Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-22-2011, 03:49 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by The Deleter.
Alaster kept walking.
It had to get away from the fighting. It had to keep the boy safe. That was its purpose.
The sounds of the battle – a crack of a pistol, the whine of magic – echoed through the alleyway. Tim stirred, and then blinked awake.
“What’s going on?”
Alaster kept walking. It had to find a television.
Another magical whine. Timothy’s eyes widened.
“Alaster! What’s going on?”
The suit did not respond. There. A pawn shop. Closed for the night. The suit walked up, set Timothy down, and broke the glass window. The trainee wizard glanced over his shoulder, back towards the fighting, and then whipped back to the suit.
“We have to go back!”
Inside was a television on the counter. Obviously the owner watched it when there was no business to be had. Alaster stepped through the window and clattered through the store, pushing past the racks of old t-shirts and the boxes of antiques, and inspected it.
“Alaster! What about the lady? She could be hurt! We have to go back!”
Ah. It turned on here. Alaster pressed the power button, and then went back to the boy.
“No! Alaster, LISTEN TO ME!”
It picked the boy up, turned back, and walked back inside, heedless of what channel was currently showing.
“ALASTER!”
It went through.
---
Once upon a time…
Once, the world had been similar to what it was now. Things were simpler, of course. No clockwork people, no memory crystals. But it was a happy time. Peace. No wars, no racial tensions. A man would feel at home in company with a dwarf, a Bandar Log, or a Hearthkin. It wasn’t Utopia, but it was an inkling of one. Sure, there were still things like injustice and poverty and famine, but there was hope too. People were happy, or at least the average person was.
And then the Nameless Horror came. Teus liked the irony of its description, but that wasn’t pertinent.
It screamed from the stars, blind, confused, with a noise like thunder. It landed, its impact destroying life for hundreds of miles around. For years it blundered through the realms, howling its rage to the world, its body cutting through the soil like acid. It brought death and left wastelands behind. Nothing grew where it had been. It devoured armies in its jaws, broke siege engines beneath its bulk, melted through the greatest fortresses. Millions died. Millions more were left devastated, homeless, without family or friends, with nothing.
And then one man had approached the beast, raised his hands, and said a single word.
The history scrolls were confusing beyond that point, but since there wasn’t an abomination crawling around the Realms, it appeared to have worked.
As Teus watched the frantic action on the scrying glass, he wished he knew what that word was. It’d hopefully solve THIS problem. Things were out of control. Poor Bartlebus had been due a promotion for his sterling interrogation work to boot. He made a mental note to have someone fill out the usual condolences form.
He leant forward, speaking to the remaining warmages.
“The suit is escaping. Leave these people alone. Follow the suit!”
On his command, Jonah tuned his magical sight to the divine energy radiating from the suit, and saw it vanish in a rush of static. Swearing under his breath, he extended a hand.
“Mobil!”
A howl of wind, and suddenly the warmage was there. Abbadon turned, attempting to follow, but the loss of attention cost him his life as a bullet broke through the white breastplate.
Teus groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Make that two forms.
Jonah stared at the tv, and then shoved his hand into the screen and vanished as well.
The scrying glass blurred…
---
As soon as Alaster appeared on the roadside, Timothy broke from its grasp and dropped to the dirt at the side.
“Why didn’t you go back?!”
Alaster stopped in its stride. The boy sounded upset.
“You Were In Danger,” it buzzed. “My Purpose Is –“
“That lady was in danger!” Tim’s face was red and his eyes were screwed up. “She needed help! Those, those people were after her! You should have gone back!”
“The Female Would Have Harmed You.”
“SHE DIDN’T HURT ME! I WAS ALRIGHT, YOU DUMMY! WE HAVE TO GO BACK! WE HAVE TO HELP HER!”
“This Is A Death Tournament. You Will Be Killed.”
“GO BACK!”
Alaster looked around.
“Not Possible. There Are No Televisions Nearby.”
“FIND ONE!”
Alaster tried again. The boy was not being logical. Emotion was clouding his judgement.
“It Is Not Safe. I Cannot Risk Your Life. This Is A Death Tournament. She Would Surely Kill You If She Was Given The Chance.”
“I DON’T CARE! THEY WEREN’T EVEN PEOPLE BACK THERE! I CAN TELL! I’M ONLY EIGHT AND I WEAR STUPID POINTY SHOES AND I CAN TELL SOMETHING IS WRONG! THEY’LL HURT HER! I ORDER YOU TO GO BACK! I ORDER YOU!!”
Alaster remained silent for a while. Tim was breathing heavily. His eyes watered.
“Very Well.”
The suit kneeled, and hoisted Timothy up on its shoulder again. The boy looked… satisfied, perhaps.
“And no killing people. Those poll-ees people were fine. They’re… they’re not people. But don’t do it anymore, okay?”
“Very Well.”
They walked along the road for some time. Until the headlights appeared, that is.
---
Teus raised an eyebrow.
“Interesting.”
---
Due to the rules of stoner comedy, Jonah was now on a college campus, sprawled on a couch and completely stoned. Not that he minded.
He couldn’t help but think he was meant to do something, though.
And now he was hungry.
---
Three forms. It’d be easier that way.
---
Tschichold knew about suffering for art, but this was something else.
The word wobbled before his eyes. The paint-shade clutched the grass at the side of the road and waited for it to stop. It wouldn’t. He felt light-headed, too, and his limbs weren’t helping much. Oh, and the grass was far too long, and getting longer all the time. Damn hallucinations. Oh well, at least he was sober enough to know he was hallucinating. That counted for something, right?
“Go away,” he told the grass. It responded by turning a garish array of colours, a rainbow of bad taste wavering before his eyes.
“Stop it!”
It did.
The painter’s eye twitched.
“Goddamnit.”
And that was when Tim and Alaster found him, kneeling on the grass and muttering to himself.
“Um…”
Tim liked making friends. He didn’t have many at the castle. They called him names, like Yes-sick and Sick boy and No-parents. And Alaster had made things… better, but worse. So he liked meeting new people. He’d wanted to talk to the superhero lady, but Alaster wouldn’t let him. So maybe he could talk to this person!
But he looked weird. Tim clambered down from Alaster’s shoulder and stood, watching Tschichold carefully. Alaster’s eyeless gaze bored a hole somewhere on the horizon.
“Are you okay?” Tim ventured after a bit.
“No,” snapped Tschichold, “I’m not okay.”
The painter groaned again, and clutched his head. Who was this? He turned his head- oh, that wizard kid.
“Your robe is an awful colour,” he muttered.
“Really? You think so?”
“It is. It looks like a sack. I suppose the aesthetics are right for where you come from, but here you look like a bag. A bag of trash.”
Tschichold groaned and tried to make the dancing images stop. Tim looked down.
“I guess so,” he said, uncertain.
Alaster, meanwhile, stomped over to the car and peered inside. No, no television. There were, however, two figures in the back seat of the car, unmoving. The suit could not tell if they were dead or unconscious. They had been painted on, though. A lot. It doubted their clothes were actually that colour. And their mouths had been painted shut with thick layers of paint.
It made a mental note of this.
“Do you need any help, mister?”
Tschichold pushed himself up from his hands and knees, wobbled, and sat down again heavily. Paint pooled around him on the road.
“I’ll be- ”
He gagged and clapped a hand to his mouth. Then, very deliberately, he swallowed.
“No.”
Unfooled, Tim trotted over, and then reeled back at the fumes coming off of Tschichold. His face scrunched up.
“Phew! You smell funny, mister.”
“Smell can be art too,” replied the shade, and clutched his head again.
“And your shoes,” he added, as an afterthought. “Pointy shoes were out of fashion in the 1600’s. Seriously. I’m warning you, grass.”
Tim beamed. Someone else hated his shoes! That was great!
“We Need To Locate A Television,” boomed Alaster, studying the car.
Tschichold waved a hand vaguely in the air.
“Search me,” he groaned. “The idiots in the back were talking about going to a restaurant or something, though. God, their clothes were awful. And their voices! And they were high all the time! God, the smell ruins any work. Stop it, grass!”
“What does high mean?”
In response, Tschichold scooped a layer of green from his side and attempted to repaint the dead grass at the side of the road.
“This Vehicle Is Useless,” grunted Alaster. “Neither Timothy Or I Can Operate It.”
It pointed a finger at the busy painter.
“Can You Operate It?”
Tschichold looked up.
“Not now. Busy making art.”
He turned back, now working with a deep blue. Tim and Alaster stared as he worked. To be fair, his blending was spectacular, but the Switzerman didn’t appreciate this. It reached an iron hand down, picked up the painter and turned him around to face the automaton.
“You Will Drive-“
Tschichold wrenched himself out of Alaster’s grasp.
“I’m BUSY,” he snapped. “This grass won’t repaint itself, you know.”
“Alaster?”
Alaster looked around. Tim was wobbling.
“I don’t feel so good…” the boy complained. And then he toppled over.
Alaster smacked Tschichold aside, the painter yelping as he bounced off the car’s bonnet, and scooped Timothy up. The boy’s eyes were unfocused, and he looked pale. Perhaps he had inhaled some of the fumes coming from the shade. The mechanical man turned, glaring daggers at Tschichold, but the painter was now spreading the splatter of his paint across the hood of the car in a feverish attempt to make another creation.
Alaster pondered what to do next.
---
Genre panicked.
Comedy was hard to get right. Stoner Comedy even more so. And an eight-year-old getting high was NOT funny. On top of that, its main characters were out of action, and it couldn’t focus on the painter all day long. It had to find someone else. The movie had to continue along its assigned course. The show must go on.
And then it found someone.
---
Headlights became visible further down the road. They seemed to be weaving left and right.
Alaster looked up as they approached, accompanied by the sound of an engine being punished for its crimes. Perfect. Perhaps the driver would assist. Although their driving pattern was erratic…
And then Ablendan Blake, beside himself with joy at having found another car and enough road to drive as recklessly as he wanted, saw the figures on the road and stamped on the brake pedal. The engine howled in protest, choked and died. The tyres screeched. Smoke poured out of them.
By a dint of luck, the car had slowed just enough to make a comical “dink” noise as its front bumper connected with Alaster’s thighs.
Tschichold looked up from his work.
“Oh, it’s him again,” he said offhandedly, and went back to his painting.
Alaster kept walking.
It had to get away from the fighting. It had to keep the boy safe. That was its purpose.
The sounds of the battle – a crack of a pistol, the whine of magic – echoed through the alleyway. Tim stirred, and then blinked awake.
“What’s going on?”
Alaster kept walking. It had to find a television.
Another magical whine. Timothy’s eyes widened.
“Alaster! What’s going on?”
The suit did not respond. There. A pawn shop. Closed for the night. The suit walked up, set Timothy down, and broke the glass window. The trainee wizard glanced over his shoulder, back towards the fighting, and then whipped back to the suit.
“We have to go back!”
Inside was a television on the counter. Obviously the owner watched it when there was no business to be had. Alaster stepped through the window and clattered through the store, pushing past the racks of old t-shirts and the boxes of antiques, and inspected it.
“Alaster! What about the lady? She could be hurt! We have to go back!”
Ah. It turned on here. Alaster pressed the power button, and then went back to the boy.
“No! Alaster, LISTEN TO ME!”
It picked the boy up, turned back, and walked back inside, heedless of what channel was currently showing.
“ALASTER!”
It went through.
---
Once upon a time…
Once, the world had been similar to what it was now. Things were simpler, of course. No clockwork people, no memory crystals. But it was a happy time. Peace. No wars, no racial tensions. A man would feel at home in company with a dwarf, a Bandar Log, or a Hearthkin. It wasn’t Utopia, but it was an inkling of one. Sure, there were still things like injustice and poverty and famine, but there was hope too. People were happy, or at least the average person was.
And then the Nameless Horror came. Teus liked the irony of its description, but that wasn’t pertinent.
It screamed from the stars, blind, confused, with a noise like thunder. It landed, its impact destroying life for hundreds of miles around. For years it blundered through the realms, howling its rage to the world, its body cutting through the soil like acid. It brought death and left wastelands behind. Nothing grew where it had been. It devoured armies in its jaws, broke siege engines beneath its bulk, melted through the greatest fortresses. Millions died. Millions more were left devastated, homeless, without family or friends, with nothing.
And then one man had approached the beast, raised his hands, and said a single word.
The history scrolls were confusing beyond that point, but since there wasn’t an abomination crawling around the Realms, it appeared to have worked.
As Teus watched the frantic action on the scrying glass, he wished he knew what that word was. It’d hopefully solve THIS problem. Things were out of control. Poor Bartlebus had been due a promotion for his sterling interrogation work to boot. He made a mental note to have someone fill out the usual condolences form.
He leant forward, speaking to the remaining warmages.
“The suit is escaping. Leave these people alone. Follow the suit!”
On his command, Jonah tuned his magical sight to the divine energy radiating from the suit, and saw it vanish in a rush of static. Swearing under his breath, he extended a hand.
“Mobil!”
A howl of wind, and suddenly the warmage was there. Abbadon turned, attempting to follow, but the loss of attention cost him his life as a bullet broke through the white breastplate.
Teus groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Make that two forms.
Jonah stared at the tv, and then shoved his hand into the screen and vanished as well.
The scrying glass blurred…
---
As soon as Alaster appeared on the roadside, Timothy broke from its grasp and dropped to the dirt at the side.
“Why didn’t you go back?!”
Alaster stopped in its stride. The boy sounded upset.
“You Were In Danger,” it buzzed. “My Purpose Is –“
“That lady was in danger!” Tim’s face was red and his eyes were screwed up. “She needed help! Those, those people were after her! You should have gone back!”
“The Female Would Have Harmed You.”
“SHE DIDN’T HURT ME! I WAS ALRIGHT, YOU DUMMY! WE HAVE TO GO BACK! WE HAVE TO HELP HER!”
“This Is A Death Tournament. You Will Be Killed.”
“GO BACK!”
Alaster looked around.
“Not Possible. There Are No Televisions Nearby.”
“FIND ONE!”
Alaster tried again. The boy was not being logical. Emotion was clouding his judgement.
“It Is Not Safe. I Cannot Risk Your Life. This Is A Death Tournament. She Would Surely Kill You If She Was Given The Chance.”
“I DON’T CARE! THEY WEREN’T EVEN PEOPLE BACK THERE! I CAN TELL! I’M ONLY EIGHT AND I WEAR STUPID POINTY SHOES AND I CAN TELL SOMETHING IS WRONG! THEY’LL HURT HER! I ORDER YOU TO GO BACK! I ORDER YOU!!”
Alaster remained silent for a while. Tim was breathing heavily. His eyes watered.
“Very Well.”
The suit kneeled, and hoisted Timothy up on its shoulder again. The boy looked… satisfied, perhaps.
“And no killing people. Those poll-ees people were fine. They’re… they’re not people. But don’t do it anymore, okay?”
“Very Well.”
They walked along the road for some time. Until the headlights appeared, that is.
---
Teus raised an eyebrow.
“Interesting.”
---
Due to the rules of stoner comedy, Jonah was now on a college campus, sprawled on a couch and completely stoned. Not that he minded.
He couldn’t help but think he was meant to do something, though.
And now he was hungry.
---
Three forms. It’d be easier that way.
---
Tschichold knew about suffering for art, but this was something else.
The word wobbled before his eyes. The paint-shade clutched the grass at the side of the road and waited for it to stop. It wouldn’t. He felt light-headed, too, and his limbs weren’t helping much. Oh, and the grass was far too long, and getting longer all the time. Damn hallucinations. Oh well, at least he was sober enough to know he was hallucinating. That counted for something, right?
“Go away,” he told the grass. It responded by turning a garish array of colours, a rainbow of bad taste wavering before his eyes.
“Stop it!”
It did.
The painter’s eye twitched.
“Goddamnit.”
And that was when Tim and Alaster found him, kneeling on the grass and muttering to himself.
“Um…”
Tim liked making friends. He didn’t have many at the castle. They called him names, like Yes-sick and Sick boy and No-parents. And Alaster had made things… better, but worse. So he liked meeting new people. He’d wanted to talk to the superhero lady, but Alaster wouldn’t let him. So maybe he could talk to this person!
But he looked weird. Tim clambered down from Alaster’s shoulder and stood, watching Tschichold carefully. Alaster’s eyeless gaze bored a hole somewhere on the horizon.
“Are you okay?” Tim ventured after a bit.
“No,” snapped Tschichold, “I’m not okay.”
The painter groaned again, and clutched his head. Who was this? He turned his head- oh, that wizard kid.
“Your robe is an awful colour,” he muttered.
“Really? You think so?”
“It is. It looks like a sack. I suppose the aesthetics are right for where you come from, but here you look like a bag. A bag of trash.”
Tschichold groaned and tried to make the dancing images stop. Tim looked down.
“I guess so,” he said, uncertain.
Alaster, meanwhile, stomped over to the car and peered inside. No, no television. There were, however, two figures in the back seat of the car, unmoving. The suit could not tell if they were dead or unconscious. They had been painted on, though. A lot. It doubted their clothes were actually that colour. And their mouths had been painted shut with thick layers of paint.
It made a mental note of this.
“Do you need any help, mister?”
Tschichold pushed himself up from his hands and knees, wobbled, and sat down again heavily. Paint pooled around him on the road.
“I’ll be- ”
He gagged and clapped a hand to his mouth. Then, very deliberately, he swallowed.
“No.”
Unfooled, Tim trotted over, and then reeled back at the fumes coming off of Tschichold. His face scrunched up.
“Phew! You smell funny, mister.”
“Smell can be art too,” replied the shade, and clutched his head again.
“And your shoes,” he added, as an afterthought. “Pointy shoes were out of fashion in the 1600’s. Seriously. I’m warning you, grass.”
Tim beamed. Someone else hated his shoes! That was great!
“We Need To Locate A Television,” boomed Alaster, studying the car.
Tschichold waved a hand vaguely in the air.
“Search me,” he groaned. “The idiots in the back were talking about going to a restaurant or something, though. God, their clothes were awful. And their voices! And they were high all the time! God, the smell ruins any work. Stop it, grass!”
“What does high mean?”
In response, Tschichold scooped a layer of green from his side and attempted to repaint the dead grass at the side of the road.
“This Vehicle Is Useless,” grunted Alaster. “Neither Timothy Or I Can Operate It.”
It pointed a finger at the busy painter.
“Can You Operate It?”
Tschichold looked up.
“Not now. Busy making art.”
He turned back, now working with a deep blue. Tim and Alaster stared as he worked. To be fair, his blending was spectacular, but the Switzerman didn’t appreciate this. It reached an iron hand down, picked up the painter and turned him around to face the automaton.
“You Will Drive-“
Tschichold wrenched himself out of Alaster’s grasp.
“I’m BUSY,” he snapped. “This grass won’t repaint itself, you know.”
“Alaster?”
Alaster looked around. Tim was wobbling.
“I don’t feel so good…” the boy complained. And then he toppled over.
Alaster smacked Tschichold aside, the painter yelping as he bounced off the car’s bonnet, and scooped Timothy up. The boy’s eyes were unfocused, and he looked pale. Perhaps he had inhaled some of the fumes coming from the shade. The mechanical man turned, glaring daggers at Tschichold, but the painter was now spreading the splatter of his paint across the hood of the car in a feverish attempt to make another creation.
Alaster pondered what to do next.
---
Genre panicked.
Comedy was hard to get right. Stoner Comedy even more so. And an eight-year-old getting high was NOT funny. On top of that, its main characters were out of action, and it couldn’t focus on the painter all day long. It had to find someone else. The movie had to continue along its assigned course. The show must go on.
And then it found someone.
---
Headlights became visible further down the road. They seemed to be weaving left and right.
Alaster looked up as they approached, accompanied by the sound of an engine being punished for its crimes. Perfect. Perhaps the driver would assist. Although their driving pattern was erratic…
And then Ablendan Blake, beside himself with joy at having found another car and enough road to drive as recklessly as he wanted, saw the figures on the road and stamped on the brake pedal. The engine howled in protest, choked and died. The tyres screeched. Smoke poured out of them.
By a dint of luck, the car had slowed just enough to make a comical “dink” noise as its front bumper connected with Alaster’s thighs.
Tschichold looked up from his work.
“Oh, it’s him again,” he said offhandedly, and went back to his painting.