Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
05-19-2012, 08:50 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Not The Author.
There are some moments, throughout people’s lives, when the opportunity to do something completely idiotic presents itself in such a way that certain personality types can’t do anything but fall for the Obvious Trap. One such of these moments was now, and one of these personality types was an individual named AMP.
“…Rome…?” AMP said, staring at Brom with the cold, mechanical eye of a security camera. “But Rome… [accessing database… … …] Rome (English pronunciation: /ˈroʊm/; Italian: Roma, pronounced [ˈroːma]; Latin: Rōma) is a city and special comune ("Roma Capitale") in Italy. Rome is the capital of Italy and the capital of Lazio (Latin: Latium). With 2.8 million residents in 1,285.3 km2 (496.3 sq mi), it is also the country's largest and most populated commune and fourth-most populous city city city city—Rome is a city. How can an elevator be a city?”
Although, there was another individual who was not that kind of personality type at all.
“My god, AMP, he’s speaking fucking metaphorically, like a bullshitting Convolution bullshitter, which I can tell he is because I’m a fucking expert on this kind of thing,” Etiyr angrily CLACK CLACK CLACKed.
Brom looked down at the paper, scanned it, frowned, steepling his eyebrows in a sort of concerned look.
He glanced back over at AMP. “I don’t think your friend here quite understands the importance of, oh, how should I say this, eloquence.”
Etiyr was not particularly fond of this man’s honestly quite disrespectful sass and CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACCCCCCC-
Which was why, quite deliberately, Brom ignored him completely.
“Anyway, metal’d sir,” he said, directing his attention to the whirring conglomerate of scrap before him. “Going up?”
“Uh, sure,” AMP replied, his camera doing something like the equivalent of a shrug. “Let’s go up.”
The liftman stepped to the side with a nod, let the robot slip in, with only some damages to the doorways, smiled, and pulled a lever.
“Going up,” Brom said, staring at the floor indicator as the number began to get bigger, bigger, bigger. Bigger. Better. “Quintessentially American, I suppose. An American Dream.”
The elevator hummed above the furious clacking of a typewriter.
“NO, DAMN IT. DAMN IT. FUCK. THE CONVOLUTION IS GOING TO PULL SOME SORT OF FUCKING SHIT, AND IT’S RIGHT HERE, IN THIS FUCKING ELEVATOR AND NO ONE EVER CARES—”
And then, of course, the elevator shut down. Somebody bothered to mutter an apology over the intercom.
Pitch black. A CLACK, a CLACK, a CLACK, and a CLACK.
A four letter word. No one could read it, in that dark, but the point was pretty clearly made.
The gravity well was Pretty Much O.K. with this set of circumstances, since it was getting Pretty Tired of its day job, anyway. The particle accelerator, however, took offense to the whole situation, particularly having to involve oneself with technology used to do such menial, non-scientific tasks and decided to fuck some shit up.
(In actuality, the reason for whole situation in regards to the particle accelerator would eventually be determined by a specially-assembled committee of post-mortem, and I do mean mortem, investigators: they concluded that the catastrophic failure re: the aforementioned accelerator was not due in any part to the actions of the rogue “Lucky VII” control module, but for the fact that the gravity well’s systems had been rigged to use Q.R.N.S.T.U.O.F. adapters, while the particle accelerator was using the much more universal set of USB/PARALELL PORT/PS/2 CONNECTOR adaptors more commonly found in most technology throughout the Epigen Center. Apparently, they said, this mismatch in electronic systems caused the Reality-Regulator-Cable/Plug-Transmission-Admission-System (RRC/PTAS) to meltdown cataclysmically and allow all fucking hell to break loose.)
And then, all fucking hell broke loose. For a moment, High Admiral Itzel stared at the information flooding in from the Science, Navigation, and Engineering Very Critical Data Reports, along with the High Red Alerts activated in the (fairly swamped) Security, Military, and Administrative departments. They all ended up saying pretty much the same thing: What was going to happen was what was going to happen. No further course of action could be taken.
“Fuck,” she said, and then put her head in her hands.
So, like any (ir)rational metaphorical anthropomorphization of an intrinsic property of the universe, it retaliated violently.
It bent. Bent back up through forth with/without a coat around, twisted knotted left right up down pitch yaw roll in an “X” and then a “Z,” but with one of those strikethroughs people sometimes write them with. It reflected retracted retraced, like a loop-de-loop crosshatch swerve, and with a fold-fold-expand-contract, the entirety of the Epigen Center essentially became a single room.
Not a normal room, mind you. A multidimensional one. And only very briefly, too. Like, for four seconds. Four and fifty four milliseconds, to be exact. But in that time, you could’ve taken a step and ended up on the other side of the facility. And you could know pretty well where you were going, too, since, y’know, light was curving with the contours of the fabric of spacetime.
Obviously, quite a large number of people took advantage of this. Brom was one of them.
Brom, and a lot of his friends.
There are some moments, throughout people’s lives, when the opportunity to do something completely idiotic presents itself in such a way that certain personality types can’t do anything but fall for the Obvious Trap. One such of these moments was now, and one of these personality types was an individual named AMP.
“…Rome…?” AMP said, staring at Brom with the cold, mechanical eye of a security camera. “But Rome… [accessing database… … …] Rome (English pronunciation: /ˈroʊm/; Italian: Roma, pronounced [ˈroːma]; Latin: Rōma) is a city and special comune ("Roma Capitale") in Italy. Rome is the capital of Italy and the capital of Lazio (Latin: Latium). With 2.8 million residents in 1,285.3 km2 (496.3 sq mi), it is also the country's largest and most populated commune and fourth-most populous city city city city—Rome is a city. How can an elevator be a city?”
Although, there was another individual who was not that kind of personality type at all.
“My god, AMP, he’s speaking fucking metaphorically, like a bullshitting Convolution bullshitter, which I can tell he is because I’m a fucking expert on this kind of thing,” Etiyr angrily CLACK CLACK CLACKed.
Brom looked down at the paper, scanned it, frowned, steepling his eyebrows in a sort of concerned look.
He glanced back over at AMP. “I don’t think your friend here quite understands the importance of, oh, how should I say this, eloquence.”
Etiyr was not particularly fond of this man’s honestly quite disrespectful sass and CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACCCCCCC-
Which was why, quite deliberately, Brom ignored him completely.
“Anyway, metal’d sir,” he said, directing his attention to the whirring conglomerate of scrap before him. “Going up?”
“Uh, sure,” AMP replied, his camera doing something like the equivalent of a shrug. “Let’s go up.”
The liftman stepped to the side with a nod, let the robot slip in, with only some damages to the doorways, smiled, and pulled a lever.
“Going up,” Brom said, staring at the floor indicator as the number began to get bigger, bigger, bigger. Bigger. Better. “Quintessentially American, I suppose. An American Dream.”
The elevator hummed above the furious clacking of a typewriter.
“NO, DAMN IT. DAMN IT. FUCK. THE CONVOLUTION IS GOING TO PULL SOME SORT OF FUCKING SHIT, AND IT’S RIGHT HERE, IN THIS FUCKING ELEVATOR AND NO ONE EVER CARES—”
And then, of course, the elevator shut down. Somebody bothered to mutter an apology over the intercom.
Pitch black. A CLACK, a CLACK, a CLACK, and a CLACK.
A four letter word. No one could read it, in that dark, but the point was pretty clearly made.
*
There was a gravity well, and a particle accelerator. They were being commandeered by a spaceship that held trillions and trillions of people.The gravity well was Pretty Much O.K. with this set of circumstances, since it was getting Pretty Tired of its day job, anyway. The particle accelerator, however, took offense to the whole situation, particularly having to involve oneself with technology used to do such menial, non-scientific tasks and decided to fuck some shit up.
(In actuality, the reason for whole situation in regards to the particle accelerator would eventually be determined by a specially-assembled committee of post-mortem, and I do mean mortem, investigators: they concluded that the catastrophic failure re: the aforementioned accelerator was not due in any part to the actions of the rogue “Lucky VII” control module, but for the fact that the gravity well’s systems had been rigged to use Q.R.N.S.T.U.O.F. adapters, while the particle accelerator was using the much more universal set of USB/PARALELL PORT/PS/2 CONNECTOR adaptors more commonly found in most technology throughout the Epigen Center. Apparently, they said, this mismatch in electronic systems caused the Reality-Regulator-Cable/Plug-Transmission-Admission-System (RRC/PTAS) to meltdown cataclysmically and allow all fucking hell to break loose.)
And then, all fucking hell broke loose. For a moment, High Admiral Itzel stared at the information flooding in from the Science, Navigation, and Engineering Very Critical Data Reports, along with the High Red Alerts activated in the (fairly swamped) Security, Military, and Administrative departments. They all ended up saying pretty much the same thing: What was going to happen was what was going to happen. No further course of action could be taken.
“Fuck,” she said, and then put her head in her hands.
*
So, space, (un)like time, doesn’t really like getting messed with, and at this point, it was getting pretty pissed. It did not like the fact a hole had been torn in it, nor the fact that a Particle Accelerator was getting all up in its face and thinking it could take on The Most Important Fucking Dimension, You Idiot.So, like any (ir)rational metaphorical anthropomorphization of an intrinsic property of the universe, it retaliated violently.
It bent. Bent back up through forth with/without a coat around, twisted knotted left right up down pitch yaw roll in an “X” and then a “Z,” but with one of those strikethroughs people sometimes write them with. It reflected retracted retraced, like a loop-de-loop crosshatch swerve, and with a fold-fold-expand-contract, the entirety of the Epigen Center essentially became a single room.
Not a normal room, mind you. A multidimensional one. And only very briefly, too. Like, for four seconds. Four and fifty four milliseconds, to be exact. But in that time, you could’ve taken a step and ended up on the other side of the facility. And you could know pretty well where you were going, too, since, y’know, light was curving with the contours of the fabric of spacetime.
Obviously, quite a large number of people took advantage of this. Brom was one of them.
Brom, and a lot of his friends.