Re: The Spectacular Exhibition (S3G2) [Round 1: Parallels/Perpendicularities]
01-27-2011, 07:16 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Mood swings.
There was sand up in her grill (in almost every conceivable sense of the phrase), and an irritable sun glaring disapprovingly at her - as though asking what the hell she'd been doing in that misty, grey, British backwater for the past three years, forsaking her blazing majesty. Brooklyn was sure of it.
You tell me to fight a pack of I-don't-know-what, for god knows what reason, and you've got the nerve to tell me my mood will swing.
In the middle distance, one of Brooklyn's competitors might've heard a noise like an oversized cat being rhythmically choked.
How, good Counsellor, are you expecting a fight to the death when I'm already DEAD!? The ghost didn't have a voice to raise, but her abomination of a machine did the talking. It leapt from the sand with an indignant clacking, before the main rocket kicked in and shot Brooklyn into the sky, snarling blade raised like a finger stabbed in accusation at the gods. She continued in this fashion to about fifty metres, before she ran out of vitriolic steam and moseyed on down again on the auxillary jets, doing whatever the lungless spectral equivalent of taking deep breaths was.
Mood swings I'll show you mood swings... Anyway right. Fight to the death, though hell if I know how that works out for me... who was I fighting? Eh, they'll be the only ones that don't fit in this stupid desert. Good, her blowtorch was still attached, though all the greased and oily surfaces had an irksome sand-batter to them. Brooklyn sulked; the chainsaw hiccuped disconsolately.
Like hell I'm killing them, anyway. Well if you're not killing them, what's the plan then, Brooklyn? A voicebox wouldn't hurt, I guess - or some robot limbs or something, or - waitwaitwait. So now my plan's to win this? Well, I guess I can only lose if I'm killed, which those pricks already did a fine job of... so sure.
The main rocket roared to life again, as the contraption pointed in an arbitrary direction and shot off, leaving a cloud of smoke and sand.
But goddamnit, I'm not giving a single one a taste of me unless they deserve it. I'm not playing your game, Counsellor.
Were anybody listening to the ghost and not its smokily belligerent shell, they could've heard the way Brooklyn postively spat that last word. Brooklyn herself hadn't been in much of a position for a good while to have to spit anyone's name out.
To her surprise, it felt fantastic.
Mood swings.
There was sand up in her grill (in almost every conceivable sense of the phrase), and an irritable sun glaring disapprovingly at her - as though asking what the hell she'd been doing in that misty, grey, British backwater for the past three years, forsaking her blazing majesty. Brooklyn was sure of it.
You tell me to fight a pack of I-don't-know-what, for god knows what reason, and you've got the nerve to tell me my mood will swing.
In the middle distance, one of Brooklyn's competitors might've heard a noise like an oversized cat being rhythmically choked.
How, good Counsellor, are you expecting a fight to the death when I'm already DEAD!? The ghost didn't have a voice to raise, but her abomination of a machine did the talking. It leapt from the sand with an indignant clacking, before the main rocket kicked in and shot Brooklyn into the sky, snarling blade raised like a finger stabbed in accusation at the gods. She continued in this fashion to about fifty metres, before she ran out of vitriolic steam and moseyed on down again on the auxillary jets, doing whatever the lungless spectral equivalent of taking deep breaths was.
Mood swings I'll show you mood swings... Anyway right. Fight to the death, though hell if I know how that works out for me... who was I fighting? Eh, they'll be the only ones that don't fit in this stupid desert. Good, her blowtorch was still attached, though all the greased and oily surfaces had an irksome sand-batter to them. Brooklyn sulked; the chainsaw hiccuped disconsolately.
Like hell I'm killing them, anyway. Well if you're not killing them, what's the plan then, Brooklyn? A voicebox wouldn't hurt, I guess - or some robot limbs or something, or - waitwaitwait. So now my plan's to win this? Well, I guess I can only lose if I'm killed, which those pricks already did a fine job of... so sure.
The main rocket roared to life again, as the contraption pointed in an arbitrary direction and shot off, leaving a cloud of smoke and sand.
But goddamnit, I'm not giving a single one a taste of me unless they deserve it. I'm not playing your game, Counsellor.
Were anybody listening to the ghost and not its smokily belligerent shell, they could've heard the way Brooklyn postively spat that last word. Brooklyn herself hadn't been in much of a position for a good while to have to spit anyone's name out.
To her surprise, it felt fantastic.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow