Re: The Battle Royale S2 [Round 1: Grande Adventures]
06-09-2010, 07:00 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Nodge.
Tim watched Sirius fly away and spat noisily over the edge of the cliff. Good riddance. Briefly, he reflected on the death of the man he'd never talked to and decided Macha was unlikely to take him as a human sacrifice if he couldn't present her with the body. He cursed, quietly.
Wardell seemed as surprised as he ever did by this turn of events, clutching one of his valuable books to his face. Blast it. Swhales lunged forwards, grabbed one of the tomes scattered across the floor by their arrival, straightened up and walked confidently into the factory without looking back.
Traps? He could do traps no problem, but if he had to play nice for five more minutes, he'd get the Composer to snap his neck and be done with it.
Inside, as terrible sickening smells assaulted his nose and pounding industrious noises made a spirited play at bursting his eardrums he waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust and tried to remember which of his Gods the Composer was.
Then his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he stopped thinking about anything except throwing up everything he had ever eaten.
Tim had seen terrible things, done terrible things in the name of making himself money. He regretted very few of them, and even then only because they had nearly gotten him caught. The room he had walked into made him want to scream until he could no longer breathe.
Overhead, a flailing tornado of suspiciously human looking tissues writhed across the ceiling, terminating in an immense grinder that filled almost an entire wall. Some crazed butcher had put a window in it; a detached part of Tim wondered what it was made of, to withstand such a beating as whole organs bounced from the threshing blades and slammed into it. A spigot at its' base poured the processed meat onto a conveyor belt, sending it off into the factory. Time leaned forward over the fast-moving strip and carefully extricated a piece. It was a fingernail.
After a little while he felt able to stand. He scraped together what resolve he could and set off into the darkness of the factory. Grimly, he became sure of one thing as he walked; someone would be staying here. Someone would end up in that grinder, on that conveyor belt, as that mince. Meat for the mill.
He had to do everything he could to make sure that it was not him.
Tim watched Sirius fly away and spat noisily over the edge of the cliff. Good riddance. Briefly, he reflected on the death of the man he'd never talked to and decided Macha was unlikely to take him as a human sacrifice if he couldn't present her with the body. He cursed, quietly.
Wardell seemed as surprised as he ever did by this turn of events, clutching one of his valuable books to his face. Blast it. Swhales lunged forwards, grabbed one of the tomes scattered across the floor by their arrival, straightened up and walked confidently into the factory without looking back.
Traps? He could do traps no problem, but if he had to play nice for five more minutes, he'd get the Composer to snap his neck and be done with it.
Inside, as terrible sickening smells assaulted his nose and pounding industrious noises made a spirited play at bursting his eardrums he waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust and tried to remember which of his Gods the Composer was.
Then his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he stopped thinking about anything except throwing up everything he had ever eaten.
Tim had seen terrible things, done terrible things in the name of making himself money. He regretted very few of them, and even then only because they had nearly gotten him caught. The room he had walked into made him want to scream until he could no longer breathe.
Overhead, a flailing tornado of suspiciously human looking tissues writhed across the ceiling, terminating in an immense grinder that filled almost an entire wall. Some crazed butcher had put a window in it; a detached part of Tim wondered what it was made of, to withstand such a beating as whole organs bounced from the threshing blades and slammed into it. A spigot at its' base poured the processed meat onto a conveyor belt, sending it off into the factory. Time leaned forward over the fast-moving strip and carefully extricated a piece. It was a fingernail.
After a little while he felt able to stand. He scraped together what resolve he could and set off into the darkness of the factory. Grimly, he became sure of one thing as he walked; someone would be staying here. Someone would end up in that grinder, on that conveyor belt, as that mince. Meat for the mill.
He had to do everything he could to make sure that it was not him.