Re: DEATHGAME 9000 [S!3] Round Two: Interplanetary Circus
09-10-2012, 07:02 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl.
[color=#206C60]Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Weaver had been so wrapped up in trying to win that he'd forgotten he didn't want to play the game in the first place. Internal Log #6359 specifically placed working out the Amazing's powers (s/Amazing/Incompetent) at a higher priority than winning the battle and returning home. Stupid stupid. What was even the point in writing these logs if he didn't read them afterwards? For fsck's sake, he hadn't even considered the it's-all-a-simulation possibility since writing it down.
He'd recorded the Incompetent's speech again, of course, but he couldn't make any sense of it. There was a wealth of information there, he knew - he just couldn't get at it. Back on Weaver's world, there were rumours (which he suspected to be true) of AIs that, just by watching you say "the", could work out the rest of the question, the correct answer, the answer you expected, the answer you would actually get, and a list of your personality problems and the psychiatrists best qualified to treat them. Weaver could really use their help here. All he'd gotten so far was that the Incompetent was not actually omnipotent, nor omniscient, nor indeed very competent. Weaver's chances looked good until he remembered that the Incompetent could teleport people across universes at will.
Why was he suddenly feeling homesick?
Weaver snapped back to reality to realise he'd been staring at the planet they were orbiting. It looked a lot like his own Earth - though the forests were too red, there were no ice caps to speak of, and slightly too many continents. Through some scientific trickery, gravity on this ship had been convinced that the planet was actually above them, so that the sunlight reflecting off it shone down through the windowed ceiling and drew the passengers' attention to the eerie majesty of a living world seen from space.
The effect was almost completely ruined by the sheen of grime on the ceiling (some of it on the outside, which raised further questions), and the planetlight was mostly drowned out by the mixture of harsh fluorescent tubes and brightly flashing fairy lights strung around the place. The corridor Weaver stood in was probably designed to be spacious, but the sides were lined with so many vending machines, stands, computer screens, and boxes of indeterminate function that people either had to constantly squeeze past each other or enforce a strict one-way system. And that only went for those of average shape; some of the passengers here were in constant danger of being crushed underfoot, while others might as well have been sentient roadblocks.
Salesmen of a universally dubious look sold a variety of snacks and drinks to cater to all the major carbon-based biologies; but one look at the fumes wafting off the nearest plate of probably-sausage made Weaver very glad he didn't have a sense of smell. A communal lifeform pushed through the crowd, asking frantically whether anyone had seen their children. A computer terminal labelled "Information" was switching at random between three poorly-animated adverts, apparently unaware of the three people trying to get actual information from it.
Standing on tiptoe, it was just possible for Weaver to reach the ceiling. He wiped away a little bit of the grime, and tried to get some idea of the layout of this place by squinting and tilting his head. As best as he could tell, the space ship/station was designed around a large dome in the centre, still with a transparent ceiling. This time, a huge tent was erected inside the dome, making the glass ceiling look particularly pointless. Weaver highly doubted that the original designers of this place had meant to use it like that, but then again, stranger things had happened. Most of them in the last hour, come to think of it.
A voice echoed across the tinny PA system. "Ladies and gentlebeings, the intermission will end in ten minutes. Please return to your seats for the second half of the Cirque Des
[color=#206C60]Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Weaver had been so wrapped up in trying to win that he'd forgotten he didn't want to play the game in the first place. Internal Log #6359 specifically placed working out the Amazing's powers (s/Amazing/Incompetent) at a higher priority than winning the battle and returning home. Stupid stupid. What was even the point in writing these logs if he didn't read them afterwards? For fsck's sake, he hadn't even considered the it's-all-a-simulation possibility since writing it down.
He'd recorded the Incompetent's speech again, of course, but he couldn't make any sense of it. There was a wealth of information there, he knew - he just couldn't get at it. Back on Weaver's world, there were rumours (which he suspected to be true) of AIs that, just by watching you say "the", could work out the rest of the question, the correct answer, the answer you expected, the answer you would actually get, and a list of your personality problems and the psychiatrists best qualified to treat them. Weaver could really use their help here. All he'd gotten so far was that the Incompetent was not actually omnipotent, nor omniscient, nor indeed very competent. Weaver's chances looked good until he remembered that the Incompetent could teleport people across universes at will.
Why was he suddenly feeling homesick?
Weaver snapped back to reality to realise he'd been staring at the planet they were orbiting. It looked a lot like his own Earth - though the forests were too red, there were no ice caps to speak of, and slightly too many continents. Through some scientific trickery, gravity on this ship had been convinced that the planet was actually above them, so that the sunlight reflecting off it shone down through the windowed ceiling and drew the passengers' attention to the eerie majesty of a living world seen from space.
The effect was almost completely ruined by the sheen of grime on the ceiling (some of it on the outside, which raised further questions), and the planetlight was mostly drowned out by the mixture of harsh fluorescent tubes and brightly flashing fairy lights strung around the place. The corridor Weaver stood in was probably designed to be spacious, but the sides were lined with so many vending machines, stands, computer screens, and boxes of indeterminate function that people either had to constantly squeeze past each other or enforce a strict one-way system. And that only went for those of average shape; some of the passengers here were in constant danger of being crushed underfoot, while others might as well have been sentient roadblocks.
Salesmen of a universally dubious look sold a variety of snacks and drinks to cater to all the major carbon-based biologies; but one look at the fumes wafting off the nearest plate of probably-sausage made Weaver very glad he didn't have a sense of smell. A communal lifeform pushed through the crowd, asking frantically whether anyone had seen their children. A computer terminal labelled "Information" was switching at random between three poorly-animated adverts, apparently unaware of the three people trying to get actual information from it.
Standing on tiptoe, it was just possible for Weaver to reach the ceiling. He wiped away a little bit of the grime, and tried to get some idea of the layout of this place by squinting and tilting his head. As best as he could tell, the space ship/station was designed around a large dome in the centre, still with a transparent ceiling. This time, a huge tent was erected inside the dome, making the glass ceiling look particularly pointless. Weaver highly doubted that the original designers of this place had meant to use it like that, but then again, stranger things had happened. Most of them in the last hour, come to think of it.
A voice echoed across the tinny PA system. "Ladies and gentlebeings, the intermission will end in ten minutes. Please return to your seats for the second half of the Cirque Des