The Spectacular Exhibition (S3G2) [Round 2: Space - Abridged]

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

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SpoilerShort post to get people in the same place or something.

Red gently lowered the lobster tank into the water, or at least as gently as was possible with arms containing ballistic missiles. Actually, primarily for that reason, he didn't as much lower the lobster tank into the water as he did lower himself into the water, and the lobster tank simply happened to be taken along for the ride. The lobsters immediately scattered, their animal minds only too happy to get away from the scary monstrosity that had abducted them.

Red clanked back out of the surf and addressed Brooklyn, who had been hovering curiously near the shoreline, watching the whole affair with an unreadable expression. Not that every expression wasn't unreadable; she was a rocket-propelled chainsaw, after all. That lack of expression might have made Red a little uneasy around her, but he had never quite picked up on the idea of reading human expressions anyway, and was not terribly upset by the inability to do something he had never done before.

"Ready," he stated tersely, avoiding looking back at the shoreline for the fourth or fifth time to see how the lobsters were doing. "Let's go. Need to get to planet with adequate machinery to make voicebox." He looked up in the sky, scanning each planet until he settled on one cluttered with skyscrapers. "City planet should suffice."

Brooklyn revved her engine and moved in front of Red. He reached out with one of his arms and grasped the back of her. He jumped up, and she pulled him off towards the city planetoid.


Originally posted on MSPA by Wheeeeeeatthins.

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Spoiler==-----this is a death post-----==

A lump formed on Norman's head.  It was a mad lump, as tall as sir Forrest Gump, and soon the pus was a-flowin'.  His ghost brother fretted and wailed: "Why? Why?  I shouldn't've--I didn't mean--"
His words fell on deaf ears.  Or rather... dead ears.  The blunt force drama of one stick to a forehead was the too great.  Trenton Pollet had a mad amount of telekinetic force, like strongman biceps that threw shotputs from Cardiff to Boston, but no he did not know this; he thought his armless fun was harmless fun.  But for reals and for trues, it was a harmful thing.  He had only meant to show his brother the error of his ways, to turn his Machiavellian sway to something good, to show him that the people he had used were people and not objects... not kill him.
But Norman Pollet was dead.

Those Lizardmen gave him a proper funeral and entombment on the spooky graveyard planet.  Ghostly tears were shed.

Now, only one Pollet was left alive.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wheeeeeeatthins.

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SpoilerA day later, Norman Pollet woke up from being dead.  His brother tended to overreact to these sorts of things.  He had only been concussed and put into a slight coma; one that was thin as a leaf of paper if one could ascribe a coma a width.  By then, everyone had left the tomb, so he was free to wander and do what he wanted.
What he wanted was to know who he was.  He felt weak and groggy, and as he wandered through the graveyard, leaning on the cane at his side, he gazed intensely at the names on the graves as if hoping to find his own.
For
he had

amneeeeesia.

At the end of the graveyard spanning two thirds of the planet, there lie a house on a hill.  It was your typical-fare haunted house--spindly branches, bats, the works.  He climbed up the winding driveway with fierce determination, hoping that someone would dwell inside, and he could rustle out of them an answer or two.

What he found instead was a house completely empty.  He wandered its every room, looking for an owner.  However, his search turned up nothing but player pianos that played themselves and passages behind bookcases and a basement shelter stocked with a long-term supply of water and dry food goods.

As he emerged from the basement, he noticed that it had started to rain outside.  It was amazing how these planetoids had fully-developed atmospheres which allowed meteorological events to occur, he thought as he stood beneath the awning of the front porch; oh, the fanciful and senseless things a god can make take place.  It took almost no thought to create such a scenario with so much thought and effort put into its making...

The thought of gods triggered something in his mind.  A thought.  Recollection of an echo, and suddenly, it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn't be out looking for things.  He could not pinpoint why, but he was concerned with his survival.  Such an estate as the one he was in now seemed to have no owner; it had stores of food that he could subsist on while his memory came back.  Even if it would take a while.

At least he'd have a beautiful view of the dead people to make it worth his while, and a few good books to pass the time.  Why, he could stay in there for years...