Re: Battle Royale! Round 5: Monte Casino
02-07-2010, 03:11 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by MyifanW.
"It's a scratch. Clearly, this is a test of trust and a warning of foolhardiness."
Whit took action as he spoke. Mike, for some reason, wanted him to 'not interfere', even going out of the way to prevent it. Then, Whit's next move would be simple but deadly. Whit, in one motion, fired his godgun at Itzal and Zeke while simultaniously drawing his .500 calibur revolver and firing square at Mike's heart.
Mike's vectors leapt after the gravity wave, but split up and guarded Mike at the same time. The bullet was heavy against the two vectors, but was eventually stopped. Similarly, the gravity wave was harsh, but the vectors managed to deflect it. In the moment right after, Mike's vectors fired out, dragging their owner forward.
"Just a scratch, Whit?"
Whit clicked his godgun desperately at the ceiling. The instant before Mike's vectors reached him, the gun fired. The ceiling fell, and plaster filled the space. Mike's vectors batted the smoke and pieces of ceiling away easily, but Whit yelled out. The air cleared, and Whit had been pinned by a chandelier frame. Mike couldn't help but laugh a little.
"heh... Really, I'm beginning to wonder if you were ever actually lucky at all."
Whit's heart raced. His gun had been knocked away, and his hand that held the godgun was pinned. Whit thought wildly about what he could do like this, what could be used. The mesmerizing disk, the knife? The hat? No, it was all useless! What was happening? Why didn't things work out, why was he failing? Had his luck... Even existed? The creeping doubt pervaded his mind, and dragged a voice back from the back of Whit's mind.
"I told you... Luck isn't something you can trust, that even exists. The only one you can trust is yourself." The skull whispered.
Whit closed his eyes hard, as he heard Mike approaching. Trusting himself... Then who was the skull, then? In a flash, he remembered the quality of the skull. That it absorbed his emotions, thoughts, and projected them. Whit realized with sudden clarity that it had simply been reflecting realist, self-based thoughts, that Whit had desperately pushed out of his own concious mind in order to progress. This skull was just a part of himself that he was ignoring. The doubt festered- had he been wrong all along, seeking strentgh in something that didn't exist?
He opened his eyes. Mike was close now, too close. Fear drove Whit's doubts even further. He hesitantly reached for the skull, feeling it around his neck. It really pained him, the doubt the skull had brought... Had he been wrong all along? He hated the skull in that instant, knowing that it was a part of himself that he hated. Then, the string, holding the skull, snapped. Suddenly, all that doubt was gone. A single stray chance clairifyed that the skull was something he didn't need. The skull, and all that it held, were completely useless. Whit threw it at Mike, who chopped it into pieces. As Whit watched the pieces fall, he felt relief, the source of his doubt And weakness disappearing.
Whit knew he was lucky- that his fate superceded those of all others, including the one who approached. In his mind's eye, Whit could see it. He could see his fate. It wasn't clearly defined off in the distance, but it was detailed enough- his fate would not break.
He had to trust his luck, so that he could continue living, succeeding. And to do that... Whit hated himself for his foolishness. He had been stupid- expecting that luck would simply pull him along without any true exertion. No, if he didn't apply himself, even his godly luck could not drag him forward. Luck recipricated what he put forth. Whit had to bet everything, to win everything. Scratches, injuries... They weren't something Whit would just be exempt from. Injuries were the natural effect of pushing himself forward- they didn't matter. He had bet his body, and It didn't matter what happened to his bet throughout they game. He could win a bit, lose a bit... But the end was inevitably his absolute victory.
Until then, Whit needed to act. He had to throw his entire existence on his every action, and had to take every chance. it was clear to him now, that the potential chance surrounding his chandelier prison was worth taking. He pulled the godgun's trigger. The blast impacted against the chandeliers rim fiercely, sending the entire frame careening, with Whit still inside.
The thing stopped completely as it crashed into the front desk. Whit stepped out of the wreck. He ackowledged it now, that he was truly injured- perhaps direly- and had become even more so with his tumble. However... The injuries didn't matter- they were a momentary loss, and would soon would work out. To Whit, they mattered so little they hardly existed.
Whirr jumped as he heard the crash. He was behind the front desk, accessing a machine he had seen earlier. It was some sort of safe deposit box, only the objects inside needed to be exchanged with chips. Whirr had concluded that inside the box were objects that could not be correctly claimed, or had a reservation- in other words, this was where the spare bets were. Whirr was certain there would be something he could use... Only, he didn't have enough chips.
"It's a scratch. Clearly, this is a test of trust and a warning of foolhardiness."
Whit took action as he spoke. Mike, for some reason, wanted him to 'not interfere', even going out of the way to prevent it. Then, Whit's next move would be simple but deadly. Whit, in one motion, fired his godgun at Itzal and Zeke while simultaniously drawing his .500 calibur revolver and firing square at Mike's heart.
Mike's vectors leapt after the gravity wave, but split up and guarded Mike at the same time. The bullet was heavy against the two vectors, but was eventually stopped. Similarly, the gravity wave was harsh, but the vectors managed to deflect it. In the moment right after, Mike's vectors fired out, dragging their owner forward.
"Just a scratch, Whit?"
Whit clicked his godgun desperately at the ceiling. The instant before Mike's vectors reached him, the gun fired. The ceiling fell, and plaster filled the space. Mike's vectors batted the smoke and pieces of ceiling away easily, but Whit yelled out. The air cleared, and Whit had been pinned by a chandelier frame. Mike couldn't help but laugh a little.
"heh... Really, I'm beginning to wonder if you were ever actually lucky at all."
Whit's heart raced. His gun had been knocked away, and his hand that held the godgun was pinned. Whit thought wildly about what he could do like this, what could be used. The mesmerizing disk, the knife? The hat? No, it was all useless! What was happening? Why didn't things work out, why was he failing? Had his luck... Even existed? The creeping doubt pervaded his mind, and dragged a voice back from the back of Whit's mind.
"I told you... Luck isn't something you can trust, that even exists. The only one you can trust is yourself." The skull whispered.
Whit closed his eyes hard, as he heard Mike approaching. Trusting himself... Then who was the skull, then? In a flash, he remembered the quality of the skull. That it absorbed his emotions, thoughts, and projected them. Whit realized with sudden clarity that it had simply been reflecting realist, self-based thoughts, that Whit had desperately pushed out of his own concious mind in order to progress. This skull was just a part of himself that he was ignoring. The doubt festered- had he been wrong all along, seeking strentgh in something that didn't exist?
He opened his eyes. Mike was close now, too close. Fear drove Whit's doubts even further. He hesitantly reached for the skull, feeling it around his neck. It really pained him, the doubt the skull had brought... Had he been wrong all along? He hated the skull in that instant, knowing that it was a part of himself that he hated. Then, the string, holding the skull, snapped. Suddenly, all that doubt was gone. A single stray chance clairifyed that the skull was something he didn't need. The skull, and all that it held, were completely useless. Whit threw it at Mike, who chopped it into pieces. As Whit watched the pieces fall, he felt relief, the source of his doubt And weakness disappearing.
Whit knew he was lucky- that his fate superceded those of all others, including the one who approached. In his mind's eye, Whit could see it. He could see his fate. It wasn't clearly defined off in the distance, but it was detailed enough- his fate would not break.
He had to trust his luck, so that he could continue living, succeeding. And to do that... Whit hated himself for his foolishness. He had been stupid- expecting that luck would simply pull him along without any true exertion. No, if he didn't apply himself, even his godly luck could not drag him forward. Luck recipricated what he put forth. Whit had to bet everything, to win everything. Scratches, injuries... They weren't something Whit would just be exempt from. Injuries were the natural effect of pushing himself forward- they didn't matter. He had bet his body, and It didn't matter what happened to his bet throughout they game. He could win a bit, lose a bit... But the end was inevitably his absolute victory.
Until then, Whit needed to act. He had to throw his entire existence on his every action, and had to take every chance. it was clear to him now, that the potential chance surrounding his chandelier prison was worth taking. He pulled the godgun's trigger. The blast impacted against the chandeliers rim fiercely, sending the entire frame careening, with Whit still inside.
The thing stopped completely as it crashed into the front desk. Whit stepped out of the wreck. He ackowledged it now, that he was truly injured- perhaps direly- and had become even more so with his tumble. However... The injuries didn't matter- they were a momentary loss, and would soon would work out. To Whit, they mattered so little they hardly existed.
Whirr jumped as he heard the crash. He was behind the front desk, accessing a machine he had seen earlier. It was some sort of safe deposit box, only the objects inside needed to be exchanged with chips. Whirr had concluded that inside the box were objects that could not be correctly claimed, or had a reservation- in other words, this was where the spare bets were. Whirr was certain there would be something he could use... Only, he didn't have enough chips.