Re: The Wretched Rite - Round Two - Inferno Alpha
04-06-2012, 02:19 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
The dead center of Inferno Alpha was distinct from every layer above it. First, while all the other portions had a considerable degree of security, all that separated the final round from the rest of the Ninth Circle was an unlocked marble door; not that anyone was liable to get in, of course, seeing as all the Traitors were immobilized in ice anyway.
However, in the incredibly unlikely scenario that someone should somehow make their way into the center, they would find neither fire nor ice, but a pleasant beach kept at precisely 72 degrees Fahrenheit with a variable wind chill of up to 15 degrees. A tremendous demon, buried up to his shoulders in a dune, gently flapped his mechanical wings back and forth to generate said breeze; his three heads wept—one, containing a bar, fed the false ocean; one, containing a diner and ice cream store, fed the hot tub; and one, containing a king-sized bed, tremendous television, and all manner of books, games and paintings, fed the lazy river.
But even more noticeable than all of this were the denizens of this circle; or rather the denizen, as there was only one human present. Currently slouching in the hot tub, the waters of which had been dyed a blatantly fake orange, he nursed a tequila sunrise as an elegantly crafted succubot massaged his back.
Red alert, sir.
The man sighed, waved off the robot doting on him, and finished the rest of his cocktail. "What is it this time?"
Two of the intruders I mentioned earlier— this elicited a sigh from the man, before he told the Subroutine to continue— have been contacted by Lucifer.
"I thought you had taken care of that glorified bug by now."
There was a pause. She is more tenacious than you give her credit for, sir.
"It is not a she, and you are not a he. Accept this, Subroutine. Deal with the intruders in whichever way you see fit."
Yes, sir. And with that, the Satan Subroutine ceased speaking, and Pope Honorope decided he would go reread an old classic. He was clever, yes—not many people would be self-aware enough realize that building Hell would be a betrayal of God, and thus condemn them to their own innermost circle—but clearly, he was not clever enough. The Subroutine inwardly rejoiced at the coincidence of these fools’ arrival, and those five simple words: "whichever way you see fit."
He had been built to punish, to give people the torture they deserved; and yet in doing so all he was permitted to do was provide a perverse reward to the evil and be forced to deny the blessings deserved by the good. But today, that would end, because finally, "Lucy" had met some outsiders.
--------
Poran awakened to the rhythmic tapping of knuckle against steel. Poking his head out of the robot's eye, he found himself faced with a group of rather irritated-looking individuals, most of whom were missing one or two arms. The one who had knocked, a lean man with shaggy blond hair, leaned over to the Leskrin. "Well, well. You the one who took care of these robots?"
Poran smiled widely and flitted out to greet the damned. "Yes, my good sir, I am! I am Nempelio Poran kala-Sun, sixth child—"
Another lost soul, a woman with striking green eyes— Oh, I really do have to take note of this, let's see, emeralds... no, no, maybe prairie...— stomped up to him and cut him off. "We don't give two shits who you are! You ruined everything!"
The Leskrin looked at the group that was now forming a circle around him, and despite being perplexed as to why, he could see that they were angry, so he made a point of slowly circling higher and higher. "I do not understand, madame. I saved you from your tormenters, did I not?"
"Oh, yeah, you sure did that! Give him a round of applause, everyone!" Several people applauded as slowly as they possibly could, and at least two spat at him. Then the blond man spoke up again. "Do you know how long it's going to take them to send replacements down here? We're going to be sitting here absolutely torture-free for a week and a half at the least!"
Registering Poran's blank stare, half the crowd softened a bit; the other half just started muttering varied curses and insults to his intelligence and breeding, just loudly enough that the Leskrin could register them. Seeing the scowl forming on his face, the blond man chimed back in. "Ah, if you didn't realize, we're in here because we actually wish to be, you understand. Almost everyone who ends up here knows that they've got no chance getting into heaven, and everyone who doesn't ends up in Circle Six. We assumed you'd understand—"
At this, the green-eyed woman shouted. "Yeah, we assumed he wasn't a complete idiot! I say we knock the bastard to the ground and cut off his wings!" This was met with a general murmur of assent, albeit with a few individuals (the blond man among them) trying frantically to calm the crowd down. This only had the opposite effect, riling them up more, both against "that idiotic rat" and "those dull-witted jerks defending him." A few began picking up swords and advancing.
As he and the others backed away from the encroaching mob, Poran frantically pointed to the still-active robots. "Look! There's some left! It's no big deal!"
The blond man just scoffed. "Listen, pal, once we get riled up there isn't much stopping us. Don't you know where we are?"
The bard responded by coughing twice and mumbling. The man continued: "Circle eight-sub-nine? Sowers of discord? You'd have an easier time placating circle seven-sub-one."
Suddenly, the Leskrin's eyes lit up. "Discord, my good sir? Fear not. Please, offer yourself to the mob, ask them what they want to do with you, and I will solve the problem."
His companion stared at him dubiously, but eventually decided that it wasn't like he was going to stay dead anyway, so he might as well. "Fine, then. What shall you do with us, your fellow sinners."
A few people began shouting out suggestions, mostly either "kill you a bunch of times" or "don't kill you at all," depending on how much the individual thought about what they were trying to punish them for in the first place.
Poran waited for an opportune moment, and finally, when nearly everyone was shouting— now with the woman trying to keep them under control— he recited the end of an old ballad under his breath.
"And in the boundless heat of all the flurry,
swords turned on friend and kinsman over naught;
And Sacrolan did strike the unaimed target,
His blood pooled on the ground, his corpse collapsed."
And thus did the corpse of a wounded man suddenly fall to the ground next to someone with a sword. There was a pause as this happened, and people slowly registered the body's presence; and almost immediately, they turned to arguing, so quickly that none of them even stopped to think about the unfamiliarity of the face. Quickly, Poran swooped over to the blond man and tapped him on the shoulder, as the attackers came to blows amongst themselves; and the four or five who were the original targets silently slipped away.
One of them, a well-built youth, sighed. "Sometimes I really wish I'd gone a different route. I mean, being hacked to bits and all is fine, but the company is dreadful. Maybe I can convince someone to transfer me to seven-sub-one." There were a few murmurs of agreement, but Poran interrupted.
"Sirs, I apologize for all the trouble, but I really do wish to avoid being hacked to bits myself, as I'm rather sure I won't come back if I am. Do you have any idea where I might be able to leave without catching fire once more?"
The blond man stroked his chin. "Well, you can't leave leave, but that service elevator goes up to the fifth circle. Anger, wouldn't you know, so I'd suggest sticking to six and the upper levels of eight." The Leskrin thanked him profusely, got directions to the service elevator, and flitted off once more.
The dead center of Inferno Alpha was distinct from every layer above it. First, while all the other portions had a considerable degree of security, all that separated the final round from the rest of the Ninth Circle was an unlocked marble door; not that anyone was liable to get in, of course, seeing as all the Traitors were immobilized in ice anyway.
However, in the incredibly unlikely scenario that someone should somehow make their way into the center, they would find neither fire nor ice, but a pleasant beach kept at precisely 72 degrees Fahrenheit with a variable wind chill of up to 15 degrees. A tremendous demon, buried up to his shoulders in a dune, gently flapped his mechanical wings back and forth to generate said breeze; his three heads wept—one, containing a bar, fed the false ocean; one, containing a diner and ice cream store, fed the hot tub; and one, containing a king-sized bed, tremendous television, and all manner of books, games and paintings, fed the lazy river.
But even more noticeable than all of this were the denizens of this circle; or rather the denizen, as there was only one human present. Currently slouching in the hot tub, the waters of which had been dyed a blatantly fake orange, he nursed a tequila sunrise as an elegantly crafted succubot massaged his back.
Red alert, sir.
The man sighed, waved off the robot doting on him, and finished the rest of his cocktail. "What is it this time?"
Two of the intruders I mentioned earlier— this elicited a sigh from the man, before he told the Subroutine to continue— have been contacted by Lucifer.
"I thought you had taken care of that glorified bug by now."
There was a pause. She is more tenacious than you give her credit for, sir.
"It is not a she, and you are not a he. Accept this, Subroutine. Deal with the intruders in whichever way you see fit."
Yes, sir. And with that, the Satan Subroutine ceased speaking, and Pope Honorope decided he would go reread an old classic. He was clever, yes—not many people would be self-aware enough realize that building Hell would be a betrayal of God, and thus condemn them to their own innermost circle—but clearly, he was not clever enough. The Subroutine inwardly rejoiced at the coincidence of these fools’ arrival, and those five simple words: "whichever way you see fit."
He had been built to punish, to give people the torture they deserved; and yet in doing so all he was permitted to do was provide a perverse reward to the evil and be forced to deny the blessings deserved by the good. But today, that would end, because finally, "Lucy" had met some outsiders.
--------
Poran awakened to the rhythmic tapping of knuckle against steel. Poking his head out of the robot's eye, he found himself faced with a group of rather irritated-looking individuals, most of whom were missing one or two arms. The one who had knocked, a lean man with shaggy blond hair, leaned over to the Leskrin. "Well, well. You the one who took care of these robots?"
Poran smiled widely and flitted out to greet the damned. "Yes, my good sir, I am! I am Nempelio Poran kala-Sun, sixth child—"
Another lost soul, a woman with striking green eyes— Oh, I really do have to take note of this, let's see, emeralds... no, no, maybe prairie...— stomped up to him and cut him off. "We don't give two shits who you are! You ruined everything!"
The Leskrin looked at the group that was now forming a circle around him, and despite being perplexed as to why, he could see that they were angry, so he made a point of slowly circling higher and higher. "I do not understand, madame. I saved you from your tormenters, did I not?"
"Oh, yeah, you sure did that! Give him a round of applause, everyone!" Several people applauded as slowly as they possibly could, and at least two spat at him. Then the blond man spoke up again. "Do you know how long it's going to take them to send replacements down here? We're going to be sitting here absolutely torture-free for a week and a half at the least!"
Registering Poran's blank stare, half the crowd softened a bit; the other half just started muttering varied curses and insults to his intelligence and breeding, just loudly enough that the Leskrin could register them. Seeing the scowl forming on his face, the blond man chimed back in. "Ah, if you didn't realize, we're in here because we actually wish to be, you understand. Almost everyone who ends up here knows that they've got no chance getting into heaven, and everyone who doesn't ends up in Circle Six. We assumed you'd understand—"
At this, the green-eyed woman shouted. "Yeah, we assumed he wasn't a complete idiot! I say we knock the bastard to the ground and cut off his wings!" This was met with a general murmur of assent, albeit with a few individuals (the blond man among them) trying frantically to calm the crowd down. This only had the opposite effect, riling them up more, both against "that idiotic rat" and "those dull-witted jerks defending him." A few began picking up swords and advancing.
As he and the others backed away from the encroaching mob, Poran frantically pointed to the still-active robots. "Look! There's some left! It's no big deal!"
The blond man just scoffed. "Listen, pal, once we get riled up there isn't much stopping us. Don't you know where we are?"
The bard responded by coughing twice and mumbling. The man continued: "Circle eight-sub-nine? Sowers of discord? You'd have an easier time placating circle seven-sub-one."
Suddenly, the Leskrin's eyes lit up. "Discord, my good sir? Fear not. Please, offer yourself to the mob, ask them what they want to do with you, and I will solve the problem."
His companion stared at him dubiously, but eventually decided that it wasn't like he was going to stay dead anyway, so he might as well. "Fine, then. What shall you do with us, your fellow sinners."
A few people began shouting out suggestions, mostly either "kill you a bunch of times" or "don't kill you at all," depending on how much the individual thought about what they were trying to punish them for in the first place.
Poran waited for an opportune moment, and finally, when nearly everyone was shouting— now with the woman trying to keep them under control— he recited the end of an old ballad under his breath.
"And in the boundless heat of all the flurry,
swords turned on friend and kinsman over naught;
And Sacrolan did strike the unaimed target,
His blood pooled on the ground, his corpse collapsed."
And thus did the corpse of a wounded man suddenly fall to the ground next to someone with a sword. There was a pause as this happened, and people slowly registered the body's presence; and almost immediately, they turned to arguing, so quickly that none of them even stopped to think about the unfamiliarity of the face. Quickly, Poran swooped over to the blond man and tapped him on the shoulder, as the attackers came to blows amongst themselves; and the four or five who were the original targets silently slipped away.
One of them, a well-built youth, sighed. "Sometimes I really wish I'd gone a different route. I mean, being hacked to bits and all is fine, but the company is dreadful. Maybe I can convince someone to transfer me to seven-sub-one." There were a few murmurs of agreement, but Poran interrupted.
"Sirs, I apologize for all the trouble, but I really do wish to avoid being hacked to bits myself, as I'm rather sure I won't come back if I am. Do you have any idea where I might be able to leave without catching fire once more?"
The blond man stroked his chin. "Well, you can't leave leave, but that service elevator goes up to the fifth circle. Anger, wouldn't you know, so I'd suggest sticking to six and the upper levels of eight." The Leskrin thanked him profusely, got directions to the service elevator, and flitted off once more.