Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round One: Vio Maleficat)
01-23-2011, 04:28 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
Chaos was getting a bit bored with Saint Scofflaw, whose affectations of anarchy disguised a remarkably predictable exterior. For the last several minutes, he had been vaguely aware of a larger force toying with him, like a cat playing with its food. Scofflaw himself hadn’t been deformed, per se, and he suspected that he and his fellow contestants, owing to the intervention of their puppeteer, found themselves immune. However, his clothes, his arsenal, the trace amounts of foreign chemicals in his body, and the ethereal remnants of various energy sources he’d exposed himself to in assorted bids to become omnipotent over the years—these things were apparently up for grabs. Scofflaw found himself feeling dopey, then drowsy, then (a bit more abstractly) doc; he pulled out of his pockets a cutlass, a gauntlet, a fire-breathing duck, and a ball of ultraviolet light that was cold to the touch. His outfit itself, after going through a conflicted adolescent phase, settled on a blue pinstripe suit with a white orchid slapped on the chest, and a matching hat. It didn’t keep out water as well as his previous getup, which must have amused Chaos greatly.
He kept his mind off of these things, as well as the buzzing voice of Beelzebubbles (who, in a noted departure from his normal shtick of ruling over the sin of childhood entitlement, attempted to get Scofflaw to invest in his soft pretzel franchise) in his ear, by attempting to kill people. To be honest, his lack of success was likely more a product of Unity than of Chaos, as it was in keeping with his track record of the past couple years. Still, putting a Sharp+ blade to the back of one of his opponents invariably proved a rush and a neat way of maintaining focus in the midst of the Lewis-Carroll-esque shenanigans that danced around him like a six-year-old kid pretending to be an airplane.
Then it stopped. A wave of light quelled the feeling of the Primordial Prism shards playing marbles in his breastbone, dispelled the sensation of a phantom third arm growing out of his forehead, and utterly failed to put his clothes back to normal (it was a good look for him anyway). The Jack-in-the-box he’d been holding, which promised to burn him “with a fire of pure wealth” if he turned its crank three times, went back to being a nuclear Zippo lighter. And suddenly everybody was looking at him very sternly.
”Exhibit A,” said Miles, snapping his fingers with enough pizzazz (or maybe it was magic, whatever) to compel Scofflaw to walk uneasily over to his side. ”Saint Scofflaw. We haven’t formally met, but you’ve been scaring people a bit, so… that’s something, I suppose, isn’t it?”
Scofflaw put away his lighter (feeling that it perhaps wouldn’t do much good against this fellow) and took the offered hand, speaking with a light Pennsylvanian intellectual lilt. “I don’t know what this ‘Softlaw’ business is about. I’m Bartleby Wertham, purveyor of exotic and occult atlases, almanacs, and thesauri.” He chuckled, rather effectively hiding his anxiety. “Sorry, I’ve just been meaning to use that one for ages. Carry on.”
The squid alien spoke up impatiently. ”Should disarm,” he pointed out, without a hint of irony or apology in his metallic little voice.
”I was getting to that,” snapped Miles, before Scofflaw could chime in with a smarmy do-I-know-you. ”Yes, Scofflaw, I’m sorry if you’re a bit stingy about your possessions—we’ve all been there—but I’m afraid we’re at something of a crucial juncture, and everything on you should be considered property of the group.”
Scofflaw glared. “Well fine,” he conceded. “But only cause you’re being polite about it.” He shot a hateful glance over at TinTen.
Scofflaw went about the process of getting rid of his weapons. The lighter, the handkerchief, the gun (no one ever suspects the gun), the dental floss, the penknife, the rubber ball (very carefully), and the toupee were all placed lovingly on the floor in front of him. The crowbar in his pants he tossed at TinTen, causing everyone to flinch until it made no attempt to explode; Scofflaw shrugged, as if daring someone to hit him. Then he yanked out his false tooth. “Ow,” he said. “That’s everything. If the mythological creature wannabe were here she’d be able to confirm that with her novelty X-Ray specs.”
”I trust you completely,” said Miles. Now, what should I do with these?”
Scofflaw grunted noncommittally. “If you tried to destroy them, you would probably die. If you kill me, they will register this, and you will die. If you try to use them, you will fuck it up, and die. You could… give them back to me, rendering this all a useless exercise?”
”Would probably lead to dying,” chimed in TinTen.
“You are not helping!” shouted Scofflaw at the malcontent mollusk.
”Oh, hush. I’m not going to die. Scofflaw, you’re beginning to bore me and I don’t see you contributing much to the, let’s say the group dynamic. How about this?”
There was a flash of white light and a sensation that Scofflaw had been around the block enough times to associate with short-range teleportation. He found himself upside-down and staring Tengeri fucking Nyoka in the face.
Then he fell. “Hello,” he said. “Have you met that Miles creature? A bit of a ‘douchebag’ as the kids say but he has style.” Scofflaw pulled himself up, adjusting the orchid drooping from his breast pocket. “So tell me, doctor,” he said, staring her straight in the so-called eyes. “How do I look naked?”
Chaos was getting a bit bored with Saint Scofflaw, whose affectations of anarchy disguised a remarkably predictable exterior. For the last several minutes, he had been vaguely aware of a larger force toying with him, like a cat playing with its food. Scofflaw himself hadn’t been deformed, per se, and he suspected that he and his fellow contestants, owing to the intervention of their puppeteer, found themselves immune. However, his clothes, his arsenal, the trace amounts of foreign chemicals in his body, and the ethereal remnants of various energy sources he’d exposed himself to in assorted bids to become omnipotent over the years—these things were apparently up for grabs. Scofflaw found himself feeling dopey, then drowsy, then (a bit more abstractly) doc; he pulled out of his pockets a cutlass, a gauntlet, a fire-breathing duck, and a ball of ultraviolet light that was cold to the touch. His outfit itself, after going through a conflicted adolescent phase, settled on a blue pinstripe suit with a white orchid slapped on the chest, and a matching hat. It didn’t keep out water as well as his previous getup, which must have amused Chaos greatly.
He kept his mind off of these things, as well as the buzzing voice of Beelzebubbles (who, in a noted departure from his normal shtick of ruling over the sin of childhood entitlement, attempted to get Scofflaw to invest in his soft pretzel franchise) in his ear, by attempting to kill people. To be honest, his lack of success was likely more a product of Unity than of Chaos, as it was in keeping with his track record of the past couple years. Still, putting a Sharp+ blade to the back of one of his opponents invariably proved a rush and a neat way of maintaining focus in the midst of the Lewis-Carroll-esque shenanigans that danced around him like a six-year-old kid pretending to be an airplane.
Then it stopped. A wave of light quelled the feeling of the Primordial Prism shards playing marbles in his breastbone, dispelled the sensation of a phantom third arm growing out of his forehead, and utterly failed to put his clothes back to normal (it was a good look for him anyway). The Jack-in-the-box he’d been holding, which promised to burn him “with a fire of pure wealth” if he turned its crank three times, went back to being a nuclear Zippo lighter. And suddenly everybody was looking at him very sternly.
”Exhibit A,” said Miles, snapping his fingers with enough pizzazz (or maybe it was magic, whatever) to compel Scofflaw to walk uneasily over to his side. ”Saint Scofflaw. We haven’t formally met, but you’ve been scaring people a bit, so… that’s something, I suppose, isn’t it?”
Scofflaw put away his lighter (feeling that it perhaps wouldn’t do much good against this fellow) and took the offered hand, speaking with a light Pennsylvanian intellectual lilt. “I don’t know what this ‘Softlaw’ business is about. I’m Bartleby Wertham, purveyor of exotic and occult atlases, almanacs, and thesauri.” He chuckled, rather effectively hiding his anxiety. “Sorry, I’ve just been meaning to use that one for ages. Carry on.”
The squid alien spoke up impatiently. ”Should disarm,” he pointed out, without a hint of irony or apology in his metallic little voice.
”I was getting to that,” snapped Miles, before Scofflaw could chime in with a smarmy do-I-know-you. ”Yes, Scofflaw, I’m sorry if you’re a bit stingy about your possessions—we’ve all been there—but I’m afraid we’re at something of a crucial juncture, and everything on you should be considered property of the group.”
Scofflaw glared. “Well fine,” he conceded. “But only cause you’re being polite about it.” He shot a hateful glance over at TinTen.
Scofflaw went about the process of getting rid of his weapons. The lighter, the handkerchief, the gun (no one ever suspects the gun), the dental floss, the penknife, the rubber ball (very carefully), and the toupee were all placed lovingly on the floor in front of him. The crowbar in his pants he tossed at TinTen, causing everyone to flinch until it made no attempt to explode; Scofflaw shrugged, as if daring someone to hit him. Then he yanked out his false tooth. “Ow,” he said. “That’s everything. If the mythological creature wannabe were here she’d be able to confirm that with her novelty X-Ray specs.”
”I trust you completely,” said Miles. Now, what should I do with these?”
Scofflaw grunted noncommittally. “If you tried to destroy them, you would probably die. If you kill me, they will register this, and you will die. If you try to use them, you will fuck it up, and die. You could… give them back to me, rendering this all a useless exercise?”
”Would probably lead to dying,” chimed in TinTen.
“You are not helping!” shouted Scofflaw at the malcontent mollusk.
”Oh, hush. I’m not going to die. Scofflaw, you’re beginning to bore me and I don’t see you contributing much to the, let’s say the group dynamic. How about this?”
There was a flash of white light and a sensation that Scofflaw had been around the block enough times to associate with short-range teleportation. He found himself upside-down and staring Tengeri fucking Nyoka in the face.
Then he fell. “Hello,” he said. “Have you met that Miles creature? A bit of a ‘douchebag’ as the kids say but he has style.” Scofflaw pulled himself up, adjusting the orchid drooping from his breast pocket. “So tell me, doctor,” he said, staring her straight in the so-called eyes. “How do I look naked?”