Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Open to new players!
07-29-2012, 03:11 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.
The year was outer space.
The location: the future.
Brian Rethrick sat in an ergonomic space throne in Envoy's old hangar, fondly watching the stars shine through the expensive space moisture on his porthole. The particularly red phone built into his armrest sprang to life. When he picked it up, the view through the window glitched, buzzed, and descended into static for a moment before snapping back into focus.
"Isn't this a bit much?" asked Broadcaster's voice from the other end of the line as he walked up to Rethrick's space throne.
"No, no, it's symbolic," said Rethrick, without looking up. "Three months ago, we launched Envoy from this hangar, and today, we'll launch an entire Grand Battle from it!"
"But it's not a hangar," muttered the grandmaster, adjusting the improvised lapels of his prison uniform.
"Yes, well, we had a sauna budget to spend, and we didn't need this room anymore." The vents rattled as more expensive space steam billowed into the room, coating the white tiled floor. "The viewers won't know the difference. So, what do I need do first?"
"Well, the first thing a host does is be dramatic to no one in particular while off-camera, so that they can establish that they're brilliant, powerful, and at least a little insane.”
"Let's just skip that bit,” said Rethrick, wiping his brow off with his tie.
Broadcaster shrugged. "Fine with me. Then you'll want to summon your contestants - or just have them appear out of nowhere, it's entirely your call - and introduce them to each other, so that they know what they're up against."
"Oh, we were just going to hand out the dossiers you gave us," said Rethrick. "I figured that's what they were for."
"You what? No, you were supposed to use those to familiarize yourselves with the eight contestants while you were getting everything else set up." It had also been so that Broadcaster could show off his ability to gather several weeks' worth of information on a large group of people in less than an instant, but mostly the other thing. "You did read the dossiers, right?"
"You can't bring papers into a sauna, Broadcaster," Rethrick retorted. "The steam would ruin them. Anyway, bring them in."
"That doesn't - fine," sighed Broadcaster. He took a step, flickered once, and reappeared on the opposite side of the sauna-hangar with a clapperboard with "#7" on it in hand. "Will you at least put on something besides a towel?" he called from across the room.
"It's fine," insisted Rethrick, holding the phone away from his ear.
"Action," Broadcaster called, and snapped the clapperboard shut.
There was a blur of static and a burst of white noise in the middle of the hangar, and eight... let's call them eight beings appeared in flashes of purplish light, one after the other. One or two of them stumbled and fell to the ground. Numerous cameras on sleek tripods popped into existence, some of them hanging in the air over the crowd where there might be a crane or scaffold if someone had thought to put it there. Broadcaster’s hair began blowing slightly, but Rethrick couldn’t quite tell where the fan was.
"So what do I...?" muttered Rethrick into the phone, eyeing the contestants. (Was that a boat?) From across the room, Broadcaster made a grand, sweeping motion with his arms.
“Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to The BATTLE of the CENTURY!” exclaimed Rethrick, spreading his arms.
Everyone just sort of stared.
“So... you’re all going to die,” admitted Rethrick. Across the room, Broadcaster pinched the bridge of his nose. Rethrick slid a plastic screen off of the armrest of his space throne and read it over for a moment as words scrolled across it. “The eight of you have been painstakingly selected to participate in a business partnership with the Council of First Contact Ambassadors. Participation is, as you know, mandatory. You will be performing a series of compulsory team-building exercises that will provide us with valuable information on the effects of similar exercises in the field of inter-company homicide.”
A flock of interns skittered from the shadows and handed each of them a fancy crimson pen with COFCA emblazoned on the barrel. Each one silently demonstrated how twisting the barrel would cause the pen to transform into a small stiletto.
“To help you better prepare for this, we’ve prepared a set of dossiers on your co-workers,” continued Rethrick, setting down the screen. He clapped his hands twice, and the space next to him stirred. A shimmering hole opened up next to his chair, and a bulky mechanical arm with a webcam duct taped to it reached through it and delicately deposited a thin stack of papers in his hands. "PHOTOCOPIER IS BROKEN," said a note someone had stuck to the front with a paper clip. Rethrick flicked through the stack of papers. There were about two copies of each dossier.
Rethrick coughed.
“All right, new rule,” he began as the red phone at his side screamed inaudibly at him, “In order to break tradition add a new level to the experiment, each of you will be given comprehensive information on two random contestants, and no information on any of the remaining contestants. What you do with this information will be entirely up to you.” The interns reappeared from the background and redistributed the papers to each of the contestants. (They couldn't quite reach the deck of the boat, so they settled for just stapling the papers to the hull.)
“The first test will be performed on a floating island that, at the time of your arrival, has recently been discovered, but not yet named. You will now be joining the settlers’ fleet shortly before it arrives at The New Frontier.” He returned the little teleprompter screen to its spot on his armrest.
“I’d say good luck,” he said after a pause, “but it would interfere with experiment.”
He pressed a button, and space began to stir –
The year was outer space.
The location: the future.
Brian Rethrick sat in an ergonomic space throne in Envoy's old hangar, fondly watching the stars shine through the expensive space moisture on his porthole. The particularly red phone built into his armrest sprang to life. When he picked it up, the view through the window glitched, buzzed, and descended into static for a moment before snapping back into focus.
"Isn't this a bit much?" asked Broadcaster's voice from the other end of the line as he walked up to Rethrick's space throne.
"No, no, it's symbolic," said Rethrick, without looking up. "Three months ago, we launched Envoy from this hangar, and today, we'll launch an entire Grand Battle from it!"
"But it's not a hangar," muttered the grandmaster, adjusting the improvised lapels of his prison uniform.
"Yes, well, we had a sauna budget to spend, and we didn't need this room anymore." The vents rattled as more expensive space steam billowed into the room, coating the white tiled floor. "The viewers won't know the difference. So, what do I need do first?"
"Well, the first thing a host does is be dramatic to no one in particular while off-camera, so that they can establish that they're brilliant, powerful, and at least a little insane.”
"Let's just skip that bit,” said Rethrick, wiping his brow off with his tie.
Broadcaster shrugged. "Fine with me. Then you'll want to summon your contestants - or just have them appear out of nowhere, it's entirely your call - and introduce them to each other, so that they know what they're up against."
"Oh, we were just going to hand out the dossiers you gave us," said Rethrick. "I figured that's what they were for."
"You what? No, you were supposed to use those to familiarize yourselves with the eight contestants while you were getting everything else set up." It had also been so that Broadcaster could show off his ability to gather several weeks' worth of information on a large group of people in less than an instant, but mostly the other thing. "You did read the dossiers, right?"
"You can't bring papers into a sauna, Broadcaster," Rethrick retorted. "The steam would ruin them. Anyway, bring them in."
"That doesn't - fine," sighed Broadcaster. He took a step, flickered once, and reappeared on the opposite side of the sauna-hangar with a clapperboard with "#7" on it in hand. "Will you at least put on something besides a towel?" he called from across the room.
"It's fine," insisted Rethrick, holding the phone away from his ear.
"Action," Broadcaster called, and snapped the clapperboard shut.
There was a blur of static and a burst of white noise in the middle of the hangar, and eight... let's call them eight beings appeared in flashes of purplish light, one after the other. One or two of them stumbled and fell to the ground. Numerous cameras on sleek tripods popped into existence, some of them hanging in the air over the crowd where there might be a crane or scaffold if someone had thought to put it there. Broadcaster’s hair began blowing slightly, but Rethrick couldn’t quite tell where the fan was.
"So what do I...?" muttered Rethrick into the phone, eyeing the contestants. (Was that a boat?) From across the room, Broadcaster made a grand, sweeping motion with his arms.
“Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to The BATTLE of the CENTURY!” exclaimed Rethrick, spreading his arms.
Everyone just sort of stared.
“So... you’re all going to die,” admitted Rethrick. Across the room, Broadcaster pinched the bridge of his nose. Rethrick slid a plastic screen off of the armrest of his space throne and read it over for a moment as words scrolled across it. “The eight of you have been painstakingly selected to participate in a business partnership with the Council of First Contact Ambassadors. Participation is, as you know, mandatory. You will be performing a series of compulsory team-building exercises that will provide us with valuable information on the effects of similar exercises in the field of inter-company homicide.”
A flock of interns skittered from the shadows and handed each of them a fancy crimson pen with COFCA emblazoned on the barrel. Each one silently demonstrated how twisting the barrel would cause the pen to transform into a small stiletto.
“To help you better prepare for this, we’ve prepared a set of dossiers on your co-workers,” continued Rethrick, setting down the screen. He clapped his hands twice, and the space next to him stirred. A shimmering hole opened up next to his chair, and a bulky mechanical arm with a webcam duct taped to it reached through it and delicately deposited a thin stack of papers in his hands. "PHOTOCOPIER IS BROKEN," said a note someone had stuck to the front with a paper clip. Rethrick flicked through the stack of papers. There were about two copies of each dossier.
Rethrick coughed.
“All right, new rule,” he began as the red phone at his side screamed inaudibly at him, “In order to break tradition add a new level to the experiment, each of you will be given comprehensive information on two random contestants, and no information on any of the remaining contestants. What you do with this information will be entirely up to you.” The interns reappeared from the background and redistributed the papers to each of the contestants. (They couldn't quite reach the deck of the boat, so they settled for just stapling the papers to the hull.)
“The first test will be performed on a floating island that, at the time of your arrival, has recently been discovered, but not yet named. You will now be joining the settlers’ fleet shortly before it arrives at The New Frontier.” He returned the little teleprompter screen to its spot on his armrest.
“I’d say good luck,” he said after a pause, “but it would interfere with experiment.”
He pressed a button, and space began to stir –