Re: The Grand Battle II! [Round 5: Value City Mall!]
05-24-2010, 04:17 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.
With immeasurable relief, Galus at long last clamped his hands around his gun. It had indeed been removed from him during the stagefight, and by forces unbeknownst moved itself to some obscure corner of the stage. But now, at least, it was back in his hands. That gross aberrance, unliving yet walking flesh and bone, was going to to require dispatching. He certainly didn't like the sound, however, of having to cope with thousands of them, and the gun in his hand, no matter how much faith he might place in it, was probably not going to be sufficient.
But still, he could make an effort. Having become somewhat detached from the proceedings whilst the search was on, at first finding the zombie that had so alarmed him was tricky. It, along with Vyrm'n, curiously enough, had vanished with no apparent trace...
Then, in the wings, a couple of shadows congealed to form a silhouette, obviously of a man, stumbling somewhat as it tried its best to lurch towards Galus. Eminating from it, he had to presume, was a distinctive whiff of blood. He had his target. There was, though, a little something nagging him. What he knew about the undead, he got from stories. Fiction. The infestation here, that was fact, and a nasty one at that. Hopefully, they followed the rules and cliches of those fables, and a couple of rounds would do the trick. Hopefully.
But then, thankfully, a little common sense overruled his adrenaline. After all, he was pretty sure his prey hadn't been wearing a hat.
"...f-fabulous. Just the human being I was ever so slightly kinda hoping to see!"
The gun clattered to the floor once more, possibly through the shock attached to the sight of the bedraggled Maxwell, possibly because of the sudden weight that had somehow been added to the device, mere moments prior aimed at his head.
"...um, sorry if I, er, well, surprised you; I surprised myself, I'll give you, um, that..."
The dishevelled mess in front of him did wonders to the mind of Galus. Gestalt had crashed to the floor but was, by the admisson of his very words, still there enough to be considered alive. Vyrm'n was off somewhere, living up to the legend of "enigma" as only she knew how to. So that left, um...
"Samuel?"
A little glimmer of crimson on Maxwell's shoes was suddenly a rather impenetrable wall in the exchange, one that dwarfed any previous hope Galus had had for both their relative sanities. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation and he so wished he could ask for one, plain and simple, but his throat was dry and caustic, as the possibility that there might not be one. There was, of course, the horrible possibility that he'd underestimated the man before him - he was still in this battle to the death, after all. So instead, the next best thing; standing there agape, watching the tremulant fool in front of him brush himself down.
With a slur on par with a drunkard sloshing his last sentient words for the night, Maxwell spoke:
"You were... on the right track there. Yes. Yeah, good. I... recommend you explore it, um, further..."
...
"Gun. Head. As per Samuel, I think. It... it'll be fitting. Please"
Now it was obvious, but there was still the sheer enormity of it to get through. The atrocity alone was enough to force words from Galus's mouth.
"Did you kill him?"
There was an apathetic emission of air from Maxwell, presumably a chuckle gone wrong.
"Does it matter? Can you really distinguish between the man who pulled the trigger and... and the imbecile, who gave him the gun in the first place? Do you care? Ah, there, see, that's the best one of the three, I guarentee you. Either way you look at it, or, if, like me, you choose, for reasons I daren't stress, to look at it from underneath, I had a hand in his demise. Two, actually. You can't hold a shotgun with just the one."
Maxwell was faltering, still a tad aquiver. With the riddle unravelling in his mind, this gave Galus the confidence he needed to stand up straight and look his opponent in the eye.
"You don't deserve to die."
"And what right do you have to toy with my life? It's mine to do whatever I want with, or at least, it should be. You've been trained, if I understand things correctly, to fight, to kill, to do so, I suppose, for what you know to be the greater good, which absorbs so readily the reprecussions of your actions. I've been trained to think, and I think that the burden of a death is too great a weight for these frail shoulders. But one more to you? Pah..."
In the sluggish seconds that followed, that gaze was held, from orange to brown and back again. The subsequent snap of both parties caused enough chaos to blur time, but through methods quite discernable, the Urisian's gun was back in its rightful place on his belt and the suicidal Maxwell was writhing on the stage floor.
"You don't deserve to die, by my hand at least."
With a battered pride, a sigh was the other man's best affirmation of defeat.
"I... I... I'm afraid I might need a hand with getting up. Um, yeah."
A slightly different type of sigh tore free from Galus, and with no noticable effort Maxwell was, though admittedly rather shakily, back on his feet. Mumbling something comparable to a thanks, he tottered off, still swaying as he found his bearings, back into the wings from whence he came. This was all accompanied by a bit of furitive digging in pockets of pockets that was only brief significance to Galus, who preferred instead to turn back to the door at the end of the theatre, to where a couple of boxes were slinking themselves out into the unknown world.
"...you know, it should've occured to me that emergencies are never really going to be totally satisfactory by their very definition... do you have any water on you? I daren't stretch to milk..."
In one hand, Maxwell held the Director's last gift - a cardboard copper kettle. In the other, a pile of random, pocket-sized detritus with a couple of teabags perching on top.
"...you are insane. I knew it."
"How can you call this insanity? I have nerves that need calming right now and I expect you do to. Trust me, this is the best possible way of doing so..."
Finally, at long last, Maxwell set eyes upon an undead foe - this one plantively pottering its way down the aisle towards them, uninterested in the boxes that had since rolled past.
"Oh. People. Do you think he might know where we can find a spot of water?"
"Maxwell, he's dead. Well, undead, actually. The Observer said that there are thousands of them out there, in some big Mall or something."
"Ooh, a mall! Excellent! That means milk! Maybe even a spot of Earl Grey, if I can be so lucky..."
Galus facepalmed.
With immeasurable relief, Galus at long last clamped his hands around his gun. It had indeed been removed from him during the stagefight, and by forces unbeknownst moved itself to some obscure corner of the stage. But now, at least, it was back in his hands. That gross aberrance, unliving yet walking flesh and bone, was going to to require dispatching. He certainly didn't like the sound, however, of having to cope with thousands of them, and the gun in his hand, no matter how much faith he might place in it, was probably not going to be sufficient.
But still, he could make an effort. Having become somewhat detached from the proceedings whilst the search was on, at first finding the zombie that had so alarmed him was tricky. It, along with Vyrm'n, curiously enough, had vanished with no apparent trace...
Then, in the wings, a couple of shadows congealed to form a silhouette, obviously of a man, stumbling somewhat as it tried its best to lurch towards Galus. Eminating from it, he had to presume, was a distinctive whiff of blood. He had his target. There was, though, a little something nagging him. What he knew about the undead, he got from stories. Fiction. The infestation here, that was fact, and a nasty one at that. Hopefully, they followed the rules and cliches of those fables, and a couple of rounds would do the trick. Hopefully.
But then, thankfully, a little common sense overruled his adrenaline. After all, he was pretty sure his prey hadn't been wearing a hat.
"...f-fabulous. Just the human being I was ever so slightly kinda hoping to see!"
The gun clattered to the floor once more, possibly through the shock attached to the sight of the bedraggled Maxwell, possibly because of the sudden weight that had somehow been added to the device, mere moments prior aimed at his head.
"...um, sorry if I, er, well, surprised you; I surprised myself, I'll give you, um, that..."
The dishevelled mess in front of him did wonders to the mind of Galus. Gestalt had crashed to the floor but was, by the admisson of his very words, still there enough to be considered alive. Vyrm'n was off somewhere, living up to the legend of "enigma" as only she knew how to. So that left, um...
"Samuel?"
A little glimmer of crimson on Maxwell's shoes was suddenly a rather impenetrable wall in the exchange, one that dwarfed any previous hope Galus had had for both their relative sanities. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation and he so wished he could ask for one, plain and simple, but his throat was dry and caustic, as the possibility that there might not be one. There was, of course, the horrible possibility that he'd underestimated the man before him - he was still in this battle to the death, after all. So instead, the next best thing; standing there agape, watching the tremulant fool in front of him brush himself down.
With a slur on par with a drunkard sloshing his last sentient words for the night, Maxwell spoke:
"You were... on the right track there. Yes. Yeah, good. I... recommend you explore it, um, further..."
...
"Gun. Head. As per Samuel, I think. It... it'll be fitting. Please"
Now it was obvious, but there was still the sheer enormity of it to get through. The atrocity alone was enough to force words from Galus's mouth.
"Did you kill him?"
There was an apathetic emission of air from Maxwell, presumably a chuckle gone wrong.
"Does it matter? Can you really distinguish between the man who pulled the trigger and... and the imbecile, who gave him the gun in the first place? Do you care? Ah, there, see, that's the best one of the three, I guarentee you. Either way you look at it, or, if, like me, you choose, for reasons I daren't stress, to look at it from underneath, I had a hand in his demise. Two, actually. You can't hold a shotgun with just the one."
Maxwell was faltering, still a tad aquiver. With the riddle unravelling in his mind, this gave Galus the confidence he needed to stand up straight and look his opponent in the eye.
"You don't deserve to die."
"And what right do you have to toy with my life? It's mine to do whatever I want with, or at least, it should be. You've been trained, if I understand things correctly, to fight, to kill, to do so, I suppose, for what you know to be the greater good, which absorbs so readily the reprecussions of your actions. I've been trained to think, and I think that the burden of a death is too great a weight for these frail shoulders. But one more to you? Pah..."
In the sluggish seconds that followed, that gaze was held, from orange to brown and back again. The subsequent snap of both parties caused enough chaos to blur time, but through methods quite discernable, the Urisian's gun was back in its rightful place on his belt and the suicidal Maxwell was writhing on the stage floor.
"You don't deserve to die, by my hand at least."
With a battered pride, a sigh was the other man's best affirmation of defeat.
"I... I... I'm afraid I might need a hand with getting up. Um, yeah."
A slightly different type of sigh tore free from Galus, and with no noticable effort Maxwell was, though admittedly rather shakily, back on his feet. Mumbling something comparable to a thanks, he tottered off, still swaying as he found his bearings, back into the wings from whence he came. This was all accompanied by a bit of furitive digging in pockets of pockets that was only brief significance to Galus, who preferred instead to turn back to the door at the end of the theatre, to where a couple of boxes were slinking themselves out into the unknown world.
"...you know, it should've occured to me that emergencies are never really going to be totally satisfactory by their very definition... do you have any water on you? I daren't stretch to milk..."
In one hand, Maxwell held the Director's last gift - a cardboard copper kettle. In the other, a pile of random, pocket-sized detritus with a couple of teabags perching on top.
"...you are insane. I knew it."
"How can you call this insanity? I have nerves that need calming right now and I expect you do to. Trust me, this is the best possible way of doing so..."
Finally, at long last, Maxwell set eyes upon an undead foe - this one plantively pottering its way down the aisle towards them, uninterested in the boxes that had since rolled past.
"Oh. People. Do you think he might know where we can find a spot of water?"
"Maxwell, he's dead. Well, undead, actually. The Observer said that there are thousands of them out there, in some big Mall or something."
"Ooh, a mall! Excellent! That means milk! Maybe even a spot of Earl Grey, if I can be so lucky..."
Galus facepalmed.