Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 3: Las Orbitas]
12-07-2010, 06:53 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
The Countess wrung her spidery hands over each other, though the movement was more thoughtful than agonised (even if the unpleasant little shiiirk noises they gave off were). She was tentative, if only because killing Ouroborous of any description sounded like work.
Not that she minded work; no, especially if the Controller had asked her to do something in particular. It was simply that, well… her initial expectations of this particular job had been envisioning it as a lot more… fun. Terrorising weak, fearful little fleshbags. Getting to travel to nice places like the Museum. If possible, keeping personal affronts like bullets and circuit-scrambling laser fire to a minimum. This whole Massacre business had gotten off to a great start, but now it was work. The Countess was disappointed, not to mention doubtful, when considering whether the voracious little prawns would elicit any cries of pain, let alone beg for mercy.
“How to make this interesting…” The Countess reached a T-intersection, noted the purplish slick continuing up the other arms of the corridor, was finally struck with inspiration, and turned around. The tiny, barely-conspicuous lens of a camera blinked at her from the ceiling, prompting a curious tilting of her head and the prickle of nanobots reorganising themselves on her left forearm.
Going to need more metal, the amalgam thought, as she retraced her staccato path until she spotted a ventilation shaft. She tore the vent off it, unhinged her jaw, and idly examined the blossoming spark chamber on her arm while the gears within set to work. Ten minutes and a handful of nuts and bolts later, the Countess sported what looked like a cross between a water pistol and an extremely anachronistic taser. She peered at the mismatched teeth of tiny gears, spitting out tinier protesting sparks which collected in the thin, glassy tube. A horrific clockwork arm was raised into the air; skeletal fingers stabbed accusingly at yet another surveillance device in the ceiling. Fingers clenched into a fist, tapping the trigger where the Countess’ pulse should’ve been. She grinned as a pleasing little lance of lightning connected with the camera, which responded sad curl of smoke. The hand sprung open to grab the falling scraps, before tossing them away.
Plastic casing. Disgusting.
The amalgam purred to herself as she strode up the corridor, pausing only to cook the occasional camera.
The line was dead, or everyone was understandably preoccupied. The fact hadn’t hit Algernon until he’d yelled hysterically at the receiver for a good five minutes. A bout of button-mashing failed to yield more satisfactory results, until the frenzied prodding of one button elicited a few garbled screams, punctuated by snippets of hurried questions and panicked rallies to Nav-
“Can anybody hear me?”
The static on this frequency was different – it sounded more like… ticking? Algernon held the device at arm’s length, half-deliriously wondering if this was the radio’s voice or something. Or, perhaps, he had immediately thought ‘bomb’ and was ready to drop the damn thing and run.
“Do you read me?”
The voice was modulated, chiming, crystalline. It had the calibrated, measured poise of something sharp and murderous. Recognition didn’t so much hit Algernon as tackle him to the ground and deal him a kick to the stomach before strutting off, but that sensation was more welcome than the steely-fingers-on-your-neck feeling that clockwork nutcase’s voice could induce.
He wasn’t aware of making any noise in response, but a choked “ulp” was clearly heard by the Countess, because she responded:
“Algernon, dear? …Yes, I suppose you’ll have to do. There’s a rather serious problem, it’s bound to get much worse, and if you don’t help me then nobody on this station will survive. Don’t run,” she added, the merest cracks in her placid tone appearing as Algernon dropped the comms device. “If you were close enough to talk face-to-face with, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to work this infernal thing.”
The Countess waited for a moment, failed to hear footsteps, and continued. “I’ve searched the station, destroyed all the surveillance systems I could so the Controller won’t know to interfere, but if the… engineer I talked to was correct we haven’t the time to be concerned by him.”
Algernon was trying not to think about what fate must’ve befallen the engineer in question, when the lights at the far end of the corridor flickered, and died. The next fixture was extinguished in a similar fashion, an approaching, shrieking wave of darkness.
“Th-the lights-”
“Indeed. They are the problem I mentioned – and not just them, the entire ship’s power supply is bleeding out. Algernon, you’re the only one I can find not stupid enough to hold a petty grudge against me, and I refuse to kill a contestant-”
“B-bullshit! That engineer’s pr-probably dead right next to you!”
The Countess glanced down at he feet, smiling in her feral, ferrous way at the dying welder impaled there. She bit back the obvious rebuttal while gently prising his torch from his weakly twitching fingers.
“If you don’t help me, he will be. Along with-”
There was a dull screech, barely registering over the ambient ticking. Something crashed in the background, followed by an intensifying chatter that threatened to tear its voracious way out of the device in Algernon's hands and lunge for him then and there.
The clockwork slowed to a choked, protesting halt, Ouroborous' screeches consuming the comms line.
The Countess wrung her spidery hands over each other, though the movement was more thoughtful than agonised (even if the unpleasant little shiiirk noises they gave off were). She was tentative, if only because killing Ouroborous of any description sounded like work.
Not that she minded work; no, especially if the Controller had asked her to do something in particular. It was simply that, well… her initial expectations of this particular job had been envisioning it as a lot more… fun. Terrorising weak, fearful little fleshbags. Getting to travel to nice places like the Museum. If possible, keeping personal affronts like bullets and circuit-scrambling laser fire to a minimum. This whole Massacre business had gotten off to a great start, but now it was work. The Countess was disappointed, not to mention doubtful, when considering whether the voracious little prawns would elicit any cries of pain, let alone beg for mercy.
“How to make this interesting…” The Countess reached a T-intersection, noted the purplish slick continuing up the other arms of the corridor, was finally struck with inspiration, and turned around. The tiny, barely-conspicuous lens of a camera blinked at her from the ceiling, prompting a curious tilting of her head and the prickle of nanobots reorganising themselves on her left forearm.
Going to need more metal, the amalgam thought, as she retraced her staccato path until she spotted a ventilation shaft. She tore the vent off it, unhinged her jaw, and idly examined the blossoming spark chamber on her arm while the gears within set to work. Ten minutes and a handful of nuts and bolts later, the Countess sported what looked like a cross between a water pistol and an extremely anachronistic taser. She peered at the mismatched teeth of tiny gears, spitting out tinier protesting sparks which collected in the thin, glassy tube. A horrific clockwork arm was raised into the air; skeletal fingers stabbed accusingly at yet another surveillance device in the ceiling. Fingers clenched into a fist, tapping the trigger where the Countess’ pulse should’ve been. She grinned as a pleasing little lance of lightning connected with the camera, which responded sad curl of smoke. The hand sprung open to grab the falling scraps, before tossing them away.
Plastic casing. Disgusting.
The amalgam purred to herself as she strode up the corridor, pausing only to cook the occasional camera.
The line was dead, or everyone was understandably preoccupied. The fact hadn’t hit Algernon until he’d yelled hysterically at the receiver for a good five minutes. A bout of button-mashing failed to yield more satisfactory results, until the frenzied prodding of one button elicited a few garbled screams, punctuated by snippets of hurried questions and panicked rallies to Nav-
“Can anybody hear me?”
The static on this frequency was different – it sounded more like… ticking? Algernon held the device at arm’s length, half-deliriously wondering if this was the radio’s voice or something. Or, perhaps, he had immediately thought ‘bomb’ and was ready to drop the damn thing and run.
“Do you read me?”
The voice was modulated, chiming, crystalline. It had the calibrated, measured poise of something sharp and murderous. Recognition didn’t so much hit Algernon as tackle him to the ground and deal him a kick to the stomach before strutting off, but that sensation was more welcome than the steely-fingers-on-your-neck feeling that clockwork nutcase’s voice could induce.
He wasn’t aware of making any noise in response, but a choked “ulp” was clearly heard by the Countess, because she responded:
“Algernon, dear? …Yes, I suppose you’ll have to do. There’s a rather serious problem, it’s bound to get much worse, and if you don’t help me then nobody on this station will survive. Don’t run,” she added, the merest cracks in her placid tone appearing as Algernon dropped the comms device. “If you were close enough to talk face-to-face with, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to work this infernal thing.”
The Countess waited for a moment, failed to hear footsteps, and continued. “I’ve searched the station, destroyed all the surveillance systems I could so the Controller won’t know to interfere, but if the… engineer I talked to was correct we haven’t the time to be concerned by him.”
Algernon was trying not to think about what fate must’ve befallen the engineer in question, when the lights at the far end of the corridor flickered, and died. The next fixture was extinguished in a similar fashion, an approaching, shrieking wave of darkness.
“Th-the lights-”
“Indeed. They are the problem I mentioned – and not just them, the entire ship’s power supply is bleeding out. Algernon, you’re the only one I can find not stupid enough to hold a petty grudge against me, and I refuse to kill a contestant-”
“B-bullshit! That engineer’s pr-probably dead right next to you!”
The Countess glanced down at he feet, smiling in her feral, ferrous way at the dying welder impaled there. She bit back the obvious rebuttal while gently prising his torch from his weakly twitching fingers.
“If you don’t help me, he will be. Along with-”
There was a dull screech, barely registering over the ambient ticking. Something crashed in the background, followed by an intensifying chatter that threatened to tear its voracious way out of the device in Algernon's hands and lunge for him then and there.
The clockwork slowed to a choked, protesting halt, Ouroborous' screeches consuming the comms line.
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