Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round Three: Caelo Ruinam)
02-23-2012, 02:44 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
The clack of her stilettos upon the tile somehow drowned up the marching patterns of her entire army. “What the hell is going on here?” demanded Lady Midday.
Ray (Sadist Forme) struggled with his restraints. “This mech won’t fit me,” he said, hanging uselessly out of the chest of a two-story-tall titanium samurai.
“That’s a woman’s mech,” sneered Lady Midday. “The neural interface seals right over left. See?”
“I didn’t fit into the other mechs either,” sulked the former Scofflaw.
“Those were the men’s mechs. If you want, I can direct you to the flabby baby-man mechs, or if you want to keep your Adam’s apple, you could get back to your work.”
“My code is compiling,” wheezed the new Ray, clambering down to the ground. “It would be going faster but—urgh—your pseudorandom number generators weren’t up to snuff, so I fixed up your entire system so that it can pull data out of any of a billion alternate universes.” He hit the floor of the Mech Deck and pulled a few stray electrodes off of his head. “It, uh, stresses the system a tad, but give it a couple years and that technology will have serious applications.”
Lady Midday was a good slapper. She balanced wrist movement with elbow movement while diminishing neither, and manage to draw blood with her fingernails on the follow-through, in three perfect lines across the cheek the like of which you never see in real life. Ray was impressed, but he was also reduced to a submissive childlike state by the maternal display of violence, so he lacked the words to express his admiration.
His new mistress didn’t seem too bothered by her Science Sadist’s silence; she simply said, “You’re welcome,” took him by the hand and dragged him back to his desk. “Let me make this clear,” she began, resting on the arm of his chair with her elbow tucked into his shoulder. “Just because you snuck into my room and killed a couple of my people doesn’t mean I consider you anything more than my new, slightly more annoying Science Masochist. That you even occupy that position is not a reflection of any leverage you have, but my reward to you for briefly striking me as clever and potentially useful. As long as you continue to work for me, you are not my pet, you are not my lover, you are not my right-hand man, and I have not yet broken you down into ashes and pain receptors. Doesn’t that seem mutually beneficial, Ray?”
Ray (Sadist Forme) gave a sullen nod. “’To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus.’ I got it.” That rather ambiguous Shakespeare quotation seemed to satisfy the Lady, who left him to his work.
“Alone at last,” soliloquized the mad—or at least miffed--scientist. “God dammit, man, you’ve let the bitch cage you!” A kick to the leg of his desk opened the door to a secret cooler built into the wall, from which the villain produced a beer. “’Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’” In the time it took the overthrown Tartan Tyrant to make these observations, he had Blogspot—his Blogspot, from his own universe, extracted via his random universe generator—up on the monitor and began a post:
Just as Macbeth’s quest for power made him the slave of forces above him, I’m worried I may have been too evil for once, and it’s beginning to seriously limit me.
Oh, let’s not be coy. I’ll start at the beginning. In case you’re wondering why you haven’t received any ransom demands, I’ve moved on to more important things. Here, let me prove it: the Duchess is currently running out the air conditioning bill on my base inside the sun, and is presumably just as confused as to my whereabouts as the rest of you losers. So, here’s the gist of it: unlike, hmm, let’s see, everyone else in the entire history of our universe, I’ve been selected for a grand multiversal game of sorts, with the winner of seven trials moving on to marry the All-Fool’s beautiful daughter, the Coquette. Okay, not as cool as that, but you get the gist, and no, this is not an invitation to come rescue me in a once-in-a-lifetime team-up, I know how you whoresons think.
Anyway, unfortunately I’m the only one here who seems to be in the spirit of things. I—well, okay, my pet dinosaur—took out the biggest threat, this ostentatiously magical vegetarian-looking motherfucker by the name of Miles. That was in a world of pure chaos, which, by the way, was totally cool and which I have yet to reverse-engineer. Things went sour in Round 2, where everyone sort of started forming this nice friendly science-team to stop what was admittedly a pretty lame war. Anyway, you know how I get when I’m on teams. Working towards a shared goal makes me nauseous, and there was this device that rewired the natives’ brains and their small arms at the same time, and, you know, it was right there. So I brainwashed everyone, and don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done otherwise.
Aaaaaaaaanywaaaaaaay the plan was for no one to die—it’s a non-lethal war and I can’t believe I just said that out loud, it was such horseshit—but someone must have kicked it, because I’m here now taking inventory: no allies, typecast as The Evil One and shoehorned in with The Evil Ones of whatever backward-ass universe I now occupy. Namely, I’m the Science Bitch of a distractingly-sexy arch-sorceress whose attitude towards life could use some work. I got myself into this position in the hopes that it would protect me from my former brainwashees, but I didn’t realize it would be such an office job, and I have more or less zero benefits. I don’t even get to play with the mechs!
Anyway, gentle reader, this puts me in a bit of a quandary: betraying everybody around me is what got me into this predicament in the first place—the sort of predicament that leads to me not only being afraid for my life, but downright bored during a multiversal battle to the death, which is really ridiculous—but from where I’m sitting, someone’s in serious need of a betrayal. What do you think? Reblog and comment. I’m running on forty-eight hours awake, haven’t been hydrating properly and my adrenalin-rush is hanging up its hat and headed down. I’m miserable and I’ll be more miserable in the morning and I’ll sure as hell be more miserable around Midday. That’s a joke that you don’t get. Talk to me.
Scofflaw out.
Considering that last paragraph, the supervillain and minor Internet celebrity sighed and tried to lean his head on his desk, but succeeded only in chipping his tooth against his beer. He made a sound like “glrumf.” The problem about blogging from a different universe was that the fonts were slightly, imperceptibly different. He trawled through the list of available typefaces to find the closest simulacrum of his precious Comic Sans MS, certain that this would afford him some pleasure in life. What he found instead were several strange, runic-looking character sets clogging up a surprising amount of memory. Beset by a lazy, sleep-deprived, half-assed sense of scientific rigor, he switched to one of these and input a random rune to Google. The trusty search engine returned that “Best guess for” the rune was “the True Name for ‘Trout.’” Ray (Sadist Forme) seemed satisfied by this and was about to drop the matter when he heard the sound of something flopping. The trout was still alive and had been on the floor, but picking it up, the arch-criminal understood that it was his creation and he owed it to the world to eat at least part of it.
A smile on his face, bits of still-wriggling trout falling onto his labcoat, the treacherous pseudo-scientist pseudo-ethicist fiend brought up command prompt and typed until he fell asleep.
The clack of her stilettos upon the tile somehow drowned up the marching patterns of her entire army. “What the hell is going on here?” demanded Lady Midday.
Ray (Sadist Forme) struggled with his restraints. “This mech won’t fit me,” he said, hanging uselessly out of the chest of a two-story-tall titanium samurai.
“That’s a woman’s mech,” sneered Lady Midday. “The neural interface seals right over left. See?”
“I didn’t fit into the other mechs either,” sulked the former Scofflaw.
“Those were the men’s mechs. If you want, I can direct you to the flabby baby-man mechs, or if you want to keep your Adam’s apple, you could get back to your work.”
“My code is compiling,” wheezed the new Ray, clambering down to the ground. “It would be going faster but—urgh—your pseudorandom number generators weren’t up to snuff, so I fixed up your entire system so that it can pull data out of any of a billion alternate universes.” He hit the floor of the Mech Deck and pulled a few stray electrodes off of his head. “It, uh, stresses the system a tad, but give it a couple years and that technology will have serious applications.”
Lady Midday was a good slapper. She balanced wrist movement with elbow movement while diminishing neither, and manage to draw blood with her fingernails on the follow-through, in three perfect lines across the cheek the like of which you never see in real life. Ray was impressed, but he was also reduced to a submissive childlike state by the maternal display of violence, so he lacked the words to express his admiration.
His new mistress didn’t seem too bothered by her Science Sadist’s silence; she simply said, “You’re welcome,” took him by the hand and dragged him back to his desk. “Let me make this clear,” she began, resting on the arm of his chair with her elbow tucked into his shoulder. “Just because you snuck into my room and killed a couple of my people doesn’t mean I consider you anything more than my new, slightly more annoying Science Masochist. That you even occupy that position is not a reflection of any leverage you have, but my reward to you for briefly striking me as clever and potentially useful. As long as you continue to work for me, you are not my pet, you are not my lover, you are not my right-hand man, and I have not yet broken you down into ashes and pain receptors. Doesn’t that seem mutually beneficial, Ray?”
Ray (Sadist Forme) gave a sullen nod. “’To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus.’ I got it.” That rather ambiguous Shakespeare quotation seemed to satisfy the Lady, who left him to his work.
“Alone at last,” soliloquized the mad—or at least miffed--scientist. “God dammit, man, you’ve let the bitch cage you!” A kick to the leg of his desk opened the door to a secret cooler built into the wall, from which the villain produced a beer. “’Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’” In the time it took the overthrown Tartan Tyrant to make these observations, he had Blogspot—his Blogspot, from his own universe, extracted via his random universe generator—up on the monitor and began a post:
Just as Macbeth’s quest for power made him the slave of forces above him, I’m worried I may have been too evil for once, and it’s beginning to seriously limit me.
Oh, let’s not be coy. I’ll start at the beginning. In case you’re wondering why you haven’t received any ransom demands, I’ve moved on to more important things. Here, let me prove it: the Duchess is currently running out the air conditioning bill on my base inside the sun, and is presumably just as confused as to my whereabouts as the rest of you losers. So, here’s the gist of it: unlike, hmm, let’s see, everyone else in the entire history of our universe, I’ve been selected for a grand multiversal game of sorts, with the winner of seven trials moving on to marry the All-Fool’s beautiful daughter, the Coquette. Okay, not as cool as that, but you get the gist, and no, this is not an invitation to come rescue me in a once-in-a-lifetime team-up, I know how you whoresons think.
Anyway, unfortunately I’m the only one here who seems to be in the spirit of things. I—well, okay, my pet dinosaur—took out the biggest threat, this ostentatiously magical vegetarian-looking motherfucker by the name of Miles. That was in a world of pure chaos, which, by the way, was totally cool and which I have yet to reverse-engineer. Things went sour in Round 2, where everyone sort of started forming this nice friendly science-team to stop what was admittedly a pretty lame war. Anyway, you know how I get when I’m on teams. Working towards a shared goal makes me nauseous, and there was this device that rewired the natives’ brains and their small arms at the same time, and, you know, it was right there. So I brainwashed everyone, and don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done otherwise.
Aaaaaaaaanywaaaaaaay the plan was for no one to die—it’s a non-lethal war and I can’t believe I just said that out loud, it was such horseshit—but someone must have kicked it, because I’m here now taking inventory: no allies, typecast as The Evil One and shoehorned in with The Evil Ones of whatever backward-ass universe I now occupy. Namely, I’m the Science Bitch of a distractingly-sexy arch-sorceress whose attitude towards life could use some work. I got myself into this position in the hopes that it would protect me from my former brainwashees, but I didn’t realize it would be such an office job, and I have more or less zero benefits. I don’t even get to play with the mechs!
Anyway, gentle reader, this puts me in a bit of a quandary: betraying everybody around me is what got me into this predicament in the first place—the sort of predicament that leads to me not only being afraid for my life, but downright bored during a multiversal battle to the death, which is really ridiculous—but from where I’m sitting, someone’s in serious need of a betrayal. What do you think? Reblog and comment. I’m running on forty-eight hours awake, haven’t been hydrating properly and my adrenalin-rush is hanging up its hat and headed down. I’m miserable and I’ll be more miserable in the morning and I’ll sure as hell be more miserable around Midday. That’s a joke that you don’t get. Talk to me.
Scofflaw out.
Considering that last paragraph, the supervillain and minor Internet celebrity sighed and tried to lean his head on his desk, but succeeded only in chipping his tooth against his beer. He made a sound like “glrumf.” The problem about blogging from a different universe was that the fonts were slightly, imperceptibly different. He trawled through the list of available typefaces to find the closest simulacrum of his precious Comic Sans MS, certain that this would afford him some pleasure in life. What he found instead were several strange, runic-looking character sets clogging up a surprising amount of memory. Beset by a lazy, sleep-deprived, half-assed sense of scientific rigor, he switched to one of these and input a random rune to Google. The trusty search engine returned that “Best guess for” the rune was “the True Name for ‘Trout.’” Ray (Sadist Forme) seemed satisfied by this and was about to drop the matter when he heard the sound of something flopping. The trout was still alive and had been on the floor, but picking it up, the arch-criminal understood that it was his creation and he owed it to the world to eat at least part of it.
A smile on his face, bits of still-wriggling trout falling onto his labcoat, the treacherous pseudo-scientist pseudo-ethicist fiend brought up command prompt and typed until he fell asleep.