Re: Intense Struggle Season 2! (Round 1: Training Facility ONX)
07-14-2010, 11:07 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.
The Monitor could have given argument after argument for why Lloyd wasn't in a book any more, and it would've been ineffective. Lloyd, stubborn and antagonistic, would've simply pulled out one "what if" after another and dragged the conversation on until either the Monitor gave up or the book ended and the man moved on. Out of sheer bull-headedness, Lloyd would've gone on thinking he was in just another book, albeit a more meta one than most.
He didn't think that, however, and there was exactly one reason why: the room around him was sharp and crisp, no room for variance or interpretation. The walls didn't have a range of shades to them, no realm of possibilities allowed by the colour "grey." The puddles of green goop on the floor were in precise, exact locations, each one with its own unique shape and size. No author would be this precise- to describe the exact shapes and locations of the puddles in such detail that he could see no variance in potential would be simply absurd, and to list each and every little dip and bump in the concrete floor in such a way that they would be exactly the same from one moment to the next would be practically impossible. The layers upon layers of descriptors and qualifiers that would be required to describe even an inch of the room he was in would be staggering.
He crouched down and looked into a tiny pit in the concrete floor. There were three specks of dust sitting in the bottom. He looked away, then looked back, and they were still there, positioned exactly the same way they had been before.
No author would write a story in that much detail, taking care to describe the relative positions of individual motes of dust, and that fact, above anything else, convinced him that this place was the real deal.
The thought that he was in the real world should have been comforting. He'd started out wanting to escape his prison, and he'd succeeded. It had been his one goal, his driving motivation, and now, finally, he'd done it. He'd made it out of fiction.
Trouble is, his life had continued after he'd left The Escapee. He'd then spent years jumping around from book to book, rocking the boat and generally giving the pre-established storyline the finger. He'd rather enjoyed doing that, and the thought that, whatever happened, he would always have another book ahead was quite comforting. Now, though, he was stuck. He couldn't just jump out when he was done, and if he died here, he wouldn't just move on to another book. He'd be dead.
That aspect of the situation should've made him wary or nervous, or perhaps fill him with fear and dread. He hadn't ever had to worry about dieing, and the sudden, looming danger of the great one-way trip to nowhere should have been a rather large concern.
It shouldn't have caused him to grin widely and rub his hands together in anticipation. It shouldn't have made him feel that the events that were about to unfold were going to matter more than anything he'd ever done before, that the stakes now were higher than he'd ever had on the table in his life. The thought shouldn't've set him moving towards the door.
But it did, and through he went, striding confidently into the next room.
This room, too, was precisely defined. The ceiling was at a precise value of "high," the pit in the centre had a precise value of "deep," and the ledge across which he was clearly intended to walk had a precise value of "thin."
The precision of the whole place made his grin just a bit wider, and he walked confidently out, his strides longer than was advisable but shorter than was crazy. He held his hands out to balance a bit, but he still moved across the pit at a fairly good clip.
He was most of the way across when a precisely-defined pebble slipped beneath his shoe. He overcompensated, wavering dangerously, but didn't fall. For a moment, he just stood, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths, letting his racing heart calm down a bit.
Once it had reached a relatively normal level, he opened his eyes again and continued across. Once on the other side, he slumped against the wall. "That was reckless, Lloyd," he muttered. "Remember, things don't just happen here for story reasons. There's no-one calling the shots, making things happen to advance the plot. Things like that pebble can just be there. It's not all about the story."
He blinked for a second, his words reminding him of something else. In books, he'd always had the general knowledge of a typical protagonist in that story, but he wasn't sure if he'd have it here as well.
He worried about the effects of losing that advantage for a second before he decided to simply try it and find out. If it was there, great, and if not, he'd have to live without it. No use worrying about it until he knew.
So he thought about his situation.
Nothing. He didn't know where he was, or what sort of things were expected of a character in this situation. He didn't know the history of the region or even what sort of gods they did or did not believe in.
He sighed. "Well, that's one advantage lost." He stood back up and headed for the other door. He was still experienced and skilled, and he wasn't about to sit down and die because he didn't know what television shows people in this place watched.
On the other side of the door was a large, circular chamber. There were three doors in the room: the one he'd entered through, another door of a similar design, and a third, larger door.
First, he headed over to the similar door. It didn't slide open for him, and despite his attempts, he couldn't open it manually. He tried the other door, but got the same result. Frustrated, he turned back to the door he'd entered through.
It too was locked, leaving him stuck. Presumably one of the other competitors would be entering in the near future, then, and here he was, out in the open.
He took stock of what he had. It wasn't much. He'd taken a few things from people as he moved between novels, removing what would likely be key plot elements and therefore making the plot go off in a completely different direction. In his pockets, he had a magnifying glass, a pair of AA batteries, and a ballpoint pen, and over one shoulder, he had a largish bath towel from Marks and Spencer. Other than that, he was basically unarmed. Against most, if not all, of the other competitors, that was a serious disadvantage. He'd need every edge he could get if he was going to survive.
At this point, he really only had one feasible advantage- he was here first. He could probably get the drop on whoever it is that's going to be coming in, he supposed.
He'd just gotten into position next to the door when it whisked open. His timing was off, and he moved forward a split second too early. Instead of coming up behind her and having one arm wrapped around her neck while holding the pen to her throat with the other, he was performing more of an awkward hug from the side with one arm and holding the pen to her throat with the other.
She looked at him for a moment, then said, "Ah, you're that special one, like me. Or so it was suggested."
"Well," he replied, thinking back to what the Monitor had told them, "that depends on how you define special. If it means 'pulled from somewhere other than reality,' then yes."
He shifted his grip a little to get a better angle with the pen. "But the past isn't important right now- the present is. That Monitor guy says he can 'gather the most data' if we don't kill each other right off the bat, but I'm not exactly in a mood to help him out. So tell me- why shouldn't I kill you right here?"
In truth, he had no intention of killing her. Given any sort of half-decent excuse, he was planning to just let her go and 'reluctantly' move along together. After all, she hadn't dragged him away from his previous life. His issue was with the Monitor, not her.
The Monitor could have given argument after argument for why Lloyd wasn't in a book any more, and it would've been ineffective. Lloyd, stubborn and antagonistic, would've simply pulled out one "what if" after another and dragged the conversation on until either the Monitor gave up or the book ended and the man moved on. Out of sheer bull-headedness, Lloyd would've gone on thinking he was in just another book, albeit a more meta one than most.
He didn't think that, however, and there was exactly one reason why: the room around him was sharp and crisp, no room for variance or interpretation. The walls didn't have a range of shades to them, no realm of possibilities allowed by the colour "grey." The puddles of green goop on the floor were in precise, exact locations, each one with its own unique shape and size. No author would be this precise- to describe the exact shapes and locations of the puddles in such detail that he could see no variance in potential would be simply absurd, and to list each and every little dip and bump in the concrete floor in such a way that they would be exactly the same from one moment to the next would be practically impossible. The layers upon layers of descriptors and qualifiers that would be required to describe even an inch of the room he was in would be staggering.
He crouched down and looked into a tiny pit in the concrete floor. There were three specks of dust sitting in the bottom. He looked away, then looked back, and they were still there, positioned exactly the same way they had been before.
No author would write a story in that much detail, taking care to describe the relative positions of individual motes of dust, and that fact, above anything else, convinced him that this place was the real deal.
The thought that he was in the real world should have been comforting. He'd started out wanting to escape his prison, and he'd succeeded. It had been his one goal, his driving motivation, and now, finally, he'd done it. He'd made it out of fiction.
Trouble is, his life had continued after he'd left The Escapee. He'd then spent years jumping around from book to book, rocking the boat and generally giving the pre-established storyline the finger. He'd rather enjoyed doing that, and the thought that, whatever happened, he would always have another book ahead was quite comforting. Now, though, he was stuck. He couldn't just jump out when he was done, and if he died here, he wouldn't just move on to another book. He'd be dead.
That aspect of the situation should've made him wary or nervous, or perhaps fill him with fear and dread. He hadn't ever had to worry about dieing, and the sudden, looming danger of the great one-way trip to nowhere should have been a rather large concern.
It shouldn't have caused him to grin widely and rub his hands together in anticipation. It shouldn't have made him feel that the events that were about to unfold were going to matter more than anything he'd ever done before, that the stakes now were higher than he'd ever had on the table in his life. The thought shouldn't've set him moving towards the door.
But it did, and through he went, striding confidently into the next room.
This room, too, was precisely defined. The ceiling was at a precise value of "high," the pit in the centre had a precise value of "deep," and the ledge across which he was clearly intended to walk had a precise value of "thin."
The precision of the whole place made his grin just a bit wider, and he walked confidently out, his strides longer than was advisable but shorter than was crazy. He held his hands out to balance a bit, but he still moved across the pit at a fairly good clip.
He was most of the way across when a precisely-defined pebble slipped beneath his shoe. He overcompensated, wavering dangerously, but didn't fall. For a moment, he just stood, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths, letting his racing heart calm down a bit.
Once it had reached a relatively normal level, he opened his eyes again and continued across. Once on the other side, he slumped against the wall. "That was reckless, Lloyd," he muttered. "Remember, things don't just happen here for story reasons. There's no-one calling the shots, making things happen to advance the plot. Things like that pebble can just be there. It's not all about the story."
He blinked for a second, his words reminding him of something else. In books, he'd always had the general knowledge of a typical protagonist in that story, but he wasn't sure if he'd have it here as well.
He worried about the effects of losing that advantage for a second before he decided to simply try it and find out. If it was there, great, and if not, he'd have to live without it. No use worrying about it until he knew.
So he thought about his situation.
Nothing. He didn't know where he was, or what sort of things were expected of a character in this situation. He didn't know the history of the region or even what sort of gods they did or did not believe in.
He sighed. "Well, that's one advantage lost." He stood back up and headed for the other door. He was still experienced and skilled, and he wasn't about to sit down and die because he didn't know what television shows people in this place watched.
On the other side of the door was a large, circular chamber. There were three doors in the room: the one he'd entered through, another door of a similar design, and a third, larger door.
First, he headed over to the similar door. It didn't slide open for him, and despite his attempts, he couldn't open it manually. He tried the other door, but got the same result. Frustrated, he turned back to the door he'd entered through.
It too was locked, leaving him stuck. Presumably one of the other competitors would be entering in the near future, then, and here he was, out in the open.
He took stock of what he had. It wasn't much. He'd taken a few things from people as he moved between novels, removing what would likely be key plot elements and therefore making the plot go off in a completely different direction. In his pockets, he had a magnifying glass, a pair of AA batteries, and a ballpoint pen, and over one shoulder, he had a largish bath towel from Marks and Spencer. Other than that, he was basically unarmed. Against most, if not all, of the other competitors, that was a serious disadvantage. He'd need every edge he could get if he was going to survive.
At this point, he really only had one feasible advantage- he was here first. He could probably get the drop on whoever it is that's going to be coming in, he supposed.
He'd just gotten into position next to the door when it whisked open. His timing was off, and he moved forward a split second too early. Instead of coming up behind her and having one arm wrapped around her neck while holding the pen to her throat with the other, he was performing more of an awkward hug from the side with one arm and holding the pen to her throat with the other.
She looked at him for a moment, then said, "Ah, you're that special one, like me. Or so it was suggested."
"Well," he replied, thinking back to what the Monitor had told them, "that depends on how you define special. If it means 'pulled from somewhere other than reality,' then yes."
He shifted his grip a little to get a better angle with the pen. "But the past isn't important right now- the present is. That Monitor guy says he can 'gather the most data' if we don't kill each other right off the bat, but I'm not exactly in a mood to help him out. So tell me- why shouldn't I kill you right here?"
In truth, he had no intention of killing her. Given any sort of half-decent excuse, he was planning to just let her go and 'reluctantly' move along together. After all, she hadn't dragged him away from his previous life. His issue was with the Monitor, not her.