Re: The Savage Brawl [Round 1: Afterlife]
02-19-2010, 10:11 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.
Hoss does not immediately focus on the strange (and possibly human) woman, nor does he give much attention to his fellow contestants. Hoss, you see, is distracted by the critical failure of nearly all of his internal systems.
When the Cultivator ripped Hoss from his universe, every microwormhole link which fed his various internal generators and provided him with reaction mass was cut off. Snapped, in fact. Catastrophically.
Wormholes, being tightly interwoven threads of gravitational stress-bands, are best shut down sequentially; each thread must be carefully "untied" from the collective knot, otherwise Bad Things happen.
Bad Things, unfortunately for Hoss, have happened. The multitude of stress-bands whip apart, spewing reaction mass, plasma, and various other exotic substances used to power and contain Hoss's intricate insides. Within microseconds, his teleportation capabilities, graviton generators, and holographic projectors are offline. Hoss uses what little power he can spare to activate his internal newmatter fabricators, which begin a repair sequence, attempting to contain the worst of the damage.
As Hoss takes in his internal damage report, one entry stands out, eliciting a mental curse:
Magnetic Containment failing
The as-of-yet untold damage wreaked upon his cybernetic organs has penetrated Hoss's "heart"; a miniature black hole. Should the magnetic containment fail, the black hole would no longer maintain its static position, and come screaming out Hoss's body along an unpredictable path, before detonating in a blast of Hawking radiation.
Hoss desperately battles with failing power conduits, runaway feedback loops, and dwindling newmatter supplies to stabilize his fluttering "heart".
It is, however, not enough. A stray alpha particle smashes through a critical feed system, and Hoss's overall power levels drop drastically. He can no longer maintain the black hole as a viable power source, and must sever all systems which draw power from it, diverting its remaining anti-matter "fuel" to the newmatter fabricators, which use this last burst of power to repair the black hole's magnetic containment field.
Having lost his "heart", Hoss switches to his backup fusion generator as he regains control over his body. He reluctantly performs a final systems check, already knowing what he'll find: a miniature black hole sitting in his chest, dormant, useless. An empty newmatter supply. Over 80% of his, previously formidable, systems offline. It is, however, the final item which moves Hoss to feel something he had not felt in eons: fear.
In the struggle to repair the unintentional devastation caused by the Cultivator's trans-universal abduction, Hoss was limited by what little reaction mass and power he had with him just after he lost his wormhole links. He used most of his reserves to prevent his immediate and violent death. Unfortunately, this means that his backup fusion generator is left with... well, very little. As Hoss glares at his remaining estimated operational endurance, an endurance measured in mere hours, one thing becomes clear: Hoss's first priority is to find more reaction mass.
It is at this point that Hoss brings his awareness back to the outside world.
Hoss is alone, on a featureless shore. In front of him is an impenetrably black body of water. Normally, Hoss would simply scan his surroundings for viable materials, but that would take too much power. He is reduced to a manual search. Hoss points himself in an arbitrary direction, and begins walking; as he does so, he begins to play back all that his external sensory pickups had recorded since the... event, and after only a few seconds, nearly staggers in shock.
Humans!
Glorious, bipedal, organic, living breathing humans!
It takes Hoss little time to guess how this might be possible. The fact that his wormhole links had been severed pointed towards a... vacation... from his universe. Hoss spares some processing power to scold himself for never once considering that a multiverse might exist; that maybe the seed of humanity could be spread not just through one universe, but through every universe.
He is not sure about man the Cultivator called "Calm"; a deal with "the devil" is mentioned. Hoss digs back through millions of years of data, to an entry from pre-Diaspora Earth, regarding an extinct mass-delusion known as "Religion"; several versions of this delusion referenced something known as a "devil" or "The Devil". If Calm truly made a deal with such a being, and this being actually exists in Calm's universe, his humanity is therefore cast into doubt; true Humans make do without the supernatural. The same conclusion is reached for "Diego", leaving Hoss's current viable target, the self-proclaimed "Dr. Anarchy", the subject of Hoss's machinations.
Hoss continues walking, a veritable saunter creeping into his previously mechanical gait, and what might be the shadow of a grin passing over his face. An observer may not know it, but Hoss is pleased.
Hand of Silver, formerly last of the Human Race, destitute of goals and species, has a purpose once more.
Hoss does not immediately focus on the strange (and possibly human) woman, nor does he give much attention to his fellow contestants. Hoss, you see, is distracted by the critical failure of nearly all of his internal systems.
When the Cultivator ripped Hoss from his universe, every microwormhole link which fed his various internal generators and provided him with reaction mass was cut off. Snapped, in fact. Catastrophically.
Wormholes, being tightly interwoven threads of gravitational stress-bands, are best shut down sequentially; each thread must be carefully "untied" from the collective knot, otherwise Bad Things happen.
Bad Things, unfortunately for Hoss, have happened. The multitude of stress-bands whip apart, spewing reaction mass, plasma, and various other exotic substances used to power and contain Hoss's intricate insides. Within microseconds, his teleportation capabilities, graviton generators, and holographic projectors are offline. Hoss uses what little power he can spare to activate his internal newmatter fabricators, which begin a repair sequence, attempting to contain the worst of the damage.
As Hoss takes in his internal damage report, one entry stands out, eliciting a mental curse:
Magnetic Containment failing
The as-of-yet untold damage wreaked upon his cybernetic organs has penetrated Hoss's "heart"; a miniature black hole. Should the magnetic containment fail, the black hole would no longer maintain its static position, and come screaming out Hoss's body along an unpredictable path, before detonating in a blast of Hawking radiation.
Hoss desperately battles with failing power conduits, runaway feedback loops, and dwindling newmatter supplies to stabilize his fluttering "heart".
It is, however, not enough. A stray alpha particle smashes through a critical feed system, and Hoss's overall power levels drop drastically. He can no longer maintain the black hole as a viable power source, and must sever all systems which draw power from it, diverting its remaining anti-matter "fuel" to the newmatter fabricators, which use this last burst of power to repair the black hole's magnetic containment field.
Having lost his "heart", Hoss switches to his backup fusion generator as he regains control over his body. He reluctantly performs a final systems check, already knowing what he'll find: a miniature black hole sitting in his chest, dormant, useless. An empty newmatter supply. Over 80% of his, previously formidable, systems offline. It is, however, the final item which moves Hoss to feel something he had not felt in eons: fear.
In the struggle to repair the unintentional devastation caused by the Cultivator's trans-universal abduction, Hoss was limited by what little reaction mass and power he had with him just after he lost his wormhole links. He used most of his reserves to prevent his immediate and violent death. Unfortunately, this means that his backup fusion generator is left with... well, very little. As Hoss glares at his remaining estimated operational endurance, an endurance measured in mere hours, one thing becomes clear: Hoss's first priority is to find more reaction mass.
It is at this point that Hoss brings his awareness back to the outside world.
Hoss is alone, on a featureless shore. In front of him is an impenetrably black body of water. Normally, Hoss would simply scan his surroundings for viable materials, but that would take too much power. He is reduced to a manual search. Hoss points himself in an arbitrary direction, and begins walking; as he does so, he begins to play back all that his external sensory pickups had recorded since the... event, and after only a few seconds, nearly staggers in shock.
Humans!
Glorious, bipedal, organic, living breathing humans!
It takes Hoss little time to guess how this might be possible. The fact that his wormhole links had been severed pointed towards a... vacation... from his universe. Hoss spares some processing power to scold himself for never once considering that a multiverse might exist; that maybe the seed of humanity could be spread not just through one universe, but through every universe.
He is not sure about man the Cultivator called "Calm"; a deal with "the devil" is mentioned. Hoss digs back through millions of years of data, to an entry from pre-Diaspora Earth, regarding an extinct mass-delusion known as "Religion"; several versions of this delusion referenced something known as a "devil" or "The Devil". If Calm truly made a deal with such a being, and this being actually exists in Calm's universe, his humanity is therefore cast into doubt; true Humans make do without the supernatural. The same conclusion is reached for "Diego", leaving Hoss's current viable target, the self-proclaimed "Dr. Anarchy", the subject of Hoss's machinations.
Hoss continues walking, a veritable saunter creeping into his previously mechanical gait, and what might be the shadow of a grin passing over his face. An observer may not know it, but Hoss is pleased.
Hand of Silver, formerly last of the Human Race, destitute of goals and species, has a purpose once more.