Re: The Grand Battle II! [Round 3: Escheresque!]
11-21-2009, 02:59 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.
The diary wasn't the sort of book that would go down a treat with the critical literary world - for a start, the professor's hasty scrawls were probably only second in their ability to hide information to Maxwell's own spidery efforts - they weren't much of a read either, and though often tried for suspence by hinting at this greater "plan", failed to deliver and wouldn't have interested Maxwell as a late-night read beside the fire. The man had to confess that he'd half expected Reccxer to have written his own death scene; the guy appeared to have written his entire time in the labyrinth field in the first seven pages of an awfully long book...
Now, Cabaret's diary was a different story altogether; bubbly, almost child-like, naive perhaps, certainly rather humourous in retrospect yet decidedly awkward at points. Maybe filed under comedy and with backstory one could get away with it, but Maxwell was regarding it, not for the read, but the information it contained; not for the laughs, for his pleasure, but for business.
It was skim-read, with alarms set to ring when certain words or phrases were used, and in this manner the spread, filled to perfection with the whims of the magician, were if not understood, at least acknowledged. The page was turned, the process repeated, but then...
A pause. A finger quickly moved to the offending line, the other hand to the pocket of the coat, to the notebook and pencil. This hand, with some dexterity, copied word for word a paragraph of considerable weight, before returning the prize to await further consideration.
Whatever it was, it was enough to cause a lump of tears to splatter from Maxwell's right eye, enough to make him sniff slightly, enough to make him awkwardly aware that Galus had buggered off without him really noticing, before he'd asked him his questions. He'd been very much looking foward to those questions...
The left-hand door hadn't been opened. Galus must have snuck out the way he'd come - past a staircase that had only served to create a slight headache, down a corridor, then to the dome...
Maxwell popped his head around the doorway. He'd never quite seen eye-to-eye with doorframes. Seeing eye-to-eye required him to go on tip-toes slightly, and he didn't enjoy that. Gazing a little absent-mindedly, it occured to him a little late that, being a space pilot, his subject might have had better luck with the whatever-gravity that so plagued the battlefield. Judging by the swinging door on the ceiling, that was probably the case. Well, only one thing for it.
With infinite care, the genius raised his foot and selected a postion on the vertical stair to touch down upon. A little courage was mustered, and before long it was firmly placed against the wall. Maxwell knew what would probably happen next, when he lifted his other foot - it didn't take much to figure out that gravity would choose to follow the only foot he had on a surface, whatever surface that might be. You could choose the gravity of this place, if you had the stomach to do so. Vyrm'n was probably having a field day, Gestalt likely couldn't care, and the Sunset, he'd guess, found it an abomination that needed correcting (oh, but he wouldn't do it there and then, of course). He wondered how Samuel was faring - probably not so good, just like him; that was about the only thing that Maxwell wanted to have in common with the "man" who was a fascination, if only one to watch in horror from a very safe distance.
Procrastination. Maxwell held on to the walls of the corridor and raised his other foot.
A moment later, he was flat on his face, very much regretting that he'd never been very good at the physical side of things. There was solice to be taken in the fact that he was lying on the stairs now, not the floor, but he was doing so in a manner quite ridiculous. But there was no-one around to see him, so, well, he could afford a moment or two's rest...
Now, Cabaret's diary was a different story altogether; bubbly, almost child-like, naive perhaps, certainly rather humourous in retrospect yet decidedly awkward at points. Maybe filed under comedy and with backstory one could get away with it, but Maxwell was regarding it, not for the read, but the information it contained; not for the laughs, for his pleasure, but for business.
It was skim-read, with alarms set to ring when certain words or phrases were used, and in this manner the spread, filled to perfection with the whims of the magician, were if not understood, at least acknowledged. The page was turned, the process repeated, but then...
A pause. A finger quickly moved to the offending line, the other hand to the pocket of the coat, to the notebook and pencil. This hand, with some dexterity, copied word for word a paragraph of considerable weight, before returning the prize to await further consideration.
Whatever it was, it was enough to cause a lump of tears to splatter from Maxwell's right eye, enough to make him sniff slightly, enough to make him awkwardly aware that Galus had buggered off without him really noticing, before he'd asked him his questions. He'd been very much looking foward to those questions...
The left-hand door hadn't been opened. Galus must have snuck out the way he'd come - past a staircase that had only served to create a slight headache, down a corridor, then to the dome...
Maxwell popped his head around the doorway. He'd never quite seen eye-to-eye with doorframes. Seeing eye-to-eye required him to go on tip-toes slightly, and he didn't enjoy that. Gazing a little absent-mindedly, it occured to him a little late that, being a space pilot, his subject might have had better luck with the whatever-gravity that so plagued the battlefield. Judging by the swinging door on the ceiling, that was probably the case. Well, only one thing for it.
With infinite care, the genius raised his foot and selected a postion on the vertical stair to touch down upon. A little courage was mustered, and before long it was firmly placed against the wall. Maxwell knew what would probably happen next, when he lifted his other foot - it didn't take much to figure out that gravity would choose to follow the only foot he had on a surface, whatever surface that might be. You could choose the gravity of this place, if you had the stomach to do so. Vyrm'n was probably having a field day, Gestalt likely couldn't care, and the Sunset, he'd guess, found it an abomination that needed correcting (oh, but he wouldn't do it there and then, of course). He wondered how Samuel was faring - probably not so good, just like him; that was about the only thing that Maxwell wanted to have in common with the "man" who was a fascination, if only one to watch in horror from a very safe distance.
Procrastination. Maxwell held on to the walls of the corridor and raised his other foot.
A moment later, he was flat on his face, very much regretting that he'd never been very good at the physical side of things. There was solice to be taken in the fact that he was lying on the stairs now, not the floor, but he was doing so in a manner quite ridiculous. But there was no-one around to see him, so, well, he could afford a moment or two's rest...