Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round Three: The Epigen Center]
04-03-2012, 12:24 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by veerserif.
Bleeding out is a messy, time consuming way to die.
It shouldn't have been possible to bleed out with equal parts impatience and debonair disdain, but if there was one thing Xodarap prided himself on (and oh, he was proud of many things), it was in giving the universe the metaphorical middle finger and causing it to seriously reconsider trying to impose the Laws of Space and Time and Reality on him, really, what was it even thinking back then?
It made quite the impression on Gabe's (malleable, blanked-out) mind.
Every tool in the world was built with a specific purpose in mind.
Typewriters, for example. They typed. They were very good at that. Very... insistent.
So what are you up to these days?
He squinted at the machine, which was performing the mechanical equivalent of looking innocent.*
"I'm, uh, I'm helping some people. They got me this." He picked at the new metal nametag.
I almost envy your oblivious joy in your underpaid menial work. Aren't you going to join us?
Gabe merely shrugged, holding his mop with two hands. He was still mulling over Xodarap's words. "Uh, you go on, I'll catch up?"
Though the razor can kill, it was made to shave. The razor knows this, and accepts that it is sometimes used to kill because it knows what it is.
Well. He'd traded in one brainless minion for another, but at least Gabe had legs... "Let's keep moving. Pick me up?"
Obediently, he moved to do so.
And then he thought, Why should I?
"Do not despair that, in the end, you are just another tool."
What had he been doing? Running in corridors. Picking up demonic typewriters. Running in corridors while holding demonic typewriters. Running in jungles being chased by a primate marching band wielding some surprisingly vicious brass instruments. Running after something here, for a change. Always running -
at someone else's behest? Doing what other people wanted.
He was here for a fight to the death, the man had said. Well, he'd killed a man, now.
The dried blood under his nails stained the tips a rust-brown. Absentmindedly, he brushed them against the hem of his shirt.
So long as you remember what you were made for,
That lab - the white substance - his hand. He'd used it, them, himself, as a tool, and now a weapon. In a facility like that? That was probably what those researchers had intended all along, even if the method hadn't exactly gone according to their plans.
you will be well equipped to deal with whatever necessities are forced upon you.
All of a sudden he ached for his boring life and his boring job and the prospect-less days spent carving knickknacks and trinkets. And - well. Quantos had hit the car, right? But he was here, and unharmed. And Eli, too, had looked younger. He'd not seen her cat anywhere, certainly. Did death even mean anything anymore? To Gabe, it just looked like it took you back home, or at least, back before, and that was almost as good. He had tried so hard to stay hidden and not to stick out, to minimize the chances of his own demise. But if killing was why he was here, why fight fate?
A fight to the death, he had said. I'm ready now. Let's give them a good show.
----
*The keys were shinier, the ribbon was untangled, and - if you were to type on it - the ding! announcing a new line was more insufferably cheery than usual.
Bleeding out is a messy, time consuming way to die.
It shouldn't have been possible to bleed out with equal parts impatience and debonair disdain, but if there was one thing Xodarap prided himself on (and oh, he was proud of many things), it was in giving the universe the metaphorical middle finger and causing it to seriously reconsider trying to impose the Laws of Space and Time and Reality on him, really, what was it even thinking back then?
It made quite the impression on Gabe's (malleable, blanked-out) mind.
Every tool in the world was built with a specific purpose in mind.
Typewriters, for example. They typed. They were very good at that. Very... insistent.
So what are you up to these days?
He squinted at the machine, which was performing the mechanical equivalent of looking innocent.*
"I'm, uh, I'm helping some people. They got me this." He picked at the new metal nametag.
I almost envy your oblivious joy in your underpaid menial work. Aren't you going to join us?
Gabe merely shrugged, holding his mop with two hands. He was still mulling over Xodarap's words. "Uh, you go on, I'll catch up?"
Though the razor can kill, it was made to shave. The razor knows this, and accepts that it is sometimes used to kill because it knows what it is.
Well. He'd traded in one brainless minion for another, but at least Gabe had legs... "Let's keep moving. Pick me up?"
Obediently, he moved to do so.
And then he thought, Why should I?
"Do not despair that, in the end, you are just another tool."
What had he been doing? Running in corridors. Picking up demonic typewriters. Running in corridors while holding demonic typewriters. Running in jungles being chased by a primate marching band wielding some surprisingly vicious brass instruments. Running after something here, for a change. Always running -
at someone else's behest? Doing what other people wanted.
He was here for a fight to the death, the man had said. Well, he'd killed a man, now.
The dried blood under his nails stained the tips a rust-brown. Absentmindedly, he brushed them against the hem of his shirt.
So long as you remember what you were made for,
That lab - the white substance - his hand. He'd used it, them, himself, as a tool, and now a weapon. In a facility like that? That was probably what those researchers had intended all along, even if the method hadn't exactly gone according to their plans.
you will be well equipped to deal with whatever necessities are forced upon you.
All of a sudden he ached for his boring life and his boring job and the prospect-less days spent carving knickknacks and trinkets. And - well. Quantos had hit the car, right? But he was here, and unharmed. And Eli, too, had looked younger. He'd not seen her cat anywhere, certainly. Did death even mean anything anymore? To Gabe, it just looked like it took you back home, or at least, back before, and that was almost as good. He had tried so hard to stay hidden and not to stick out, to minimize the chances of his own demise. But if killing was why he was here, why fight fate?
A fight to the death, he had said. I'm ready now. Let's give them a good show.
----
*The keys were shinier, the ribbon was untangled, and - if you were to type on it - the ding! announcing a new line was more insufferably cheery than usual.