Re: The Grand Battle S2G1! [Round One: Alpha Complex!]
06-21-2010, 05:28 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.
The Ovoid sits quietly in the darkness. There are voices.
"... is it unconscious?"
"I dunno, hit it."
WHACK
CRASH
"What the hell was that?!"
"Oh Red Lennon, there was a box balanced on top of it."
"So... is it unconscious now?"
"Well, it's not moving... we may as well try to drag it off."
Grunting is heard.
"Where are you supposed to grab this thing..."
More grunting.
"Comrade Ivan, let the others know we'll need some help."
"Da, Comrade Andrei!"
Footsteps march off, and after a time, return, accompanied by others. Hands press against the Ovoid's surface, pushing and pulling fruitlessly.
It is at this point which light returns to the corridor, revealing an assortment of humans straining against an implacable Ovoid. Down the corridor a ways, Xadrez begins moving towards a nearby terminal. The sounds of exertion blossom briefly into startled cries before vanishing completely, along with the would-be abductors. Any observing party would have seen curiously undefinable shapes bloom into existence around the clones, and then shrink back to nothingness. The clones, however, fell in a direction which should never have existed and vanish along with the shapes.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then, as if to punctuate the anticlimax, the Ovoid's surface ripples, bits and pieces simply disappearing, colors appearing in patches, before finalizing on an oddly recognizable shape: a clone, sharing features of the ones surrounding the Ovoid not moments before. It... "he" is wearing tie-die coveralls, splattered with orange, green, yellow, red, and even black. "He" is also still floating a couple of inches above the floor, at a slightly awkward angle, features and body alike completely wooden. "His" posture brings to mind a toy soldier; arms locked to his sides, legs straight, feet forming perfect-right angles. Just barely visible in one pocket is a picture of Groucho Marx.
The whole thing is extremely odd.
The Ovoid sits quietly in the darkness. There are voices.
"... is it unconscious?"
"I dunno, hit it."
WHACK
CRASH
"What the hell was that?!"
"Oh Red Lennon, there was a box balanced on top of it."
"So... is it unconscious now?"
"Well, it's not moving... we may as well try to drag it off."
Grunting is heard.
"Where are you supposed to grab this thing..."
More grunting.
"Comrade Ivan, let the others know we'll need some help."
"Da, Comrade Andrei!"
Footsteps march off, and after a time, return, accompanied by others. Hands press against the Ovoid's surface, pushing and pulling fruitlessly.
It is at this point which light returns to the corridor, revealing an assortment of humans straining against an implacable Ovoid. Down the corridor a ways, Xadrez begins moving towards a nearby terminal. The sounds of exertion blossom briefly into startled cries before vanishing completely, along with the would-be abductors. Any observing party would have seen curiously undefinable shapes bloom into existence around the clones, and then shrink back to nothingness. The clones, however, fell in a direction which should never have existed and vanish along with the shapes.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then, as if to punctuate the anticlimax, the Ovoid's surface ripples, bits and pieces simply disappearing, colors appearing in patches, before finalizing on an oddly recognizable shape: a clone, sharing features of the ones surrounding the Ovoid not moments before. It... "he" is wearing tie-die coveralls, splattered with orange, green, yellow, red, and even black. "He" is also still floating a couple of inches above the floor, at a slightly awkward angle, features and body alike completely wooden. "His" posture brings to mind a toy soldier; arms locked to his sides, legs straight, feet forming perfect-right angles. Just barely visible in one pocket is a picture of Groucho Marx.
The whole thing is extremely odd.