Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 1: Focal High School]
06-12-2010, 11:20 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
The Countess marched up a corridor, mentally checking off her list of stooges she was assembling amongst the contestants. Algernon was no hero, but in some ways his streak of cowardice could, under a different light, merit admiration in the form of conscientious cowardice. Either way, the boy wasn't a totally lost cause, and if he'd lose all trust in his fellow man or elf or werewolf of his own volition... well, that just made the amalgam's work easier. Still... securing one cowardly human wasn't going to shift this fight under the Countess' control. The gears ground against themselves, detesting and deep in the Countess' throat, as she decided neither Holly or Acacia could be considered secure in the scheming web. They were too tricky, and the elf especially had the capacity to outperform the clockwork beast at its own duty. And that really wouldn't do.
All that remains is to maximise the contestants' torment at her death. I could turn them all against her... tempting. The Countess found herself upon the first floor as she berated herself for not noting it sooner. Her personal loathing of the elf was getting in the way of her job - offering the Controller the best show of mortal agony she could put on. Personal grievances, however justified, were simply getting in the way. The skitter-click taking an irregular pace as she stopped by each door, determining the presence of occupants, moving on, scheming ticking.
Having at least one to regret her passing, but all who have met her have as fine an opinion of her as I do. Groan-click-tick, as her jaws opened a little wider. That leaves... the demonic wreck, and the Old One. Is either even capable of having a shred of empathy for that wench? Perhaps, though, Thane-
a chittering, scrabbling, crescendoing to a painful disabling screech, flooded the hallway. The Countess had no ears, but the sound decimated her delicate listening instruments which were scattered across her form, and were of a frequency that seemed to lock her gears in place, cogs and keys jittering in destructive resistance against each other, graunching, paralysing the Countess as the wave of Ouroborites spilled round the corner, the slurry mass lurching toward her. Digging her twitching, sharp-tipped feet into the scuffed linoleum, the amalgam stared down Ouroboros, jaw still hanging open in a wicked grimace as the writhing mass of insects roiled onward, heedless of the Countess in their path.
With no hot blood to smell and spill, or angry limbs lashing out and crushing carapace, Ouroboros was understandably confused as the first beetles clambered over the hunched metal construct, antennae and stray limbs snipped off by the recovering machinery. The Countess didn't move as the insects crawled over her, still-stiff joints grating in protest as she felt that abrasive, shrieking stripe carve against her hull. Eventually, dissatisfied with the poor pickings, Ouroboros lurched onward, a few stray individuals still scrabbling. Whatever caustic substances comprised the slick gunk that seemed to have lodged itself securely in her mechanisms left the amalgam with an abominable ache throughout her entire body; she could only assume her own phagic putty was in some kind of molecular brawl with the acid.
The Countess clambered to her feet, and clumsily brushing the last of the Ouroborites off, she seized one by its writhing, fish-hook tail and raised it to the fading skitter of its compatriots, dropping it into her mouth. A snap, a few crunches to punctuate the dull grinding which stopped after a moment, and the Countess clanked off in search of some water to wash off the prickling slime. Her shuffle to the nearest bathroom was slowed by the debilitating mix of blood and acid and stench which would've been mind-warping had the Countess possessed olfactory receptors. Still plucking the individual insects from the ground and mesh of gears and devouring them (if only for the satisfaction of hearing their little shell crunch), the Countess slipped into the nearest bathroom (male, oddly enough) and smashed a sink with a freshly dislodged hand-towel dispenser until the amalgam stood, in the flooding bathroom, savouring the fountain of water spurting from the mangled pipe.
Basking in the stream pouring from a broken (forcibly detached) tap, the Countess reflected on the monster that was Ouroboros. Mindless, remorseless, and destructive. Perfect for terrifying the sophonts. Whatever viscous purple slime was too embedded to rinse was slowly getting digested, like the munched and pulverised bits of Ouroborite.
The Countess marched up a corridor, mentally checking off her list of stooges she was assembling amongst the contestants. Algernon was no hero, but in some ways his streak of cowardice could, under a different light, merit admiration in the form of conscientious cowardice. Either way, the boy wasn't a totally lost cause, and if he'd lose all trust in his fellow man or elf or werewolf of his own volition... well, that just made the amalgam's work easier. Still... securing one cowardly human wasn't going to shift this fight under the Countess' control. The gears ground against themselves, detesting and deep in the Countess' throat, as she decided neither Holly or Acacia could be considered secure in the scheming web. They were too tricky, and the elf especially had the capacity to outperform the clockwork beast at its own duty. And that really wouldn't do.
All that remains is to maximise the contestants' torment at her death. I could turn them all against her... tempting. The Countess found herself upon the first floor as she berated herself for not noting it sooner. Her personal loathing of the elf was getting in the way of her job - offering the Controller the best show of mortal agony she could put on. Personal grievances, however justified, were simply getting in the way. The skitter-click taking an irregular pace as she stopped by each door, determining the presence of occupants, moving on, scheming ticking.
Having at least one to regret her passing, but all who have met her have as fine an opinion of her as I do. Groan-click-tick, as her jaws opened a little wider. That leaves... the demonic wreck, and the Old One. Is either even capable of having a shred of empathy for that wench? Perhaps, though, Thane-
a chittering, scrabbling, crescendoing to a painful disabling screech, flooded the hallway. The Countess had no ears, but the sound decimated her delicate listening instruments which were scattered across her form, and were of a frequency that seemed to lock her gears in place, cogs and keys jittering in destructive resistance against each other, graunching, paralysing the Countess as the wave of Ouroborites spilled round the corner, the slurry mass lurching toward her. Digging her twitching, sharp-tipped feet into the scuffed linoleum, the amalgam stared down Ouroboros, jaw still hanging open in a wicked grimace as the writhing mass of insects roiled onward, heedless of the Countess in their path.
With no hot blood to smell and spill, or angry limbs lashing out and crushing carapace, Ouroboros was understandably confused as the first beetles clambered over the hunched metal construct, antennae and stray limbs snipped off by the recovering machinery. The Countess didn't move as the insects crawled over her, still-stiff joints grating in protest as she felt that abrasive, shrieking stripe carve against her hull. Eventually, dissatisfied with the poor pickings, Ouroboros lurched onward, a few stray individuals still scrabbling. Whatever caustic substances comprised the slick gunk that seemed to have lodged itself securely in her mechanisms left the amalgam with an abominable ache throughout her entire body; she could only assume her own phagic putty was in some kind of molecular brawl with the acid.
The Countess clambered to her feet, and clumsily brushing the last of the Ouroborites off, she seized one by its writhing, fish-hook tail and raised it to the fading skitter of its compatriots, dropping it into her mouth. A snap, a few crunches to punctuate the dull grinding which stopped after a moment, and the Countess clanked off in search of some water to wash off the prickling slime. Her shuffle to the nearest bathroom was slowed by the debilitating mix of blood and acid and stench which would've been mind-warping had the Countess possessed olfactory receptors. Still plucking the individual insects from the ground and mesh of gears and devouring them (if only for the satisfaction of hearing their little shell crunch), the Countess slipped into the nearest bathroom (male, oddly enough) and smashed a sink with a freshly dislodged hand-towel dispenser until the amalgam stood, in the flooding bathroom, savouring the fountain of water spurting from the mangled pipe.
Basking in the stream pouring from a broken (forcibly detached) tap, the Countess reflected on the monster that was Ouroboros. Mindless, remorseless, and destructive. Perfect for terrifying the sophonts. Whatever viscous purple slime was too embedded to rinse was slowly getting digested, like the munched and pulverised bits of Ouroborite.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow