Re: Intense Struggle Season 2! (Round 4: Deathball Championship)
01-08-2012, 01:49 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by GreyGabe.
Marcus slouched against the wall, staring at nothing, seeing nothing. He had seen people die. He had caused people to be killed through his actions. He had killed people before. But this felt… worse. He had laid by and done nothing as that goddamn shrub had killed that little girl, with his gun.
It didn’t matter that he was immobilized by visions of war and death. It didn’t matter that that… whatever the hell it was had forced him to see himself murdering everyone he had ever known or cared about… it… none of it mattered…
He needed to stop thinking. He was going to have nightmares about this day for years to come if he lived that long but for now he needed to get a hold of himself. He wasn’t sure it would be that easy, though, especially with the throbbing headache which had taken residence up somewhere behind his left temple… He did know one thing for certain though, and that was that it was time to prune a certain shrub. Permanently. His last incendiary grenade should serve the purpose nicely…
Marcus gradually realized that he was sitting in a small, enclosed space, surrounded by shelves which were stacked with various odds and ends. A single door seemed to be the only way out. He stood up and began to move forward when the door whisked open of its own accord.
Marcus’s weapon was up in a flash, leveled at the figure standing in the doorway. The man was a portly fellow in an unflattering salmon pink dress shirt and slacks, and his tie was black, emblazoned with a lime green symbol that resembled a fist clutching a dagger. Upon seeing Marcus’s gun pointed at him, his arms shot up in the air, his eyes wide with fear. “Please! I’m sorry! Don’t kill me! I… I won’t tell the recruiters you’re here, honest!”
Marcus quirked an eyebrow. The man stood trembling in the doorway.
“Please, please, please don’t kill me! I just wanted some more paper for the copier!”
Marcus blinked, and reached over slowly towards the shelf on his left. He snagged a package of paper and handed it to the man. The man snatched it from his hand with a sudden burst of motion (very nearly getting himself shot in the process) and ran away, glancing nervously over his shoulder. Marcus shook his head and exited the storage closet, looking around curiously. He seemed to be in some sort of office. Cubicles filled a large space, lit by bright white lights from above. It looked about like every other office space Marcus had ever seen, except for one thing. Every wall, and every cubicle separator thingy, was adorned with posters, pennants, and stickers, each one representing a different sports team. Marcus assumed they were all Deathball teams.
“Immensely popular, this Deathball, huh? I’ll say it is…”
A few heads were poking out from their cubicles. All of them were watching curiously, but some also looked somewhat… covetous. Several muttered amongst themselves. Marcus didn’t like this at all. It was time to leave.
He craned his neck, looking for the door. The important thing right now was to track down Reudic and take care of him. The others would have to fend for themselves for the time being. He spotted the door and began moving towards it, scowling threateningly at anyone who got too close. He was about halfway across the office when something hit his shoulder. Not hard, just barely enough for him to notice. He turned his head to look back.
A small, black, button sized object adhered almost invisibly to the back of his shoulder, attached to his armor with a barely noticeable seam. He reached over and tried to pull it off, but it was no good. He turned further and saw the tubby fellow from earlier holding some sort of small firearm. He grinned nervously at Marcus.
“S-sorry! I had to! My team isn’t doing well this cycle, but a guy like you could really turn the tables! I… I… um. Please, no--!”
Marcus yanked the man up by his collar and pulled back a fist. The man cringed. Marcus snarled and tossed him aside before rushing out the door. He didn’t have time for this. He found himself in a long hallway, leading off to the left and right. He arbitrarily chose left and headed off at a brisk jog.
“CONGRATULATIONS!” Marcus nearly tripped as a voice rang out, seemingly from behind him. He spun around, finding nobody following him.
“You, UNKNOWN CITIZEN, have been selected to be recruited to compete in the international sports sensation, Deathball! You will be playing on behalf of the CUTTING RUNNERS. ” The cheery voice, Marcus quickly noticed, emanated from the button on his shoulder. “Very soon, a Deathball recruitment unit will arrive to escort you to the stadium. Please do not attempt to resist recruitment, as this may result in injury. And in the fast paced, high-intensity sport of Deathball, injury can lose your team the gold, and can also lead to a horrible, agonizing death!”
Marcus found a flight of stairs leading downwards. He began to take them two at a time.
“Please note that the International Deathball League cannot be held legally or fiscally responsible for any injuries, permanent disfigurements, or deaths that may occur during the course of recruitment or competition. If you have any questions, comments, or complaints, please contact us through our website or via ZapMail™.”
Marcus reached the bottom of the stairs and barreled out into a large lobby. People turned to watch him warily as he dashed for the main entrance. Bursting through the doors he found himself in a city full of tall, imposing buildings, many of them plastered with posters, signs, and banners in support of one Deathball team or another. There were a few pedestrians, and the street in front of him was filled with cars. Up above, small vehicles flew around, more or less following the streets.
“Hey! There he is!”
Marcus’s head snapped around, to spot two men in dark grey uniforms advancing towards him. One of them held what looked to be some sort of tracking device, and they were both armed with some nasty looking cattle-prod like things.
One of them grinned. “Whew, he looks like a rough one! I bet he’ll bring in a nice little chunk of change…”
The other glanced at him, smiling faintly. “Yeah, I bet. First we gotta catch him, though. Hey!” This last was directed at Marcus. “Do us a favor and make this easy, huh? Put your hands behind your head and drop to your knees. Don’t worry, you’ll get your weapons back later. That kind of thing is great for the ratings.”
Marcus slowly put his hands behind his head and watched as the two recruiters walked towards him.
“Wow. Okay. Just how I like it.” The first one said, “Nice and easy. Now, let’s just take this gun, for proce--”
He couldn’t have possibly moved fast enough to avoid Marcus’s vicious strike, his arm swinging around from behind his head to collide with his would-be captor’s jaw. The blow, though awkward, landed with plenty of force. There was a loud cracking sound as something in the man’s face broke. The other recruiter wasted no time in activating his prod. He thrust it forward, but Marcus dodged it easily and grabbed his arm, following it up with an elbow to the gut. The man doubled over, and Marcus laced his hands together, to bring them down on the man’s exposed head like a hammer.
Glancing down at the two men lying on the pavement, Marcus briefly wondered if he had perhaps been a little too rough… Nah. He nabbed one of the prods and began moving down the sidewalk, scattering wide-eyed pedestrians in his wake. Finally ducking into an alley, he realized that he had no idea where he was going.
Fortunately, a potential solution to his dilemma revealed itself in the form of a new squad of recruiters, five in number. These looked considerably more businesslike than the last two, and they had him boxed in, two at one end of the alley, three at the other.
Marcus grinned nastily, and activated the prod in his hand. This was going to be interesting.
And hey, at least when he was fighting, he didn’t have to think too much.
Marcus slouched against the wall, staring at nothing, seeing nothing. He had seen people die. He had caused people to be killed through his actions. He had killed people before. But this felt… worse. He had laid by and done nothing as that goddamn shrub had killed that little girl, with his gun.
It didn’t matter that he was immobilized by visions of war and death. It didn’t matter that that… whatever the hell it was had forced him to see himself murdering everyone he had ever known or cared about… it… none of it mattered…
He needed to stop thinking. He was going to have nightmares about this day for years to come if he lived that long but for now he needed to get a hold of himself. He wasn’t sure it would be that easy, though, especially with the throbbing headache which had taken residence up somewhere behind his left temple… He did know one thing for certain though, and that was that it was time to prune a certain shrub. Permanently. His last incendiary grenade should serve the purpose nicely…
Marcus gradually realized that he was sitting in a small, enclosed space, surrounded by shelves which were stacked with various odds and ends. A single door seemed to be the only way out. He stood up and began to move forward when the door whisked open of its own accord.
Marcus’s weapon was up in a flash, leveled at the figure standing in the doorway. The man was a portly fellow in an unflattering salmon pink dress shirt and slacks, and his tie was black, emblazoned with a lime green symbol that resembled a fist clutching a dagger. Upon seeing Marcus’s gun pointed at him, his arms shot up in the air, his eyes wide with fear. “Please! I’m sorry! Don’t kill me! I… I won’t tell the recruiters you’re here, honest!”
Marcus quirked an eyebrow. The man stood trembling in the doorway.
“Please, please, please don’t kill me! I just wanted some more paper for the copier!”
Marcus blinked, and reached over slowly towards the shelf on his left. He snagged a package of paper and handed it to the man. The man snatched it from his hand with a sudden burst of motion (very nearly getting himself shot in the process) and ran away, glancing nervously over his shoulder. Marcus shook his head and exited the storage closet, looking around curiously. He seemed to be in some sort of office. Cubicles filled a large space, lit by bright white lights from above. It looked about like every other office space Marcus had ever seen, except for one thing. Every wall, and every cubicle separator thingy, was adorned with posters, pennants, and stickers, each one representing a different sports team. Marcus assumed they were all Deathball teams.
“Immensely popular, this Deathball, huh? I’ll say it is…”
A few heads were poking out from their cubicles. All of them were watching curiously, but some also looked somewhat… covetous. Several muttered amongst themselves. Marcus didn’t like this at all. It was time to leave.
He craned his neck, looking for the door. The important thing right now was to track down Reudic and take care of him. The others would have to fend for themselves for the time being. He spotted the door and began moving towards it, scowling threateningly at anyone who got too close. He was about halfway across the office when something hit his shoulder. Not hard, just barely enough for him to notice. He turned his head to look back.
A small, black, button sized object adhered almost invisibly to the back of his shoulder, attached to his armor with a barely noticeable seam. He reached over and tried to pull it off, but it was no good. He turned further and saw the tubby fellow from earlier holding some sort of small firearm. He grinned nervously at Marcus.
“S-sorry! I had to! My team isn’t doing well this cycle, but a guy like you could really turn the tables! I… I… um. Please, no--!”
Marcus yanked the man up by his collar and pulled back a fist. The man cringed. Marcus snarled and tossed him aside before rushing out the door. He didn’t have time for this. He found himself in a long hallway, leading off to the left and right. He arbitrarily chose left and headed off at a brisk jog.
“CONGRATULATIONS!” Marcus nearly tripped as a voice rang out, seemingly from behind him. He spun around, finding nobody following him.
“You, UNKNOWN CITIZEN, have been selected to be recruited to compete in the international sports sensation, Deathball! You will be playing on behalf of the CUTTING RUNNERS. ” The cheery voice, Marcus quickly noticed, emanated from the button on his shoulder. “Very soon, a Deathball recruitment unit will arrive to escort you to the stadium. Please do not attempt to resist recruitment, as this may result in injury. And in the fast paced, high-intensity sport of Deathball, injury can lose your team the gold, and can also lead to a horrible, agonizing death!”
Marcus found a flight of stairs leading downwards. He began to take them two at a time.
“Please note that the International Deathball League cannot be held legally or fiscally responsible for any injuries, permanent disfigurements, or deaths that may occur during the course of recruitment or competition. If you have any questions, comments, or complaints, please contact us through our website or via ZapMail™.”
Marcus reached the bottom of the stairs and barreled out into a large lobby. People turned to watch him warily as he dashed for the main entrance. Bursting through the doors he found himself in a city full of tall, imposing buildings, many of them plastered with posters, signs, and banners in support of one Deathball team or another. There were a few pedestrians, and the street in front of him was filled with cars. Up above, small vehicles flew around, more or less following the streets.
“Hey! There he is!”
Marcus’s head snapped around, to spot two men in dark grey uniforms advancing towards him. One of them held what looked to be some sort of tracking device, and they were both armed with some nasty looking cattle-prod like things.
One of them grinned. “Whew, he looks like a rough one! I bet he’ll bring in a nice little chunk of change…”
The other glanced at him, smiling faintly. “Yeah, I bet. First we gotta catch him, though. Hey!” This last was directed at Marcus. “Do us a favor and make this easy, huh? Put your hands behind your head and drop to your knees. Don’t worry, you’ll get your weapons back later. That kind of thing is great for the ratings.”
Marcus slowly put his hands behind his head and watched as the two recruiters walked towards him.
“Wow. Okay. Just how I like it.” The first one said, “Nice and easy. Now, let’s just take this gun, for proce--”
He couldn’t have possibly moved fast enough to avoid Marcus’s vicious strike, his arm swinging around from behind his head to collide with his would-be captor’s jaw. The blow, though awkward, landed with plenty of force. There was a loud cracking sound as something in the man’s face broke. The other recruiter wasted no time in activating his prod. He thrust it forward, but Marcus dodged it easily and grabbed his arm, following it up with an elbow to the gut. The man doubled over, and Marcus laced his hands together, to bring them down on the man’s exposed head like a hammer.
Glancing down at the two men lying on the pavement, Marcus briefly wondered if he had perhaps been a little too rough… Nah. He nabbed one of the prods and began moving down the sidewalk, scattering wide-eyed pedestrians in his wake. Finally ducking into an alley, he realized that he had no idea where he was going.
Fortunately, a potential solution to his dilemma revealed itself in the form of a new squad of recruiters, five in number. These looked considerably more businesslike than the last two, and they had him boxed in, two at one end of the alley, three at the other.
Marcus grinned nastily, and activated the prod in his hand. This was going to be interesting.
And hey, at least when he was fighting, he didn’t have to think too much.