Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-13-2011, 03:24 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
Agent Winston’s outing had been more than successful, and he had returned to the precinct office and requisitioned an empty office. He sat in the awkward, cramped office chair, resting on one hand while his other managed a television remote. He scanned rapidly through the channels available on his newly acquired LeCheapo Television.
"Agent Winston, sir?"
"Yes, Jenkins?" Agent Winston’s attention was captured by the television he was watching, and it did not particularly wish to talk to the awkward, fumbling technician.
"Sir, I started work on the database you requested..."
It was at that moment that Winston found the particular channel he was searching for. His attention was now wholly fixated on the screen. "I’m afraid that won’t be necessary anymore, Jenkins."
"Sir, but I--" Jenkins was quickly interrupted.
"Jenkins, you’re dismissed. Do whatever it is you do in your off-time-- play video games, browse the Internet, whatever nerd stuff it is that you pursue. I believe I’ve found Machinebird, and with any luck can bring this case to a close."
"Er, yes sir."
Winston sat up as Jenkins left, grabbing a phone off of the desk. He dialed the number of one of the officers-- he’d like to hear about this new development, Winston was sure of that.
Just as Clint Gladwell was about to re-engage his pursuit, his phone rang. Gladwell knew that every second he spent not going after these criminals would a second they could use to escape, but it was just as likely that it would bring him closer to finding and dispatching the scum behind these crimes. He drew his phone and unfolded it, his gestures nearly as dramatic as someone pulling out an assault rifle.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Officer Gladwell."
Gladwell didn’t like the caller’s tone of voice-- any other time the officer would be content to waffle about and make indefinite clever remarks, but Clint Gladwell had two suspects he needed to pursue. "Who is this?"
"Officer Gladwell, I represent the FBI."
"I didn’t know this case had gone federal."
"Oh, it’s gone more than federal." Winston subconsciously knew the phrase was meaningless, but the show’s logic had muddled with him enough to prevent him from saying anything less meaningless.
"Listen up. I’ve got more dead LAPD officers than we have bodybags at the morgue. If you don’t stop waffling abou--"
"Officer Gladwell. There are a lot of lives at stake here, I understand that. I merely wish to assure you that, provided your full cooperation, you’ll have the backing of the entire Bureau. Is that clear?"
Gladwell smiled. Bringing this perpetrators to justice would be much easier with that kind of resources available. "Crystal."
Winston hung up the phone. He reclined in the chair and once again turned his attention to the television. He was certain that the next re-run of The Timmy Blake Show was going to be more than interesting.
Kriok was not in a particularly pleasant mood. There was no definite way out of the suburban domicile-- the static surrounding it was surprisingly thorough in its coverage. While the demonic servant had managed to escape, she doubted that her current body had the endurance to make it through, say nothing of the painter with her. Escaping the house wasn’t an option, and the channel teleportation was likewise unavailable. Eliminating the juvenile wasn’t an option either-- while it would definitely provide a means of escape, she wasn’t ready to make that moral leap. She paced back and forth, the machinery on her arm twitching and adjusting.
She didn’t want to be here. She had little to nothing to work with-- she was confined and limited and trapped. Trapped and being forced to re-enact the saccharine nightmares of this world. She had no one to trust-- while her temporary companions seemed innocuous enough, barring the fly-surrounded abomination, she had no certainty over their intentions. Maintaining her composure, the focus and drive she had kept, was so difficult when it could all be ended so simply.
Kriok shook her head. She couldn’t stop now. There had to be a way out.
Her mind went back to the demonic servant. He was a creature dominated by base impulses-- he had killed with little to no provocation, and was no doubt capable of doing so again. He was also completely unsupervised-- there was no one there to stop him from murdering his way across the grey-scale landscape, something the child would no doubt be distracted by and forced to direct his attention towards. Kriok thought about this more and immediately began to construct a plan.
"Tschichold."
The painter was idly redecorating the static barriers when he heard his name. The figure turned to face the alien-- not particularly interested in what she had to say, but at the very minimum willing to listen to her. "Yes?"
"I will require your assistance if we are to escape our predicament."
Tschichold leaned forward, taking an interest in what the avian had to offer. "What are you proposing, here?"
Kriok sighed. Based on his past actions, he wasn't going to like her proposal.
"We... temporarily cooperate with the juvenile's demands."
Tschichold dramatically coughed, doubling over and feigning an over-dramatic choke-hold around his neck, as though an imaginary assailant had assaulted him. Black paint began to seep from him as he created it for an additional flair. It was clear that he was balking at the proposal.
"Surely you can't be serious. Me, work with... that thing? That... philistine?" He wielded the word like it was a sword.
"Do you have an alternative proposal?"
Tschichold fumbled. "Well, uh, no-- but I refuse to work wit--"
"Then escaping will be impossible. We will be indefinitely stuck here." While there was little emotion transferred through her robotic eyes, her unblinking stare at the painter conveyed her frustration well enough.
Tschichold folded his arms, incredulous about her present stance in this affair. "You saw what he did! He ruined the delicate brushwork I had applied and--"
"Yes, and I am making my own sacrifices, for the sake of the outdated social conventions of this pocket universe. Greater sacrifices than having a piece of art ruined. Now, either you assist me in escaping or we remain trapped here."
Tschichold resigned himself to knowing that Kriok was completely unreasonable-- not to mention completely ignorant of just how important art was. Her idle comparison of the destruction of a masterpiece to her own plight like that? A travesty! The painter made a note of this transgression.
"So, what is it that we do, then?"
The two of them then heard a muffled voice.
"Mommy... when's dinner?"
Kriok looked at Tschichold before turning to reply. "You will be notified when dinner is prepared."
"Thank you, Mommy!" His voice, that almost sing-song tone of unnecessary cheerfulness, burned itself into the minds of both Kriok and Tschichold. It wasn't a voice that they would soon forget.
Kriok fumbled, her composure faltering thanks to the child. "Well, uh, that would be our present course of action then. Dinner."
Tschichold nodded. He was equally distraught, but for now anything that offered a promise of escape was reasonable.
Agent Winston turned off the television. Part of him wanted to see a counter-terrorism unit pour through the television, killing the painter and apprehending the alien-- he'd love to her expression as he brought her in. However, the two of them mentioned being trapped, and that was reason enough to wait for them to make a move elsewhere.
But when the time came, he would strike.
Agent Winston’s outing had been more than successful, and he had returned to the precinct office and requisitioned an empty office. He sat in the awkward, cramped office chair, resting on one hand while his other managed a television remote. He scanned rapidly through the channels available on his newly acquired LeCheapo Television.
"Agent Winston, sir?"
"Yes, Jenkins?" Agent Winston’s attention was captured by the television he was watching, and it did not particularly wish to talk to the awkward, fumbling technician.
"Sir, I started work on the database you requested..."
It was at that moment that Winston found the particular channel he was searching for. His attention was now wholly fixated on the screen. "I’m afraid that won’t be necessary anymore, Jenkins."
"Sir, but I--" Jenkins was quickly interrupted.
"Jenkins, you’re dismissed. Do whatever it is you do in your off-time-- play video games, browse the Internet, whatever nerd stuff it is that you pursue. I believe I’ve found Machinebird, and with any luck can bring this case to a close."
"Er, yes sir."
Winston sat up as Jenkins left, grabbing a phone off of the desk. He dialed the number of one of the officers-- he’d like to hear about this new development, Winston was sure of that.
Just as Clint Gladwell was about to re-engage his pursuit, his phone rang. Gladwell knew that every second he spent not going after these criminals would a second they could use to escape, but it was just as likely that it would bring him closer to finding and dispatching the scum behind these crimes. He drew his phone and unfolded it, his gestures nearly as dramatic as someone pulling out an assault rifle.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Officer Gladwell."
Gladwell didn’t like the caller’s tone of voice-- any other time the officer would be content to waffle about and make indefinite clever remarks, but Clint Gladwell had two suspects he needed to pursue. "Who is this?"
"Officer Gladwell, I represent the FBI."
"I didn’t know this case had gone federal."
"Oh, it’s gone more than federal." Winston subconsciously knew the phrase was meaningless, but the show’s logic had muddled with him enough to prevent him from saying anything less meaningless.
"Listen up. I’ve got more dead LAPD officers than we have bodybags at the morgue. If you don’t stop waffling abou--"
"Officer Gladwell. There are a lot of lives at stake here, I understand that. I merely wish to assure you that, provided your full cooperation, you’ll have the backing of the entire Bureau. Is that clear?"
Gladwell smiled. Bringing this perpetrators to justice would be much easier with that kind of resources available. "Crystal."
Winston hung up the phone. He reclined in the chair and once again turned his attention to the television. He was certain that the next re-run of The Timmy Blake Show was going to be more than interesting.
Kriok was not in a particularly pleasant mood. There was no definite way out of the suburban domicile-- the static surrounding it was surprisingly thorough in its coverage. While the demonic servant had managed to escape, she doubted that her current body had the endurance to make it through, say nothing of the painter with her. Escaping the house wasn’t an option, and the channel teleportation was likewise unavailable. Eliminating the juvenile wasn’t an option either-- while it would definitely provide a means of escape, she wasn’t ready to make that moral leap. She paced back and forth, the machinery on her arm twitching and adjusting.
She didn’t want to be here. She had little to nothing to work with-- she was confined and limited and trapped. Trapped and being forced to re-enact the saccharine nightmares of this world. She had no one to trust-- while her temporary companions seemed innocuous enough, barring the fly-surrounded abomination, she had no certainty over their intentions. Maintaining her composure, the focus and drive she had kept, was so difficult when it could all be ended so simply.
Kriok shook her head. She couldn’t stop now. There had to be a way out.
Her mind went back to the demonic servant. He was a creature dominated by base impulses-- he had killed with little to no provocation, and was no doubt capable of doing so again. He was also completely unsupervised-- there was no one there to stop him from murdering his way across the grey-scale landscape, something the child would no doubt be distracted by and forced to direct his attention towards. Kriok thought about this more and immediately began to construct a plan.
"Tschichold."
The painter was idly redecorating the static barriers when he heard his name. The figure turned to face the alien-- not particularly interested in what she had to say, but at the very minimum willing to listen to her. "Yes?"
"I will require your assistance if we are to escape our predicament."
Tschichold leaned forward, taking an interest in what the avian had to offer. "What are you proposing, here?"
Kriok sighed. Based on his past actions, he wasn't going to like her proposal.
"We... temporarily cooperate with the juvenile's demands."
Tschichold dramatically coughed, doubling over and feigning an over-dramatic choke-hold around his neck, as though an imaginary assailant had assaulted him. Black paint began to seep from him as he created it for an additional flair. It was clear that he was balking at the proposal.
"Surely you can't be serious. Me, work with... that thing? That... philistine?" He wielded the word like it was a sword.
"Do you have an alternative proposal?"
Tschichold fumbled. "Well, uh, no-- but I refuse to work wit--"
"Then escaping will be impossible. We will be indefinitely stuck here." While there was little emotion transferred through her robotic eyes, her unblinking stare at the painter conveyed her frustration well enough.
Tschichold folded his arms, incredulous about her present stance in this affair. "You saw what he did! He ruined the delicate brushwork I had applied and--"
"Yes, and I am making my own sacrifices, for the sake of the outdated social conventions of this pocket universe. Greater sacrifices than having a piece of art ruined. Now, either you assist me in escaping or we remain trapped here."
Tschichold resigned himself to knowing that Kriok was completely unreasonable-- not to mention completely ignorant of just how important art was. Her idle comparison of the destruction of a masterpiece to her own plight like that? A travesty! The painter made a note of this transgression.
"So, what is it that we do, then?"
The two of them then heard a muffled voice.
"Mommy... when's dinner?"
Kriok looked at Tschichold before turning to reply. "You will be notified when dinner is prepared."
"Thank you, Mommy!" His voice, that almost sing-song tone of unnecessary cheerfulness, burned itself into the minds of both Kriok and Tschichold. It wasn't a voice that they would soon forget.
Kriok fumbled, her composure faltering thanks to the child. "Well, uh, that would be our present course of action then. Dinner."
Tschichold nodded. He was equally distraught, but for now anything that offered a promise of escape was reasonable.
Agent Winston turned off the television. Part of him wanted to see a counter-terrorism unit pour through the television, killing the painter and apprehending the alien-- he'd love to her expression as he brought her in. However, the two of them mentioned being trapped, and that was reason enough to wait for them to make a move elsewhere.
But when the time came, he would strike.