still can’t find my bloody monocle, you see. Has anyone - oh, there it was all along. Forget my own head next. *sounds of muttering and reaching for monocle behind nearby bin.* Excellent! But where are my manners? If you would allow me to introduce you all...?"
"Well, we’ve got [color="#FFFFFF"]...Nothing to see over here. Moving right along."
"...right along to Cobra, our resident Fang layonin! Why call him ‘Cobra’ if he transforms into a wolf? No one is particularly sure on that point - although he might just transform into something else for a change!"
"Ah, and here we have Cadan! His primary offense is his razor-sharp tail and his powerful legs. He’s got a passionate fondness for routine! "
"So it is such a pity that when it comes to routine, Conte here isn’t precisely the most stable. She represents a Temporal Ontologic Glitch/Anomaly, which means that the only routine occurring is going to be her loose canon to play with."
"Finally, we’ve got a whole mess of chaps over here! This is an entire Grand Battle, the Tremendous Rumble! Remember them, because these fellows are going to be fighting each other to the death as well!"</font>
Generating Setting... Done.
The four generated characters suddenly found themselves moved, scattered in various locations on the inside of a rotating space station, a sphere two kilometers in diameter. At one pole was a huge window easily half a kilometer in radius, streaming with sunlight reflected from an even huger parabolic mirror attached outside. At the center of the sphere was the focus of the mirror, creating the illusion of a miniature sun. Stretching from the ‘sun’ to the other pole was a large axial tower, a shaft around which the sphere rotated.
Ah, that’s all done then. This is Bernal Sphere Upsilon, a space habitat designed for scientific research. Now normally, such a Bernal Sphere would be powered by solar energy, but you can’t have THAT for SCIENCE! If you’ll just look up at the sun - don’t worry chaps, it won’t hurt you until you begin - you’ll find yourself looking at the most powerful manmade hydrogen fusion reactor in the Solar System! It powers an equally superlative particle accelerator built around the equator, which...
...Well, I see I’ve near put you all to sleep, so how about I leave it at this? All of you - yes, all of you - are going to battle each other to the death, until only one of you remains! Well, pip pip! Get to it!
Weapons/Abilities: <Insert list of weapons and abilities of grand battle contestants>
But seriously, Cameo changes into a different combatant of a canon Battle often. Every post, to be exact. It seems to retain the memories it had in the battle thusfar, but as if the current form were there instead of what it was at the time. As far as it's concerned, it's always been what it is at the time. If Konka Rar is up at the time, he doesn't think he was The Ovoid just a few moments ago.
Description: This spirit is a strange blend of deities - his abilities also include the capacity to change his body's color, when he's not looking for a meal, he's getting into all sorts of mischief looking for something interesting. Wears a red longcoat with a Jolly Roger on the back, nearly opaque and about the volume of a refrigerator. She feels the need to project an air of hyper-competence at all times and is liable to react very badly to any situation where this is not feasible. Not a fan of killing innocents, but what he deems innocent is up to him.
Biography: <oh gog I'm not doing that Description thing again but longer. Imagine a mashup of random biographies here.>
For bonus points, name every character that's been thrown into the Description!
Pick Yer Poison - Cadan (#FF0000)
Name: Rough Draft
[color--I mean, Color: FF0000
Race: Abstract idea
Weapons/Equipment: ONLY HIS ABILITY TO BREAK THE FOURTH WALL
Description: Rough Draft is not actually anything in existance, but (I meant existence back there) a style of writing, where in one is not allowed to hit the backspace key for anything they don't absolutely--actually, let's go with this instead. Rought Draft is not actually anything physically in existence, but is, rather, a style of writing, wherein one must never revise their ideas at any point. Whatever you--errr, whatever Rough...no. Whatever one types while under the influence of Rough Draft is final. In a real life situation, this translates into a wealth of bad ideas, where the only...no, just a wealth of bad ideas, with no revision occuring between the conception and the implementation. Almost a mental disease--wait, disease, if you will. Now, let's see which lucky candidate has been afflicted:
Weapons/Equipment: Tail, legs
Abilities: Cadan has a very flexible, razor-sharp tail, longer than he is tall, which he is capable of whipping at high velocity in any direction he pleases. His legs are very powerful, allowing him to jump several times as high as a human, and run nearly twice as fast. Despite this, he is capable of moving very stealthily when he wants to, due to an entire lifetime of practice.
Description: Cadan stands at bout 6'0", but he can bump that up an extra foot by standing on his tip-toes. He is covered in thin orange fur, which is thicker in certain areas around his head, forming the Draim equivalent of hair. He has two powerful legs which end in flat, two-toed feet. He also has two thin arms, ending in four-fingered hands, counting the opposable thumb. He wears a forest green t-shirt.
Picture drawn by MalkyTop...even if she didn't know who it was at the time. [img]images/smilies/apple.gif[/img]
Cadan has a cynical personality towards anything new. He would rather do something boring but trustworthy than something interesting but risky.
Biography: Cadan is 43, a teenager in Draim years (5 1/2 human years). On their native homeworld, Draim are hunted mercilessly by the Hinar, the other, much more advanced sentient species that lives on their world. Cadan was brought up in a small, hidden village of Draim, and was taught to be cautious at all times. Village life was dull, but it was safe, and Cadan grew to be accustomed to associating that which is routine with that which is safe.
But nothing lasts forever. One fateful day, a Hinar patrol found the Draim village, and turned it into a shooting gallery. Dead bodies littered the dirt roads, buildings, and those within them, were set aflame, and any who tried to flee were gunned down instantly. After several hours of bloodshed, the Hinar patrol left, confident they had killed all the Draim that were to be found there. However, they had missed Cadan, who had hidden in a pile of dead bodies. Before his mind could even process the fact that he was still alive, he was gone. The dead body above him fell into the space he had been inhabiting only moments ago, and then all was still.
(I forgot to mention above that I can't use the backspace key while writing for Rough Draft, except to fix typos. Expect terrible ideas and disjointed sentences! [img]images/smilies/apple.gif[/img])
Wojjan - The Tremendous Rumble ("SeaGreen", "DarkSlateBlue", #A06030, "YellowGreen", Olive on #000000, Coral, #000000 on "LemonChiffon", #993366)
Name: The Tremendous Rumble
Name: Clausewitz Kappa
Gender: None. He for reference.
Race: Sentry Robot
Color: whatever this is. SeaGreen, apparently.
Clausewitz is perfected in such a way all robots are: perfect only to the point humanity can define that term. Its red geiger pierces smoke and building to lock onto a target, its right arm, for lack of a better word, deploys into a gun within a second if need be. It was created not to be perfect, but to approach as close to it as possible.
If Clausewitz were ever programmed to stand up straight, it would without doubt be much larger than any average human. Legs and arms like pillars out of smooth metal hold the behemoth's torso aloft, but give the robot the walk of an animal, dragging its steel tips along the floor. Even still, the scorpid tail lags along the ground, coiling in impossible directions when close combat would ever be required. Its face is hardly humanoid, void of defining features, and cased in tinted glass through which a small red dot is ready to scan humanity's barcode in all the wrong ways possible.
This glass screen is how it sees, how it registers the field around it and executes the only command it knows: “Find a tactical vantage point, and eliminate the opposing forces.” This request is imperative, and should under no circumstances be forgotten or deleted. Nothing is more important, and no bloodshed is unrequired were it to stand between Clausewitz and its goal.
Clausewitz showed no different behaviour from the rest of its series. No one could have anticipated how his entire process of thought changed in a split second. It couldn't have sprung to be on its own, there had to be a subliminal force that incited the change. Something deified.
First master: SLUG2213AMMO-R4
Secondary master: THUNDR2246AMMO-R4
First servant: CHAIN1055GUN-T5
Secondary servant: CLOUD1068GUN-T5
Retrieving primary terrain analysis.
20% Steppe, 30% desert, 50% caldera
Ground humid. Humdity identified as human blood (C6H6O2-NH2C10H10O10-C22TRUNCATED CONSULT ANALYSIS MENU FOR MORE DETAILS
Retrieving auditory functions.
“Wh-Who the hell are y-aaaarrrrgh!”
Retrieving visual functions.
The Minister was used to being called names. His trade, after all, contained as many pseudonyms as pocket dimensions where one wagered and spent interest in pitting eight beings against each other. He wasn't that used to the naame Yarg, though. Maybe with some tweaking it could become the name of a round? Yes, his mind too raced when asked to host a Grand Battle. The climatic experience hosting brought about, his very existence (though some argued he couldn't exist at all) screamed in glee when the offer was first brought about. Not sanctioned, so be it. The Tremendous Rumble was to go on, and contestant number one stood right before him. Of course, he'd had to perform some tampering first.
Time flowed back into its gentle stream. Bullets started piling up against The Minster's palm, and he was for a second caught amazed at how alarmingly fast the bullets stacked, and with such a precision that a new bullet would hit the previous stack at the bottom, cleaving them, and driving them deeper into his hand. He threw the stack of bullets aside, slid next to Clausewitz, and whispered. Ones and zeroes, cleanly cut computer data. But it didn't stop. Any living being, how supernatural it would be, could not utter this volley of digits in such a rapid fashion, and even so had not the endurance for the task.
Clausewitz understood everything perfectly. He now knew everything. The entire world, streets, names, occupations, who got so drunk last night, it was all wired into his mainframe, along with superhuman means to keep his information up to date.
It classified everything properly, and proceeded with the only command it had ever been issued. Find a tactical vantage point, and eliminate the opposing forces. All opposing forces.
Clausewitz still wanders somewhere on earth, in a direction no one was sure where it lead. The Minister, though, was perfectly capable of finding him, and entering him into the battle.
Gender: Prefers to be addressed as male.
Colour: Some sickly variant on purple. DarkSlateBlue?
Weapons and Abilities roughly overlap with his description. You get the basic deal when you read that through.
Description: Miasme is a cloud of darkly coloured smoke, shaped like a man, and consisting mostly of black dust and fog. His entire body consists of this dim gas, though his chest and limbs are mostly covered by a neat, dark grey suit, adorned vertically by precipitous lines that only slightly brightened the attire to the point of the visible, and one could swear curved slightly to the right – or was it to the left? This suit covers most of his body, so the sordid fumes have no escape but where his face ought to be. And in that same spot, covered in this ethereal anti-light of his, two bright orange eyes dart around, in slight circles, to truly complete the mesmerising effect.
His entire body consists of the piceous smoke of such a dark colour it could arguably not be called even a colour anymore. When human eyes faced him, they would have incredible trouble focusing on the man whose body reflected nor gathered light. Eyes often squinted and focused but especially in the heat of a battle, say, the human opponent would have to resort to blindly flailing their sword around, while with a painful accuracy Miasme's smog enveloped around them to choke the poor target.
As if the issue of not being able to correctly see him wasn't tough enough, Miasme is intent on creating more of this smoke, and with a very good reason, too. While humans have issues focusing on the black smog of which Miasme consists, he suffers the same issue when presented with regular light. When he would exit his cloud, everything would just turn white, it's impossible for his orange eyes – in such a situation probably large and bugged – to perceive even the grittiest structure of what would be right in front of him. Therefore he frequently digs into his chest, or the cavity where it should have been, to extract the liquid form of the noxious gas he expels. Spreading this over the floor, life and grounds will shrivel and die, creating cracks which in their turn again expel the gas. It's a strange symbiotic relation that mostly depends on the poisoning decay he carries.
Miasme often lived on his home region of Cerebat, a planet polluted with the smog Miasme and its kind call its own. It was a life he coveted, since no other beings than vortices of his own could bother him, and while he was an intellectual in the strictest sense, he was far from eager to make first contact any time soon. This was his orb of earth, he needed nothing more.
The whiplash when the Minister took him away, you could expect it to be incredible.
Name: The Arena, or Harena
Race: Sand Trap
Color: This'un: A0, 60, 30.
Description: Harena is what the bestiaries usually call a Sand Trap. It's a large slate of round copper that buries itself beneath the dunes and desert ground, attracting the grains it buries through, causing it to seem like a shifting plate of sand. Since they are instinctively hunters and travellers, a Sand Trap usually doesn't wait to attack prey. A Sand Trap is commonly blessed with a true fighter's spirit. Whatever crosses it path in the dry desert will soon find a battlefield shuffling beneath it where the prey would get pummelled by debris until it no longer moves, at which point it can be readily consumed. The carcass and soul are devoured, any inanimate objects jettisoned or stored in the layer of sand, like a very coinish vulture.
This particular Sand Trap is marked by its mean, hollow eyes of black space in the middle of the arena, sand sinking into them like waterfalls of a mirage, and several pieces of ancient pillars sticking out of the sandy surface here and there.
It does have a personality, and even a way of communication, but I'll get back to that once we've seen a little backstory.
Backstory: The methods of hunting explained above are trademark of a typical Sand Trap. But of course, this wouldn't be a Grand Battle character if we weren't dealing with an atypical one. See, Harena originates from the period in its world which would equal our Middle Ages. The times of brave knights and dashing warriors, the times where honer and bloodlust were among the most respected courtly virtues, where bearded swordsmen gathered every Friday for the "Let's see who can bring home the largest monster spoils"-club. Of course, the sandy reaches of Rashkada Desert were no exception: Sand Traps were a common target for such valiant warriors, their valued rings selling for over two hundred gold trientes!
And so, by the oppression and death of many of his kind, or by the sheer rage and spirit of battle it possessed, Image was born.
Image is basically an ethereal body, a humanoid representation of a fighting spirit. This is where the description begins again, by the way. This humaniod illusion is Harena's main way of communicating with the outside. It can speak, though you won't see a mouth moving, and it can more or less morph itself to the occasion. Harena only uses this to arm himself, generating weapons in the same otherworldy blue as its illusion's body.
If Image speaks, it will use the first person, but it will speak as if it were the arena below it, because whatever Image says is usually just puppetry by the trap beneath it. It's quite cocky, and won't go out of its way to avoid a fight. More often than not the Sand Trap will actually seek out fights, ensnaring them in its battlefield like it would with its everyday prey. Its opponents are picked pretty much at random. Harena never was, and never will be one to form alliances.
Of course such a Sand Trap that could not only speak but also fight a fair one-on-one battle with a knight gained some fame in the virtuous circles. After countless years living as the legendary “Golden Trap”, Harena had grown quite bored of defeating those knights foolish enough to discard the tales of the Golden Trap, and after seeing many of its kind die valiant deaths in Rashkada, he too sought for the one warrior who could defeat him in a battle, allowing him to pass on after a life well fought.
Maybe he'd find that person in the battle.
Voices are who we are. The most definitive trait of any being isn't its looks – easy camouflaged – or the way it acts – easily suppressed – but the way it sounds. No matter how hard you try to change it, your voice will contain a certain trace, a breath of who you are, what you've been through, where you came from. No one knows how to hide their past's reflection in a wistful sigh, or a tinge of dialect from where you were raised. And only those with Stimmt's ability can take that
When Stimmt hears a voice, he's able to manipulate it in any way. He can mute it, mimic it for his own ends, make it sound like another's voice, and many more of those parlor tricks. Important to know, this doesn't limit itself to the voice in a strictest sense. A voice is who we are, it becomes painful and arduous to interact with people without one. And because of that symbolic value, the victims whose voices Stimmt steals become invisible to the world.
Voices take the form of glowing spheres, untouchable barring Stimmt himself (and even he can work from a safe distance, so there's no real need to touch anything) and usually have an oddly fitting color, as if they were picked specifically by greater beings to make that person memorable.
Stimmt seems to have found the perfect way to look menacing to anyone today, while at the same time having the over-the-top look of an almost fantastic thief from the Tolkien stories if Tolkien wrote about the ghetto. A sandblasted bandana, a crude brown leather vest over a red hoodie and dark green cargo pants make up most of his wardrobe. Stimmt is overall a bit short, both in height and width, but the size of both his ego and threat make up for that.
Like any real person who doesn't have Messiah's syndrome or a rare mental degenerative disorder, Stimmt uses his powers for evil. His ability to become invisible proved useful in times of poverty, seeing as in the world of thievery invisible means invincible.
Besides fancy voice magic, he also carries a knife, a rag and a bottle of chloroform in case any nasty situation comes to be. They usually do, in the branch he's working in.
Growing up in the alternate universe, politically correct equivalent to the Bronx had him out on the streets most of the time, because food usually came before productive ways to spend free time or even going to school. And soon, like everyone else on the streets, he was meeting the wrong people, which is really just a way to hide that he was inherently evil. He had a knack for killing, lying, being a general menace and getting away unblemished. His magical powers helped him not only pin the blame on others, but also make sure no one could ever spot him on a crime scene.
No doubt his bad intentions of deceit would carry over to the Tremendous Rumble.
Race: Yume-oni, or Sleep demon, in the shape of a cat.
Color: Earthy yellow on a soothing black. The color of her eyes.
Weapons: Claws of course! She doesn't usually get in a lot of active fighting, but she will scratch and bite when provoked. She can dash out some serious wounds if neccesary. After all, she used to be a predator.
The first thing to note about Domino is that she can talk. She rarely uses drawn-out sentences, and prefers shorter words. Her voice is quiet, seductive, but vicious. Another trait about her is her mesmerising gaze. Once you and Domino would meet eyes, rest assured you'd fall asleep seconds later. Usually her next step would be for her to wait until you're sound asleep, and then eat your dream. It sounds as scarring as it is. Usual effects can be insomnia, insanity, what have you. In rare cases or vivid nightmares, Domino might take on small traits of the major fearbringers such as the devil's trident, her eyes glowing like the headlights of a car, you name it. She usuallly doesn't have this phenomenon unless with people of very strong spirits, a lot of imagination and very detailed dreams.
Domino is a black Kellas Cat, and reaches about the waist for the average human when she stands on all four of her paws. She has the typical yellow glower cat's eyes usually have, and her face is hard to discern from her body, especially in darkness. She has sharp claws and small fangs, and has shorter ears than a regular Burmese. When you'd encounter her in darkness, only those lulling, otherworldy eyes would meet you. Around her neck she wears a collar with a single white gem imbued on it, and her name nicely written on the back.
Domino belongs to a long heritage of mythological cats, trailing back to her grandfather, Cat Sith. She carries his original blood of a witch, but has been muddled ever since due to her father being the spiritual Patripan. She was intended to be a guide for souls to the netherworld, where Charon would take over. However, she took a fondness not for people who were dead, but people who seemed dead. She spent most of her spare time on fences and roofs, watching humans sleep. She turned to neglect her duty and instead took up the role of dream guardian. However, she noticed some strange activity in those sleeping people, as if they were alive and dead at the same time. Domino wanted to rip out those nasty traces of life in sleepers, and just leave them with a calm night's rest. Little did she know it caused such devastating effects.
Race: Magnets and magic
Color: Coral, if that's a thing.
An accident. That's what it seemed like. An experiment gone haywire. No one would suspect anything.
The dim room didn't allow much air or light inside, only a candle ate away the first and provided the second. Souls were lines up on a work bench, several more on the shelf. A paper doll laid before him, arms black with red thread, as it should be. The metal ball, eponymously dubbed Carnegie, stood in a centerpiece that might have held a globe at some point. The magic words laid so bare extreme precaution was taken to weigh the pages down, so nothing would embarrassingly flip.
The magician spun a circle around himself, to ensure everything could be set in motion. It exerted the man, trying to light the candle not with fire, but with magic, a purest essence of force that would create a forever burning, forever turning construct he would call his own. It would make him famous.
He remembered picking the trigram cautiously, almost poetically, so its goal would be strengthened by its meaning. Great Possession.
But during the incantation, something went wrong. He couldn't have seen the whirlwind coming. All the other trigrams he had hidden away slid under the closet doors, towards the metal lantern. Carnegie's death was horrible, painful, and delusional. Glory was not a fitting drive for experiments, and as such you could call his death a karmic cause.
But his spirit, his ego, lived on. His yearning and lust got converted into the one figurine that dealt the final cut. Ironically almost, it was his own: Great Possession.
Carnegie is a construct, consisting of a white, sleek, metal ball that served as container for a little tealight with a blue flame, and several pieces of paper flitting around it, attracted by its polarity. The paper figurines each have the same lay-out. They're stars, but flipped upside-down so they balance on one tip only. The other ends of the paper stars got flattened together, to create what you could see as two sets of arms. Just squint a little. The ends of these paper dolls are plastered in black ink, the same which was used to graft one of the many trigrams on their supposed faces. These trigrams not only serve as identification (we'll get into that later) but also serve a spiritual value. If you are killed by a trigram that corresponds with your ego's properties, you live on inside the construct, possessing that paper figurine. Red string is attached to the tips of their 'hands', as a harm-repelling charm Carnegie put on the monster himself.
In a certain sense, Carnegie doesn't think. All the spirits of those it has claimed pretty much cover that base, and even still it doesn't do more than one primal instict: kill.
Magnetic properties cause these figures to rapidly fly around the metal center, creating the effect of a whirling paper tornado, and flying crimson pocket lint. It'll be odd to stare at for the first few seconds, but once you notice it's edging towards you you'll stop staring and start trying to avoid death by paper cuts.
Race: Human, although magical
Colour: This, maybe?
Dena is a young woman, about nineteen years old, and a little small for her age with beautiful long blonde hair and eyes like the sky she likes to gaze at. She's always wearing a plain white gown, and at hot days (like the day she was plucked to the battle) a hat in the same colour, and a colourful necklace with blue and orange beads. Her face is by far the most amiable anyone could ever imagine, and she has the friendy and serene attitude expected of such a pure person. She isn't prone to fight at all. Now, why would anyone pick her to compete in a Grand Battle?
As mentioned before, Dena is at peace with herself and the world. She stood out to the gods as the only one in her world to not grow tainted by seduction and wrath as her life progressed; instead, she was like a beacon of sincerity among the world filled with vile hate. The gods rewarded her for her virtue with two orbs, about the size of a golf ball, called Ataraxia and Hedone, respectively blue and orange. They are now part of Dena's necklace as well as the inspiration for it. If golf balls deserve a name, you know something must be up with them. These two words loosely translate to inperturbability and enjoyment. These two virtues she already had evolved when in possession of the orbs, and grew beyond human reach. Dena could use these two qualities and have them emanate to her environment. Depending on how calm or glad she is feeling at the moment, this could have the effect of people developing a gentler mindset when talking to her to having the surrounding spooky forest become the purest of woods as long as she's around.
Dena lived a peaceful life up to now. Her first years, up to about year twelve, were indeed the kind of peaceful you would expect, always gleefully skipping around with her friends through idyllic meadows and fanciful avenues. Then, puberty usually kicks in. She herself didn't suffer all too harshly from it, but her friends however grew wilder, more violent, and wanted to live a more risky lifestyle. As did anyone: She soon found herself alone thanks to her far too cautious attitude and the fact she just wasn't any fun.
Soon, she turned to study how her attitude came to be. What made her so calm? Her search eventually lead her to the evolving group of neo-epicurists. And there she got rewarded for her pure life, with the magnificent necklace she now wears every day.
Name: Alicia Devonshire
Color: A very lush red!
Abilities: Alicia has been diagnosed with SIS, which wtands for Seeping Imagination Syndrome. Basically, if she sees something as being something else, it becomes that. Take, for instance a cardboard box. A child's mind could easily turn this into a boat, racecar, hotel or anything else. Her SIS however comes with another symptom, in doctor's files referred to a SIS-Seclusion. Alicia is trapped in her own imaginative world and can't really see reality how it is. This also limits her consciously using her ability, but instead requires more on the situation to strike her fancy. Actual people won't change due to the effect of SIS, not can she change abstract objects like memories or benevolence.
Weapons/Equipment: Alicia usually carries a wooden stick. You would be surprised what she can muster with that.
Alicia has a very gentle face with a look of complete nonunderstanding dotted with the brightest blue eyes and freckles on her nose.. She usually wears a sky-blue gown and white ballet slippers, and a white ribbon in her blonde hairs to top it off. This of course can change drastically because of SIS. She usually smiles and laughs and seems to have a good time playing make-believe, thought it's not pure happiness in her smile but moreso distress, hiding her true emotions.
Alicia's SIS was supposedly triggered by either physical or psychological trauma due to being the only to survive a car crash, and therein losing both her parents. She does deny any evidence on the matter and usually says they're just stars in heaven who decided to put a star on earth for once. They possibly are. Her life has been very dull, living most of it in either a hospital or testing center, only meeting other kids who were different from the usual, not that she had a terrific grasp on the usual. They played, and the kids loved playing with her because she could always make things seem so real. They soon also took that away from here when a kid started telling mom that during his visit he rode a unicorn up the waterfall of tears, and now she spends most of her time in a solitary cell with a television. It was a very sad sight for a girl who loved playing outside so much.
UselessIdiot (Niall) – Conte (#96CDCD on #000000)
Name: Continuity Error; Conte for short.
Gender: Female. Always female. She's self-centered enough to believe that the first gender she became is the best one.
Colour: #96CDCD on a Black Background
Race: Temporal Ontologic Glitch/Anomaly (colloquially known as a TOGA)
A TOGA is a being found in most worlds where a multiversal creator has dabbled in metaphysical disruption, specifically in the field of Ontology Warping. In layman’s terms, this means that if a creator of a uni/multiverse has allowed the presence of fluctuating time, space, or (and most importantly) existence you will find a TOGA. A TOGA acts as a valve of sorts. Its primary purpose of existence is to balance out any shifts in the metaphysical environment of the universe. If a Level 7 Perception Wizard, for example, casts a Gloam of Chartreuse Rescindication across a chosen universe, which as we all know will completely remove the existence and memory of the colour Green from said universe, the TOGA of that world will balance the vacuum of perception caused by that stupid novice’s spell by doing whatever it deems necessary to restore Acuity Poise to the universe. In this case, it might increase the value of the universe’s Hue Manifold, or simply allow all sentient beings a wider range of electromagnetic reception, commonly known as Infra-Red Vision. A TOGA is as flexible as is it powerful.
When a TOGA changes the reality of the universe, it is most unlikely that any sentient being will notice the change caused by the TOGA. They will continue on living, believing that skyscrapers always wore hats. If you were to travel back to the point in time before the Slip (term commonly used to refer to a TOGA’s change to any given universe) you would perceive all skyscrapers to not wear hats, until the point of the Slip, at which point would perceive the skyscrapers to be wearing hats. While all beings in self-contained universes are not aware of a TOGA’s changes, any beings that have the scope of knowledge or power outside of their own universe will most likely be aware of any changes made by a TOGA. A Grand Battle is a unique situation for a TOGA. As TOGA’s are only meant to reside in their own world, while their powers will still work in other worlds, only beings that have originated for that world will be unaware of the changes made to that world. In other words, only the other contestants will be aware of Conte’s Slips.
Biography: Another of the TOGA’s inclinations is that of self-preservation, which is what makes Conte quite unique. Most TOGAs will have a changing form, using their own powers to change their form to best protect themselves from harm. All TOGAs must remain as living beings, but most situations they find themselves in will cause them to become a reclusive animal or a common plant. It is very rare that a TOGA becomes anything with a high intelligence and it is almost certain that a TOGA will never become sentient enough to realise the scope of their own powers. Conte is different.
Having spent most of her life as a Dusk Rat on the central planet of her universe, her circumstances became dire when an apocalyptic war wiped out most life on the planet. No longer safe from being hunted for food, Conte got in her rusted convertible, applied her black lipstick in the only remaining mirror and put her foot to the floor. As a human, she had fell victim to sentience and emotion, and as a TOGA she’d instinctively given herself the deadly traits of selfishness and high intelligence. Pulling up to her dilapidated, luxury apartment, she stepped out of her shiny SUV carrying her favourite rocket launcher with her, which she’d owned since her father gave it to her on her fifteenth birthday. Unlocking the door with her fist, she opened the door just in time to be greeted by the twin cacophony of her pet iguana’s mewing and her phone ringing itself off the hook.
“Hello Handsome,” she whispered, knowing damn well who she was talking to, casually petting Rodger, her ferret as if it was he she was conversing with, as if to say "I'm just playing with you. I have you wrapped around my little finger tighter than razor wire".
“Ah Conte, it’s great to hear your voice again. I feel ten years younger whenever we talk. How are things?” The voice down the other end of the phone sounded like he wore every year of his long life on his voice box, yet cheerful despite his-post-war predicament.
“Hee hee hee. You’re such a flatterer John. Things are fine on this side of the globe. Grid’s up 20% since last week and the Treatment Plant’s now fully operational. I assume you have a job for me Paul?” A hint of a smile played on her lips as she spoke the word “job”.
“New Machu Pichu. His name’s Granola Grey. 50K for a completed job by next week,” said Harry
“Done. Goodbye now.”
Before she gave Don a chance to respond she hung up on him. Conte had yet to grasp the full extent of her powers yet, but she thought she could do worse than end up a hired assassin in a post-apocalyptic world. The best thing about this new found sentience was, now, she could do whatever she wanted, when she wanted. She didn’t have to play by the rules if it suited her otherwise. Sitting back on her couch, stroking her fluffy, white cat, she saw the scope of her powers laid out before her and she began to laugh a laugh so fearsome it would have stirred fear onto the heart of any mere demigod.
Then, everything went black.
Description: Her appearance is liable to change, as is the world around her. Her current existence as of entering the battle is a Human Female, short, blonde and attractive enough to warrant a second thought before wanting to raise a fist to such a clearly innocent, young girl. Wears black lipstick and an oversized belt that functions as an inappropriately short mini-skirt.
Manipulative and self-centered to the point of solopsism, her design created her to keep herself safe from harm, thus giving her personality traits that would ensure her long-term survival. Unfortunately, the same traits that would keep her alive (selfishness, disascociation, resourcefulness) are the same traits that snapped her out of being a mere tool of her universe to ensure an Acuity Poise and instantaneously made her into a mere omnipotent being. She does have quite a few weaknessess, all mental.
Firstly, she has inherited a human sense of hubris, believing that Humankind is the optimal race. While she is more than willing to take on another form, she will prefer to revert to the very vunerable form of human. Secondly, she's not very stable. Having only owned conscious thought for a few hours and emotion for nearly as long, she does not yet understand her own mind, and how it's capable of turning her against herself. She is emotionally immature.
Items/Abilities: The ability to knowingly (and occasionally unknowingly) cause continuity errors, known as Slips, in her living existence, in both herself and the world around her. These are always contradictory to previously stated information and always canon to the storyline. All combatants are aware of what their existence was like before each Slip and is able to remain aware of her abilities throughout this Battle. Also, she carries a rocket launcher, but that is all subject to change.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour. The space station floated in nothing.
Her name was Bernal, and she was married to Athena, that great goddess of wisdom and knowledge. Exploration and discovery were committed in her bosom.
The nothing wrapped around her, Bernal, married to Athena. It hugged and pressed and smothered the great building, floating in the sky. The resilience of the woman was just enough to prevent her collapse under its nonexistent weight, and the greatness of the nothing was enough to prevent her from freeing herself from its bonds.
But then more nothing was added, and the cup overflowed.
In a deep, unsupervised storage area of the building, floating in the endless sky of nothing, a window began to crack.
I hate for my first post to be a spoiler'd post, but I've searched for the Tremendous Rumble and I take it that this particular Grand Battle does not, in fact, exist (yet)? I'm just curious as to whether I have any material I can work with as far as the other characters' personalities and mannerisms or I need to let Wojjan give us some reference. Do I need to in that respect Wojjan or do I have a little more freedom due to the fact that there are so many characters in your entry? Also, would you be up for some of your characters gradually dying during the course of this battle? I have some ideas for various ways to remove/kill characters with Conte's abilities but I'd need your permission to permanently (or not, in Conte's case) remove one of your characters from the battle, of course.
Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank myself for submitting a character into a battle I knew would contain a character that was a composite of every single character from every single Grand Battle regardless of the fact that I've only read the first half of the first Grand Battle so far. I am an idiot. No clever joke here. Just an idiot. Plain. And. Simple.
Time to do some light reading. Niall out.
As you've surmised Wojjan's Tremendous Rumble isn't a real battle, but rather a fictional one with the selection of characters as presented. Normally it's a good idea to let other players establish their characters a little bit before using them. Wojj said that she will be killing her characters off throughout the battle rather than all at once but might be best to let her do that at her own pace, or at least to discuss it with her first.
As for Cameo here is a link to the wiki which contains the profiles of all of the characters. I'm not sure how helpful it will be but it's worth a look.
Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95. Eximo Pulvis used its limited brainpower to analyze the situation. The room it was in was... well maintained. Not a speck of dust to be found in the room.
"Analysis complete. Status: Clean. Proceeding to next room."
The undead vacuum cleaner attempted to go through the metallic wall to the next room, but it proved a little bit too sturdy. Finding this course of action to be ineffective, it manipulated the handle on the metal door and went through the normal way. What it found was a couple of contestants from the battle within this battle, staring each other down. It looked likely to get ugly.
"Status: Clean. Further analysis dictates cleanliness is unlikely to be maintained for long. Making note of location to return later."
The two combatants stared at the vacuum momentarily as it passed between them and left through another door, before continuing their staredown.
This place was really very clean. Somebody was doing their job right. He stopped when he bumped into somebody. A resident of the facility, perhaps?
"Oh, what's this! A vacuum cleaner? Well I suppose I'll bring it back over to a supply closet."
"Do not interfere. Survey incomplete."
The man in the labcoat picked up the surprisingly heavy vacuum cleaner. "Weird. It looks kinda strange, and I guess it's got a sound chip installed?"
"This is your final warning. Cease interference or be terminated."
"Did Greg do this? I always told my superiors that they've gotta give him more to-"
The bloody mess that used to be Reginald, if the nametag was accurate, was spread a couple of yards around the hallway.
"Status: Filthy. Blood, human tissue, stained clothing. Proceeding with cleansing."
Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison. Cadan looked around in confusion, trying to figure out what had just happened. He had the strangest feeling of deja vu, as if this wasn't the first time something like this had happened to him; however, wait. But that wasn't possible; he'd have remembered if it had. There we go.
Oh goddamnit I didn't mean to hit that enter key. Guess I'll just be rolling with a new paragraph then.
Cadan jogged along the corridor, peering out the window into the blackness of space. Back on his homeworld, he recalled stargazing and misplaced participle or whatever the heck that is. Son of a monkey. He recalled stargazing back on his homeworld; he had enjoyed errrrrr he had memorized all the constellations, but from this point he could see none of them. The realization that he was actually in space, beyond the atmosphere, wait, stop. It suddenly hit him that he was really beyond anything he had ever known. He was totally outside his sphere of knowledge. As far as he knew, had known rather, actually let's go with knew after all, the sky was the floor for the gods; to go above it would be to meet them, and they frowned upon mortal contact (make that "had frowned") in all the myths and legends he had ever known. He shivered, peering cautiously around a corner, expecting to meet one of the immortal guards that served them at any second. To his surprise, and fffff a humanoid cloud of black smog roiled lazily from another turn further ahead, and began walking down the hall towards Cadan. He dived back...make that ducked back, and stood up straight as he could against the wall, hoping the being hadn't seen him. The god's immortal guards were known to take many shapes, and whatever this thing was, he had nothing else to believe about it.
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan. The Bernal Sphere was large, but then again their group were many. Raiders, thieves, children, races of incomprehensible shape and customs. There was magic and science, flying through the air, a secret blend of hot and dry, cold and wet.
It was yin and yang, not balanced, but empedoclean shapeshifting. There laid knowledge in his every step. The life he led was his, and he walked it with the flair of one who mastered it. It rooted in him. Rituals, tradition, progress, the world, the village, blocks and dust that both built lives.
His steps were his, but they belonged to something greater. Something golden. Honey that dripped steadily, with the flow of time and soul. They called it culture in days before space. Where stars were light, when the sun was god.
Caution in his moves. An intricate, neverending dance. Such fumed his being. With lines and roads and stories that took their time to become themselves again. Folklore wrapped his arms in circles, smoke drafted in the air, suffocating that which wasn't air.
Dances with the world, you are so intelligent.
Every clap, every jump, every way his sound died and refracted in the world he called his, it was prepared long ago. Treasure of the Pentecost. Divine rite of first contact. Then, he stood. Faceless and voiceless, tamed after a primitive high. A black bubble, his spring of youth.
He saw a young girl. The tiles danced around her, ticking clock that shaped her will. Azure sands, lakes that became seas. She carried an oasis in the back of her head. She had eyes in her heart alone. When those eyes met his face, the butterflies stood fast. Snakes that curled and rustled hid with Alicia. She giggled and hid.
And confusion slithered back at Miasme. He paid her no heed, this land was as young as she was. There was no need for plague.
It was then he spotted the strange creature peering at him.
Cadan was pretty sure that a god, if he was, or rather whether he was benevolent, was of no intention to have mercy on those who dared venture past the sky. Already his mind raced to come up with an excuse that probably didn't sound – that didn't sound coherent as much as it sounded apologetic. He'd feel compose (I have no idea) act lowly around the god of smoke, which he assumed to mean night, but just in case he wasn't lowly enough yet, he took a breather moment to gather his thoughts, or rather pick himself up again. Preferably behind a wall.
His tail however, thistle leaf denoting his presence.
To Miasme the Tremendous Rumble was a xenotokos. Carrier of cultures unlike his own. He drew wrong conclusions, lines in the sand, an approach that lasted no longer than the fickle wind could blow it. Multicultural tumbleweed.
Since that's apparently how they greet people here, Miasme responded to the classy lady in white down the corridor by hiding behind a wall.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by Niall. This universe is not my own. This universe does not know me.
The awareness registered moreso as an afterthought than a cognitive thought, quickly pushed aside by the more urgent matter of survival. Conte had been transported onto the upper levels of the Bernal Sphere, right in the middle of the rapids of a river and before she had time to react the current had swept her off her feet and down the artifical rivulet. The current tossed her one way and the other as it passed her like a soccer ball through the bends of the river. Disoriented, her mind went into sensory overload as her instincts tried to focus on the urgent matter of getting herself out of the flow of water.
Conte's head disappeared under the surface of the water. Panicked, she tried to breathe in and swallowed a mouthful of chilled water. Acrid and chloronated, this river had not come from a natural source. She choked on the water, but without any air to intake she just took in another mouthful of water. Acting on a reflex, her throat contracted as it tried to remove the foreign matter from her stomach. Survival instincts finally kicking into gear, her limbs propelled her forward in a direction she hoped was up.
Surfacing with an almighty gasp,tears running down her face indistinguishable from the water, her arms flailed as they attempted to keep her head out of the water. Breathing heavily, she had little breath remaining to make any noise , yet scream she did as she turned the last bend of the river and saw it peal away over the edge of a cliff.
"No! No, no, no, NO!" she yelled, eyes focused on the peril she was rushing towards.
Dragging her eyes away from the approaching precipice, Conte saw a wizened oak tree leaning over the edge of the river bank. With seconds left to act, she attempted to paddle to the edge of the river. Two seconds later her arms clasped around a stray tree root. With danger only meters away, she clung to her salvation as tightly as she could muster. Face half submerged in the water, she shut her eyes and attempted to focus on her self-rescue as best as she could. Slowly, tentatively, she extended an arm towards the bank, making sure the other arm kept a firm grip on the tree root. The arm blindly searched through the flowing water until it connected with a solid object. Using the last of her strength, she pulled herself towards what appeared to be a knot in the tree. Torso now out of the water, she could freely use her legs to push herself up onto the bank and into fickle safety's arms.
Crawling on all fours, Conte coughed up the last of the water in her lungs, brown hair plastered to her face like seaweed. Once on a flat space of grass, she turned over onto her back to rest. Expecting to see sky, her eyes lit up when she saw the world she'd landed in. Chest still rising and falling rapidly, she voiced the first thought that came to her volatile mind.
"Oooh. I want it."
Sorry about the late start. Would you believe I've been sick this past week. Again. This is the second time illness has interfered with my grand battle plans. I swear I'm not making this up.
Anyway, I hope this (my first post ever in any sort of Grand) lives up to the high standard of this forums. I wrote it in a half-delirium, fighting through a suffy head and stomach cramps to bring it to you. Really, I just hope it makes sense.
I might try Fogel's post-a-day approach for a while, until I've establish a post equilibrium.
Also, the next post (if nobody posts before tomorrow) will be a descriptive post on the setting that is the Bernal Sphere, and on Conte herself. ~The more you know~
Finally, are we sticking to the "500 word limit"? I read somewhere Pinary had VETOED that on the grounds that nobody was adhering to it. Agent, what's your take on it?
Well...let's think of it as a guideline. Let's go with academic word-limitation: up to 20% percent above? So the word limit sits around 500-600. Try to keep it under 600 though, unless you have a insanely descriptive and awesome post ;3
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan. Unrelenting stalkers. The world slid over them as unsuspecting as their prey. Above them life was gold. Death was gold, they were gold. Halo of fire and death in the sunbaked sand.
But there was no sand here. No gold, only grey.
Like a fish uprooted from the sea, Harena was from the ground. The disk laid twitching, swathes of sand flying around the room it had been stranded in. Image had no need, and Harena had no mind to think it. Still, aware of threat and those that exposed it, the blue warrior dared not disappear.
When in the room, a scorpion entered. Harena turned, with it towers and gates. Come, scorpion. Invitation to the netherworld. Image waved a taunt.
The scorpion ran, up for the challenge. Bloodthirst dripped from his face and evaporated into not the lishtest bit of remorse. This scorpion was daring, but yet foolish. It drew weapons, expecting a fair fight.
Two hunters stood across, both a reputation of invisibility. One would leave with knowledge of the other.
As the field around them drowned in dunes, the warriors greeted, snarled. If they listened closely, they would hearNothing between the two.
It came from the window, and flew around, but
The scorpion set foot on the arena like aether rode over the sky at night and made silence. Beasts, hounds, vile creatures that best both died. War was never beautiful. Flowers of blood drew no art. They shone brilliantly, love and lust and sex, but they weren't beautiful.
Locks like swords, conflict that ate hearts and left a trail of victims vain in love.
The flowers on the field faded, turmoil of crashing waves threw them away. It didn't steal his heart, but forever the Scorpion left its skin there. As it dripped, it marked his leave. His solemn leave that begged to savor revenge.
nobody paid any attention to it
On that day, nothing died.
Distance spoke time. It told hours of travel, exile, how they took from the world and were taken from it in return. Loran Twight, in canaän. Oh, the western wind called their name to where the sun set.
You are broken, Scorpion. Don't ever return as you are to reclaim glory.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by Niall. In an effort to take in the machination she had been placed in, Conte tilted her head back as far as she could, eyes darting from side to side in an attempt to see everything at once, desperate for sensory overload. When her head had been tilted back as far it could go, she began to arch her back from her lying position to propel her gaze further. Once her body had reached the limits of her extension, she rolled herself onto her front, head propped up in her hands. She was in awe of this seemingly impossible structure, built possibly by a god with a penchant for science fiction.
The Bernal Sphere was covered with lush vegetation, neatly groomed paths and monumental sculptures. It seemed to have been designed by a hundred landscapers, each making peace with his neighbor so that each area flowed seamlessly into the next. It gave the appearance of wandering through the middle of a spherical park, inverted so that a visitor had the pleasure of viewing every inch of the park at the same time. Conte felt as though she was in the middle of a mutated snow dome.
The land was separated into small regions by what appeared to be giant cracks in the land, with the appearance similar to that of parched dirt in an arid desert that had lost its moisture and cracked into a thousand segments. On closer inspection, the cracks in the land appeared to be artificial. They were too straight, too evenly formed, with bridges running across them as if it was planned that way. Conte peered over the side of her cliff, and found it to answer her unvoiced question. She watched the water trail over the side of the cliff, through a net that was designed to catch anything (or anybody) that was unlucky enough to fall into the river, down past what appeared to be a four-story building and into a canal, stretching the length of the man-made fissure and splitting into a fork to flow in multiple directions. Conte turned her attention towards the cliff face that appeared to contain not dirt, rocks and the occasional plant, as she had expected, but windows and balconies, fully equipped with window boxes, deck chairs and other items of a domestic pursuit. The windows were four stories high, and appeared to line the entire cliff face and all other cliff faces on the inside of the behemoth cracks in the landscape of this superstructure. But it was the floor of the canal that enticed her the most. Instead of stone, steel or any other opaque material, the designed had opted for what must have been extreme-strength perspex. Through the blurred filter of the water, she could see stars and empty space. The canal was created to be a visual portal to the outside world.
Suddenly it hit Conte. This place was designed to be used for habitation in outer space. The lower levels of the building were designed to be the habitation and work quarters for those lucky enough to live in such a beautifully unusual environment and the roof of the buildings had been transformed into the outdoor area so that nobody ever felt that they were trapped in a series of corridors and rooms.
In an effort to explore more of this amazing location, Conte unfolded her Hover Buggy and accelerated towards the nearest bridge.
In a secure part of the Particle Accelerator facility, two men sat at a sophisticated piece of equipment, anticipating the events to come. They briefly exchange looks of excitement. The taller one decided some words would be appropriate for this moment.
“Well Jim, this is it. 13 years research, multiple grants, significant setbacks and even a house fire. But we’ve done it. This is the moment we’ve been dreaming about. Thanks for sticking with me on this. I couldn’t have had a better friend and colleague to go through this with. Now fire her up.”
Jim gave a small smile and flicked a couple of switches.
“Same to you Paul. All systems online and ready to proceed in five, four, three, two, one.”
Jim pressed a button on the control panel. In the depths of the Bernal Sphere, the Particle Accelerator began to hum with hungry expectation.
Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95. Crepitans Bloodbark scoffed at the employee he had so easily crushed. The nature of this place was a mystery to him, but it didn't matter. What was important was getting the hell out of here and back to his important business. The treant smashed through the walls, leading outside the metal rooms to a lush green field. There were dry cracks all around and everything felt incredibly unnatural. Something else felt strange, too.
It was probably nothing.
Now of course, there was one obvious solution to getting back to where he belonged. If it was a battle to the death, he just had to be the last one standing. It would be rather tiresome to go individually hunt each one down, so the easiest thing to do would be to simply destroy everything. A quick look around had Crepitans discover a large metallic battery looking object with lots of moving parts and making lots of strange noises. It seemed important. Breaking it would surely kill somebody somehow.
Nothing stood in his way.
Nothing completely surrounded him, depriving him of his senses.
This had no consequences.
That was odd. The ent was sure something... but no. It wasNothing.He swung a huge thorny branch at the device, easily smashing it up. It sparked and ceased movement. Nothing easier.
Jim's smile faded instantly. Main Generator 5 had gone down for some reason. If it were Main Generator 3, this wouldn't have been a problem, but 5 lacked an auxillory generator. Before Jim could even say anything, Paul was already on his way out.
"I know. I'll be back in no time. I won't let this fail."
"No, Paul, I lo-"
Paul smiled, "I know," and was on his way to solve this problem.
Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison. Just as Cadan was about to leap out from behind the wall and greet Miasme, he felt a small, furry creature rubbing up against his legs. Looking down, he saw Domino, although of course he didn't know her by name. Unfortunately for Domino, who looked up a moment later, Cadan chose to continue forward with his plan instead of investigate the creature at his feet. He walked out into the hallway and, to his surprise, found nothing there - why did I put a hyphen there? He walked out into the hallway, and, to his surprise, found nothing there, Miasme having hidden behind a wall from Dena, who Cadan found himself staring at instead. He paused, then NOPE. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, until Cadan reached out one of his hands, stepping forward as he did so. "My name is Cadan," he said. "I don't believe we've been introduced."
The girl took his hand in hers and shook it. "I'm Dena," she said. "It's nice to meet you, Cadan." She smiled warmly, and Cadan felt his troubles vanish. Domino made retching noises, causing both of the contestants to look down curiously. Dena was unlucky enough to be the one to catch Domino's eyes, and in a few moments she began to teeter on her feet sleepily.Cadan quickly stretched his arms out just in time to catch Dena as she fell. He started running away from the cat, which gave chase, towards the strange cloud god guard he'd seen, or at least in the direction he had seen him in. He had no idea what had just happened, but for some reason the idea had popped into his head to get help, and he had run with it without even bothering to think it through.
Agent said that he could use a little extra from me to evaluate, and so I asked if I could get another post in before the end of the round, so even though the round should technically call for a death decision by this point, I’m getting one last Cameo section in for now.
“Shit. Shit shit shit shit that was a bad idea.”
A loud klaxon was sounding in the area. Honestly, it didn’t LOOK that important. Well okay maybe it looked kind of important but not full-scale emergency alert important. “Primary generator 5 offline. All non-vital personnel report to escape pods immediately. This is not a test. Once again, primary generator...
It just kept repeating that. Okay. So. Priority: Reach escape pods. Gotta get out of here alive. And, well, that was the point of this whole thing anyways, right? Trickster could feel guilty after he made sure he wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t about to waste time looking for people to save. If he saw somebody on the way, maybe he could urge them along or something. For now, he had to look out for numero one. Uno. Whatever. Wasting time thinking abou-
“Hey, you! What the hell did you do?”
Trickster took another good look at the generator. Yeah it was pretty nicely on fire. He wasn’t quite certain how he managed to make it scrap with just his fire, but that wasn’t important. What was important was this guy that looked like he worked here, and he looked understandably upset. The guy was probably ‘vital personnel’ and doomed to go down with the, er, ship? Planet? Sun-powered fusion reactor?
“Look, buddy. It was an, er, accident!”
“Accident!? How is that an accident!?”
“Well I didn’t mean to do... that. Actually I don’t quite know how I did that. Anyways, my point is whoa whoa whoa hold on put away the gun I’m sure we can work this out.”
Trickster didn’t quite expect the... scientist? Yeah. He didn’t expect the scientist to be packing heat. Tears were rolling down the man’s face. Trickster was warming up a fireball just in case. He didn’t want this to get ugly, dude’s just doing his job, really, but he had a bit of a bad feeling about all of this.”
“You’ve just doomed over a dozen years worth of research. Hundreds... or maybe thousands of lives! What possible reason could you have had for destroying that generator? Who made you do it? Why did you do it!?”
Jim had finally managed to find the security camera controls. There was one if these in pretty much every lab, but of course, nobody every put them anywhere that was easy to access. It was set up, and was taking a bit to find the camera near Generator 5. Big place, lots of cameras. With any luck at all, the camera wouldn’t have been destroyed. Ahah! He had it now.
There was Paul, and a mysterious man in a hat opposite him. And the generator right behind! Oh shit. That thing was unsalvageable. He had to get out of here. No ‘vital personnel’ would be able to fix this mess.
Wait a minute... why did Paul have his gun out? He had it ready to-
Paul fired the gun. Just a moment later, the man in the hat pointed his hand out, engulfing Jim’s partner in flames.
“Fffffuck that hurts. I hate bullets. So much.”
Trickster grasped his arm where he had been shot. Yeah, okay, he was probably running low on time now. Ignoring the charred body near him, and trying to focus as little as possible on the incredible pain in his bicep, he ran as quickly as he could muster in any direction that looked like it might lead to an escape.
He almost ran past it, really. He had to jump back a bit when he realized there was a sign next to a door. It had a picture of an orb-looking thing blasting off from a planet. To confirm his suspicions, opening the door showed the word EXIT in bright red letters hanging from the ceiling of the hallway. Not much further now and why were there bodies littered around the escape pod doors.
Yes, dozens of corpses decorated the room that should have represented freedom. Some of the escape pods had clearly blasted off, so at least some people managed to get out, but what the hell happened here? He was answered by the clanking of metal on metal behind him. Some kind of quadripedal robot was standing there. All of these people were in Clausewitz's way.
At the moment, Trickster seemed to be a pretty clear enemy.
Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.
An author sat hunched over his keyboard, intent on the screen in front of him. He rubbed his eyes; he'd been at this nearly all night and he couldn't figure out what to do next. He squinted for a few seconds at the screen, then shrugged. It was just a rough draft; if it wasn't working, he should probably just start over. He selected all the text on the screen, his finger hovering over the backspace key.
Cadan quickly reached Miasma, who had elected to hide behind a wall in greeting. Cadan fumbled with Dena for a moment, the idea of tapping Miasma on the shoulder popping into his head, making him intent on that until he realized he wasn't sure if Miasma even had shoulders. He settled for calling out to it, calling it um let's just start a new paragraph here.
He settled for calling out to it. "Hey, cloud...guard thing!"
It paused. "Are you...referring to me?"
Cadan rolled his eyes. "No, I'm referring to the other cloud guardian. Yes, I'm talking to you!" He idly wondered why he had assumed it would be quick on its feet.
"I am not a...cloud guardian. Whatever that is. Or perhaps I am?" it mused. "Since I don't know what it is, I could very well be one and not realize it."
Cadan glanced behind him, an inexplicable feeling of dread coming over him as he saw Domino strolling towards him. "Whatever you are, I need help. That thing is...umm...well, I'm pretty sure it's dangerous. I need to help Dena but I don't know how. You seem out of place enough to maybe know what to do about it."
The author pulled his finger back after a few moments of contemplation. It was a rough draft, after all, and you don't delete your rough drafts; you saved them for later in case you wanted to go back and look at an idea you'd had but that hadn't really panned out. He moved his mouse over to the File menu, then selected Save As, and began to think of an appropriate filename.
Then, a computer virus his PC had contracted through an email he'd been foolish enough to open decided to activate itself, and his computer crashed, the letters "ROUGH DRAFT TERMINATED" appearing on his screen.
Before Miasma could answer, Cadan made a choking noise, dropping Dena and following her descent to the floor, where he proceeded to vomit blood, clutching his chest. His feet began to disappear, and the vanishing followed up his legs until his head was gone, leaving only bloody vomit on the floor to show he'd ever existed.
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan. Photographer really had no idea what was going on.
Knife was kind of panicking around, telling poor Photographer that he was getting aimed at by a dang gun, and that he should run away or defend himself. He also called him useless which was... pretty mean, actually. Camera, on the other hand, said that they could probably talk this out together. He has always been good at talking to things, he said, there's no need to worry.
He was going to try Camera's way first. Photographer tried to talk to Machine Gun. “H-Hi. I'm a photographer.”
“...I-I take pictures.”
Machine Gun sighed.
Photographer has always been a bit iffy about robots, since they sort of contaminated inanimate things with animate things, and if there's anything Photographer liked less than losing his camera it would be grey areas. Unless they were in pictures. Monochrome pictures were pretty. It's just that he never really quite got robots down, and seeing as one just outright ignored him and walked out the room, he assumed he never really will. Did he say something wrong?
Bernal had means to destruction. Normally Clausewitz searched for an ample vantage point to eradicate opposition, but the confusing layout made him reconsider that approach, and the information he had received from The Minister made him aware of machines that sustained life in Bernal.
Delete the machines, delete the entire population.
The photographer before him was much less of a threat, and as such was quickly discarded as no more than a stammering chair. Clausewitz hurried – even though he had ample time to spare – towards the control room.
Carnegie was in heaven. Around him, science and magic. The Red Dragon, The Green Dragon. An elixir that kept his spirit strong. He was the bird of Hermes, clipped from his human form to live moments surrounded by what he deared.
Luna in Crescent, he was in space.
Everything around him told science. White concrete walls that smelled of sulfur and ammonium, a metal device, he could tell, that was an experiment. He was taking part in an experiment, he was so glad. The little pictures around him drifted like lovers in open air, they were all so happy to be part of this day this is what we worked for all these years today's finally the day. Let's begin, then.
“Lieutenant Conte, I'm glad to see you! As you know, we need a military officer to conduct any experiment. As you might have heard, we have a testing room set up to simulate a miniature sun in a separate pocket dimension in order to visualise the change of mass in... Well, it's complicated. We just need your say-so to start the experiment.”
“Ooh, experiments! Love 'em. Can I push the button?”
“Well, I don't see why n-”
Greg's sentence was cut off as Conte already leaped towards the center of the room, fingers tingling over the control panel. “So what do I press?”
“The, um, blue one. The one that says “C.”
There was no uncharacteristic beep, so Conte made one.
It took about seventeen shots to make all humans in Bernal's security give up or die. Clausewitz reloaded his gun in advance, even though only such few bullets were missing. The sound of his barrel refilling was like an engine that stopped, a humming that never got noticed that suddenly let loose steam and sighed in relief. And then it started again.
The protest of those survivors he spared fell blank as he rammed a metal limb into the control panel. Bernal lost light, lost sight, lost mind. As it spoke, yelled Athena's name and begged her, cripple on the floor, blind and mute except for sirens' wails, begged her to stay.
Except from one room, as someone just didn't want it to.
The cannon geared up with the scraping noise of alchemy, one that he heard before dying and resurrecting and dying like strings that all fell apart but still lived and it was ugly like the night when it bared reluctance and its vile secrecy that swore against him.
THE RED SOL. QVINTA ESSENTIA.
He was a man of science staring at the sun and going blind. It was the path he chose and the path that led lower until it drowned him. Until the waves of a sun that grew bigger and bigger beyond salvage drowned him and melted him and he knew that we all melt someday.
Joined: Jul 2011
Location: Sunshine, Lollipops and Diabetes
Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022. Well, that certainly was interesting, wot wot. I’m afraid I have some terrible news: It is entirely possible that I may have...misplaced...the round I’d originally intended for you chaps. But! But-but but, I’ve had a look through some of the Paradox Shards - you know the ones, leftover bits from abandoned timelines - and I’ve found the perfect round for you!
There was a moment of lack, of black, of nothing, then the contestants found themselves underneath a clearly artificial sky, projected on the inside of a gigantic dome. It was clearly artificial because many of the holographic panels were not transmitting the overcast day they were obviously meant to, but were rather simply displaying static. In front of them was a strip of desert, nearly half a kilometer wide, stretching from one side of the dome to another. On either edge of the desert a forest abruptly bloomed, creating a biosphere which was efficient, yet almost painfully unnatural. Here and there rivers were seen to cross the desert strip, somehow failing to nourish the dead ground it flowed over yet easily fueling the living.
Welcome to Game Planet Dome...oh bugger, I had it written down somewhere...#421! #000000000421, to be properly exact, but there’s no sense in being overly nitpicky now, is there? The whole bloody planet’s covered in these domes, you know. It started off being a penal colony, then don’t you know, there’s an insane and powerful being that takes over..and then he died and the whole timeline went to absolute buggerall. He spent his whole rule turning the prison domes into sick manhunting "games"...
For the first time, the contestants realized that time had stopped, and they were watching a frozen firefight. They felt their attention drawn to the bullets hanging through the air, then to the prison-garb-clad shooters.
Poor blighters. They’re all forced to kill one of their number every 365 days. They’ve got little brain monitors that check their killcount, and passes out the pain if they don’t match up.
Most of the ‘poor blighters’ wore insane looks of glee, various contestants noted.
All bloody right, perhaps some of them have gotten a little unhinged. What did you expect, this was a prison after all. What you see here is more or less the default state of affairs. I suppose...I’ve blathered on enough. All right! You know the drill - one of you dies, and then we move on! Get to it! Pip pip!
You know, I find that The 5105 is not only possibly fake-British, but also absentminded and tends to waffle on and on and on and on! Soooo basically for this round, think The Most Dangerous Game - except everyone has guns and is juuuust a little off their rocker >:P
Locked in a prison
A prison of games
Is a thing that permeates our minds
The spaces between our thoughts
Can you hear him? It’s
Calling your name, like the dust of
Tearing into your
THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE.
THAT IS WHAT THESE PRISONERS ARE.
AND NOTHING WILL CONSUME THEIR MINDS
the bullets stopped
and quiet nothing settles over them,
they raise their guns,
cry for annihilation,
and become a revolution of destruction
rolling over lands
FIRING THEIR NOTHING GUNS
A MANDMAN’S MOB
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan. As Bernal died, The Minister checked his book of law. “Do you know how much we invested in this?” shattered. Another adage dead.
“It seems you hardly take this offer seriously, my flock. Death by coincidence? Seriously?”
The Minister hung like a death sentence over a black void. If the seven remaining moved their lips, they would taste it. The Black Plague, a parasite on other battles, a stench that extended to the rounds and the characters.
“The next setting is a biodome. Currently it's being used for a game of prisoners, vying for the biggest killcount. It is up to all of you whether you make a name on the leaderboard or end up one more for the score. Good luck.”
A knife hid in the forest, unspeakably green. It walked the silent road, the road of creeping and haunting, dying in silence. He would have to wait, but he was patient. It kept him alive. He heard noises. Mostly guns, rattling and thundering through several worlds at once. He also picked up sounds of twigs cracking. The sound of prey nearby.
Like a stalker.
Stimmt crept closer, no sound, up to the back of the man, no sound. Blood hung on him like a second skin, a grin stiff over his face. He was recharging a bazooka. Artillery he earned and cherished. Stimmt stole his voice, but the man never spoke so he didn't notice. As the knife cut through his throat, the man felt fascinated by having blood flow out of him. He had blood? No, he was a winner, he couldn't have blood. Blood was a gift from the weak to the strong he wasn't weak he had blood all over him. The man dropped dead at Stimmt's feet.
Like a murderer.
*** Contestant-11237-Stimmt has overthrown the third of the top ten in combat. The difference in ran--***
Stimmt cut off the automated voice, and stored it in his pocket for further use. He bent over the fresh corpse, looting it for supplies, food, water, weaponry, camouflage. He equipped himself with what he could salvage from the dead body.
Like a poacher.
The poacher saw an animal. Oblivious to the hunt, it stood and watched the bullets fly. Water dripped off its snout as it shook back and forth to absorb the surroundings fully.
Stimmt couldn't approach Alluvion unnoticed, but the spirit, though aware of him, was unaware of his intent. He was magical, unhinged to the world. Unfazed, he licked Stimmt's face.
Stimmt quickly shut Alluvion up. A mindless gunner had already caught the noise.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by Niall. Conte took a deep breath, then plunged her head, face first, into the muddy banks of the river she had decided was called "Conte Creek". Conte clawed the banks of the river for thick mud and when she had grabbed two handfuls of dirt she slopped them onto her neon blue hair and massaged it into her scalp. Her hunter's instincts, which she decided she had only an hour ago, told her that she needed to blend into her environment in order to avoid be detected by the gun-toting crazies, and a flash of bright blue moving between the trees might be enough to give her away.
Conte had no so much changed her personality as added onto it. Every decision to give herself more personality traits that she made increased and amplified her emotions, thoughts and her desires. She was the gardener to her own mind, and it had grown rather overgrown within the last hour. Were she aware of the potential mental anarchy she was creating she may have done some pruning. While she'd given herself certain desirable qualities, she'd neglected to remove the childish personality that overrid many of her decisions. And why would she? Part of being a child is not wanting to grow up.
Wiping the mud from her eyes, she turned back to her rucksack. It contained her camping supplies, rations and her hunting rifle. She had been treking through the forest with it for the past half an hour, never meeting anyone, never seeing anyone, but occasionally hearing spurts of gunfire in the far distance. Wherever the fighting was taking place, she had seemed lucky enough to have stayed out of it so far.
As Conte reached down to pick up her rucksack, a shadowy shape darted out of the trees, under her outstretched hand and into her rucksack. Startled, Conte took a step back, then cautiously circled her rucksack until she could see into it. Looking back at her from the depths of her pack were two large, piercing, yellow eyes.
Conte reached out a hand in a sign of peace. Two black ears, followed by a head emerged from the sack, then a body and finally a tail curled out behind it. Conte gasped in delight.
An observer more keen than Conte would have noticed that this feline did not actually mew as a normal cat would have, but specifically spoke the word "Meow". Rather sardonically too, at that.
"You're a kitty!"
Conte's inner child screamed with delight, and considering how that inner child took up most of her brain's processing power, so did she.
In the distance, the sound of footsteps could be heard, and the appeared to be getting louder.
Domino, meet Conte. Conte, meet Domino. Your move Wojjan. I'll be posting again soon, so if you don't write anything about Domino before then I'll write a post where Domino doesn't get a chance to speak. I'm not sure what her persoonality's like.
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan. The lady tiptoes. Feline grace, as they say. Dances around her friends and foes like chess or like war. Brushing against her leg as if coiling around and dragging her under, drowning. She isn't evil, evil just trails her. It happens. Everything happens and this little lady makes it happen. But now she nods, now she dozes, now she falls asleep. What will happen now? Nothing? Everything? The lady decides to read it.
What is in your dreams little lady?
For the first time, the lady's eyes are open wide. When she turns her head, she still sees the same scene. Scraps and scribbles, a torrent of ideas all around her. It flows as richly as wine, but it's wrong, because she's not here to taste it. It is past bedtime for the little lady and she can't savor it and decide it anymore. Everything turns into colors and wires and things and the lady doesn't even notice she's outside again because everything just keeps happening, even outside. Like a gushing eternal stream. The lady knows she drags things along but not this often, not this many.
The little lady stands up, unconscious, pulled straight like a marionette. Her eyes are wide, her mouth is agape, she changes colors like a circus inside her. Her hand isn't a hand, but she scoops the ideas up with it anyways. She shapes that which has no shape. Her eyes are black and stare past the sky, and sometimes red and stare past hell.
A river begins to flow.
And it felt attracted to a young girl nearby.
Dena was scared, and hated it. What was going on? Where was she this time? Why did everyone carry guns? Why did they look at her as if they were animals, as if she was an animal?
She grabbed her necklace and bowed down to pray. Her lips moved, but she made no sound. She muttered mantras, rubies and sapphires and rubies again, she trailed her wristband, a different psalm for every gem. It didn't spawn divination, no Holy Ghost that led her way. It just calmed her down, placebo amongst pacifiers. What religion does. The guns of her assailants disintegrated, the machines that kept them so comatose vanished as well.
The men thanked Dena for what she did, even though she wasn't certain what they meant by that. Still, her words of prayer touched another's soul, and for that she lived. They told what they had experienced, an evil overseer that forced them into battle, treating life and death like heads and tails. Dena was not a priestess, but she measured the moment more pressing than any title one could earn. With holy words she absolved their sins, judging their regret and lack of free action worth the reverence. And as she spoke to her god, she grew calmer still. Her aura widened, like a dome of its own, and more men traded their guns for their will, and sought solace in Dena's sermon. Before long, a following of retired warriors gathered around her, calling her a wonder. A miracle. In her life, she had never been happier.
A young girl tugged at her clothes. Her eyes were tired and bloodshot, but also undulating in colors. Her face, her hands, her nails, her undeceiving smile, all draped in kaleidoscopic bile. Her steps as she followed Dena backing away, she tumbled instead of walking. Only when she fell forward her reflexes begged her to move her feet. She walked as if she was lost in desert, parched and weary and sore and dying.
As her spirit left her, imagination traced her body like a will-o'-wisp. Chance in the vulture's eye.
With Dena's touch, Alicia already recovered, but like an undead. Conte's raw power now laid unguarded in a child's mind.
Tongue of nothing:
You are like ETERNITY beating in the drums of the mind.
So attracted to that Conte Content.
(you eat your heart out like the wretched god you are)
She sees you
She hears you
She feels you
She tastes you
And for once in her life, she is afraid.
Afraid of nothing.
Why are you afraid of nothing, little girl?
There are no monsters under your bed,
Or boogeyman in your closet,
But Maybe those would make you less afraid,
There's no terrorism or crime,
No arguments or discord,
But Maybe that would make you less afraid.
There is only nothing
NOTHING, DEAR GIRL
Your body writhes as the tongue of Nothing,
Eats out your terror,
The nothings locked in your head.
And why hello marionette,
Unbalanced and just as attracted.
To that little pleasure of Nothing
But to a different girl,
one of faith?
Nothing hears no faith
It is an empty echo
After death is nothing
FOR ALL THE EVERYTHINGS THAT NOTHING HAS SEEN
It's descended into nothing.
So hello, marionette girl,
Unbalanced and just as attracted,
"May we have a talk?"
" I follow "
" destroy? "
" perhaps "
" assistance? "
" confirmation "
" oh girl so full of faith? "
" correct destroy her "
" confirmation "
Wind of nothing left to find
oh girl so full of faith,
and taste her destruction
Preaching so well,
Muhammad or Gandhi or Buddha or Confucius,
Changing minds and changing hearts
what an affront to nothing
There must be one who feels Nothing-ness
it will comb your heart
like prying eyes, snapping crisp night
There you are.
With your nothing eyes and nothing hair
there's nothing in your gun
remove the nothing from your gun
place another kind of nothing within it
you'll be happy the pain will go
(no it won't but you'll do it anyway
just in case it's lying about lying)
you load the gun
Dena Dena lead inside,
Your eyes are wide with Nothing
surprise and bleeding
not dead, but maybe soon.