Re: The Battle Royale S2 [Round 2: Prospect Creek]
09-13-2010, 11:01 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
Timothy hadn't hung around with the Photographer so to be honest, he didn't know the strange thing very well, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't been like this before. In fact, his first memory of the Photographer was him shuffling around awkwardly and then crying about his camera.
Timothy's eyes suddenly darted around suspiciously. "Wait, this is what the gas does, right?"
"Hm?" The Photographer said cheerfully, looking away from a particularly interesting corner.
"Dammit, you're like, high or something, ridiculously high," the man continued, pulling his high collar even higher in an attempt to cover his face. It wasn't exactly comfortable. Sounding a little muffled, he continued, "Is there some sort of rag in here?"
"Err," the Photographer turned and spun around a few times in a very addled manner until he managed to stop himself. "...Ask...the bookend?"
There was a rag on the counter and Timothy picked it up and paused. The rag was filthy and had probably been here for years, soaking up gas like the bumbling moron behind him. He set it back down again and settled for his coat collar.
It was strange, but his head was feeling pressured. Like a big thumb from the sky was pushing down on him. He almost started panicking until he realized that it was just the usual feeling he got when communicating with the gods. But he wasn't communicating with them. This made him panic more. Was he already going insane from the gas? Or could he actually be insane if he was aware of it...? He was thinking about this so much that he completely missed the message one (or more) of the gods were trying to give him. Gods didn't really liked to be ignored so they pushed down on his head even more.
"Gah!" he yelped. Luckily, the Photographer didn't find this too odd as he had, by now, stumbled out the door, walked no further than three steps, and flumped on the ground face-first, mumbling something incomprehensible.
listen when spoken to mortal a voice roared in his head. He didn't quite recognize it.
"Alright, alright!" he shouted, still trying to hold his collar up while massaging his head. He decided not to ask 'who are you anyways.' Gods tend to be touchy about that. Instead he said, "Your vassal is listening, uh...er....Lord...msfrgnur..."
better said the god. Either he used to lord over a religion that hated vowels or he actually wasn't listening. hear me, mortal for you are getting a message from a god
After a pause and an impatient nudge in the head, the thief realized that was his cue. "Oh, thank you for gracing me with your prescence which I can't see. I'm sure your message is important."
Sarcastic or not, this seemed to mollify the unnamed god's ego and he continued. you know that funky gas going around
A little put off by the sudden change of tone, Timothy hazarded a "Yyyyyeess?"
breathe it
"Er, what."
breathe aaaaaalll of it suck it in the gas compels you
"I, uh," Timothy stuttered. It was true that he usually didn't expect sensible requests from the insane gods he kept in contact with, but this was just insane. "...Any particular...uh...reason....?"
do iiiiiiit there'll be candy
Timothy was trying to figure out the politest and safest way to say 'screw you' to a god but was thankfully saved by a yelp from the other room. Hopping over the counter, he burst through the door and, as he thought, found Wardell, who had obviously been the one who screamed. The bookish man was pressed up against the wall over his overturned chair, staring fearfully at a pile of paper on the ground which Timothy guessed was a book. Or rather, the remains of one. Wardell's scarf was hovering around, ready to attack the book again if necessary.
"What happened?"
He looked over at Timothy and tried to calm down a little. He managed to spit out, "Book...reading...and then, teeth..."
"Keep your scarf over your face," Timothy replied, a little glad it wasn't anything too serious. Like a second meat factory or something. "Hallucinogenic gas. What you saw was probably nothing."
Wardell stared at him wide-eyed for a minute before finally regaining his composure. He started adjusting his scarf even as he said, "I'm not sure if this is really effective in blocking out hallucinogenic gas..."
"It's gotta work somewhat, right?" he replied, trying not to sound worried. "C'mon, maybe we can find something elsssse what are you doing."
Wardell looked up from the new book. It was written by some guy named Stephen King. "What?"
"Do you have a compulsion or something, is that it? Are you going to die if you don't read anything for ten seconds? Do you suffer from withdrawl?"
"I like reading," Wardell said defensively.
Timothy hadn't hung around with the Photographer so to be honest, he didn't know the strange thing very well, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't been like this before. In fact, his first memory of the Photographer was him shuffling around awkwardly and then crying about his camera.
Timothy's eyes suddenly darted around suspiciously. "Wait, this is what the gas does, right?"
"Hm?" The Photographer said cheerfully, looking away from a particularly interesting corner.
"Dammit, you're like, high or something, ridiculously high," the man continued, pulling his high collar even higher in an attempt to cover his face. It wasn't exactly comfortable. Sounding a little muffled, he continued, "Is there some sort of rag in here?"
"Err," the Photographer turned and spun around a few times in a very addled manner until he managed to stop himself. "...Ask...the bookend?"
There was a rag on the counter and Timothy picked it up and paused. The rag was filthy and had probably been here for years, soaking up gas like the bumbling moron behind him. He set it back down again and settled for his coat collar.
It was strange, but his head was feeling pressured. Like a big thumb from the sky was pushing down on him. He almost started panicking until he realized that it was just the usual feeling he got when communicating with the gods. But he wasn't communicating with them. This made him panic more. Was he already going insane from the gas? Or could he actually be insane if he was aware of it...? He was thinking about this so much that he completely missed the message one (or more) of the gods were trying to give him. Gods didn't really liked to be ignored so they pushed down on his head even more.
"Gah!" he yelped. Luckily, the Photographer didn't find this too odd as he had, by now, stumbled out the door, walked no further than three steps, and flumped on the ground face-first, mumbling something incomprehensible.
listen when spoken to mortal a voice roared in his head. He didn't quite recognize it.
"Alright, alright!" he shouted, still trying to hold his collar up while massaging his head. He decided not to ask 'who are you anyways.' Gods tend to be touchy about that. Instead he said, "Your vassal is listening, uh...er....Lord...msfrgnur..."
better said the god. Either he used to lord over a religion that hated vowels or he actually wasn't listening. hear me, mortal for you are getting a message from a god
After a pause and an impatient nudge in the head, the thief realized that was his cue. "Oh, thank you for gracing me with your prescence which I can't see. I'm sure your message is important."
Sarcastic or not, this seemed to mollify the unnamed god's ego and he continued. you know that funky gas going around
A little put off by the sudden change of tone, Timothy hazarded a "Yyyyyeess?"
breathe it
"Er, what."
breathe aaaaaalll of it suck it in the gas compels you
"I, uh," Timothy stuttered. It was true that he usually didn't expect sensible requests from the insane gods he kept in contact with, but this was just insane. "...Any particular...uh...reason....?"
do iiiiiiit there'll be candy
Timothy was trying to figure out the politest and safest way to say 'screw you' to a god but was thankfully saved by a yelp from the other room. Hopping over the counter, he burst through the door and, as he thought, found Wardell, who had obviously been the one who screamed. The bookish man was pressed up against the wall over his overturned chair, staring fearfully at a pile of paper on the ground which Timothy guessed was a book. Or rather, the remains of one. Wardell's scarf was hovering around, ready to attack the book again if necessary.
"What happened?"
He looked over at Timothy and tried to calm down a little. He managed to spit out, "Book...reading...and then, teeth..."
"Keep your scarf over your face," Timothy replied, a little glad it wasn't anything too serious. Like a second meat factory or something. "Hallucinogenic gas. What you saw was probably nothing."
Wardell stared at him wide-eyed for a minute before finally regaining his composure. He started adjusting his scarf even as he said, "I'm not sure if this is really effective in blocking out hallucinogenic gas..."
"It's gotta work somewhat, right?" he replied, trying not to sound worried. "C'mon, maybe we can find something elsssse what are you doing."
Wardell looked up from the new book. It was written by some guy named Stephen King. "What?"
"Do you have a compulsion or something, is that it? Are you going to die if you don't read anything for ten seconds? Do you suffer from withdrawl?"
"I like reading," Wardell said defensively.