Re: DEATHGAME 9000 [S!3] Round One: Gamexus X99
04-30-2012, 11:51 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Computer games weren’t terribly popular on Tiaran, the common understanding being that everybody had better ways to spend their time out in the real world. Trisha, to her private shame, had... experimented a bit, in her youth, after an early birthday (fourth, maybe, or fifth) where her mother had presented her with a plastic box full of alarmingly visceral murder simulators. After spending a few weeks honing her reflexes and immersing herself in the more unseemly aspects of her cultural heritage, a sequence of perfect seventy-degree days coaxed her back into the world and her birthday present was left to make a home for spiders and dust mites. The lesson she took away from the whole ordeal was that virtual worlds, for all their flash, could never compete with the real one.
The realization that she was currently occupying a game system herself was, of course, causing her to question these assumptions. It was a perfect seventy-degree day—the exact temperature where you feel a bit of relief when the sun goes behind a cloud, and a bit of relief in the other direction when it reemerges. Moustonshire, her new acquaintance had a comforting fungal smell, as though the folds of his receding hairline would be a good place to stop for a picnic and hunt for frogs. Somehow, being informed that her situation was an illusion served to remind her how vibrantly real it all was.
Hippocrates nibbled at Moustonshire’s hair, eliciting something between a giggle and a grumble from the man. “Oh, Princess, I do hope we can get your memories back soon, if only so you can tell me where you found this pet of yours.” Everything Moustonshire had said to Trisha so far was ambiguous like that—service to royalty, she supposed, meant you could never be sure whether you were expected to chastise or to praise, and this one was a master at playing it safe. She wasn’t even sure whether his insistence on playing to her old childhood fantasy that she was a princess of the highest pedigree who had lost her memories to a mischievous but otherwise benign tumor was just his attempt to flatter her, or if he honestly believed it. She believed it to be the former, because everybody knew that Trisha lacked an intangible quality of grace and lovability that typified any princess worth her silks.
The veterinarian had been willfully ignoring the scenes of spectacular violence down below, because (frankly) her sanity was hanging by a thread. But she recognized, and was quite pleased that Eris seemed to have won. ”A trophy full of gold coins?” sneered the demigoddess after the fact, rejoining Trisha in the stands. ”Lynette had better get a move on with finding us an escape route, since you don’t seem to be doing any good.”
”I haven’t seen her,” replied Trisha, examining one of the “gold” coins. She knew her jewels, and was pretty sure that gold didn’t glow like this. She was worried it might be radioactive, and then reminded herself that this was a simulation and radiation poisoning probably wasn’t a central concept to their prizefighting bouts. “I wonder what we can get for this? There ought to be a concession stand around here somewhere.” She had seen someone with an oversized pretzel, she was sure of it.
”I have candy.” Eris held out great mounds of gooey cherry-smelling substance out to the veterinarian, who declined nervously.
“Milady, I’ll accompany you to the nearest eatery,” said Moustonshire graciously. “Perhaps a good steak is just what it’ll take to jog your memories, eh?”
“I don’t eat meat,” intoned Trisha seriously.
“Oh, you poor creature. In any case.” Trisha informed Eris to watch over Hippocrates as she allowed the strange little man to lead her some ways around the arena. Two minutes later, she had traded out one gold coin for a handful of silver coins and a fruit cup, at which she nibbled contentedly. She tried to imagine the taste of a strawberry on her tongue as an aggregate of numbers and programs, and wondered whether or not there was a pre-programmed farm off somewhere where it had been grown, or a mine where the gold and silver had been dug out of the Earth. Her thoughts brought her back to the town she’d first been deposited in, only a few hours ago. She’d seen and felt things there that had made her question her view of reality, and wasn’t sure whether the revelation that it was not, in fact, real was comforting or upsetting.
The voice of the announcer came from everywhere and nowhere, but specifically from all the speakers littering the stands. “YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, FOLKS!” That was a good question, actually. What time was it? “THE LUCKY CONTESTANTS IN THE NEXT FIGHT ARE GOING TO BE COMPETING FOR TODAY’S SPECIAL PRIZE—“ –a glaring pink spotlight suddenly alighted on Trisha— “A DATE WITH THE BEAUTIFUL THE PRINCESS!”
Showing remarkable fortitude, Trisha refrained from spitting out a bite of watermelon. She was really starting to hate this The Princess, for the crimes of not having a name, not being her to endure this humiliation in her stead, and for apparently looking exactly like she did except beautiful.
“THAT’S RIGHT, FOLKS—LET’S HAVE LOOK AT OUR FOUR CONTENDERS!”
Trisha immediately ran over to the guardrail and looked out over the arena.
“OUR FIRST CONTENDER, WEIGHING IN AT NINETY POUNDS AND ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY IQ POINTS, THE ONE AND ONLY DEFENSE AGAINST THE MOONMAN MENACE, IT’S... TUDE!”
The spotlight lit up on an acne-ridden, bespectacled twelve-year-old boy telekinetically manipulating a paddleball and a lacrosse stick. He nodded in the faux-princess’s direction and winked. Trisha shuddered.
“OUR SECOND CONTESTANT IS A LAST-MINUTE ENTRANT, HAVING APPARENTLY PAID LIGHTSPEED THE PORCUPINE A LARGE SUM OF MONEY FOR HIS SPOT IN THE MATCH. GIVE IT UP FOR NOOT!”
The applause for Noot was fairly perfunctory. The lizard looked up at Trisha and licked his lips lasciviously.
“OUR THIRD CONTESTANT IS FAVORED TO WIN BY A WIDE MARGIN, BUT , WELL, WE’LL SEE WHETHER OR NOT THAT’S JUST WISHFUL THINKING ON THE PART OF THE AUDIENCE. BECAUSE THE TERMS OF THE PRINCESS’S CONTRACT ARE QUITE CLEAR THAT WE CAN DO THIS—AND WHO CAN BLAME HER—GIVE IT UP FOR WORLD-RENOWNED ARCHAEOLOGIST, TARA ARTISAN!”
The spotlight shone upon an improbably proportioned woman—one would have difficulty describing her exactly because there were so many parts of her that merited commenting upon. Suffice to say that the force of her presence made Trisha feel insecure in several ways at once even from a moderate distance. Tara peered at the veterinarian over the rim of her sunglasses and growled. The special prize suddenly found herself hoping beyond hope that Noot would win the fight.
“AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST, THIS RELATIVE NEWCOMER IS RUMORED TO HAVE A WIFE AND FAMILY BACK IN THE CITY OF DESTRUCTION, BUT WE WON’T TELL IF YOU WON’T! STRAIGHT FROM A THREE-MONTH TOUR IN VANITY FAIR IT’S THE ONE... THE ONLY... CHRISTIAN!”
Christian had white hair that went down to his chin, grey eyes that looked like they had seen paradise and inferno alike, and a sword that was also a crucifix that was also a guitar. As he played a brief solo on it, looking at nobody in particular, his trenchcoat flew out behind him and gave Trisha a glimpse at a set of abdominals that made her absolutely certain that he had been training for this match and would obviously win.
Just like the guidance counselor had taught her in sixth grade, Trisha closed her eyes, popped a grape into her mouth and focused on the taste of it until the swoon passed. Somehow, this always helped her maintain her balance.
Back in her seat next to Eris, Trisha was feeding pineapple slices to Hippocrates and pretending not to be watching the fight out of the corner of one eye when Vigil hopped up to her and nudged her ankle. ”Trisha,” urged the rabbit, ”Have you seen Lyn around?”
”She isn’t with you?” asked Trisha. “Where’d you see her last?”
Vigil scratched at one ear in shame. ”I lost her in the crowd. Um. An ape may have taken her away.”
”Ooh ah ah?” asked Cornelius between bites of banana.
”A different ape. A more articulate one. I think he was trying to help her, but... I don’t know where they went. I messed up.”
”Well, we should go find her,” offered Eris. Beats sitting around here.”
”And I’ll stay here in case she comes back,” said Trisha dreamily. “I think people would be upset if I left, anyway.” Eris scoffed. “What?”
”Nothing. Come on, bunny, let’s go find your girlfriend.”
Eris and Vigil wandered away, leaving Trisha at peace with her ape and her horse for about two minutes until two people she recognized from the introduction of the “battle,” along with a solemn-looking man who seemed to flit in and out of existence as the crowds of spectators passed by. “Hi,” said one of them, a woman whose name Trisha didn’t recall. ”You’re the one he called Trisha.”
”I am Trisha, actually,” said Trisha warmly, shaking the woman’s hand. “He got that right. How do you do? You’re not going to try to... battle me or anything, are you?”
Jolene smirked. “No, of course not. I’m Jolene, by the way, and this is Keagan.” The boy waved politely. ”But we think Ezio here—where’d he get off to? Keagan?” Keagan shrugged. ”He’s around. He might know something that could help us get out of here. We’d appreciate it if you came with us.”
”Princess,” warned Moustonshire. “May I remind you that you don’t know these people from a pipe in the ground?”
”Um,” started Trisha uncertainly, looking out over the arena. “See, I’m supposed to be waiting for someone, and, you see, um. Hmm. Would you care to sit for a while? It's nice out.”
Computer games weren’t terribly popular on Tiaran, the common understanding being that everybody had better ways to spend their time out in the real world. Trisha, to her private shame, had... experimented a bit, in her youth, after an early birthday (fourth, maybe, or fifth) where her mother had presented her with a plastic box full of alarmingly visceral murder simulators. After spending a few weeks honing her reflexes and immersing herself in the more unseemly aspects of her cultural heritage, a sequence of perfect seventy-degree days coaxed her back into the world and her birthday present was left to make a home for spiders and dust mites. The lesson she took away from the whole ordeal was that virtual worlds, for all their flash, could never compete with the real one.
The realization that she was currently occupying a game system herself was, of course, causing her to question these assumptions. It was a perfect seventy-degree day—the exact temperature where you feel a bit of relief when the sun goes behind a cloud, and a bit of relief in the other direction when it reemerges. Moustonshire, her new acquaintance had a comforting fungal smell, as though the folds of his receding hairline would be a good place to stop for a picnic and hunt for frogs. Somehow, being informed that her situation was an illusion served to remind her how vibrantly real it all was.
Hippocrates nibbled at Moustonshire’s hair, eliciting something between a giggle and a grumble from the man. “Oh, Princess, I do hope we can get your memories back soon, if only so you can tell me where you found this pet of yours.” Everything Moustonshire had said to Trisha so far was ambiguous like that—service to royalty, she supposed, meant you could never be sure whether you were expected to chastise or to praise, and this one was a master at playing it safe. She wasn’t even sure whether his insistence on playing to her old childhood fantasy that she was a princess of the highest pedigree who had lost her memories to a mischievous but otherwise benign tumor was just his attempt to flatter her, or if he honestly believed it. She believed it to be the former, because everybody knew that Trisha lacked an intangible quality of grace and lovability that typified any princess worth her silks.
The veterinarian had been willfully ignoring the scenes of spectacular violence down below, because (frankly) her sanity was hanging by a thread. But she recognized, and was quite pleased that Eris seemed to have won. ”A trophy full of gold coins?” sneered the demigoddess after the fact, rejoining Trisha in the stands. ”Lynette had better get a move on with finding us an escape route, since you don’t seem to be doing any good.”
”I haven’t seen her,” replied Trisha, examining one of the “gold” coins. She knew her jewels, and was pretty sure that gold didn’t glow like this. She was worried it might be radioactive, and then reminded herself that this was a simulation and radiation poisoning probably wasn’t a central concept to their prizefighting bouts. “I wonder what we can get for this? There ought to be a concession stand around here somewhere.” She had seen someone with an oversized pretzel, she was sure of it.
”I have candy.” Eris held out great mounds of gooey cherry-smelling substance out to the veterinarian, who declined nervously.
“Milady, I’ll accompany you to the nearest eatery,” said Moustonshire graciously. “Perhaps a good steak is just what it’ll take to jog your memories, eh?”
“I don’t eat meat,” intoned Trisha seriously.
“Oh, you poor creature. In any case.” Trisha informed Eris to watch over Hippocrates as she allowed the strange little man to lead her some ways around the arena. Two minutes later, she had traded out one gold coin for a handful of silver coins and a fruit cup, at which she nibbled contentedly. She tried to imagine the taste of a strawberry on her tongue as an aggregate of numbers and programs, and wondered whether or not there was a pre-programmed farm off somewhere where it had been grown, or a mine where the gold and silver had been dug out of the Earth. Her thoughts brought her back to the town she’d first been deposited in, only a few hours ago. She’d seen and felt things there that had made her question her view of reality, and wasn’t sure whether the revelation that it was not, in fact, real was comforting or upsetting.
The voice of the announcer came from everywhere and nowhere, but specifically from all the speakers littering the stands. “YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, FOLKS!” That was a good question, actually. What time was it? “THE LUCKY CONTESTANTS IN THE NEXT FIGHT ARE GOING TO BE COMPETING FOR TODAY’S SPECIAL PRIZE—“ –a glaring pink spotlight suddenly alighted on Trisha— “A DATE WITH THE BEAUTIFUL THE PRINCESS!”
Showing remarkable fortitude, Trisha refrained from spitting out a bite of watermelon. She was really starting to hate this The Princess, for the crimes of not having a name, not being her to endure this humiliation in her stead, and for apparently looking exactly like she did except beautiful.
“THAT’S RIGHT, FOLKS—LET’S HAVE LOOK AT OUR FOUR CONTENDERS!”
Trisha immediately ran over to the guardrail and looked out over the arena.
“OUR FIRST CONTENDER, WEIGHING IN AT NINETY POUNDS AND ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY IQ POINTS, THE ONE AND ONLY DEFENSE AGAINST THE MOONMAN MENACE, IT’S... TUDE!”
The spotlight lit up on an acne-ridden, bespectacled twelve-year-old boy telekinetically manipulating a paddleball and a lacrosse stick. He nodded in the faux-princess’s direction and winked. Trisha shuddered.
“OUR SECOND CONTESTANT IS A LAST-MINUTE ENTRANT, HAVING APPARENTLY PAID LIGHTSPEED THE PORCUPINE A LARGE SUM OF MONEY FOR HIS SPOT IN THE MATCH. GIVE IT UP FOR NOOT!”
The applause for Noot was fairly perfunctory. The lizard looked up at Trisha and licked his lips lasciviously.
“OUR THIRD CONTESTANT IS FAVORED TO WIN BY A WIDE MARGIN, BUT , WELL, WE’LL SEE WHETHER OR NOT THAT’S JUST WISHFUL THINKING ON THE PART OF THE AUDIENCE. BECAUSE THE TERMS OF THE PRINCESS’S CONTRACT ARE QUITE CLEAR THAT WE CAN DO THIS—AND WHO CAN BLAME HER—GIVE IT UP FOR WORLD-RENOWNED ARCHAEOLOGIST, TARA ARTISAN!”
The spotlight shone upon an improbably proportioned woman—one would have difficulty describing her exactly because there were so many parts of her that merited commenting upon. Suffice to say that the force of her presence made Trisha feel insecure in several ways at once even from a moderate distance. Tara peered at the veterinarian over the rim of her sunglasses and growled. The special prize suddenly found herself hoping beyond hope that Noot would win the fight.
“AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST, THIS RELATIVE NEWCOMER IS RUMORED TO HAVE A WIFE AND FAMILY BACK IN THE CITY OF DESTRUCTION, BUT WE WON’T TELL IF YOU WON’T! STRAIGHT FROM A THREE-MONTH TOUR IN VANITY FAIR IT’S THE ONE... THE ONLY... CHRISTIAN!”
Christian had white hair that went down to his chin, grey eyes that looked like they had seen paradise and inferno alike, and a sword that was also a crucifix that was also a guitar. As he played a brief solo on it, looking at nobody in particular, his trenchcoat flew out behind him and gave Trisha a glimpse at a set of abdominals that made her absolutely certain that he had been training for this match and would obviously win.
Just like the guidance counselor had taught her in sixth grade, Trisha closed her eyes, popped a grape into her mouth and focused on the taste of it until the swoon passed. Somehow, this always helped her maintain her balance.
Back in her seat next to Eris, Trisha was feeding pineapple slices to Hippocrates and pretending not to be watching the fight out of the corner of one eye when Vigil hopped up to her and nudged her ankle. ”Trisha,” urged the rabbit, ”Have you seen Lyn around?”
”She isn’t with you?” asked Trisha. “Where’d you see her last?”
Vigil scratched at one ear in shame. ”I lost her in the crowd. Um. An ape may have taken her away.”
”Ooh ah ah?” asked Cornelius between bites of banana.
”A different ape. A more articulate one. I think he was trying to help her, but... I don’t know where they went. I messed up.”
”Well, we should go find her,” offered Eris. Beats sitting around here.”
”And I’ll stay here in case she comes back,” said Trisha dreamily. “I think people would be upset if I left, anyway.” Eris scoffed. “What?”
”Nothing. Come on, bunny, let’s go find your girlfriend.”
Eris and Vigil wandered away, leaving Trisha at peace with her ape and her horse for about two minutes until two people she recognized from the introduction of the “battle,” along with a solemn-looking man who seemed to flit in and out of existence as the crowds of spectators passed by. “Hi,” said one of them, a woman whose name Trisha didn’t recall. ”You’re the one he called Trisha.”
”I am Trisha, actually,” said Trisha warmly, shaking the woman’s hand. “He got that right. How do you do? You’re not going to try to... battle me or anything, are you?”
Jolene smirked. “No, of course not. I’m Jolene, by the way, and this is Keagan.” The boy waved politely. ”But we think Ezio here—where’d he get off to? Keagan?” Keagan shrugged. ”He’s around. He might know something that could help us get out of here. We’d appreciate it if you came with us.”
”Princess,” warned Moustonshire. “May I remind you that you don’t know these people from a pipe in the ground?”
”Um,” started Trisha uncertainly, looking out over the arena. “See, I’m supposed to be waiting for someone, and, you see, um. Hmm. Would you care to sit for a while? It's nice out.”