Re: The Grand Battle S2G1! [Round One: Alpha Complex!]
06-27-2010, 12:08 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Let's talk about Weo, for a minute.
Weo's mommy was a bit of a slut, which is about as disconcerting for a Rillian child as for a human child. Her extracurricular activities with the neighbors and general unwillingness to talk out her issues reduced Daddy from the badass alien samurai you read about in the photologues to something that gets dragged out of the sewer a week after Birth Night and summarily cremacycled by the Decency Authority. One night when Mommy was off "getting her sports equipment washed" as was her regular excuse, Daddy got eaten off of some cheap carnaholic quesadillas and took a knife and carved something in an old language into the small of Weo's back, and it wasn't until both Mommy and Daddy were furnace food that Weo went to a tattoo cathedral to have the scar checked out and it turned out to be a proverb that roughly translates into "Bitches, man." He'd had it buffed away immediately.
Weo hadn't been fond of his parents but he had learned a valuable lesson from his childhood. He summed it up as follows. Three things can cut short a Rillian's lifespan: self-enjoyment, self-deception, and a blade to the jugular bladder. The poor men and women at Death Leopard should have done their research before trying to recruit him, or at least should have left the scythe back at R&D.
The only disco ball that Death Leopard could obtain only reflected in shades of red and infra-red, so the obsidian man covered in blood would have appeared as a performer in some sort of high-class sadistic cabaret show had any living beings been present to watch. Weo was upset by the behavior he had seen in what had seemed to be a reasonably orderly society. "Things ain't ne'er gon' be like they was," he quoted from the traditional Rillian ballad, "Ode to them Dolla Bills," thinking upon his childhood. Like most truly sad people, Weo thought of his childhood both as a time of bliss and nostalgia, and as the source of all his problems. By the time he had decided to permanently ruin the noble arts of war and science by ramming them together like Barbie and Ken on their wedding night, causing a minor unwar and the undignified death of basically everyone he knew, he was far beyond blaming himself. Weo cast himself as a victim of circumstance, sure to one day redeem himself through some miraculous confluence of luck and scytheplay and emerge as some sort of sexy toyetic hero.
The Death Leopards hadn't put up much of a fight. Weo sighed, stabbed the disco ball until it stopped serving a purpose and headed back to meet the others, maybe kill one of them. A team leader's work is never done.
Weo waved back, looking defeated. Warriors he could handle. This was… perverse.
Let's talk about Weo, for a minute.
Weo's mommy was a bit of a slut, which is about as disconcerting for a Rillian child as for a human child. Her extracurricular activities with the neighbors and general unwillingness to talk out her issues reduced Daddy from the badass alien samurai you read about in the photologues to something that gets dragged out of the sewer a week after Birth Night and summarily cremacycled by the Decency Authority. One night when Mommy was off "getting her sports equipment washed" as was her regular excuse, Daddy got eaten off of some cheap carnaholic quesadillas and took a knife and carved something in an old language into the small of Weo's back, and it wasn't until both Mommy and Daddy were furnace food that Weo went to a tattoo cathedral to have the scar checked out and it turned out to be a proverb that roughly translates into "Bitches, man." He'd had it buffed away immediately.
Weo hadn't been fond of his parents but he had learned a valuable lesson from his childhood. He summed it up as follows. Three things can cut short a Rillian's lifespan: self-enjoyment, self-deception, and a blade to the jugular bladder. The poor men and women at Death Leopard should have done their research before trying to recruit him, or at least should have left the scythe back at R&D.
The only disco ball that Death Leopard could obtain only reflected in shades of red and infra-red, so the obsidian man covered in blood would have appeared as a performer in some sort of high-class sadistic cabaret show had any living beings been present to watch. Weo was upset by the behavior he had seen in what had seemed to be a reasonably orderly society. "Things ain't ne'er gon' be like they was," he quoted from the traditional Rillian ballad, "Ode to them Dolla Bills," thinking upon his childhood. Like most truly sad people, Weo thought of his childhood both as a time of bliss and nostalgia, and as the source of all his problems. By the time he had decided to permanently ruin the noble arts of war and science by ramming them together like Barbie and Ken on their wedding night, causing a minor unwar and the undignified death of basically everyone he knew, he was far beyond blaming himself. Weo cast himself as a victim of circumstance, sure to one day redeem himself through some miraculous confluence of luck and scytheplay and emerge as some sort of sexy toyetic hero.
The Death Leopards hadn't put up much of a fight. Weo sighed, stabbed the disco ball until it stopped serving a purpose and headed back to meet the others, maybe kill one of them. A team leader's work is never done.
* * * * *
Jen waved at the scythe-guy upon his arrival but didn't offer up any sort of verbal greeting because she had completely forgotten his name or what his deal was.Weo waved back, looking defeated. Warriors he could handle. This was… perverse.