Re: Intense Struggle Season 2! (Round 4: Deathball Championship)
04-10-2012, 04:54 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by GreyGabe.
Once again, Marcus was wishing he had his helmet. If he had, Sarika’s little friend wouldn’t have been able to get the prod into the back of his neck, he’d still be free, and his head probably wouldn’t be ringing like churchbells.
The headache didn’t do much to help his mood, which could only be described, currently, as “murderous.” It was all kind of a blur for a few minutes after he got shocked. He vaguely remembered being thoroughly searched and then loaded into a vehicle, and then it all went dark for awhile.
Now he could hear the other woman talking in the cab, her voice muffled and rendered unintelligible. Marcus could see only a little through the reinforced glass window. He tested the handcuffs they had restrained him with, finding them surprisingly solid. He glanced up at the van’s other passenger.
“Don’t suppose you have some boltcutters or a plasma torch on you?”
The creature regarded him silently and without blinking.
“I’d settle for a nail file.”
The creature’s expression shifted ever so slightly, but Marcus wasn’t quite sure what it was trying to convey.
“No, you’re right. I’d never file through these in time to escape.”
The creature shifted its gaze away from him, to stare at an empty section of wall.
The vehicle pulled to a stop for a while, and Marcus strained to see out the front of the vehicle. From his angle, he couldn’t see much. Some vehicles and… Reudic!? Marcus stood as far as his handcuffs would allow. Reudic was just floating there, surrounded by people who seemed to be kneeling in supplication. The vehicle shook slightly as someone exited, and Marcus sat back down. He pulled at the handcuffs as hard as he could, trying his damndest to break free. It was no use. These things were designed strong enough to hold someone even as strong as him. He looked up at his new friend once more.
It shrugged its two pointy shoulders and blinked once.
Marcus nodded. “Ugh. Tell me about it.”
A minute passed. And another. Whoever had exited the vehicle climbed back in, and a few seconds later they were on their way. What had that been all about? Not that he had particularly wanted to be locked, restrained and unarmed, in a small place with a psychotic shrubbery, but he was surprised they hadn’t at least attempted to capture it. Lacking anything better to do, he worried at his cuffs once more.
An interminable amount of time had passed as he sat on his bench, occasionally attempting friendly conversation with Frank (That’s what Marcus had named him. Frank didn’t seem to care one way or the other.) before the van once more rolled to a halt. Marcus decided—for the time being—to go along with this. If he escaped, he’d still have to deal with “recruiters” harassing him at every turn. If he escaped. He wasn’t optimistic about that happening, anyway. His hands were bound, all of his weapons and equipment had been taken, and it was obvious he couldn’t trust Sarika to help him. Hell, Marcus felt a fool for trusting her as far as he had already.
The back doors opened. He blinked as bright lights hit him from outside. Not the bright light of the sun, however… the light shone from brilliant, flat panels, installed into the roof of the parking garage they were in. The recruiter sent Sarika in to unlock their cuffs, while she stood at the ready with her prod. Sarika muttered an apology as she freed his hands, and then recuffed them. Marcus sneered. If she was really sorry she would have fried the recruiter, freed him, and given him back his stuff.
He quickly took his bearings as he exited the vehicle. The parking garage was huge, with decently high ceilings, and packed with almost identical vehicles. The sea of black vans restricted visibility somewhat, but armed guards were stationed to discourage escape attempts. As his captor gave him a shove in the general direction of the entrance, he directed a withering glare at Sarika who, appropriately enough, withered. He wasn’t sure just what he might do if he could free his hands, but his handcuffs made that a pretty moot point, for now. It didn’t stop him from glaring, though. It didn’t help his temper any that she was carrying all of his gear. So close, and yet so far.
“Eyes front, competitor.” The woman jabbed the prod down into the small joint in the back of his knee, giving him a shock. It wasn’t quite as severe as the shock he had gotten earlier, due either to his thin under-armor or her dialing back the voltage, but it was enough to elicit growl of pain and his momentary obedience.
He decided he knew exactly what he was going to do to that one if he got his hands free.
“Don’t know why yer lookin at her all nasty, anyways. It’s her job. Better her than somebody else ya don’t know, right?”
Marcus pulled a Frank, and held his tongue.
“Hmmph. Whatever. Probly wasting my breath. Just keep moving.”
The entrance was somewhat… underwhelming. No terrifying statuary, no sounds of tortured screams from within, no bloodstains, not even a hastily scrawled sign that read, “Welcome to Hell.” Just simple, double metal doors, flanked by two guards. The doors had the words, “Contestant Processing” stenciled on them.
One of the guards nodded to his recruiter. “Just two today, Turaine?” He looked at Marcus appraisingly, and looked up at the other fellow appraisingly. “Hmmph. Obviously, neither of these is the one there’s been so much fuss over. Seems like the cash on offer for that big shrub would have you all over it.”
Turaine shrugged nonchalantly. “This couple was enough of a handful as it is. ‘Sides, the thing sounds like a bitch to restrain. I didn’t want to have it eating my other catches before I got here.”
The guy chuckled. “Fair enough. Go on in. Slow day today.”
Within waited a large, sterile feeling room, with white tile floors, drab grey walls, and the same lighting panels as the parking garage. A large counter stretched across the back of the room, the area behind them separated off with windows of reinforced glass. Armed guards stood in each corner, with more patrolling a catwalk lining the upper walls. Marcus wished he had made a break for it in the parking garage. Out there escape would have been difficult. In here it would be impossible.
There was only one other group, of three recruiters and four prisoners.
Turaine was explaining to Sarika that this was only one of many processing offices, including ones that were off-site. They were never all used at the same time, but she said it was better to have too many than not enough.
Marcus and his imposing friend were led up to a waiting official, standing on the other side of the glass. A small grill was set into it to allow them to speak. The receptionist was small, balding, and very obviously bored.
“Which one first?”
Turaine pushed Marcus forward. “This one.”
The little man looked at him, and pulled up a computer display.
“What’s his team?”
Turaine pulled something from a hip holster and scanned it over Marcus’ shoulder. “Cutting Runners.”
This was quickly entered into the computer. The man looked up at Marcus. “Name.”
“Go to hell.”
The man glanced at Turaine, who promptly slapped Marcus across the face.
“Name,” the man repeated.
“I formally request that you proceed to forcefully copulate with yourself.”
Turaine hit him, harder this time.
The man sighed and typed something in quickly.
“Very well. Species.”
“Space mule.”
Turaine growled, and spat, “He’s obviously human.” To Marcus, she said, “Go ahead and keep up the funny little act if you feel like going out onto the field unarmed. And naked.”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Blood type.” The official had apparently ignored the by-play entirely.
Marcus sighed. “O positive.”
“Do you have any pre-existing medical conditions that could render you less physically able to compete on the level of the other players? Please note that the existence of said medical conditions does not excuse you from playing.”
“No.”
The man again typed something.
On it went. Marcus answered (mostly truthfully) as he was accosted with a variety of questions, many of them seemingly pointless.
“Alright,” the man said, finally. He slapped a button on his display, and the tracking button on Marcus’s shoulder beeped. “Congratulations. You’re a Deathball player. Take him to final processing.”
Turaine gave Sarika some quick directions, before adding, “And don’t get soft, rookie. You can’t afford it. And if you try to free him, or something stupid like that, you’ll both get shot. Now go!”
Sarika began walking, and Marcus followed closely.
“Bye, Frank.” Marcus said, over one shoulder.
Frank nodded at him before stepping up to the counter.
Sarika led Marcus to a door, and they proceeded down a long, wide, well-lit hallway. It was slightly curved, and doors led off to either side. The doors on the right had signs hanging over them, displaying groups of team names. Armed guards stood at regular intervals, watching Marcus vigilantly.
A while passed in silence.
“I really am sorry about this, Marcus.”
Marcus grunted.
“I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I didn’t think there would be so many guards…”
Marcus said nothing, and Sarika lapsed once more into silence.
They entered a door, and climbed two flights of stairs before coming to the Cutting Runners area.
The guards stopped them, and one scanned Marcus’s chip. He smirked at something on the display and nodded to his colleague.
“Any personal equipment for processing?”
Sarika handed the guard the bundle of Marcus’s equipment, including Retribution. He set it down on a table and began sifting through it.
“Dear gods. Where did you find this guy? He’s armed to the teeth.”
Marcus interjected. “I was shopping for a new pair of slacks. You know how those sales crowds can be.”
“Well, we have to confiscate the explosives… and this… thing?”
“That would be a multi tool.”
“Oh. Keep it then. Anyway, you can keep your firearms, the crowds love that. Try not to mow down your own team-mates, though. Anyway, I assume you know how Deathball works?”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, basically… you’re going to have to find someone else to explain it to your because I don’t feel like wasting my time lecturing a jackass who’s probably going to be dead in the next couple of hours. Anyway…” He typed something into a nearby computer, “There we go. Break a leg. Or three. Your stuff will be given back to you before your next match begins.”
Just like that, his handcuffs were removed and the door in front of him opened up. And both guards subtly, but certainly, readied themselves to respond if he tried anything. Sarika watched unhappily as Marcus proceeded through the door without a glance back.
A sign on the wall declared this the Prep Room. A pair of young men in uniforms similar to those worn by the recruiters approached him with what looked like weapons. Marcus tensed and readied to attack.
“Whoa, easy there, fella,” said the shorter of the two. “They’re just paint guns. Perfectly safe.”
Marcus relaxed marginally and allowed them to approach.
“Got your own armor, that’s good. Saves us a step. Just hold your arms out to either side, please.”
Marcus complied as one man stood in front of him and the other circled behind. They both sprayed a perfect rectangle, one across his chest, the other across his back. Though it was black when applied, the paint suddenly changed colors to blue and gold, showing a logo in lime green (A fist clutching a dagger) against a pink field, with blocky, green letters up top and a number down at the bottom.
“See? Reacts to the tracker. Anyway, there ya go, ah… Goto. You’re officially a Cutting Runner now, number 55.”
Goto? Marcus looked more closely. Sure enough, his name was marked, in bold letters, as GOTO HELL. Who would have thought that guy had had a sense of humor?
“55’s a pretty lucky number.” The man behind him added. “Last guy who had it, Gopher Qorsilf, lasted five games before he bit it, and a full three of those with all his original limbs!”
“Wow. I’m honored.”
“Uh-huh.” The kid seemingly missed Marcus’s sarcasm. “Anyway, good luck out there, I’ll be cheering you guys on!”
“Golly, thanks.” Marcus continued on into, for lack of a better term, locker room. There were nearly two dozen men, women, and person-like entities here, most of them ignoring him. They all wore the team colors, some on fairly modern looking suits like his, some on little more than a metal plate strapped across their chest, and everything in between. Many of them looked nervous, and those that didn’t looked… roughly used. The room itself was solidly constructed, with metal benches, lockers, and showers towards the back.
One creature waved him over. It was tall, broad, and vaguely humanoid, with leathery skin and shiny black eyes. Its hands were as big as dinner plates, with three broad digits, and it was completely hairless. A wide, frowning mouth dominated its noseless face.
“Hello, fresh meat.” Its voice was raspy, but not threatening. “Welcome to Runners. Goto Hell, huh?”
Marcus sat next to him (he was fairly sure it was a him) and read the name on his chest. “Nice to meet you, Sonorznik.”
“Yep.”
Marcus sat looking around for a moment.
“So… how do you actually play Deathball?”
“By not dying.”
“More specifically than that.”
Sonorznik looked at him, his frown deepening. “Wait, you are serious? How can you not know how Deathball works? Were you born in cave?”
“Alternate universe.”
“Fine. Deathball is simple. Each team has ball. There is other team. Kill other team. Take Cutting Runners ball to Cutting Runners goal. Try not to trip over bodies.”
“Okay. I’ve got a gun. Why can’t I just blow the other team away from across the field?”
“Proximity shields. Only deactivate when close to enemy. Don’t always work perfectly, though. So be careful. Oh. Watch out for wild cards, too.”
“Wild cards?”
“Teamless. Volunteers. Released periodically onto field. Run around field during match, kill whoever they can. Fans love them. Get cash prizes for scoring many kills, exempt from recruitment for a while. If they live.” Sonorznik smirked slightly at this. Or at least, Marcus thought it was a smirk.
“…Kinda wish I’d volunteered, now.”
This apparently struck Sonorznik as especially funny. He cackled, loudly. “You and me, both,” he said, after he’d wound down. “No. We get to play until they take us off team. In a body bag.”
Marcus sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to wish away his headache.
Once again, Marcus was wishing he had his helmet. If he had, Sarika’s little friend wouldn’t have been able to get the prod into the back of his neck, he’d still be free, and his head probably wouldn’t be ringing like churchbells.
The headache didn’t do much to help his mood, which could only be described, currently, as “murderous.” It was all kind of a blur for a few minutes after he got shocked. He vaguely remembered being thoroughly searched and then loaded into a vehicle, and then it all went dark for awhile.
Now he could hear the other woman talking in the cab, her voice muffled and rendered unintelligible. Marcus could see only a little through the reinforced glass window. He tested the handcuffs they had restrained him with, finding them surprisingly solid. He glanced up at the van’s other passenger.
“Don’t suppose you have some boltcutters or a plasma torch on you?”
The creature regarded him silently and without blinking.
“I’d settle for a nail file.”
The creature’s expression shifted ever so slightly, but Marcus wasn’t quite sure what it was trying to convey.
“No, you’re right. I’d never file through these in time to escape.”
The creature shifted its gaze away from him, to stare at an empty section of wall.
The vehicle pulled to a stop for a while, and Marcus strained to see out the front of the vehicle. From his angle, he couldn’t see much. Some vehicles and… Reudic!? Marcus stood as far as his handcuffs would allow. Reudic was just floating there, surrounded by people who seemed to be kneeling in supplication. The vehicle shook slightly as someone exited, and Marcus sat back down. He pulled at the handcuffs as hard as he could, trying his damndest to break free. It was no use. These things were designed strong enough to hold someone even as strong as him. He looked up at his new friend once more.
It shrugged its two pointy shoulders and blinked once.
Marcus nodded. “Ugh. Tell me about it.”
A minute passed. And another. Whoever had exited the vehicle climbed back in, and a few seconds later they were on their way. What had that been all about? Not that he had particularly wanted to be locked, restrained and unarmed, in a small place with a psychotic shrubbery, but he was surprised they hadn’t at least attempted to capture it. Lacking anything better to do, he worried at his cuffs once more.
An interminable amount of time had passed as he sat on his bench, occasionally attempting friendly conversation with Frank (That’s what Marcus had named him. Frank didn’t seem to care one way or the other.) before the van once more rolled to a halt. Marcus decided—for the time being—to go along with this. If he escaped, he’d still have to deal with “recruiters” harassing him at every turn. If he escaped. He wasn’t optimistic about that happening, anyway. His hands were bound, all of his weapons and equipment had been taken, and it was obvious he couldn’t trust Sarika to help him. Hell, Marcus felt a fool for trusting her as far as he had already.
The back doors opened. He blinked as bright lights hit him from outside. Not the bright light of the sun, however… the light shone from brilliant, flat panels, installed into the roof of the parking garage they were in. The recruiter sent Sarika in to unlock their cuffs, while she stood at the ready with her prod. Sarika muttered an apology as she freed his hands, and then recuffed them. Marcus sneered. If she was really sorry she would have fried the recruiter, freed him, and given him back his stuff.
He quickly took his bearings as he exited the vehicle. The parking garage was huge, with decently high ceilings, and packed with almost identical vehicles. The sea of black vans restricted visibility somewhat, but armed guards were stationed to discourage escape attempts. As his captor gave him a shove in the general direction of the entrance, he directed a withering glare at Sarika who, appropriately enough, withered. He wasn’t sure just what he might do if he could free his hands, but his handcuffs made that a pretty moot point, for now. It didn’t stop him from glaring, though. It didn’t help his temper any that she was carrying all of his gear. So close, and yet so far.
“Eyes front, competitor.” The woman jabbed the prod down into the small joint in the back of his knee, giving him a shock. It wasn’t quite as severe as the shock he had gotten earlier, due either to his thin under-armor or her dialing back the voltage, but it was enough to elicit growl of pain and his momentary obedience.
He decided he knew exactly what he was going to do to that one if he got his hands free.
“Don’t know why yer lookin at her all nasty, anyways. It’s her job. Better her than somebody else ya don’t know, right?”
Marcus pulled a Frank, and held his tongue.
“Hmmph. Whatever. Probly wasting my breath. Just keep moving.”
The entrance was somewhat… underwhelming. No terrifying statuary, no sounds of tortured screams from within, no bloodstains, not even a hastily scrawled sign that read, “Welcome to Hell.” Just simple, double metal doors, flanked by two guards. The doors had the words, “Contestant Processing” stenciled on them.
One of the guards nodded to his recruiter. “Just two today, Turaine?” He looked at Marcus appraisingly, and looked up at the other fellow appraisingly. “Hmmph. Obviously, neither of these is the one there’s been so much fuss over. Seems like the cash on offer for that big shrub would have you all over it.”
Turaine shrugged nonchalantly. “This couple was enough of a handful as it is. ‘Sides, the thing sounds like a bitch to restrain. I didn’t want to have it eating my other catches before I got here.”
The guy chuckled. “Fair enough. Go on in. Slow day today.”
Within waited a large, sterile feeling room, with white tile floors, drab grey walls, and the same lighting panels as the parking garage. A large counter stretched across the back of the room, the area behind them separated off with windows of reinforced glass. Armed guards stood in each corner, with more patrolling a catwalk lining the upper walls. Marcus wished he had made a break for it in the parking garage. Out there escape would have been difficult. In here it would be impossible.
There was only one other group, of three recruiters and four prisoners.
Turaine was explaining to Sarika that this was only one of many processing offices, including ones that were off-site. They were never all used at the same time, but she said it was better to have too many than not enough.
Marcus and his imposing friend were led up to a waiting official, standing on the other side of the glass. A small grill was set into it to allow them to speak. The receptionist was small, balding, and very obviously bored.
“Which one first?”
Turaine pushed Marcus forward. “This one.”
The little man looked at him, and pulled up a computer display.
“What’s his team?”
Turaine pulled something from a hip holster and scanned it over Marcus’ shoulder. “Cutting Runners.”
This was quickly entered into the computer. The man looked up at Marcus. “Name.”
“Go to hell.”
The man glanced at Turaine, who promptly slapped Marcus across the face.
“Name,” the man repeated.
“I formally request that you proceed to forcefully copulate with yourself.”
Turaine hit him, harder this time.
The man sighed and typed something in quickly.
“Very well. Species.”
“Space mule.”
Turaine growled, and spat, “He’s obviously human.” To Marcus, she said, “Go ahead and keep up the funny little act if you feel like going out onto the field unarmed. And naked.”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Blood type.” The official had apparently ignored the by-play entirely.
Marcus sighed. “O positive.”
“Do you have any pre-existing medical conditions that could render you less physically able to compete on the level of the other players? Please note that the existence of said medical conditions does not excuse you from playing.”
“No.”
The man again typed something.
On it went. Marcus answered (mostly truthfully) as he was accosted with a variety of questions, many of them seemingly pointless.
“Alright,” the man said, finally. He slapped a button on his display, and the tracking button on Marcus’s shoulder beeped. “Congratulations. You’re a Deathball player. Take him to final processing.”
Turaine gave Sarika some quick directions, before adding, “And don’t get soft, rookie. You can’t afford it. And if you try to free him, or something stupid like that, you’ll both get shot. Now go!”
Sarika began walking, and Marcus followed closely.
“Bye, Frank.” Marcus said, over one shoulder.
Frank nodded at him before stepping up to the counter.
Sarika led Marcus to a door, and they proceeded down a long, wide, well-lit hallway. It was slightly curved, and doors led off to either side. The doors on the right had signs hanging over them, displaying groups of team names. Armed guards stood at regular intervals, watching Marcus vigilantly.
A while passed in silence.
“I really am sorry about this, Marcus.”
Marcus grunted.
“I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I didn’t think there would be so many guards…”
Marcus said nothing, and Sarika lapsed once more into silence.
They entered a door, and climbed two flights of stairs before coming to the Cutting Runners area.
The guards stopped them, and one scanned Marcus’s chip. He smirked at something on the display and nodded to his colleague.
“Any personal equipment for processing?”
Sarika handed the guard the bundle of Marcus’s equipment, including Retribution. He set it down on a table and began sifting through it.
“Dear gods. Where did you find this guy? He’s armed to the teeth.”
Marcus interjected. “I was shopping for a new pair of slacks. You know how those sales crowds can be.”
“Well, we have to confiscate the explosives… and this… thing?”
“That would be a multi tool.”
“Oh. Keep it then. Anyway, you can keep your firearms, the crowds love that. Try not to mow down your own team-mates, though. Anyway, I assume you know how Deathball works?”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, basically… you’re going to have to find someone else to explain it to your because I don’t feel like wasting my time lecturing a jackass who’s probably going to be dead in the next couple of hours. Anyway…” He typed something into a nearby computer, “There we go. Break a leg. Or three. Your stuff will be given back to you before your next match begins.”
Just like that, his handcuffs were removed and the door in front of him opened up. And both guards subtly, but certainly, readied themselves to respond if he tried anything. Sarika watched unhappily as Marcus proceeded through the door without a glance back.
A sign on the wall declared this the Prep Room. A pair of young men in uniforms similar to those worn by the recruiters approached him with what looked like weapons. Marcus tensed and readied to attack.
“Whoa, easy there, fella,” said the shorter of the two. “They’re just paint guns. Perfectly safe.”
Marcus relaxed marginally and allowed them to approach.
“Got your own armor, that’s good. Saves us a step. Just hold your arms out to either side, please.”
Marcus complied as one man stood in front of him and the other circled behind. They both sprayed a perfect rectangle, one across his chest, the other across his back. Though it was black when applied, the paint suddenly changed colors to blue and gold, showing a logo in lime green (A fist clutching a dagger) against a pink field, with blocky, green letters up top and a number down at the bottom.
“See? Reacts to the tracker. Anyway, there ya go, ah… Goto. You’re officially a Cutting Runner now, number 55.”
Goto? Marcus looked more closely. Sure enough, his name was marked, in bold letters, as GOTO HELL. Who would have thought that guy had had a sense of humor?
“55’s a pretty lucky number.” The man behind him added. “Last guy who had it, Gopher Qorsilf, lasted five games before he bit it, and a full three of those with all his original limbs!”
“Wow. I’m honored.”
“Uh-huh.” The kid seemingly missed Marcus’s sarcasm. “Anyway, good luck out there, I’ll be cheering you guys on!”
“Golly, thanks.” Marcus continued on into, for lack of a better term, locker room. There were nearly two dozen men, women, and person-like entities here, most of them ignoring him. They all wore the team colors, some on fairly modern looking suits like his, some on little more than a metal plate strapped across their chest, and everything in between. Many of them looked nervous, and those that didn’t looked… roughly used. The room itself was solidly constructed, with metal benches, lockers, and showers towards the back.
One creature waved him over. It was tall, broad, and vaguely humanoid, with leathery skin and shiny black eyes. Its hands were as big as dinner plates, with three broad digits, and it was completely hairless. A wide, frowning mouth dominated its noseless face.
“Hello, fresh meat.” Its voice was raspy, but not threatening. “Welcome to Runners. Goto Hell, huh?”
Marcus sat next to him (he was fairly sure it was a him) and read the name on his chest. “Nice to meet you, Sonorznik.”
“Yep.”
Marcus sat looking around for a moment.
“So… how do you actually play Deathball?”
“By not dying.”
“More specifically than that.”
Sonorznik looked at him, his frown deepening. “Wait, you are serious? How can you not know how Deathball works? Were you born in cave?”
“Alternate universe.”
“Fine. Deathball is simple. Each team has ball. There is other team. Kill other team. Take Cutting Runners ball to Cutting Runners goal. Try not to trip over bodies.”
“Okay. I’ve got a gun. Why can’t I just blow the other team away from across the field?”
“Proximity shields. Only deactivate when close to enemy. Don’t always work perfectly, though. So be careful. Oh. Watch out for wild cards, too.”
“Wild cards?”
“Teamless. Volunteers. Released periodically onto field. Run around field during match, kill whoever they can. Fans love them. Get cash prizes for scoring many kills, exempt from recruitment for a while. If they live.” Sonorznik smirked slightly at this. Or at least, Marcus thought it was a smirk.
“…Kinda wish I’d volunteered, now.”
This apparently struck Sonorznik as especially funny. He cackled, loudly. “You and me, both,” he said, after he’d wound down. “No. We get to play until they take us off team. In a body bag.”
Marcus sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to wish away his headache.