Re: The Battle Royale S2 [Round 3: Endymion]
07-24-2011, 03:03 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
As the Photographer walked, he listened and felt the world underneath him turn towards decay. From the gears and pistons to the engines to the conglomerations of systems to the moon, all of it was spinning towards decay, though not every part knew it. The moon argued against itself, each part and piece trying to do their job, some of them finding that they couldn’t. It could be potentially maddening.
“It won’t take long,” said Snake, leading the way. “You just have to tell him what you told us.”
The knife was telling him that it probably wasn’t a good idea, that it was a seriously ridiculous story (thought true) and whoever this authority figure was, he probably wouldn’t be very agreeable to a big black blobby thing. In fact, he probably would rather vacuum up big black blobby things because authority figures don’t like their carpets muddled. Did they have carpets here?
“I still don’t think this’ll work out,” said the second man. He still didn’t give his name. It seemed a little rude. Which, really, seemed to be his entire character. But it wasn’t like the Photographer was surprised. He already knew that you couldn’t find depth and understanding in other people. Real emotion came from his friends…or, friend, now.
The knife told him that there was probably some sort of small hole he could slip into if he made a break for it. Probably nobody would follow him in sewers.
He hadn’t really paid attention to the camera for a while. It was starting to bother him. He was the Photographer, so of course, he needed a camera, but the camera was broken. But even so, he could still be a Photographer if he still carried the camera, right? But now he was no longer thinking of the camera as a part of his identity.
Without that anchor, was he really the Photographer anymore? Even if he held the camera, if he kept it while it was broken, it didn’t really mean a thing.
The knife replied. Apparently, he had been talking out loud. The two men didn’t seem to have heard him, though, or they were ignoring him. He was used to that.
The knife reminded him of the lucid dream and the part the camera had played. But really, nostalgic, sentimental feelings didn’t amount to anything much. If he had no tool for a trade, then he had no purpose. Thus, he was nothing. He was spinning towards decay too, really.
There was only one tool left he had, really, that he could use. But if a knife was his anchor, then what was his purpose? If he couldn’t be a photographer, then what would he be?
And with that, he suddenly collapsed. Was it just a spark of imagination that the world seemed to decay faster around him?
As the Photographer walked, he listened and felt the world underneath him turn towards decay. From the gears and pistons to the engines to the conglomerations of systems to the moon, all of it was spinning towards decay, though not every part knew it. The moon argued against itself, each part and piece trying to do their job, some of them finding that they couldn’t. It could be potentially maddening.
“It won’t take long,” said Snake, leading the way. “You just have to tell him what you told us.”
The knife was telling him that it probably wasn’t a good idea, that it was a seriously ridiculous story (thought true) and whoever this authority figure was, he probably wouldn’t be very agreeable to a big black blobby thing. In fact, he probably would rather vacuum up big black blobby things because authority figures don’t like their carpets muddled. Did they have carpets here?
“I still don’t think this’ll work out,” said the second man. He still didn’t give his name. It seemed a little rude. Which, really, seemed to be his entire character. But it wasn’t like the Photographer was surprised. He already knew that you couldn’t find depth and understanding in other people. Real emotion came from his friends…or, friend, now.
The knife told him that there was probably some sort of small hole he could slip into if he made a break for it. Probably nobody would follow him in sewers.
He hadn’t really paid attention to the camera for a while. It was starting to bother him. He was the Photographer, so of course, he needed a camera, but the camera was broken. But even so, he could still be a Photographer if he still carried the camera, right? But now he was no longer thinking of the camera as a part of his identity.
Without that anchor, was he really the Photographer anymore? Even if he held the camera, if he kept it while it was broken, it didn’t really mean a thing.
The knife replied. Apparently, he had been talking out loud. The two men didn’t seem to have heard him, though, or they were ignoring him. He was used to that.
The knife reminded him of the lucid dream and the part the camera had played. But really, nostalgic, sentimental feelings didn’t amount to anything much. If he had no tool for a trade, then he had no purpose. Thus, he was nothing. He was spinning towards decay too, really.
There was only one tool left he had, really, that he could use. But if a knife was his anchor, then what was his purpose? If he couldn’t be a photographer, then what would he be?
And with that, he suddenly collapsed. Was it just a spark of imagination that the world seemed to decay faster around him?