Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 5: GrandCon]
12-31-2012, 12:39 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
The Countess knew disappointingly little. Well, it was to be expected, really. A pawn wasn’t meant to know too much. Sometimes even the fact that it was a pawn was meant to be unknown.
Does that make you a pawn? To someone, somewhere?
To be honest, Holly wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. Was she going to actually go through with this plan of revenge? Or was she going to backstab the Countess as soon as she was able? Or maybe urging this plan of suicidal revenge was backstabbing, in a way. She didn’t know how to kill the Controller. She didn’t know how to kill the Countess. She was really in the same spot either way. Maybe the Countess was considering the same thing too. Maybe that damned inscrutable ticking thing was already thinking of a way to get her killed so that…well…who knows.
But there was such a thing as too much paranoia.
They bandied ideas back and forth in front of Jessica. She seemed fine with them talking about the power and nature of the Controller and possible ways to defeat him, oblivious to the fact that they were discussing the problem honestly. She even offered up some information and ideas of her own. Even though “he’s not gonna die or nothin’; the story never goes that way.”
“The closest he is is the round transitions. But he’s always prepared, isn’t he? We didn’t even see him last time. So we’d gotta barge in unexpected or something.”
“You want to somehow rip a hole into his pocket dimension, then. And make a precise rip so that we wouldn’t end up in a place we don’t want to be in.”
“Algernon might be able to do that,” Holly said with an upward, questioning lilt. “But…I don’t think he wants to.”
“He can be convinced,” said the Countess in a tone that made Holly uncomfortable.
“But even then, how would you kill him? We can’t just run in.”
“Everybody must have a weakness. Grandmasters are no exceptions.”
Jessica made a face that either said that she disagreed or that she had just stepped in something nasty. Holly found herself agreeing with the former. You’d need a god to defeat a god and…they didn’t have that. Determined to not be such a goddamned pessimist, she lurched towards a possible hope spot and said, “Hey, is there a panel about grandmasters?”
There was. Though Holly probably didn’t know the phrase, it seemed fitting to combat a god using the word of god.
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“Are you serious,” said Lynette, her expression saying that she would prefer a joke.
“Yes’m, we’ve lost contact with all ferries and planes. We’re trying to call them at regular intervals, but as it is, we are completely cut off from the rest of the world...” The woman behind the information desk waited patiently for Lynette to cease thudding her head against the smooth, clean surface.
“Why,” she growled, “is this convention on an island.”
“We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” recited the employee. “There are plenty of things to do here, would you like a complimentary tour? Perhaps you would like to enjoy the beach? Or – “
“Shut up,” said Lynette, who plodded off back to her room.
She hated this convention. She hated all the insufferable fans with their disgusting habits and atrocious behavior. The way they talked and the way they acted. Their very culture was offensive. And the worst part was that she was the cause of their very existence, as fans of all things Grand Battle. As Lynette Cooper, she was the creator of Grand Battle. And the organizer of everything that came after, when people flocked to her with praise and ideas and solicitations, their “would you mind terribly” and their “is it okay if I…”
Supposedly, she was obligated to make an appearance. Supposedly it meant the world to her fans. But all they wanted to know was if something was canon or not or whether she approved of how so-and-so was handling this-or-that. The same questions over and over. At every convention, she always made her obligatory appearance and left as soon as possible. But now she was stuck.
Along the way to her temporary Fortress of Solitude, she ran into LeMarche in the elevator. He was in the middle of gulping down some sort of drink or another and almost choked on it when she walked in. “Dang! You’re usually home by now, aren’t ya?”
She gave a stilted nod as she stabbed at a button. “Going to a panel or just coming back from one?”
“Latter,” he said, scratching at his beard and hoping that his voice wasn’t quavering. It always seemed to quaver around Lynette. “I’m goin’ back to write a bit more.”
“Hm,” said Lynette.
“D’ya think it’s okay if I” and then Lynette stopped listening after that.
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When Algernon woke up, he found himself in another bed. It was in a room whiter than any place he had been in previously. His head felt full of something squishy and horrible and it kept turning from side to side, as though it was weighed down by something. He gave out a gargled groan.
“Oh, you’re finally awake,” said the girl who had only introduced herself as Bartleby. “Christ, you’ve wasted a lot of time, passing out like that. At least when I had to drag your sorry ass here I found one of the thingies for the scavenger hunt thing.”
“Vents,” gurgled Algernon, though he wasn’t sure why he had said it. He tried to file through his memories but everything seemed all out of order and jumbled, like someone stuck a straw in his head and swirled his brain around into some sort of slurry.
“Went out and bought some shit too. Can’t go to conventions without getting some con swag, y’know? Of course, I totally was looking out for the Ouroborous murderer dude.”
“Vents?” He still felt sickly and balmy and all sorts of awful. He…he passed out. Because….because of…
Because he had been feeling feverous? So he passed out? No, it was from pain. Kchh’rl was feeling sick too. Maybe one of them caught a cold or something. So…he passed out because of the gnawing…no, it was something else.
Before he passed out…there was…he saw things? There was a pressure all around his head and he saw things that flashed by too quick for him to make out, things he didn’t think he had seen before, but at the same time he felt he must have. And then he passed out.
Algernon stared dead-eyed at the ceiling.
Did…did his worm just…barf…?
“Yeah, so I got a bunch of books I haven’t had time to pick up or anything. And some comics too, ‘cause I’ve heard tons of good things ‘bout some of them. Pretty sure you’d like something I got.”
Strange phrases and pieces of conversation drifted around in his mind. They danced around at the edges of consciousness, feeling somehow tattered and worn. He didn’t know them. And yet he did. One phrase echoed around in his head and ran unbidden to his tongue.
“…Gradual…Mass…acre…?”
“Yup. Got the newest issue here. They’re having a sale over at this booth if you’re interested. You can’t have mine, so don’t even ask.”
He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand what was going on. He never understood what was going on. The phrase left his tongue dry and his stomach all twisted but he didn’t understand…
…who the heck was Kchh’rl…?
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Elmo LeMarche sat at his laptop with a sigh. His palms were still sweaty, even when he had wiped them against his pants after Lynette had left him alone in the elevator.
It was undeniable. He loved her.
Not in the way that a fan loves a creator, but the way a man loves a person.
But Lynette didn’t love anybody at all, and certainly didn’t hold much love for anybody related to the franchise she had created. He suspected that she even hated herself.
At the very least, he just wanted to know more about her, but she was always closed off and out of reach, never drawing near to anybody. He just couldn’t approach her. She had to deign to approach him.
For the past year or so, he had been hoping that maybe his writing would attract her, but he himself didn’t hold much stock in his own skills. No matter what, Gradual Massacre continued to be a thing that he had ideas for, certainly, but he couldn’t do anything with the ideas, nothing grand or interesting, that led itself into any sort of spectacular narrative. Half of the time he forgot about Ouroborous.
The idea for this next round was ‘existential crisis.’ But even that was plodding along dreadfully slowly. Maybe it was because of the somewhat mundane setting. Or maybe it ought to be slow? If the whole thing was going to lead up to philosophical questions about the existence of the self and shit, it certainly wasn’t going to be too actiony, he supposed. He really only hoped that the whole philosophical thing would impress Lynette. And then maybe she’d actually be interested in him. And then there would finally be a mutual interest, and then after that, who knew…
LeMarche started to write:
When Algernon woke up, he found himself in another bed. It was in a room whiter than any place he had been in previously. His head felt full of something squishy and horrible and…
The Countess knew disappointingly little. Well, it was to be expected, really. A pawn wasn’t meant to know too much. Sometimes even the fact that it was a pawn was meant to be unknown.
Does that make you a pawn? To someone, somewhere?
To be honest, Holly wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. Was she going to actually go through with this plan of revenge? Or was she going to backstab the Countess as soon as she was able? Or maybe urging this plan of suicidal revenge was backstabbing, in a way. She didn’t know how to kill the Controller. She didn’t know how to kill the Countess. She was really in the same spot either way. Maybe the Countess was considering the same thing too. Maybe that damned inscrutable ticking thing was already thinking of a way to get her killed so that…well…who knows.
But there was such a thing as too much paranoia.
They bandied ideas back and forth in front of Jessica. She seemed fine with them talking about the power and nature of the Controller and possible ways to defeat him, oblivious to the fact that they were discussing the problem honestly. She even offered up some information and ideas of her own. Even though “he’s not gonna die or nothin’; the story never goes that way.”
“The closest he is is the round transitions. But he’s always prepared, isn’t he? We didn’t even see him last time. So we’d gotta barge in unexpected or something.”
“You want to somehow rip a hole into his pocket dimension, then. And make a precise rip so that we wouldn’t end up in a place we don’t want to be in.”
“Algernon might be able to do that,” Holly said with an upward, questioning lilt. “But…I don’t think he wants to.”
“He can be convinced,” said the Countess in a tone that made Holly uncomfortable.
“But even then, how would you kill him? We can’t just run in.”
“Everybody must have a weakness. Grandmasters are no exceptions.”
Jessica made a face that either said that she disagreed or that she had just stepped in something nasty. Holly found herself agreeing with the former. You’d need a god to defeat a god and…they didn’t have that. Determined to not be such a goddamned pessimist, she lurched towards a possible hope spot and said, “Hey, is there a panel about grandmasters?”
There was. Though Holly probably didn’t know the phrase, it seemed fitting to combat a god using the word of god.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Are you serious,” said Lynette, her expression saying that she would prefer a joke.
“Yes’m, we’ve lost contact with all ferries and planes. We’re trying to call them at regular intervals, but as it is, we are completely cut off from the rest of the world...” The woman behind the information desk waited patiently for Lynette to cease thudding her head against the smooth, clean surface.
“Why,” she growled, “is this convention on an island.”
“We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” recited the employee. “There are plenty of things to do here, would you like a complimentary tour? Perhaps you would like to enjoy the beach? Or – “
“Shut up,” said Lynette, who plodded off back to her room.
She hated this convention. She hated all the insufferable fans with their disgusting habits and atrocious behavior. The way they talked and the way they acted. Their very culture was offensive. And the worst part was that she was the cause of their very existence, as fans of all things Grand Battle. As Lynette Cooper, she was the creator of Grand Battle. And the organizer of everything that came after, when people flocked to her with praise and ideas and solicitations, their “would you mind terribly” and their “is it okay if I…”
Supposedly, she was obligated to make an appearance. Supposedly it meant the world to her fans. But all they wanted to know was if something was canon or not or whether she approved of how so-and-so was handling this-or-that. The same questions over and over. At every convention, she always made her obligatory appearance and left as soon as possible. But now she was stuck.
Along the way to her temporary Fortress of Solitude, she ran into LeMarche in the elevator. He was in the middle of gulping down some sort of drink or another and almost choked on it when she walked in. “Dang! You’re usually home by now, aren’t ya?”
She gave a stilted nod as she stabbed at a button. “Going to a panel or just coming back from one?”
“Latter,” he said, scratching at his beard and hoping that his voice wasn’t quavering. It always seemed to quaver around Lynette. “I’m goin’ back to write a bit more.”
“Hm,” said Lynette.
“D’ya think it’s okay if I” and then Lynette stopped listening after that.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Algernon woke up, he found himself in another bed. It was in a room whiter than any place he had been in previously. His head felt full of something squishy and horrible and it kept turning from side to side, as though it was weighed down by something. He gave out a gargled groan.
“Oh, you’re finally awake,” said the girl who had only introduced herself as Bartleby. “Christ, you’ve wasted a lot of time, passing out like that. At least when I had to drag your sorry ass here I found one of the thingies for the scavenger hunt thing.”
“Vents,” gurgled Algernon, though he wasn’t sure why he had said it. He tried to file through his memories but everything seemed all out of order and jumbled, like someone stuck a straw in his head and swirled his brain around into some sort of slurry.
“Went out and bought some shit too. Can’t go to conventions without getting some con swag, y’know? Of course, I totally was looking out for the Ouroborous murderer dude.”
“Vents?” He still felt sickly and balmy and all sorts of awful. He…he passed out. Because….because of…
Because he had been feeling feverous? So he passed out? No, it was from pain. Kchh’rl was feeling sick too. Maybe one of them caught a cold or something. So…he passed out because of the gnawing…no, it was something else.
Before he passed out…there was…he saw things? There was a pressure all around his head and he saw things that flashed by too quick for him to make out, things he didn’t think he had seen before, but at the same time he felt he must have. And then he passed out.
Algernon stared dead-eyed at the ceiling.
Did…did his worm just…barf…?
“Yeah, so I got a bunch of books I haven’t had time to pick up or anything. And some comics too, ‘cause I’ve heard tons of good things ‘bout some of them. Pretty sure you’d like something I got.”
Strange phrases and pieces of conversation drifted around in his mind. They danced around at the edges of consciousness, feeling somehow tattered and worn. He didn’t know them. And yet he did. One phrase echoed around in his head and ran unbidden to his tongue.
“…Gradual…Mass…acre…?”
“Yup. Got the newest issue here. They’re having a sale over at this booth if you’re interested. You can’t have mine, so don’t even ask.”
He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand what was going on. He never understood what was going on. The phrase left his tongue dry and his stomach all twisted but he didn’t understand…
…who the heck was Kchh’rl…?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elmo LeMarche sat at his laptop with a sigh. His palms were still sweaty, even when he had wiped them against his pants after Lynette had left him alone in the elevator.
It was undeniable. He loved her.
Not in the way that a fan loves a creator, but the way a man loves a person.
But Lynette didn’t love anybody at all, and certainly didn’t hold much love for anybody related to the franchise she had created. He suspected that she even hated herself.
At the very least, he just wanted to know more about her, but she was always closed off and out of reach, never drawing near to anybody. He just couldn’t approach her. She had to deign to approach him.
For the past year or so, he had been hoping that maybe his writing would attract her, but he himself didn’t hold much stock in his own skills. No matter what, Gradual Massacre continued to be a thing that he had ideas for, certainly, but he couldn’t do anything with the ideas, nothing grand or interesting, that led itself into any sort of spectacular narrative. Half of the time he forgot about Ouroborous.
The idea for this next round was ‘existential crisis.’ But even that was plodding along dreadfully slowly. Maybe it was because of the somewhat mundane setting. Or maybe it ought to be slow? If the whole thing was going to lead up to philosophical questions about the existence of the self and shit, it certainly wasn’t going to be too actiony, he supposed. He really only hoped that the whole philosophical thing would impress Lynette. And then maybe she’d actually be interested in him. And then there would finally be a mutual interest, and then after that, who knew…
LeMarche started to write:
When Algernon woke up, he found himself in another bed. It was in a room whiter than any place he had been in previously. His head felt full of something squishy and horrible and…