Re: The Wretched Rite - Round Two - Inferno Alpha
06-22-2012, 10:11 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
In Circle Eight, Sub-Circle Six, the robot responsible for evaluating hypocrisy paced back and forth, checking the results of the hyperpolygraph. They were like nothing he'd ever seen before - everything the girl before him claimed to believe read, for the most part, as truthful and accurate; yet the ordinary minor spikes, normally not large enough to classify someone as sinful, were... well, larger than normal. More importantly, though, the spikes were red.
For the fourth time, the evaluator checked the ink levels. For the fourth time, there was no red ink, nor any container to hold it. Sighing, he walked back over to Taelia, frowning. "Look, we have to classify you sometime. This is supposed to be hell for you, not for me, alright? Well, in theory, I suppose. In practice it's supposed to cause you to get your rocks off because you're a goddamned freak, no pun intended, while I play Tetris while I wait for the next loser to come along. So please, just admit what you've done."
The woman sighed. "But I haven't done anything! I just got put here because of some, some old guy with a god who wanted--"
The robot shushed her. "First of all, don't refer to other gods, because I don't want this to be any more ambiguous. Second of all, what was that about not having done anything?"
She groaned. "It means what it is. I haven't done anything bad enough to land me in hell."
The robot checked the readout once more. The red spikes were going crazy. He smiled as he moved over to his computer. "Just a moment." He began rifling through his desk, checking the myriad drawers, until he pulled out a tiny pebble and a leather strip. Gently, he pressed the stone inside, and -- carefully suppressing his strength -- lobbed it at Taelia's forehead, where it bounced off with a satisfying thwack.
Almost immediately, she stood. "How dare you! Do you know who you're dealing with?" Checking the readout to find the whole thing, at this point, to be red, the robot nodded. "Some sort of ghostly or quasi-demonic entity possessing this child. Welcome home."
Through Taelia's eyes, The Omen blinked. It hadn't exactly expected this treatment. "Sorry, I... assumed you'd be condemning me to some sort of horrid eternal punishment. I did a lot of slaughter and such, you know."
The evaluator responded by half-heartedly jerking a thumb at a dusty sign, crookedly pinned to a bulletin board: DEMONS ARE TO BE HIRED, NOT PUNISHED. "Bit of old bureaucracy, and honestly, I never thought it'd be relevant. But here you are, possessing this girl, and here I am, caring more about losing my job and less about fulfilling it as intended, so you can just--"
The floor quaked and buckled, and all the bolts and struts of Inferno Alpha began rattling. Screams of both anger and terror emanated from the halls outside, and the robot cursed. The Omen piped up. "What's that, precisely?"
"Oh, just the Final Reckoning."
--------
The service elevator itself, Poran had quickly realized, was an effective hideout. None of the sinners ever took it, and if he just hummed a simple tune to himself, he could hide his wings and clothing; and, though they weren't much conversation, the couple of rats crawling around made him look like nobody of importance to any demon who passed by.
This was, of course, until an elevator's cables snapped and just barely avoided clipping Poran or smashing him to the ground. As it fell, banging against the shaft (safety wasn't the biggest concern in hell, especially when your only employees are robots), it dislodged various wires and pipes, which began spraying sparks and steam like mad. The Leskrin quickly decided that this was no longer an excellent hiding place, and skedaddled into Circle Six to see the demons frantically running about, sealing the various coffins. Poran flew up to one and asked: "Excuse me, sir, but what's going on?"
The imp was too absorbed in its preparations to pay a huge amount of attention, and so didn't even think before responding. "We gotta seal these things in preparation of Judgement Day."
"Judgement Day? I'm not sure I follow."
"Well, few minutes ago we got the alarm that the good Pope was offed. That's the trigger for Contingency R3V3-4H0."
Poran stared blankly at him, but was quickly cut off when a tremendous hand slashed through the walls and floors, breaking through them and causing demon and sinner alike to spill down to the bottom level. Magma and water and ice all mixed, flowing together in a lukewarm sludge. Mechanisms shattered or exploded, and paperwork flew every which way. There was still steady ground, but it was rare, and becoming less steady by the second.
Everyone's eyes were drawn upward, to the face before them. It was carefully-crafted to conform perfectly to traditional Western standards of beauty, with tiny asymmetries placed just often enough to avoid the face looking too inhuman. Blue eyes stared down with a disconcerting intensity, and a mechanical mouth was smiling in such a way that everyone knew there was no malice, no joy in what was about to happen; but rather, that it had been deemed a necessity. Hair had been carefully crafted of fiber optics and designed so that it looked real, with a simple crown gently affixed on the top; and the whole thing glowed just dimly enough that it didn't hurt one's eyes to look at it.
To His left, two smaller (but still tremendous) robots strode forward, one carrying a bag and a scale, the other a spear and a branch. On His right, two more: one with a scythe and hourglass, one with a sword and shield. As their master halted to address the crowd, so did they, standing tall beside him.
The Godbot's mouth slowly opened, and in a booming voice, declared: "The time has come to meet your Maker."
In Circle Eight, Sub-Circle Six, the robot responsible for evaluating hypocrisy paced back and forth, checking the results of the hyperpolygraph. They were like nothing he'd ever seen before - everything the girl before him claimed to believe read, for the most part, as truthful and accurate; yet the ordinary minor spikes, normally not large enough to classify someone as sinful, were... well, larger than normal. More importantly, though, the spikes were red.
For the fourth time, the evaluator checked the ink levels. For the fourth time, there was no red ink, nor any container to hold it. Sighing, he walked back over to Taelia, frowning. "Look, we have to classify you sometime. This is supposed to be hell for you, not for me, alright? Well, in theory, I suppose. In practice it's supposed to cause you to get your rocks off because you're a goddamned freak, no pun intended, while I play Tetris while I wait for the next loser to come along. So please, just admit what you've done."
The woman sighed. "But I haven't done anything! I just got put here because of some, some old guy with a god who wanted--"
The robot shushed her. "First of all, don't refer to other gods, because I don't want this to be any more ambiguous. Second of all, what was that about not having done anything?"
She groaned. "It means what it is. I haven't done anything bad enough to land me in hell."
The robot checked the readout once more. The red spikes were going crazy. He smiled as he moved over to his computer. "Just a moment." He began rifling through his desk, checking the myriad drawers, until he pulled out a tiny pebble and a leather strip. Gently, he pressed the stone inside, and -- carefully suppressing his strength -- lobbed it at Taelia's forehead, where it bounced off with a satisfying thwack.
Almost immediately, she stood. "How dare you! Do you know who you're dealing with?" Checking the readout to find the whole thing, at this point, to be red, the robot nodded. "Some sort of ghostly or quasi-demonic entity possessing this child. Welcome home."
Through Taelia's eyes, The Omen blinked. It hadn't exactly expected this treatment. "Sorry, I... assumed you'd be condemning me to some sort of horrid eternal punishment. I did a lot of slaughter and such, you know."
The evaluator responded by half-heartedly jerking a thumb at a dusty sign, crookedly pinned to a bulletin board: DEMONS ARE TO BE HIRED, NOT PUNISHED. "Bit of old bureaucracy, and honestly, I never thought it'd be relevant. But here you are, possessing this girl, and here I am, caring more about losing my job and less about fulfilling it as intended, so you can just--"
The floor quaked and buckled, and all the bolts and struts of Inferno Alpha began rattling. Screams of both anger and terror emanated from the halls outside, and the robot cursed. The Omen piped up. "What's that, precisely?"
"Oh, just the Final Reckoning."
--------
The service elevator itself, Poran had quickly realized, was an effective hideout. None of the sinners ever took it, and if he just hummed a simple tune to himself, he could hide his wings and clothing; and, though they weren't much conversation, the couple of rats crawling around made him look like nobody of importance to any demon who passed by.
This was, of course, until an elevator's cables snapped and just barely avoided clipping Poran or smashing him to the ground. As it fell, banging against the shaft (safety wasn't the biggest concern in hell, especially when your only employees are robots), it dislodged various wires and pipes, which began spraying sparks and steam like mad. The Leskrin quickly decided that this was no longer an excellent hiding place, and skedaddled into Circle Six to see the demons frantically running about, sealing the various coffins. Poran flew up to one and asked: "Excuse me, sir, but what's going on?"
The imp was too absorbed in its preparations to pay a huge amount of attention, and so didn't even think before responding. "We gotta seal these things in preparation of Judgement Day."
"Judgement Day? I'm not sure I follow."
"Well, few minutes ago we got the alarm that the good Pope was offed. That's the trigger for Contingency R3V3-4H0."
Poran stared blankly at him, but was quickly cut off when a tremendous hand slashed through the walls and floors, breaking through them and causing demon and sinner alike to spill down to the bottom level. Magma and water and ice all mixed, flowing together in a lukewarm sludge. Mechanisms shattered or exploded, and paperwork flew every which way. There was still steady ground, but it was rare, and becoming less steady by the second.
Everyone's eyes were drawn upward, to the face before them. It was carefully-crafted to conform perfectly to traditional Western standards of beauty, with tiny asymmetries placed just often enough to avoid the face looking too inhuman. Blue eyes stared down with a disconcerting intensity, and a mechanical mouth was smiling in such a way that everyone knew there was no malice, no joy in what was about to happen; but rather, that it had been deemed a necessity. Hair had been carefully crafted of fiber optics and designed so that it looked real, with a simple crown gently affixed on the top; and the whole thing glowed just dimly enough that it didn't hurt one's eyes to look at it.
To His left, two smaller (but still tremendous) robots strode forward, one carrying a bag and a scale, the other a spear and a branch. On His right, two more: one with a scythe and hourglass, one with a sword and shield. As their master halted to address the crowd, so did they, standing tall beside him.
The Godbot's mouth slowly opened, and in a booming voice, declared: "The time has come to meet your Maker."