Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-15-2011, 10:17 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
Just as Tschichold was nearing the limits of his patience, Junior spoke-- surprisingly, not to mock the painter or his assigned mother or to further unnerve either of them.
"Something is wrong. Father is misbehaving."
His voice was monotone and his face clean of any expression. A mere half-second after he made his comment he stood up to leave, the Sheperdson couple following his example and likewise excusing themselves. The three of them left the dining room in formation, as though a wordless agreement had been made between the child and the caricatures of suburban life. The front door creaked open, the two adults leaving-- Kriok and Tschichold could see the static around the front entrance peeling away to let them pass. Junior turned around, looking at the bewildered alien and the painter.
"Don't think about leaving, Mommy. We still need to finish... dinner." His voice unnaturally stressed the last word, as though to emphasize his feelings on Kriok's cooking-- or lack of cooking, rather. Junior then left, the barriers of static folding themselves together to ensure the two contestants did not attempt to escape.
There was the distant sound of an engine starting, a car driving off, and then there was silence once more.
"...You're a terrible cook, just so you know."
Tschichold knew that wasn't the best way to end the awkward silence that had followed Junior's departure, but it was better than nothing-- and he had felt an overwhelming compulsion to inform Kriok just how colossal her failure to produce palatable cuisine was. The two of them had been stunned after Junior had left-- his words were haunting and almost compelled them to remain, as though the retribution for disobedience would be too great to fathom.
Kriok was too exasperated to disagree-- especially considering that the painter was right. She had no familiarity with the metabolic requirements of Tschichold or any of the humans, let alone familiarity with how to properly prepare meat. Artificially prepared food was so much easier to acquire on the rim when she occupied a biological body-- and that was rare compared to the amount of time she had spent living as a machine. Food was a topic she was utterly unknowledgeable in.
That entire thought process and recollection of memories was irrelevant. Her mind had too many irrelevant processes running and churning along in the background. They were so easy to accumulate with a mechanical mind-- what would be easily dismissed in a biological mind could receive a small portion of processing power and be examined while Kriok remained pre-occupied and focused on other tasks.
"We should leave." The statement was blunt, but there was not much else to say.
The two of them left the table, leaving the irradiated turkey and odd potato slurry to fester. They hastily entered the living room, rushing to the television. Kriok turned it on, hoping that Junior's absence would make escape possible.
For a brief moment, static was all that greeted them-- the sight and apparent failure of their plan nearly caused the two to resign themselves to Junior's fury. After a few seconds, however, the other channels began to re-assert themselves-- the television's reception was weak, admittedly, but it was just barely strong enough to allow Kriok and Tschichold to escape.
Under any other circumstances, Kriok would be more deliberate in her choice of channel. However, she was tired and frayed and just wanted to escape, to get away from this nightmare. As soon as a clear image developed, she leapt into the screen.
Tschichold, however, still had a modicum of caution about him. The memories of Kriok's savage butchery of the turkey was still fresh on his mind-- say nothing of her resigned compliance with that child's demands. He was going to give the mechanical hybrid a wide leeway for now-- she was dangerous enough with that mechanical arm, and no doubt temperamental enough to turn it against him. He quickly scanned the channels-- the crackle of static was enough of a reminder to him to hurry-- before settling on a channel.
And in an instant, he was gone.
While one of the transfers went unnoticed, the other drew scrutiny from the malevolent forces that bound and scoured the channels.
The mechanical avian had developed a predilection towards disruption. She had irrevocably altered the channels she had visited, flaunting her status as an outsider. She had disregarded the genres and conventions that bound the pocket realities of this universe and held them in careful balance. Her actions drew the crackling static like a moth to a flame, to use a tired phrase. The static had recognized her as an outsider, a threat to be extinguished-- the static was just as much a force of destruction as it was of control, the control exerted and used to keep each channel in place and obeying its conventions.
And, while her sojourn voyage across channels could not be disrupted, her destination could be.
The static pulled together ethereal tendrils, weaving its way into the fabric of Kriok's destination. The tendrils brought with them the essence of the static-- the binding to conventions, the necessary fear of what was outside of channels. But the static instilled something else as well. The knowledge of the outsider, the snippets the static had gleamed from its presence and observation of her-- and from the knowledge that he had provided. This knowledge flowed into the channel, along with a hatred towards the outsider. With that seed installed, the tendrils retreated.
The static had exerted great effort to perform this action-- for now the outsider would be safe, were she capable of escaping her destination. She would not, however. The static was finality. It would consume and discard the outsider like it had done to so many others before her. The static was certain of its own success, of the relentless consumption it exerted.
In the space between channels, the static watched and observed and waited.
Kriok found herself in a crowded night-club, surrounded by a multiple of people. She looked around, attempting to re-orient herself to her new environment. The night-club seemed to permeate a sense of artificiality, like it was a carefully constructed environment.
"Excuse me, but could I interest you in temporarily lowering your inhibitions?"
The avian directed her attention to the source of the voice. The man speaking was a crude pastiche of idealized characteristics-- a mess of stubble, noticeably toned musculature, traits for others to emulate. There was also the bottle he carried-- somehow his most noticeable trait, accentuated above all else.
"I have no interest in whate--"
The man completely ignored her, swinging his free arm over her shoulders. He took an immense swig of beer, then turned and looked forward. He began to speak, as though addressing an imaginary audience.
"Yakov's Magma. A finer vodka."
"What are you doi--"
"When you want a vodka that's sure to impress the ladies--" the man's arm squeezed Kriok as he uttered that word "--then accept no substitutes."
Just as Kriok was about to voice a complaint, the man disappeared. The night-club and its occupants almost instantaneously reshaped themselves and morphed into a new locale-- this time, a verdant meadow-- rolling green grass, trees, and a silently rippling river serving as backdrop. The man from the night-club re-emerged, noticeably different.
For one thing, Kriok was positive that the man had not had sparse patches of feathers earlier. The mechanical augmentations were also new. Just as she was about to interrogate him, he began on a monologue, speaking to an imaginary camera and an imaginary audience.
"I'm not afraid to admit I was born biologically, but you don't need to have experienced that to know that something is wrong with our society."
The creature walked to the side, pausing. "Every day, thousands of uploaded intelligences download themselves to far-away planets, taking away the hard-earned jobs many have spent their lives working at. I think I speak for everyone when I say that the nerrin species--"
Kriok was befuddled. Had that man just referred to himself as a nerrin? Was she being mocked? How did this channel gain that knowledge? A thousand unanswerable questions ran across her mind.
"--cannot sustainably exist when we can't provide basic job security. If I am elected Megasenator--"
"That's not a real position."
The creature ignored Kriok's outburst.
"--then I will bring back stability and order to all levels of the nerrin. We were born strong. Let's work together to bring back the strength the natural order gave us. I'm William Harrison, and I approve of this message."
Before Kriok could object to the creature's mockery, there was another shift-- this time a parking lot. Rather than being filled with ground vehicles, there was an assortment of space vehicles in various states of disrepair. She recognized a good number of them-- one was an old lunar crater-hopper she used to pilot, another was a shuttle, and further away she could see one of the colossal bulk haulers she had served on.
"I'm Crazy Ralai, and I'm inviting you to come on down to Crazy Ralai's Used Vessel Lot!"
The hybrid between human and avian once again appeared, now sporting a beak, oddly mounted on a still human face. The creature was wearing a cheap suit, the stains only barely ironed out.
"Why are you mocking my species." Her comment was icy and accusatory, as well as completely unnoticed.
"Yes sir, we've got the lowest prices anywhere, guaranteed! We've got everything from inter-stellar yachts to used military destroyers, all in good condition. We're slashing prices-- no payments for nine planetary orbits! So come on down, but hurry! These deals won't last forever!"
"We don't even use the term 'planetary orbit', what are you tal--"
Another transition. An office, this time. There was a nerrin in front of her, silently talking and organizing paperwork. A booming voice surrounded her, disembodied and coming from everywhere at once.
"For over seventy planetary orbits, Ralai and Nayar have offered the latest insurance products for your inhabited body, domicile, inter-stellar vessel, civilization--"
"Shut up."
Kriok, already frustrated after dealing with the horrors of domestic comedy, had worn out her patience. She was not going to play along with this mockery, this disgrace of her heritage.
"--we know more than just insurance. We know our community. We'll take the time to know you. We'll be here when you need to insure your future, and be there when any sort of disaster occurs. So call us--"
"I said shut up!"
Without realizing it, Kriok had drawn the javelin launcher. She wasn't sure if she was consciously aware of what she was doing as she leveled it against the pseudo-nerrin, firing the javelin. It sent the creature flying backwards, nailing it to the wall. The bolt remained firmly lodged in the plasterboard, pinning the pseudo-nerrin. Blood leaked from the wound, seemingly flecked with static.
There was another shift-- an empty hospital. The pseudo-nerrin stared at Kriok as it began the script to another advertisement.
"Are you... worried about medical malpractice?" The pseudo-nerrin coughed, hacking up blood.
"Call toll-free our... expert lawyers if you're worried t-t-that you didn't get... your money's worth out of your latest i-i-implant procedure..."
Kriok aimed the javelin launcher once again, focusing on its head. She sealed her optics and pulled the trigger. She heard the explosion of gore, the crunch of bones, the utter destruction-- and then it was silent.
Save, perhaps, for the soft crackle of static.
Kriok was frightened. She had seen what this reality could do and she didn't like it. She was powerless and frightened and tired. She needed somewhere to lay low and hide and recuperate and get away from this nightmare.
Turning around, she saw a television. The channel showed a spaceship, flying between stars, before cutting to scenes of the crew conversing. She saw an opportunity there-- this channel was definitely not safe, and this new channel looked like one where she was not at risk of casually disrupting the carefully woven plot.
She hopped in. Her surroundings shifted and changed, now resembling a futuristic yet spartan bedroom. A woman was there-- her most noticeable adornment was her long blonde ponytail.
"My, you look awfully tired, don't you?"
Just as Tschichold was nearing the limits of his patience, Junior spoke-- surprisingly, not to mock the painter or his assigned mother or to further unnerve either of them.
"Something is wrong. Father is misbehaving."
His voice was monotone and his face clean of any expression. A mere half-second after he made his comment he stood up to leave, the Sheperdson couple following his example and likewise excusing themselves. The three of them left the dining room in formation, as though a wordless agreement had been made between the child and the caricatures of suburban life. The front door creaked open, the two adults leaving-- Kriok and Tschichold could see the static around the front entrance peeling away to let them pass. Junior turned around, looking at the bewildered alien and the painter.
"Don't think about leaving, Mommy. We still need to finish... dinner." His voice unnaturally stressed the last word, as though to emphasize his feelings on Kriok's cooking-- or lack of cooking, rather. Junior then left, the barriers of static folding themselves together to ensure the two contestants did not attempt to escape.
There was the distant sound of an engine starting, a car driving off, and then there was silence once more.
"...You're a terrible cook, just so you know."
Tschichold knew that wasn't the best way to end the awkward silence that had followed Junior's departure, but it was better than nothing-- and he had felt an overwhelming compulsion to inform Kriok just how colossal her failure to produce palatable cuisine was. The two of them had been stunned after Junior had left-- his words were haunting and almost compelled them to remain, as though the retribution for disobedience would be too great to fathom.
Kriok was too exasperated to disagree-- especially considering that the painter was right. She had no familiarity with the metabolic requirements of Tschichold or any of the humans, let alone familiarity with how to properly prepare meat. Artificially prepared food was so much easier to acquire on the rim when she occupied a biological body-- and that was rare compared to the amount of time she had spent living as a machine. Food was a topic she was utterly unknowledgeable in.
That entire thought process and recollection of memories was irrelevant. Her mind had too many irrelevant processes running and churning along in the background. They were so easy to accumulate with a mechanical mind-- what would be easily dismissed in a biological mind could receive a small portion of processing power and be examined while Kriok remained pre-occupied and focused on other tasks.
"We should leave." The statement was blunt, but there was not much else to say.
The two of them left the table, leaving the irradiated turkey and odd potato slurry to fester. They hastily entered the living room, rushing to the television. Kriok turned it on, hoping that Junior's absence would make escape possible.
For a brief moment, static was all that greeted them-- the sight and apparent failure of their plan nearly caused the two to resign themselves to Junior's fury. After a few seconds, however, the other channels began to re-assert themselves-- the television's reception was weak, admittedly, but it was just barely strong enough to allow Kriok and Tschichold to escape.
Under any other circumstances, Kriok would be more deliberate in her choice of channel. However, she was tired and frayed and just wanted to escape, to get away from this nightmare. As soon as a clear image developed, she leapt into the screen.
Tschichold, however, still had a modicum of caution about him. The memories of Kriok's savage butchery of the turkey was still fresh on his mind-- say nothing of her resigned compliance with that child's demands. He was going to give the mechanical hybrid a wide leeway for now-- she was dangerous enough with that mechanical arm, and no doubt temperamental enough to turn it against him. He quickly scanned the channels-- the crackle of static was enough of a reminder to him to hurry-- before settling on a channel.
And in an instant, he was gone.
While one of the transfers went unnoticed, the other drew scrutiny from the malevolent forces that bound and scoured the channels.
The mechanical avian had developed a predilection towards disruption. She had irrevocably altered the channels she had visited, flaunting her status as an outsider. She had disregarded the genres and conventions that bound the pocket realities of this universe and held them in careful balance. Her actions drew the crackling static like a moth to a flame, to use a tired phrase. The static had recognized her as an outsider, a threat to be extinguished-- the static was just as much a force of destruction as it was of control, the control exerted and used to keep each channel in place and obeying its conventions.
And, while her sojourn voyage across channels could not be disrupted, her destination could be.
The static pulled together ethereal tendrils, weaving its way into the fabric of Kriok's destination. The tendrils brought with them the essence of the static-- the binding to conventions, the necessary fear of what was outside of channels. But the static instilled something else as well. The knowledge of the outsider, the snippets the static had gleamed from its presence and observation of her-- and from the knowledge that he had provided. This knowledge flowed into the channel, along with a hatred towards the outsider. With that seed installed, the tendrils retreated.
The static had exerted great effort to perform this action-- for now the outsider would be safe, were she capable of escaping her destination. She would not, however. The static was finality. It would consume and discard the outsider like it had done to so many others before her. The static was certain of its own success, of the relentless consumption it exerted.
In the space between channels, the static watched and observed and waited.
Kriok found herself in a crowded night-club, surrounded by a multiple of people. She looked around, attempting to re-orient herself to her new environment. The night-club seemed to permeate a sense of artificiality, like it was a carefully constructed environment.
"Excuse me, but could I interest you in temporarily lowering your inhibitions?"
The avian directed her attention to the source of the voice. The man speaking was a crude pastiche of idealized characteristics-- a mess of stubble, noticeably toned musculature, traits for others to emulate. There was also the bottle he carried-- somehow his most noticeable trait, accentuated above all else.
"I have no interest in whate--"
The man completely ignored her, swinging his free arm over her shoulders. He took an immense swig of beer, then turned and looked forward. He began to speak, as though addressing an imaginary audience.
"Yakov's Magma. A finer vodka."
"What are you doi--"
"When you want a vodka that's sure to impress the ladies--" the man's arm squeezed Kriok as he uttered that word "--then accept no substitutes."
Just as Kriok was about to voice a complaint, the man disappeared. The night-club and its occupants almost instantaneously reshaped themselves and morphed into a new locale-- this time, a verdant meadow-- rolling green grass, trees, and a silently rippling river serving as backdrop. The man from the night-club re-emerged, noticeably different.
For one thing, Kriok was positive that the man had not had sparse patches of feathers earlier. The mechanical augmentations were also new. Just as she was about to interrogate him, he began on a monologue, speaking to an imaginary camera and an imaginary audience.
"I'm not afraid to admit I was born biologically, but you don't need to have experienced that to know that something is wrong with our society."
The creature walked to the side, pausing. "Every day, thousands of uploaded intelligences download themselves to far-away planets, taking away the hard-earned jobs many have spent their lives working at. I think I speak for everyone when I say that the nerrin species--"
Kriok was befuddled. Had that man just referred to himself as a nerrin? Was she being mocked? How did this channel gain that knowledge? A thousand unanswerable questions ran across her mind.
"--cannot sustainably exist when we can't provide basic job security. If I am elected Megasenator--"
"That's not a real position."
The creature ignored Kriok's outburst.
"--then I will bring back stability and order to all levels of the nerrin. We were born strong. Let's work together to bring back the strength the natural order gave us. I'm William Harrison, and I approve of this message."
Before Kriok could object to the creature's mockery, there was another shift-- this time a parking lot. Rather than being filled with ground vehicles, there was an assortment of space vehicles in various states of disrepair. She recognized a good number of them-- one was an old lunar crater-hopper she used to pilot, another was a shuttle, and further away she could see one of the colossal bulk haulers she had served on.
"I'm Crazy Ralai, and I'm inviting you to come on down to Crazy Ralai's Used Vessel Lot!"
The hybrid between human and avian once again appeared, now sporting a beak, oddly mounted on a still human face. The creature was wearing a cheap suit, the stains only barely ironed out.
"Why are you mocking my species." Her comment was icy and accusatory, as well as completely unnoticed.
"Yes sir, we've got the lowest prices anywhere, guaranteed! We've got everything from inter-stellar yachts to used military destroyers, all in good condition. We're slashing prices-- no payments for nine planetary orbits! So come on down, but hurry! These deals won't last forever!"
"We don't even use the term 'planetary orbit', what are you tal--"
Another transition. An office, this time. There was a nerrin in front of her, silently talking and organizing paperwork. A booming voice surrounded her, disembodied and coming from everywhere at once.
"For over seventy planetary orbits, Ralai and Nayar have offered the latest insurance products for your inhabited body, domicile, inter-stellar vessel, civilization--"
"Shut up."
Kriok, already frustrated after dealing with the horrors of domestic comedy, had worn out her patience. She was not going to play along with this mockery, this disgrace of her heritage.
"--we know more than just insurance. We know our community. We'll take the time to know you. We'll be here when you need to insure your future, and be there when any sort of disaster occurs. So call us--"
"I said shut up!"
Without realizing it, Kriok had drawn the javelin launcher. She wasn't sure if she was consciously aware of what she was doing as she leveled it against the pseudo-nerrin, firing the javelin. It sent the creature flying backwards, nailing it to the wall. The bolt remained firmly lodged in the plasterboard, pinning the pseudo-nerrin. Blood leaked from the wound, seemingly flecked with static.
There was another shift-- an empty hospital. The pseudo-nerrin stared at Kriok as it began the script to another advertisement.
"Are you... worried about medical malpractice?" The pseudo-nerrin coughed, hacking up blood.
"Call toll-free our... expert lawyers if you're worried t-t-that you didn't get... your money's worth out of your latest i-i-implant procedure..."
Kriok aimed the javelin launcher once again, focusing on its head. She sealed her optics and pulled the trigger. She heard the explosion of gore, the crunch of bones, the utter destruction-- and then it was silent.
Save, perhaps, for the soft crackle of static.
Kriok was frightened. She had seen what this reality could do and she didn't like it. She was powerless and frightened and tired. She needed somewhere to lay low and hide and recuperate and get away from this nightmare.
Turning around, she saw a television. The channel showed a spaceship, flying between stars, before cutting to scenes of the crew conversing. She saw an opportunity there-- this channel was definitely not safe, and this new channel looked like one where she was not at risk of casually disrupting the carefully woven plot.
She hopped in. Her surroundings shifted and changed, now resembling a futuristic yet spartan bedroom. A woman was there-- her most noticeable adornment was her long blonde ponytail.
"My, you look awfully tired, don't you?"