Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
06-18-2011, 03:12 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Not The Author.
“Enough.”
The fight stopped.
More accurately, its participants froze in place. In Elimne’s case, this was a good two feet off the ground.
<font color="#330099">“What the fuck is goi-“
“…Lucky, how did you fig-“
“Shut the hell up, both of you.”
High Admiral Itzel had been a commander all her life. As the heiress-apparent to Hive Taotenaan, she’d spent her childhood learning how to run a world, and most of her adult life ruling over the third moon-colony. When The Crunch came, she was one of the top candidates for the position of High Admiral of the Ten. Of course, most Queenling Ipisi were ranked favorably, and Itzel was pleasantly surprised when she got the job. She’d spent the better part of six hundred years dealing with confused, worried, frantic, stubborn, and irate Crunch refugees, and came out no worse for the wear. A lifetime of experience had given her a commanding presence, a commanding posture, and, perhaps most importantly, a commanding voice.
Quantos and Elimne shut the hell up.
“Good. Now,”
“Um, wait, what just happened?”
“Curious. Does Lady Fraze often violate physics in that manner?”
“Things start getting interesting, and then THIS? Really?”
“What the hell’s going on over there? Cail, get your ass in gear!”
“I… yes, ah- …Lass, what are you doing in the air?”
“I don’t fucking know, okay? I’m not doing this on purpose!”
“It’s pretty simple, actually. Well, I guess the equations aren’t, but…”
Itzel sighed, lamenting the fact that a Starship had no eyes with which to glare. She tried a different approach.
***</font>
The station wagon was quickly becoming very uncomfortable, not in the least because it was a car from Pukeson.
New Greg was in the driver’s seat, mumbling to himself and very studiously looking anywhere but to his right. Moot rode shotgun, licking his lips thoughtfully, working out the right words and/or facial expression to say and/or show to New Greg. Nate was staring blankly at the pile of clothing unceremoniously heaped in his lap, trying not to think about the two up front. Tabby was sorting the heap of garish ornaments, trying to figure out what would look best on whom. Old Greg was chilling in the back, trying vainly to keep his hand from making lewd suggestions in sign language.
All of them were failing miserably.
In an attempt to break the oppressively awkward silence, Old Greg said, “so,” and immediately regretted it. Then he realized nobody had heard him and decided to try again.
“So, what is going on at Denny’s, anyway? I mean, I got the whole speech thing from what’s-his-eyes, but… it… it’s a Denny’s. …Right?”
Tabby, as the only one who wasn’t actively trying to shut down her brain, grasped at the opportunity to fill the void.
“I don’t know the whole story, but a bunch of freaks showed up there and killed... Well, I mean, Pukeson's got a lot of weirdos but these guys were just freaky. One of them had a metal arm, I think?”
“Maybe it was just a prosthetic?”
“I don’t think so! He had a weird eye, too – unless they make glowing contacts now? Besides, one of them was a floating metal ball, like… Sputnik, or something. I don't know. Anyway, the guy said – the cyborg guy, I mean – said there was some sort of fight going on, and that we were all part of it. I guess that’s what that Devil guy was talking about when he was talking to your hand. Makes as much sense as anything, really.” Old Greg’s not-Old-Greg’s-hand seemed to agree.
As the troupe pulled in to the parking lot once again, a thin beam of hell-if-I-know-let’s-call-it-light shot up through the roof of the restaurant. Nobody was particularly surprised.
***
“That,” growled the exasperated Admiral, “was a high-yield disintegration beam. Usually used in mining, but just as effective on metal and flesh.”
There was a pregnant pause, and Itzel sighed. “Don’t make us do that again. We want to avoid conflict. Please.”
The innocuous gray sphere floated closer to the two frozen contestants. “We’re going to release you now. No fighting.”
Something happened. Quantos finally finished taking a step back, and Elimne landed more gracefully than should have been possible. Winston cleared his throat.
“If you ladies are quite done here, I have some things to check on in there.”
***
Ned was a bear. Ned was dreaming he was a bear. Ned was a bear catching salmon. Ned was dreaming he was a bear catching salmon. Ned was a bear eating a salmon. Ned was dreaming he was a bear eating a brain. Ned was eating a brain.
Ned woke up. Ned was still eating a brain.
Ned did not like waking up.
“Enough.”
The fight stopped.
More accurately, its participants froze in place. In Elimne’s case, this was a good two feet off the ground.
<font color="#330099">“What the fuck is goi-“
“…Lucky, how did you fig-“
“Shut the hell up, both of you.”
High Admiral Itzel had been a commander all her life. As the heiress-apparent to Hive Taotenaan, she’d spent her childhood learning how to run a world, and most of her adult life ruling over the third moon-colony. When The Crunch came, she was one of the top candidates for the position of High Admiral of the Ten. Of course, most Queenling Ipisi were ranked favorably, and Itzel was pleasantly surprised when she got the job. She’d spent the better part of six hundred years dealing with confused, worried, frantic, stubborn, and irate Crunch refugees, and came out no worse for the wear. A lifetime of experience had given her a commanding presence, a commanding posture, and, perhaps most importantly, a commanding voice.
Quantos and Elimne shut the hell up.
“Good. Now,”
“Um, wait, what just happened?”
“Curious. Does Lady Fraze often violate physics in that manner?”
“Things start getting interesting, and then THIS? Really?”
“What the hell’s going on over there? Cail, get your ass in gear!”
“I… yes, ah- …Lass, what are you doing in the air?”
“I don’t fucking know, okay? I’m not doing this on purpose!”
“It’s pretty simple, actually. Well, I guess the equations aren’t, but…”
Itzel sighed, lamenting the fact that a Starship had no eyes with which to glare. She tried a different approach.
***</font>
The station wagon was quickly becoming very uncomfortable, not in the least because it was a car from Pukeson.
New Greg was in the driver’s seat, mumbling to himself and very studiously looking anywhere but to his right. Moot rode shotgun, licking his lips thoughtfully, working out the right words and/or facial expression to say and/or show to New Greg. Nate was staring blankly at the pile of clothing unceremoniously heaped in his lap, trying not to think about the two up front. Tabby was sorting the heap of garish ornaments, trying to figure out what would look best on whom. Old Greg was chilling in the back, trying vainly to keep his hand from making lewd suggestions in sign language.
All of them were failing miserably.
In an attempt to break the oppressively awkward silence, Old Greg said, “so,” and immediately regretted it. Then he realized nobody had heard him and decided to try again.
“So, what is going on at Denny’s, anyway? I mean, I got the whole speech thing from what’s-his-eyes, but… it… it’s a Denny’s. …Right?”
Tabby, as the only one who wasn’t actively trying to shut down her brain, grasped at the opportunity to fill the void.
“I don’t know the whole story, but a bunch of freaks showed up there and killed... Well, I mean, Pukeson's got a lot of weirdos but these guys were just freaky. One of them had a metal arm, I think?”
“Maybe it was just a prosthetic?”
“I don’t think so! He had a weird eye, too – unless they make glowing contacts now? Besides, one of them was a floating metal ball, like… Sputnik, or something. I don't know. Anyway, the guy said – the cyborg guy, I mean – said there was some sort of fight going on, and that we were all part of it. I guess that’s what that Devil guy was talking about when he was talking to your hand. Makes as much sense as anything, really.” Old Greg’s not-Old-Greg’s-hand seemed to agree.
As the troupe pulled in to the parking lot once again, a thin beam of hell-if-I-know-let’s-call-it-light shot up through the roof of the restaurant. Nobody was particularly surprised.
***
“That,” growled the exasperated Admiral, “was a high-yield disintegration beam. Usually used in mining, but just as effective on metal and flesh.”
There was a pregnant pause, and Itzel sighed. “Don’t make us do that again. We want to avoid conflict. Please.”
The innocuous gray sphere floated closer to the two frozen contestants. “We’re going to release you now. No fighting.”
Something happened. Quantos finally finished taking a step back, and Elimne landed more gracefully than should have been possible. Winston cleared his throat.
“If you ladies are quite done here, I have some things to check on in there.”
***
Ned was a bear. Ned was dreaming he was a bear. Ned was a bear catching salmon. Ned was dreaming he was a bear catching salmon. Ned was a bear eating a salmon. Ned was dreaming he was a bear eating a brain. Ned was eating a brain.
Ned woke up. Ned was still eating a brain.
Ned did not like waking up.