Re: The Savage Brawl [Round 4: Small 50s Town]
05-11-2012, 09:45 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
Deep within a cluttered dimension, the Cultivator examined a Chinese finger trap. This particular finger trap was stuck firmly to her fingers. She pulled at it slightly and the trap tightened. After examining the way the weave moved as she pulled, the Cultivator scrawled down a few notes on a notepad that would soon be buried and forgotten forever.
Suddenly, she looked up, a lack of sound having caught her attention. The Cultivator casually swiveled around in her chair to see the imposing figure of the Composer. While the Composer mostly stared at others with stern haughtiness, she seemed to stare down at the Cultivator with…deference. A slight deference, in any case.
“Hi, Posey!” The Cultivator chirruped. The Composer did not even twitch. She continued to stare silently down as the long-haired grandmaster continued pulling at the finger trap. “How’s life, the universe, and stuff treating ya?”
“I am fine,” the Composer replied, brushing past the swivel chair to bring up several alert messages that had been flashing on the multi-screen computer the whole time. “I came to see how you were doing.”
The Cultivator didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Instead, she held up the finger trap that clutched her fingers so tight with pride. “Lookit this! I’m trying to figure out stuff about the weave, ‘cause I’m pretty sure that’s what makes it tighter when you pull, but—“
The finger trap disappeared and the Cultivator stared at the empty space, slightly disappointed. “Pooosseey, that’s not niiiiice.”
“I want to talk seriously, Cultivator.”
“You can talk seriously! But wait, you haven’t been here for a while, I wanna show you this thing I learned—“
“I’m sorry, Cultivator, but it will have to wait until later. There are more important things to talk about.”
And finally, the Cultivator dropped her silly grin. “Yeah. Uh. I guess.”
The Composer raised a flourished arm to gesture at the many screens. “You do realize that you are not attending to your battle as much as you should, correct?”
The Cultivator shifted guiltily in her chair. “Yeah. I guess.”
“In fact, I do believe you even attempted to pass your battle on to a lowly machine.” Finally, the disdain and loathing the Composer was well-known for showed itself. She almost spat out the last word.
“Posey,” The Cultivator interjected, managing to make the nickname sound rather stern. “Manny’s not a bad guy.”
And with that, the Composer backed down. “Excuse me. It still does not change the fact that you shouldn’t have given your battle to that—the Monitor.”
“Yeah, I know,” the Cultivator sighed, spinning forlornly in her chair. “I guess I just panicked? I mean, the thing was done so fast and I didn’t really have anything prepared.” As the Composer watched, she couldn’t help but note that this was the most adult the Cultivator had ever seemed. Regret. An acknowledgement of her mistake.
And then she ruined that image by leaning back in her chair like a dead fish and moaning, “I just don’t wanna do this anymoooooorrre.”
“But you must,” the Composer urged. “You have a responsibility.”
“I knoooooooow,” she replied, accenting her whine with a spin of her chair. “But it’s haaaaaard.”
The Composer was about to say something else but she stopped herself, realizing that responding would just make the conversation continue on in a circle that she did not want to tread. So instead, she stepped aside and thought. She thought about how to handle a child.
She hated children.
The Cultivator was already fiddling with the finger trap again.
She thought about all the alarms and bells and whistles and she thought about what was almost certain to happen quite soon. “Is that another pile of trinkets added to your overall collection?” The Composer suddenly said, pointing at random.
“Yeah, it is.” The Cultivator beamed. Apparently, she had thought nobody would notice. Which was true. “Hey, I can show you all this stuff and stuff!”
“No need, I can find my way there myself. I will be sure to ask if I need a tour.” And the Composer was gone, sort of. She was unshakably there, or at least there was an aura of there-ness that smelled of her, but she was away too. The Composer’s there-ness left a clear trail.
The Cultivator rose halfway out of her seat to show her guest around anyways, then decided against it, figuring that Posey was already a grumpyface already, she didn’t need her host suddenly getting in the way or anything. And she toyed with the finger trap.
And alarms and bells and whistles started ringing.
Certain events played out that had been described before and, having taken care of that, the Cultivator came back home in a Mood, crumpling a yellow note in her hand. The Composer was there.
“Is there something wrong?” the guest said politely, though she knew what was wrong.
“Butting into things! I had a guest!” she fumed. Even angry, the Cultivator didn’t seem entirely serious. “That was really rude! Totally embarrassing!”
“But of course, you know that to prevent these sort of things, you have to take better care of your battles.”
“I’ll take better care of someone, alright…”
“Focus on the first problem,” the Composer said in the most consoling and calming tone she could muster. At the same time, she was somewhat amazed to find the Cultivator actually muttering and puzzled over whether the muttering was actually threatening in any way. “The Savage Brawl must be properly managed by its proper mistress.”
The Cultivator seemed to deflate and at first, the Composer thought she would collapse and whine again. But, happy surprise, she said, “Yeah, I know.”
“I would be happy to lend my help--“ the Composer stumbled a bit in surprise, but only once, “—anything you need.” As she had hoped, the Cultivator didn’t notice.
“Yeah,” she replied glumly. “Can’t say I know how to keep out pesky Ghosts.”
“I was actually talking more of your contestants.”
The Cultivator took the time to raise an eyebrow at her friend. “You don’t think I can handle my contestants?”
Had she been a less domineering individual, the Composer might have taken a deep breath before continuing. Yes, there had been many reasons for this visit, but this was the heart of it…
“I’m worried.”
The Cultivator waved a hand around. “Don’t be. If anything, I can at least handle them.”
The Composer nodded. “Still. I am. It’s hard to hear them darkly mutter and plot your downfall while you do nothing in response.”
“Plot?” the Cultivator repeated, brightening a little. She didn’t even know. Of course. The Composer had expected this, but really, it didn’t make it less frustrating. The Cultivator waved her hand again. “Oh come on, plotting’s part of what these things’re all about, right? They’re angry, they want to get back at me, they plot, they fail…”
It really was amazing that, despite her natural curiosity, she couldn’t even keep up with recent news. The Composer bit back a contradiction. Instead, she said: “One of them was trying to possess you.”
The long-haired woman’s response was, “Cool.” The Composer didn’t see it her way. “So which one was that?”
The Composer glanced at the screen. “I believe he has just died by coffee.”
“What? Oh darn. Oh well. I guess that means I have to get back to work then!” she laughed. “So thanks a lot, Posey, really. I mean, you’re really busy, aren’t you? I’m really flattered you came. It’s always good to see you, y’know?”
“I’m not leaving yet. I want to make sure you have your next rounds prepared.”
The Cultivator’s face dropped. “Oh.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene shifted. The ruined suburb rebuilt itself, then grew taller and sprawled wider across the surrounding land. There was a sudden increase in concrete and a sudden decrease in plant life. The city shone dully with metal and glass, crowding and piercing the sky, while the streets seemed to grow almost claustrophobic, despite the lack of people around.
The city was definitely rather hi-tech, or at least it had the air of hi-techiness all about it. There were visible cameras lining the streets and drab revolving posters listing the ways to spot criminals and the places to report them. Others listed various reminders of rules and mandatory inspections.
“Okay, right, hi again, it’s me. So, let’s see…this is, Battl – oh no, um, I mean…Grandtopia. Yeah, let’s go with that. It’s not quite a free country here in Grandtopia because, um, it’s not a country. It’s obviously smaller than that. The point is, it’s a total police state. Police city? Dystopia. Right now, worth noting, curfew hasn’t quite ended yet. I mean, it will, in like a short while, just beware of the curfew enforcers. In that short while.
“Interesting thing about this place, though, is that all the inhabitants are from other battles! Hm, wait, did I tell you about other battles already? Or did you all figure that out? Hm. I forgot. I guess if you didn’t know, then surprise? But yeah, they aren’t the actual people from other battles, just copies and stuff. You can go hang out with them. Or kill them.
“Hm…Grandtopia actually kinda sounds stupid…maybe…Battletopia? That sounds better, yeah.
“Okay is there anything else I need to say? I guess if there is, I’ll tell you later.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Isn’t this just Battleopolis? Again?”
The Cultivator failed to wilt under the Composer’s gaze. “Hey, it was really short notice, I can be lazy if I didn’t have much time, can’t I? Besides, I totally changed things. It’s different. It’s called Battletopia.”
“Also, you have accidentally also transported two beings unrelated to the battle.”
The Cultivator blinked before leaning forward and pressing an intercom button. “Also there’s a new contestant who isssssss…”
“Soulmother Ajota,” she sighed.
“Soulmother Ajota! Yes. And also…”
The Composer rubbed her forehead. “A dog.”
“A dog? Really? Okay dogs don’t count, never mind that. So play nice, haha. That was a joke. Right, I’m gonna stop talking for real now.”
As the Cultivator leaned back in her chair triumphantly, her grandmasterly comrade continued to stare pointedly.
“Well? You do realize that now you must start planning out your next rounds, correct? I’m not going to allow you to procrastinate again.”
“Hey, I’m totally planning! This is my thinking pose. Leaning back. And swiveling around for a bit. Like this. It means I’m thinking.”
“Actually, before you…think too long, I believe you have another obligation to fulfill. Just so that you do not have to owe anything…”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Monitor was somewhat surprised to be greeted at his desk by a large stack of plastic cases. Or rather, that he was there to greet a large stack of plastic cases that suddenly appeared at his desk. A short examination revealed all of them to be video games. Specifically, video games that he had believed to be lost forever, in a state of eternal borrowment. The robotic figure took down the first one of the stack and read the short note taped on the cover.
It said: ’From Culty with love.’
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“…Cultivator.”
“Hm?” She looked up from her notebook. The Composer stared uncertainly to the side.
“If…if you were the victim of a wrong committed against you a long, long time ago and, say, just recently you’ve found out the perpetrator…what would you do?”
The Cultivator swiveled. “I mean, if it was a long, loooooong time ago, then why worry about it? Like, if you’re totally fine now, then no use thinking about things all the way back, right? It’s probably all worked out or something anyways.”
The Composer grimaced but said nothing else.
Deep within a cluttered dimension, the Cultivator examined a Chinese finger trap. This particular finger trap was stuck firmly to her fingers. She pulled at it slightly and the trap tightened. After examining the way the weave moved as she pulled, the Cultivator scrawled down a few notes on a notepad that would soon be buried and forgotten forever.
Suddenly, she looked up, a lack of sound having caught her attention. The Cultivator casually swiveled around in her chair to see the imposing figure of the Composer. While the Composer mostly stared at others with stern haughtiness, she seemed to stare down at the Cultivator with…deference. A slight deference, in any case.
“Hi, Posey!” The Cultivator chirruped. The Composer did not even twitch. She continued to stare silently down as the long-haired grandmaster continued pulling at the finger trap. “How’s life, the universe, and stuff treating ya?”
“I am fine,” the Composer replied, brushing past the swivel chair to bring up several alert messages that had been flashing on the multi-screen computer the whole time. “I came to see how you were doing.”
The Cultivator didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Instead, she held up the finger trap that clutched her fingers so tight with pride. “Lookit this! I’m trying to figure out stuff about the weave, ‘cause I’m pretty sure that’s what makes it tighter when you pull, but—“
The finger trap disappeared and the Cultivator stared at the empty space, slightly disappointed. “Pooosseey, that’s not niiiiice.”
“I want to talk seriously, Cultivator.”
“You can talk seriously! But wait, you haven’t been here for a while, I wanna show you this thing I learned—“
“I’m sorry, Cultivator, but it will have to wait until later. There are more important things to talk about.”
And finally, the Cultivator dropped her silly grin. “Yeah. Uh. I guess.”
The Composer raised a flourished arm to gesture at the many screens. “You do realize that you are not attending to your battle as much as you should, correct?”
The Cultivator shifted guiltily in her chair. “Yeah. I guess.”
“In fact, I do believe you even attempted to pass your battle on to a lowly machine.” Finally, the disdain and loathing the Composer was well-known for showed itself. She almost spat out the last word.
“Posey,” The Cultivator interjected, managing to make the nickname sound rather stern. “Manny’s not a bad guy.”
And with that, the Composer backed down. “Excuse me. It still does not change the fact that you shouldn’t have given your battle to that—the Monitor.”
“Yeah, I know,” the Cultivator sighed, spinning forlornly in her chair. “I guess I just panicked? I mean, the thing was done so fast and I didn’t really have anything prepared.” As the Composer watched, she couldn’t help but note that this was the most adult the Cultivator had ever seemed. Regret. An acknowledgement of her mistake.
And then she ruined that image by leaning back in her chair like a dead fish and moaning, “I just don’t wanna do this anymoooooorrre.”
“But you must,” the Composer urged. “You have a responsibility.”
“I knoooooooow,” she replied, accenting her whine with a spin of her chair. “But it’s haaaaaard.”
The Composer was about to say something else but she stopped herself, realizing that responding would just make the conversation continue on in a circle that she did not want to tread. So instead, she stepped aside and thought. She thought about how to handle a child.
She hated children.
The Cultivator was already fiddling with the finger trap again.
She thought about all the alarms and bells and whistles and she thought about what was almost certain to happen quite soon. “Is that another pile of trinkets added to your overall collection?” The Composer suddenly said, pointing at random.
“Yeah, it is.” The Cultivator beamed. Apparently, she had thought nobody would notice. Which was true. “Hey, I can show you all this stuff and stuff!”
“No need, I can find my way there myself. I will be sure to ask if I need a tour.” And the Composer was gone, sort of. She was unshakably there, or at least there was an aura of there-ness that smelled of her, but she was away too. The Composer’s there-ness left a clear trail.
The Cultivator rose halfway out of her seat to show her guest around anyways, then decided against it, figuring that Posey was already a grumpyface already, she didn’t need her host suddenly getting in the way or anything. And she toyed with the finger trap.
And alarms and bells and whistles started ringing.
Certain events played out that had been described before and, having taken care of that, the Cultivator came back home in a Mood, crumpling a yellow note in her hand. The Composer was there.
“Is there something wrong?” the guest said politely, though she knew what was wrong.
“Butting into things! I had a guest!” she fumed. Even angry, the Cultivator didn’t seem entirely serious. “That was really rude! Totally embarrassing!”
“But of course, you know that to prevent these sort of things, you have to take better care of your battles.”
“I’ll take better care of someone, alright…”
“Focus on the first problem,” the Composer said in the most consoling and calming tone she could muster. At the same time, she was somewhat amazed to find the Cultivator actually muttering and puzzled over whether the muttering was actually threatening in any way. “The Savage Brawl must be properly managed by its proper mistress.”
The Cultivator seemed to deflate and at first, the Composer thought she would collapse and whine again. But, happy surprise, she said, “Yeah, I know.”
“I would be happy to lend my help--“ the Composer stumbled a bit in surprise, but only once, “—anything you need.” As she had hoped, the Cultivator didn’t notice.
“Yeah,” she replied glumly. “Can’t say I know how to keep out pesky Ghosts.”
“I was actually talking more of your contestants.”
The Cultivator took the time to raise an eyebrow at her friend. “You don’t think I can handle my contestants?”
Had she been a less domineering individual, the Composer might have taken a deep breath before continuing. Yes, there had been many reasons for this visit, but this was the heart of it…
“I’m worried.”
The Cultivator waved a hand around. “Don’t be. If anything, I can at least handle them.”
The Composer nodded. “Still. I am. It’s hard to hear them darkly mutter and plot your downfall while you do nothing in response.”
“Plot?” the Cultivator repeated, brightening a little. She didn’t even know. Of course. The Composer had expected this, but really, it didn’t make it less frustrating. The Cultivator waved her hand again. “Oh come on, plotting’s part of what these things’re all about, right? They’re angry, they want to get back at me, they plot, they fail…”
It really was amazing that, despite her natural curiosity, she couldn’t even keep up with recent news. The Composer bit back a contradiction. Instead, she said: “One of them was trying to possess you.”
The long-haired woman’s response was, “Cool.” The Composer didn’t see it her way. “So which one was that?”
The Composer glanced at the screen. “I believe he has just died by coffee.”
“What? Oh darn. Oh well. I guess that means I have to get back to work then!” she laughed. “So thanks a lot, Posey, really. I mean, you’re really busy, aren’t you? I’m really flattered you came. It’s always good to see you, y’know?”
“I’m not leaving yet. I want to make sure you have your next rounds prepared.”
The Cultivator’s face dropped. “Oh.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene shifted. The ruined suburb rebuilt itself, then grew taller and sprawled wider across the surrounding land. There was a sudden increase in concrete and a sudden decrease in plant life. The city shone dully with metal and glass, crowding and piercing the sky, while the streets seemed to grow almost claustrophobic, despite the lack of people around.
The city was definitely rather hi-tech, or at least it had the air of hi-techiness all about it. There were visible cameras lining the streets and drab revolving posters listing the ways to spot criminals and the places to report them. Others listed various reminders of rules and mandatory inspections.
“Okay, right, hi again, it’s me. So, let’s see…this is, Battl – oh no, um, I mean…Grandtopia. Yeah, let’s go with that. It’s not quite a free country here in Grandtopia because, um, it’s not a country. It’s obviously smaller than that. The point is, it’s a total police state. Police city? Dystopia. Right now, worth noting, curfew hasn’t quite ended yet. I mean, it will, in like a short while, just beware of the curfew enforcers. In that short while.
“Interesting thing about this place, though, is that all the inhabitants are from other battles! Hm, wait, did I tell you about other battles already? Or did you all figure that out? Hm. I forgot. I guess if you didn’t know, then surprise? But yeah, they aren’t the actual people from other battles, just copies and stuff. You can go hang out with them. Or kill them.
“Hm…Grandtopia actually kinda sounds stupid…maybe…Battletopia? That sounds better, yeah.
“Okay is there anything else I need to say? I guess if there is, I’ll tell you later.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Isn’t this just Battleopolis? Again?”
The Cultivator failed to wilt under the Composer’s gaze. “Hey, it was really short notice, I can be lazy if I didn’t have much time, can’t I? Besides, I totally changed things. It’s different. It’s called Battletopia.”
“Also, you have accidentally also transported two beings unrelated to the battle.”
The Cultivator blinked before leaning forward and pressing an intercom button. “Also there’s a new contestant who isssssss…”
“Soulmother Ajota,” she sighed.
“Soulmother Ajota! Yes. And also…”
The Composer rubbed her forehead. “A dog.”
“A dog? Really? Okay dogs don’t count, never mind that. So play nice, haha. That was a joke. Right, I’m gonna stop talking for real now.”
As the Cultivator leaned back in her chair triumphantly, her grandmasterly comrade continued to stare pointedly.
“Well? You do realize that now you must start planning out your next rounds, correct? I’m not going to allow you to procrastinate again.”
“Hey, I’m totally planning! This is my thinking pose. Leaning back. And swiveling around for a bit. Like this. It means I’m thinking.”
“Actually, before you…think too long, I believe you have another obligation to fulfill. Just so that you do not have to owe anything…”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Monitor was somewhat surprised to be greeted at his desk by a large stack of plastic cases. Or rather, that he was there to greet a large stack of plastic cases that suddenly appeared at his desk. A short examination revealed all of them to be video games. Specifically, video games that he had believed to be lost forever, in a state of eternal borrowment. The robotic figure took down the first one of the stack and read the short note taped on the cover.
It said: ’From Culty with love.’
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“…Cultivator.”
“Hm?” She looked up from her notebook. The Composer stared uncertainly to the side.
“If…if you were the victim of a wrong committed against you a long, long time ago and, say, just recently you’ve found out the perpetrator…what would you do?”
The Cultivator swiveled. “I mean, if it was a long, loooooong time ago, then why worry about it? Like, if you’re totally fine now, then no use thinking about things all the way back, right? It’s probably all worked out or something anyways.”
The Composer grimaced but said nothing else.