Re: The Grand Battle II! [Final Round: Dimensional Speakeasy]
06-08-2011, 04:39 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
Gestalt was rather taciturn for the short remainder of their trek; it slid silently on her heels, musing to itself and not speaking out of a combination of annoyance at her curtness and recognition that it probably wasn't necessary to completely analyze every fact in this place. There simply wouldn't be time to learn everything, and if the Organizer and his wooden thrall were to be believed, time was rather critical. If Frank recognized the aggressively chilly silence as such, she didn't show it, and continued striding along barely-Euclidean halls with the same cheer she always showed.
After only a few more minutes of travel, Frank put her arm out and the pair stopped. The door they were standing in front of wasn't particularly impressive or notable; had Gestalt come from a more modernized world, he'd have recognized it as the sort of cheap metal double-doors that frequently found themselves in schools, public buildings, and any other place with high foot-traffic and low budget. They were painted in a chipped grey-green and exuded an air of utter unimportance. Gestalt's new vocalizer whirred as it spoke, "This is where we're to meet this not-a-grandmaster?"
Frank nodded. "Yup. I know it ain't much ta look at, but then, neithah ah you, right? Stuff ain't always what it looks like, an' not all the people who hang around this place ah as big on showmanship as ya Grandmastah friends."
"Well, then if this is where we're to meet this Diarist character..."
The doors pulled open as Gestalt tugged invisibly on the handles, and the pile of boxes began drifting into the darkened room beyond. Frank's eyes widened as this happened, and she blurted out "Stop!" before the schrotgolem could enter.
The stack of crates gave off the impression of cocking a head impatiently towards the outburst, despite no physical motion being made. "What is it?"
"Look, uh..." There was a pause for a moment as the woman thought. "You remembah what I was tellin' ya about the cloths back theah? Well, this threshold's kind of a patch. It'sā"
"We're entering another universe?"
"No, look, lemme finish, alright? It's not so much goin' to another universe as, say, another area of this one, but with different laws. And, uh, at the same time affecting another patch on a different piecea cloth by what we do on this one. Look, the word quantum comes up about twelve times in the next sentence, and I don't want to have to explain it and you probably couldn't understand anyway. Please, just come on and stop pullin' threads. Er, I mean like, stop overthinking things, this doesn't have anything to do with the universe metaphowah. Just a figyah of speech."
The boxes bristled. "Fine. Then why did you stop me?"
"Oh, uh, right, you neahly made me fahget. Right, uh, crossin' the threshold might be a bit problematic for a thing as diffuse as you. I dunno if it'd be safe like you ah; you might get cut in half or somethin'. Spiritually, I mean, not justcha boxes. I figyah it'd be best ifya putchaself into just oneayah things and let me carry ya."
Gestalt rustled for a few moments. "Is your accent getting thicker?"
"Maybe. I dunno, it doesn't mattah. Just pick somethin' and get in it."
There were a few more moments of silence before something hovered out of a box and landed in Frank's hand. She looked at it for a moment before saying anything; it was about six inches long, made of brass with one glass tip, and covered in small tubes, pipes, and gears.
"This thing looks pretty ridiculous. What is it?"
Gestalt extended its influence into the speaker for a moment and answered "A token from the late Professor Rexxcer. It just projects a concentrated beam of light out that end. It's useful for indicating things that you can't reach."
Frank didn't say anything, but her expression demanded an explanation.
"It's to remind me of why this barbaric competition must be stopped at any cost."
"Awful sentimental for a pile of junk, but whatevah you gotta do."
The golem withdrew completely into the steampunk laser pointer without responding. Frank shrugged, then stepped into the open double-doors. The sensation was quite indescribable to anyone who hasn't been upside-down, inside-out, and incorporeal all at the same time, so there's no point in expounding; it was simply highly unusual and borderline-unpleasant, and it happened in the space of a microsecond before fading away. The blackness before the pair faded into a twisted, improbable library; the hallway behind faded to blackness.
And as Frank's foot descended towards the floor, the shoe on it unravelled, spinning outwards and fading into the air. Her stockings followed suit, as did her dress, her undergarments, and even her hair and facial features. In moments, she was a plain, featureless, vaguely-feminine wooden figure; however, even before the last of her clothes and features faded away, new ones began forming, spinning themselves out of thin air. Even her build became thinner and bonier, her face becoming harder and more heavily-lined. An understated blue-grey ensemble formed, topped by a greying bun and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
Gestalt had no way of communicating its surprise, but the woman pre-empted his question. "I share many properties with my patron. One of the most notable is his tendency to reflect that which surrounds him; however, while he takes on superficial traits of the sentients he gets near, my appearance, and to some extent personality, are influenced by the subconscious expectations set by my physical surroundings. In short, I become what one might expect a woman to be wherever I am, often to the point of near-caricature."
Given that explanation, Gestalt was rather surprised with the blandness of the new shape; sure, the room they'd entered was a library of sorts, and this stodgy-looking shape fit "librarian", but... It didn't really fit with the 'of sorts' part. Shelves climbed up walls, books hovered in midair, shelves came out of other shelves sideways, enormous stacks of books curved unnaturally, spiralling towards walls and ceilings... It was a library in the sense that parts of the Escherscape had been a cathedral. With that in mind, Gestalt considered that either the setting was somehow hiding its normalcy, or Frank's new guise had more to it than was readily apparent.
Lost as it was in its thoughts, the little laser pointer nearly missed what was said next. "You're free to interact with the objects here now that we've crossed the threshold, but be ready to relinquish them when we leave. Once you have established some mode of communication, you may refer to me as Ms. Dorcy."
After a bit of thought, Gestalt pulled a book from the shelf and had it glide alongside the newly-christened Ms. Dorcy. The book was unlabeled and entirely handwritten, but it had several instances of every letter, so it served its purpose; the golem didn't bother absorbing its contents, but simply started pulling words and letters out (ripping pieces of the pages out to do so) and floating messages across its companion's vision.
How loNg do you Expect to bE here
"Very briefly. Why?"
wondeRiNg iF I should aTtempt to build an ArsEnaL
"I suggest you don't. It would be pointless in any case, but we shouldn't encounter any need."
During the brief conversation, the pair had been moving through the labyrinthine shelves, Ms. Dorcy striding confidently towards some goal she seemed to have in mind. Rather than press for more information and risk raising her ire (or at least annoyance) again, Gestalt simply sat silently in her hand, towing the book behind them.
Some minutes later, a desk came into view. The floor around it, and the desk itself, were stained with ink; a dark, indistinct figure sat at the blackened table, eight arms constantly writing in the tomes that hovered around it or dipping quills messily into the inkwells that littered the desk's surface. It didn't look up as the wooden woman approached, and barely spared her a glance as she confidently stated "I am here, Diarist."
There was a pause where the only sound was the scratching of nibs on parchment, then a wide maw opened in the thing's chest. "Then get on with it. What do you want?"
Dorcy pulled a wry face. "A little decorum wouldn't be out of place. In any event, you know what I'm here for, and if you would like us to leave with the maximum possible expeditiousness, you won't bog things down with your less-than-charming misanthropy."
Presumably-the-Diarist grunted and stood up on four spindly legs; its books stayed in midair, bobbing gently, and it walked to a nearby shelf, quills still clutched in hands and dripping ink all the while. "Fine. You've got two choices. Let me find where I put them."
While the Diarist's hands slid over volumes and shelves, apparently looking for a specific book, Gestalt floated another message to its chaperone.
whaT is HE talkIng about
what chOices does he meAn
"I told you, the Diarist is an expert in memory implantation and alteration. We're going to use his expertise to encourage that Faceless to fight the Observer as we want her to. As it is, she's unlikely to cooperate, as I understand it."
The laser pointer jerked as Gestalt recoiled.
thaT's monstrous
vyrm'n is mY only AlLy my oNly frIend
Ms. Dorcy looked down at the brassy apparatus. "And out there in the endless worlds are uncountable others with friends and allies of their own who will be torn from their lives and killed for the pleasure of cackling Grandmasters. Don't lose sight of what matters; one casualty, regardless of how important she is to you personally, is inconsequential. You brought this body with you just for that purpose; remember Reccxer, and realize that one more sacrifice is worth preventing countless others from experiencing the same tragedy."
There was yet another pause, before a few shreds of paper weakly fluttered up to form yes. The librarian nodded grimly and clutched the laser pointer tightly for a moment in a gesture of reassurance, then looked back up at the Diarist. She opened her mouth as though to hurry him along, but noticed that he was already lumbering towards them, two books in hand.
"Alright," he growled, "like I said, two choices. You can either implant memories of personal cruelty at the hands of the Observer; she'll blame him for the ravages of sentience, for being torn from the Entropics, everything that's gone wrong for her and a lot of things that didn't actually happen."
Here, the Diarist dropped a neat blue tome on the desk before continuing. "Or, you can just erase everything. Revert her to a primal shard of matter-hating fury. From what I can gather, everything she is stems from being bonded to some sentient. This'll sever that bond, leaving her the near-mindless being she was meant to be."
The Diarist let a ragged, slender black volume hit the desk next to the blue one, clearly waiting for a decision. When none was immediately forthcoming, he snorted with irritation. "I've done my part. Pick one and get out of here."
The many-limbed creature plopped itself down by the desk again, resuming its ceaseless writing. The Organizer's thrall and the golem she had in tow stood stock-still while the latter thought.
this
this iS still a horRible prOspect
which should I Pick
Ms. Dorcy shrugged. "You'll have to decide that yourself. I won't be able to hold your hand through this whole situation, nor do I have any desire to. Decide what you think you can best use and what you can best control, and make the choice."
The voice faded and the air filled once more with quill noises. Even if it had had a voice with which to agonize, Gestalt would likely have kept its apprehension and torment to itself as it mulled over its options. Eventually, a wooden hand twitched and a brass cog clicked.
A small red dot appeared on the cover of the black book.
Gestalt was rather taciturn for the short remainder of their trek; it slid silently on her heels, musing to itself and not speaking out of a combination of annoyance at her curtness and recognition that it probably wasn't necessary to completely analyze every fact in this place. There simply wouldn't be time to learn everything, and if the Organizer and his wooden thrall were to be believed, time was rather critical. If Frank recognized the aggressively chilly silence as such, she didn't show it, and continued striding along barely-Euclidean halls with the same cheer she always showed.
After only a few more minutes of travel, Frank put her arm out and the pair stopped. The door they were standing in front of wasn't particularly impressive or notable; had Gestalt come from a more modernized world, he'd have recognized it as the sort of cheap metal double-doors that frequently found themselves in schools, public buildings, and any other place with high foot-traffic and low budget. They were painted in a chipped grey-green and exuded an air of utter unimportance. Gestalt's new vocalizer whirred as it spoke, "This is where we're to meet this not-a-grandmaster?"
Frank nodded. "Yup. I know it ain't much ta look at, but then, neithah ah you, right? Stuff ain't always what it looks like, an' not all the people who hang around this place ah as big on showmanship as ya Grandmastah friends."
"Well, then if this is where we're to meet this Diarist character..."
The doors pulled open as Gestalt tugged invisibly on the handles, and the pile of boxes began drifting into the darkened room beyond. Frank's eyes widened as this happened, and she blurted out "Stop!" before the schrotgolem could enter.
The stack of crates gave off the impression of cocking a head impatiently towards the outburst, despite no physical motion being made. "What is it?"
"Look, uh..." There was a pause for a moment as the woman thought. "You remembah what I was tellin' ya about the cloths back theah? Well, this threshold's kind of a patch. It'sā"
"We're entering another universe?"
"No, look, lemme finish, alright? It's not so much goin' to another universe as, say, another area of this one, but with different laws. And, uh, at the same time affecting another patch on a different piecea cloth by what we do on this one. Look, the word quantum comes up about twelve times in the next sentence, and I don't want to have to explain it and you probably couldn't understand anyway. Please, just come on and stop pullin' threads. Er, I mean like, stop overthinking things, this doesn't have anything to do with the universe metaphowah. Just a figyah of speech."
The boxes bristled. "Fine. Then why did you stop me?"
"Oh, uh, right, you neahly made me fahget. Right, uh, crossin' the threshold might be a bit problematic for a thing as diffuse as you. I dunno if it'd be safe like you ah; you might get cut in half or somethin'. Spiritually, I mean, not justcha boxes. I figyah it'd be best ifya putchaself into just oneayah things and let me carry ya."
Gestalt rustled for a few moments. "Is your accent getting thicker?"
"Maybe. I dunno, it doesn't mattah. Just pick somethin' and get in it."
There were a few more moments of silence before something hovered out of a box and landed in Frank's hand. She looked at it for a moment before saying anything; it was about six inches long, made of brass with one glass tip, and covered in small tubes, pipes, and gears.
"This thing looks pretty ridiculous. What is it?"
Gestalt extended its influence into the speaker for a moment and answered "A token from the late Professor Rexxcer. It just projects a concentrated beam of light out that end. It's useful for indicating things that you can't reach."
Frank didn't say anything, but her expression demanded an explanation.
"It's to remind me of why this barbaric competition must be stopped at any cost."
"Awful sentimental for a pile of junk, but whatevah you gotta do."
The golem withdrew completely into the steampunk laser pointer without responding. Frank shrugged, then stepped into the open double-doors. The sensation was quite indescribable to anyone who hasn't been upside-down, inside-out, and incorporeal all at the same time, so there's no point in expounding; it was simply highly unusual and borderline-unpleasant, and it happened in the space of a microsecond before fading away. The blackness before the pair faded into a twisted, improbable library; the hallway behind faded to blackness.
And as Frank's foot descended towards the floor, the shoe on it unravelled, spinning outwards and fading into the air. Her stockings followed suit, as did her dress, her undergarments, and even her hair and facial features. In moments, she was a plain, featureless, vaguely-feminine wooden figure; however, even before the last of her clothes and features faded away, new ones began forming, spinning themselves out of thin air. Even her build became thinner and bonier, her face becoming harder and more heavily-lined. An understated blue-grey ensemble formed, topped by a greying bun and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
Gestalt had no way of communicating its surprise, but the woman pre-empted his question. "I share many properties with my patron. One of the most notable is his tendency to reflect that which surrounds him; however, while he takes on superficial traits of the sentients he gets near, my appearance, and to some extent personality, are influenced by the subconscious expectations set by my physical surroundings. In short, I become what one might expect a woman to be wherever I am, often to the point of near-caricature."
Given that explanation, Gestalt was rather surprised with the blandness of the new shape; sure, the room they'd entered was a library of sorts, and this stodgy-looking shape fit "librarian", but... It didn't really fit with the 'of sorts' part. Shelves climbed up walls, books hovered in midair, shelves came out of other shelves sideways, enormous stacks of books curved unnaturally, spiralling towards walls and ceilings... It was a library in the sense that parts of the Escherscape had been a cathedral. With that in mind, Gestalt considered that either the setting was somehow hiding its normalcy, or Frank's new guise had more to it than was readily apparent.
Lost as it was in its thoughts, the little laser pointer nearly missed what was said next. "You're free to interact with the objects here now that we've crossed the threshold, but be ready to relinquish them when we leave. Once you have established some mode of communication, you may refer to me as Ms. Dorcy."
After a bit of thought, Gestalt pulled a book from the shelf and had it glide alongside the newly-christened Ms. Dorcy. The book was unlabeled and entirely handwritten, but it had several instances of every letter, so it served its purpose; the golem didn't bother absorbing its contents, but simply started pulling words and letters out (ripping pieces of the pages out to do so) and floating messages across its companion's vision.
How loNg do you Expect to bE here
"Very briefly. Why?"
wondeRiNg iF I should aTtempt to build an ArsEnaL
"I suggest you don't. It would be pointless in any case, but we shouldn't encounter any need."
During the brief conversation, the pair had been moving through the labyrinthine shelves, Ms. Dorcy striding confidently towards some goal she seemed to have in mind. Rather than press for more information and risk raising her ire (or at least annoyance) again, Gestalt simply sat silently in her hand, towing the book behind them.
Some minutes later, a desk came into view. The floor around it, and the desk itself, were stained with ink; a dark, indistinct figure sat at the blackened table, eight arms constantly writing in the tomes that hovered around it or dipping quills messily into the inkwells that littered the desk's surface. It didn't look up as the wooden woman approached, and barely spared her a glance as she confidently stated "I am here, Diarist."
There was a pause where the only sound was the scratching of nibs on parchment, then a wide maw opened in the thing's chest. "Then get on with it. What do you want?"
Dorcy pulled a wry face. "A little decorum wouldn't be out of place. In any event, you know what I'm here for, and if you would like us to leave with the maximum possible expeditiousness, you won't bog things down with your less-than-charming misanthropy."
Presumably-the-Diarist grunted and stood up on four spindly legs; its books stayed in midair, bobbing gently, and it walked to a nearby shelf, quills still clutched in hands and dripping ink all the while. "Fine. You've got two choices. Let me find where I put them."
While the Diarist's hands slid over volumes and shelves, apparently looking for a specific book, Gestalt floated another message to its chaperone.
whaT is HE talkIng about
what chOices does he meAn
"I told you, the Diarist is an expert in memory implantation and alteration. We're going to use his expertise to encourage that Faceless to fight the Observer as we want her to. As it is, she's unlikely to cooperate, as I understand it."
The laser pointer jerked as Gestalt recoiled.
thaT's monstrous
vyrm'n is mY only AlLy my oNly frIend
Ms. Dorcy looked down at the brassy apparatus. "And out there in the endless worlds are uncountable others with friends and allies of their own who will be torn from their lives and killed for the pleasure of cackling Grandmasters. Don't lose sight of what matters; one casualty, regardless of how important she is to you personally, is inconsequential. You brought this body with you just for that purpose; remember Reccxer, and realize that one more sacrifice is worth preventing countless others from experiencing the same tragedy."
There was yet another pause, before a few shreds of paper weakly fluttered up to form yes. The librarian nodded grimly and clutched the laser pointer tightly for a moment in a gesture of reassurance, then looked back up at the Diarist. She opened her mouth as though to hurry him along, but noticed that he was already lumbering towards them, two books in hand.
"Alright," he growled, "like I said, two choices. You can either implant memories of personal cruelty at the hands of the Observer; she'll blame him for the ravages of sentience, for being torn from the Entropics, everything that's gone wrong for her and a lot of things that didn't actually happen."
Here, the Diarist dropped a neat blue tome on the desk before continuing. "Or, you can just erase everything. Revert her to a primal shard of matter-hating fury. From what I can gather, everything she is stems from being bonded to some sentient. This'll sever that bond, leaving her the near-mindless being she was meant to be."
The Diarist let a ragged, slender black volume hit the desk next to the blue one, clearly waiting for a decision. When none was immediately forthcoming, he snorted with irritation. "I've done my part. Pick one and get out of here."
The many-limbed creature plopped itself down by the desk again, resuming its ceaseless writing. The Organizer's thrall and the golem she had in tow stood stock-still while the latter thought.
this
this iS still a horRible prOspect
which should I Pick
Ms. Dorcy shrugged. "You'll have to decide that yourself. I won't be able to hold your hand through this whole situation, nor do I have any desire to. Decide what you think you can best use and what you can best control, and make the choice."
The voice faded and the air filled once more with quill noises. Even if it had had a voice with which to agonize, Gestalt would likely have kept its apprehension and torment to itself as it mulled over its options. Eventually, a wooden hand twitched and a brass cog clicked.
A small red dot appeared on the cover of the black book.