Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 1: Untitled-1]
07-21-2011, 12:48 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
She was the Oracle. How could you possibly forget? You imbecile.
The man he tried he really tried to get away crawl back but she was leaning over him, he wanted to get away but his arms were sticks and they broke under his sins and as his head hit the floor and the tears in his eyes and the clouds in his head broke his sight in just the right way he looked at her.
She was beautiful. She was a special kind of beautiful that you could only see when everything was meant to be invisible.
Zimmer's eyes knew why he was forsaken, slithering faces of the Pantheon fixed on his lifeless corpse. But why couldn't his mind his heart his breath his head he was useless remember
He could hear their voice again. It spoke as one and asked him the purest question. “Are you giving up your faith, Lieutenant Zimmer?”
There was a world behind Rollo, and he didn't even care. His eyes were locked. They could only stare in horror and awe, bugged out as the hermit of an endless night, at a monster that kept growing as he feared it. Rollo, of course, exaggerated this to ridicule. His eyes cloned, diverging tunnels. Limbs stiff in the air, face malformed to where it can only scream. An act, as usual.
Rollo was, in all honesty, getting lost. Not in a forest, without light, only instinct to trust, he had eyes around him and he trusted them on where to go. Second only to instinct. Rollo was lost in everything. No instinct played wire in his Crete. Comedy, his Es, was the one relief he knew when confronted.
“Woah! That sure is something alright! Hey, don't be scared though, maybe he just wants a word with us?”
“Rollo, now's not the time to joke around. Why are you always so damn hyper?”
“See, I'm on this drug called Rollo! If someone would get my mind, they'd be like “Dude, can't handle it!””
Credit where it's due: Martin had to stifle a grin when he remembered that late night celebrity dig-up on Charlie Sheen. “Heh, winning.”
A demonic talon clawed through Rollo. Slices drafted, fell, stopped moving and sprang back together. A hammer mashed him into the poorly colored walls. A stain with his eyes revealed the armadillo. Fire to ashes, ashes to him, there was no killing the resurrecting.
A younger shade of Martin would have found it amazing to see this performance unravel. The current only had eye for the monster. But there was still hilarity to the display. He saw that the monster's crux was the one combatant he considered weak. It was hilarious. Why was he even afraid? If Rollo was immune, his alloy was more so.
This was incredible. The scribble, that useless scribble, he stood! Stood and laughed and jumped about, like a jester in the mocking rain that blew too white.
“Did you see that? That was a smile! A honest to goodness smile. This is getting more interesting by the second!”
The Tormentor folded some arms. His eyes frowned, not linked in pairs and as such not linked to direction, or even existence, but the frown was challenging, a glint of daring Asem that sparked interest in his subjects again. An eye died out, though he saw through it still.
“I see you, Spectator.”
“I can see me too. What are you bragging about?”
No sign did betray that Tormentor had Spectator appear. A woman appeared, clad in crimson honey that soon became tears and then became wind. Her hair, unsettled in appearance as if a gust of black current tore through it, shone her appearance as halos, and didn't decide on wings or threads or robes. Her face was jagged, with a smile that surpassed meaning as she had no emotions left ensnared and that could be anything from contempt to interest.
“I know one thing though. If you want to experiment on him, you better do it yourself. Just get in there and start scraping him apart. Be the next Overseer!”
“If you are just here to insult me, Cultivator,” the man of eyes retorted, “then I fear comparisons like that lack an edge. Why do you even know Bryce?”
Silence in her eyes.
“Who is she?”
“Some kind of sacrifice that summons gods. She has like a big life story she can't shut up about.”
“She's my favorite. All those eyes! Marvelous, really!”
“She's still human. They generally have two.”
“I'm talking about the golden ones. Don't you see how they follow everything? Don't you see how even now they're manipulating this battle?”
Her voice lingered, strings of her. “No, you probably don't have enough eyes for that.”
There were a lot of things in Samael's life that he regretted doing. Suspending himself on a storytelling spider, he soon found out, was one of them. Ke's grip was so tight that his hands actually ached, but whenever he looked up, Ke was still translucent and vague. And when he looked down, he didn't want to look down.
Another of them, he found out, was trying to live among and as such associating himself with humans. Because aside from what little contact he had had in his lifetimes, they were batshit crazy. And when he saw what incredible monster was summoned due to their fears, he understood again why Luce had a special kind of hell ready for most of them. The irony of the situation he had been in – until now of course, thank you very much Tormentor – that is, being banished due to being unable to deceive, to a world where everyone is playing in the biggest liar competition ever, was kind of falling.
Ke's shriek traveled as fast as Samael's head, they both roared up, evidence of more torture. Metal bars, before her, around her, caved inside and through her, her world was getting so small and she couldn't breathe anymore. She curled up together, as small as she could, and she couldn't hold it anymore she couldn't bear it, she couldn't carry him, there wasn't enough room for him. I'm sorry, Samael Corson she would have cried, but her tears told only tales she wanted to forget.
He was falling. Well, so far for that life. To be fair though, being a teenager isn't as fun as pop music told him it was. He really hoped being eaten didn't hurt that much, most of his deaths had been quite... decent, actually.
He was still falling. He really thought that that monster thing was bigger.
“REMEMBER! REMEMBER YOUR DYING BREATH!”
Thunder flowed through the dungeon. Vuul tugged on the lashing fire, agonizing tentacles in his talons. Prey to Rend and Dominate. His raving piety hardly towered from the behemoth's shade, but it served more to his own than its victim.
“FOR IT IS THEN HE TOOK YOUR LIFE!”
Slowly, very slowly, Hydra turned to cripple. It wasn't fortunate, but fateful Vulm'mram'Vuul knew no endurance to bear. It burned on, burned on and on until it burned through.
“FOR IT IS I WHO HAS BEEN CHOSEN SERVE HIM!”
When the beast fell from its legs, Vuul switched to the Heaven's Ascent stance, leapt from spike to spike, Blaze and Subjugate a scraping contrail against yellow rags. This fight was to be over soon, and not one for him to fight.
“FOR IT IS GLORY YOUR DEATH WROUGHT!”
A coconut fell from the sky. A crescent axe skewered its hide, and cut the orb in two. The milk was the last in a series of bile and fire and impure liquid the giant's heads spewed at him. A vain attempt to stall him.
It was only to Vuul that Samael's head stuck out. It was hidden in the monster's necks like a wind god hidden among leaves. A dusty procession of buglit eyes that took slow time to gauge distances and angles. It would throw all the angles out the window (except there was no angle left to throw it at) and screw the entire toss up completely, and face a coconut cleaved in two. Like a plant god, killed in the harvest.
Samael would thank Blaze and Subjugate for tearing down the menace, but saw it in the hand of Vuul, fighter. Killer. He regarded him Eurydice and ran, hopefully towards something. Like a mist god, vatha in the forest.
“FEEL SANCTIFIED. YOUR BLOOD SHALL FLOW IN ALVUM STREAMS, AND WITH IT SHALL BE PURGED.”
Unusual for Vuul to recite his chant before he dished out the first strike. Evicted from his clan though, was circumstance unusual enough. He wanted to prove to everyone that he was worthy of a rank in the empire. That he knew the songs, that he could follow orders. That he could kill the enemies of the Alvum empire. Vuul charged right at the weakest of the group, Matthew Zimmer.
Martin shot Vuul. Candid glory burst.
The Alvum staggered, his head spun in confusion as if were he surrounded, as part of his eye was blinded. Vuul considered turning around, working with his rear vision instead, but that left his one weak spot exposed. He stopped the assault, retreated.
Did he fail?
A rather specific attack on the alien. It was caught off guard by the fact that memory doesn't extend to the subconscious. To the ethereal. To a whisper in foxfire that stealthily saved the Oracle.
A lucky break, because Martin didn't know how to activate his arm cannon. His primordial rage taking over had triggered something. A muscle he didn't know he could move, a nerve where he never imagined pain to permeate. Whatever took over was a ley line to the world.
It was a motherfucking kickass ley line.
“Woah, shit! Did you guys see that?! I blasted his fucking eye off! God damn, that was awesome!”
Martin was of calm composure, but it was a strain to keep up polished language. He tended to resort to expletives and dysphemisms when impressed. Erecting a gun from your arm and shooting an alien counted, marginally. It kind of felt different from a video game. Less real.
He turned to Dorin. His gun pointed at Dorin.
He was threatening the Oracle. Defend her.
Gannet heard flames. Illuminating faerie fire shone the way, and when they lit up his destiny he suddenly felt so angry when he saw him talking to her, breathing her, claiming his right to exist next to her as if he was untainted by the stench of purgatory. Eyes were bloodshot, ears white noise. His fists cramped in on themselves, teeth that tore his palms apart. His breath shook, panting as his mouth glared with killer intent. Teeth that tore the world apart.
With oceans of hell he approached Martin. His thoughts were butterflies, danced in the ignorance of the human precipitate. Claws lashed, summer struck.
“Oh h-”
There was a fist in his eye. He wasn't annoyed, he didn't remember how to be.
Brownout in Martin.
Connection Lost.
There was no god that could care less about sacrifice than Pantarei. But being rescinded a right he had by a being that called itself god of death before his eyes was to him worth fighting for. It was worth making sure he got what he was used to. Whatever it took.
“Mehai so'a ba'kai'eks ka'kai'ti'eks skirmai, Tormentor'ets.”
“Now that you've shown up, I'm only left wondering why it took so long.”
“Mus'ke'ti'nai, so'a strimket.”
“You're making words up now, Pantarei. It would be in your best intent not to test me.”
“Makrei'mo'kai, paskai'schiksei.”
“Are you here to meddle? Here to win your sacrifice back? I, for one, would love to see you try.”
“Do not tempt a god, Tormentor.” Even the god's accent bled might. Elongated, impressive, baroque in speech.
“Loose threats, old-timer. It took me long enough to dredge up a cult that still worshipped you. I took her because I am an evil being, and I wanted to stab you right in the little solace you still get. So go on. Take her back. I dare you.”
“You shall mourn the day of turning yourself against me, scum.”
The inescapable whiteness of life let loose his eyes. Vuul was Vulm'mram once more, or at least in breath. There were no words for him to express defeat, taboo in what of the world stood straight. These were words he wasn't familiar with, quarantined in the back of his mind as wrong, spoken in allochthonous tongue and indecipherable diphthong. Words he had to wash out of his mouth, the filth, scum of the earth, disgusting, Vuul. You cannot carry the rank of Vulm'mram like you cannot carry the empire into victory.
Yes he can.
YES HE WILL.
There was no serene grace to his next assault. Vuul was a berserker, lashing into the field, not even remotely aware of what took him down last assault, flailing his weapons around, a dance of swords, a danse sacrale, sacrifice to the spring of death, waltz to Ankt.
Oceans of blood spilled. Leak that reeked of deities. Vuul couldn't hear it, but knew that the world inside her sounded like rain. It was such a beautiful, blightful, crimson rain. As she shook in despair, heart beating, she rained the battlefield.
What was this?
There was red on Rollo. They were questions. Mortality. Elixir of the dying. Worry and joy in scarlet fluid. But what was it? It felt as if with every touch his fingertips grew colder, lifeless, numb in tragic elan. Instinctively, he raised his red hand to his nose, and smelled the gods calling to him. Condemning him. So'a nai'ts'kai so'a evai'kai. That which is not dying is not alive. Their exact words, though he couldn't understand.
When he lowered his hand again, he wanted to feel why his shoulders were becoming so slow, but it drooped alongside his lips and made him drink Charon's wine. It made him see why life was worth dying for, why death was worth living towards. He felt a golden yellow light coursing through his limbs. It took each of them off carefully, and replaced them with ice, then with life and fruit that was worth dying.
There was a pipette in the air. It raced over Rollo, tracing the flames.
As it turned to become pencil, Rollo saw it dripping with Charon's liquid... wine... death... thunder, ice, life, white, air, gods, war, hate, lust,
blood
There was blood on him. He knew that now.
The demon above drew scars on him. His eyes were wide open.
His screams were either ecstasy or agony. He was okay with that.
Slowly the ice was growing over his body. For what is not dying is not alive.
For what is not dying is not worth dying for.
"So there are supposed to be seven rounds in this thing."
"Right."
"And nobody here has ever seen it before."
"Allegedly."
"So I got an idea, while all the important people are too busy to notice anything here."
Doug looked skeptical, and then decided to get the obvious question out.
"What are you holding behind your back?"
Henry revealed a small stack of paper, with grids and signatures, "Well I'm glad you asked. I figured you wouldn't want in until others were, so there aren't as many spots available as there were before."
Doug grabbed one of the sheets of paper. It was a betting pool for who gets offed in round one. He supposed the rest of the papers were for each other potential round. The demon guy seemed a popular choice. 'Who brings fruit to a deathmatch' somebody scribbled in the margin.
Henry continued, "I'm allowing betting up to a round in advance, and with exception for this first round, getting in on a round's pool while it's going costs twice as much, since you've got more to go on. I had Raoul from Legal help me out with some of this stuff. We've also got one for when our own 'entry' gets eliminated, if he does, and if it ends once he's out since it's our channel. If you're interested, we've also got a 'cause of death' pool going. I just took as many suggestions for betting as possible, and people are eating it up."
Doug grabbed a few more sheets of paper to look at them, "Henry, what if the Boss walks in? You'll probably get fired for this."
Henry merely pointed at a square in the middle of the Cause of Death pool sheet round 1. "Spider squished by Beckham Monster." It had the boss's signature.
"Well, can I tempt you today, Doug?"
"...I guess I'll put down some money on Martin for round 2, if only because his components could keep being useful to the story after he dies."
Somebody yelled from over where the TV was, "Oh my god, get over here. Rollo is getting killed!"
There was a black light there to pick him up, but Rollo couldn't see that anymore.
There was a god hidden in the air, but Rollo couldn't breathe that anymore.
Only a couple of the staff were glad that Rollo was eliminated from the game. Apparently most didn't consider that Rollo would be killed first, if at all. It didn't take too long to deal the winnings for the round.
In a sense, it was a poetic end. Killing off Rollo this early in what was certain to be a grim spectacle, it definitely set an example. Still, it pained the group of animators to see their work die away. “Is he dead?”
"It's just a show, man. A show being delivered by some particularly ambitious hackers, but still a show," Henry said, holding an unmoving pencil to a drawing pad.
"I know, but I had a bit of an uneasy feeling. What are you drawing?"
"Uh, I was gonna draw that scene out, but I can't really drive myself to finish it. That alien warrior dude was easy, but I'unno. I guess even after watching it, it's hard to properly visualize how to draw the joyful guy like this."
"Ha, so you do feel bad about this!"
"I guess. I mean I've only spent several years of my life animating him."
Somebody walked over from the cubicles towards the conversing workers, "Oh, hey Henry, Doug. How's the, uh, show going?"
Henry raised an eyebrow accusingly at their new companion, "Why Christian, I thought you said you were going to 'get some goddamn work done you slackers.' Or am I misremembering your words?"
"Yes, yes, laugh it up. I don't know. I just... for some reason halfway through drawing a frame, I just stopped. Suddenly lost all my momentum. I think I need to take a break or something, because I just can't draw Rollo right now."
"You.. can't?" Doug was skeptical, "I'll be right back. Henry, give me your drawing pad."
"Doug, no offense, but you can't even draw when you trace."
"I'm not going to be using it. Hold on a second."
Henry and Christian waited in anticipation to find out what the hell Henry was going on about, and they watched him go from animator to animator. By the time he came back, he had an unaltered sketchbook.
"Uh huh," Christian snarled, "Now what exactly were you out to prove?"
"Nobody could draw Rollo. Something's up."
"Like what, Rollo is actually dead?"
Doug stared at Christian, slightly dumbfounded, "Oh my God. What if..."
Henry popped in, "Doug, don't be crazy. Rollo's a cartoon character."
"But what if!? There's got to be a reason we can't stop the broadcast! There has to be a reason that nobody can draw something they've drawn hundreds or even thousands of times before! There's got to be a reason that happened once the TV showed our most popular cartoon get slaughtered."
Christian scoffed and started to leave, "I'm going to go have an extended lunch, and when I get back, I'm going to continue on my work, no matter what your stupid theory is. Have fun."
Henry flipped the bird at Christian as he left, thinking he couldn't see that, but sure hoping he did, "Doug, your guess seems absolutely insane, and if this weren't the strangest day I've ever had here, I'd normally not even consider the possibility of it. I'm gonna go see if the next round is starting and what happens with that, and you do some of that internet sleuthing you're so good at and see if you can find anything out."
Doug ran immediately to his cubicle and headed first to the most popular cartoon message boards.
Henry took more bets for the second round.
She was the Oracle. How could you possibly forget? You imbecile.
The man he tried he really tried to get away crawl back but she was leaning over him, he wanted to get away but his arms were sticks and they broke under his sins and as his head hit the floor and the tears in his eyes and the clouds in his head broke his sight in just the right way he looked at her.
She was beautiful. She was a special kind of beautiful that you could only see when everything was meant to be invisible.
Zimmer's eyes knew why he was forsaken, slithering faces of the Pantheon fixed on his lifeless corpse. But why couldn't his mind his heart his breath his head he was useless remember
He could hear their voice again. It spoke as one and asked him the purest question. “Are you giving up your faith, Lieutenant Zimmer?”
There was a world behind Rollo, and he didn't even care. His eyes were locked. They could only stare in horror and awe, bugged out as the hermit of an endless night, at a monster that kept growing as he feared it. Rollo, of course, exaggerated this to ridicule. His eyes cloned, diverging tunnels. Limbs stiff in the air, face malformed to where it can only scream. An act, as usual.
Rollo was, in all honesty, getting lost. Not in a forest, without light, only instinct to trust, he had eyes around him and he trusted them on where to go. Second only to instinct. Rollo was lost in everything. No instinct played wire in his Crete. Comedy, his Es, was the one relief he knew when confronted.
“Woah! That sure is something alright! Hey, don't be scared though, maybe he just wants a word with us?”
“Rollo, now's not the time to joke around. Why are you always so damn hyper?”
“See, I'm on this drug called Rollo! If someone would get my mind, they'd be like “Dude, can't handle it!””
Credit where it's due: Martin had to stifle a grin when he remembered that late night celebrity dig-up on Charlie Sheen. “Heh, winning.”
A demonic talon clawed through Rollo. Slices drafted, fell, stopped moving and sprang back together. A hammer mashed him into the poorly colored walls. A stain with his eyes revealed the armadillo. Fire to ashes, ashes to him, there was no killing the resurrecting.
A younger shade of Martin would have found it amazing to see this performance unravel. The current only had eye for the monster. But there was still hilarity to the display. He saw that the monster's crux was the one combatant he considered weak. It was hilarious. Why was he even afraid? If Rollo was immune, his alloy was more so.
This was incredible. The scribble, that useless scribble, he stood! Stood and laughed and jumped about, like a jester in the mocking rain that blew too white.
“Did you see that? That was a smile! A honest to goodness smile. This is getting more interesting by the second!”
The Tormentor folded some arms. His eyes frowned, not linked in pairs and as such not linked to direction, or even existence, but the frown was challenging, a glint of daring Asem that sparked interest in his subjects again. An eye died out, though he saw through it still.
“I see you, Spectator.”
“I can see me too. What are you bragging about?”
No sign did betray that Tormentor had Spectator appear. A woman appeared, clad in crimson honey that soon became tears and then became wind. Her hair, unsettled in appearance as if a gust of black current tore through it, shone her appearance as halos, and didn't decide on wings or threads or robes. Her face was jagged, with a smile that surpassed meaning as she had no emotions left ensnared and that could be anything from contempt to interest.
“I know one thing though. If you want to experiment on him, you better do it yourself. Just get in there and start scraping him apart. Be the next Overseer!”
“If you are just here to insult me, Cultivator,” the man of eyes retorted, “then I fear comparisons like that lack an edge. Why do you even know Bryce?”
Silence in her eyes.
“Who is she?”
“Some kind of sacrifice that summons gods. She has like a big life story she can't shut up about.”
“She's my favorite. All those eyes! Marvelous, really!”
“She's still human. They generally have two.”
“I'm talking about the golden ones. Don't you see how they follow everything? Don't you see how even now they're manipulating this battle?”
Her voice lingered, strings of her. “No, you probably don't have enough eyes for that.”
There were a lot of things in Samael's life that he regretted doing. Suspending himself on a storytelling spider, he soon found out, was one of them. Ke's grip was so tight that his hands actually ached, but whenever he looked up, Ke was still translucent and vague. And when he looked down, he didn't want to look down.
Another of them, he found out, was trying to live among and as such associating himself with humans. Because aside from what little contact he had had in his lifetimes, they were batshit crazy. And when he saw what incredible monster was summoned due to their fears, he understood again why Luce had a special kind of hell ready for most of them. The irony of the situation he had been in – until now of course, thank you very much Tormentor – that is, being banished due to being unable to deceive, to a world where everyone is playing in the biggest liar competition ever, was kind of falling.
Ke's shriek traveled as fast as Samael's head, they both roared up, evidence of more torture. Metal bars, before her, around her, caved inside and through her, her world was getting so small and she couldn't breathe anymore. She curled up together, as small as she could, and she couldn't hold it anymore she couldn't bear it, she couldn't carry him, there wasn't enough room for him. I'm sorry, Samael Corson she would have cried, but her tears told only tales she wanted to forget.
He was falling. Well, so far for that life. To be fair though, being a teenager isn't as fun as pop music told him it was. He really hoped being eaten didn't hurt that much, most of his deaths had been quite... decent, actually.
He was still falling. He really thought that that monster thing was bigger.
“REMEMBER! REMEMBER YOUR DYING BREATH!”
Thunder flowed through the dungeon. Vuul tugged on the lashing fire, agonizing tentacles in his talons. Prey to Rend and Dominate. His raving piety hardly towered from the behemoth's shade, but it served more to his own than its victim.
“FOR IT IS THEN HE TOOK YOUR LIFE!”
Slowly, very slowly, Hydra turned to cripple. It wasn't fortunate, but fateful Vulm'mram'Vuul knew no endurance to bear. It burned on, burned on and on until it burned through.
“FOR IT IS I WHO HAS BEEN CHOSEN SERVE HIM!”
When the beast fell from its legs, Vuul switched to the Heaven's Ascent stance, leapt from spike to spike, Blaze and Subjugate a scraping contrail against yellow rags. This fight was to be over soon, and not one for him to fight.
“FOR IT IS GLORY YOUR DEATH WROUGHT!”
A coconut fell from the sky. A crescent axe skewered its hide, and cut the orb in two. The milk was the last in a series of bile and fire and impure liquid the giant's heads spewed at him. A vain attempt to stall him.
It was only to Vuul that Samael's head stuck out. It was hidden in the monster's necks like a wind god hidden among leaves. A dusty procession of buglit eyes that took slow time to gauge distances and angles. It would throw all the angles out the window (except there was no angle left to throw it at) and screw the entire toss up completely, and face a coconut cleaved in two. Like a plant god, killed in the harvest.
Samael would thank Blaze and Subjugate for tearing down the menace, but saw it in the hand of Vuul, fighter. Killer. He regarded him Eurydice and ran, hopefully towards something. Like a mist god, vatha in the forest.
“FEEL SANCTIFIED. YOUR BLOOD SHALL FLOW IN ALVUM STREAMS, AND WITH IT SHALL BE PURGED.”
Unusual for Vuul to recite his chant before he dished out the first strike. Evicted from his clan though, was circumstance unusual enough. He wanted to prove to everyone that he was worthy of a rank in the empire. That he knew the songs, that he could follow orders. That he could kill the enemies of the Alvum empire. Vuul charged right at the weakest of the group, Matthew Zimmer.
Martin shot Vuul. Candid glory burst.
The Alvum staggered, his head spun in confusion as if were he surrounded, as part of his eye was blinded. Vuul considered turning around, working with his rear vision instead, but that left his one weak spot exposed. He stopped the assault, retreated.
Did he fail?
A rather specific attack on the alien. It was caught off guard by the fact that memory doesn't extend to the subconscious. To the ethereal. To a whisper in foxfire that stealthily saved the Oracle.
A lucky break, because Martin didn't know how to activate his arm cannon. His primordial rage taking over had triggered something. A muscle he didn't know he could move, a nerve where he never imagined pain to permeate. Whatever took over was a ley line to the world.
It was a motherfucking kickass ley line.
“Woah, shit! Did you guys see that?! I blasted his fucking eye off! God damn, that was awesome!”
Martin was of calm composure, but it was a strain to keep up polished language. He tended to resort to expletives and dysphemisms when impressed. Erecting a gun from your arm and shooting an alien counted, marginally. It kind of felt different from a video game. Less real.
He turned to Dorin. His gun pointed at Dorin.
He was threatening the Oracle. Defend her.
Gannet heard flames. Illuminating faerie fire shone the way, and when they lit up his destiny he suddenly felt so angry when he saw him talking to her, breathing her, claiming his right to exist next to her as if he was untainted by the stench of purgatory. Eyes were bloodshot, ears white noise. His fists cramped in on themselves, teeth that tore his palms apart. His breath shook, panting as his mouth glared with killer intent. Teeth that tore the world apart.
With oceans of hell he approached Martin. His thoughts were butterflies, danced in the ignorance of the human precipitate. Claws lashed, summer struck.
“Oh h-”
There was a fist in his eye. He wasn't annoyed, he didn't remember how to be.
Brownout in Martin.
Connection Lost.
There was no god that could care less about sacrifice than Pantarei. But being rescinded a right he had by a being that called itself god of death before his eyes was to him worth fighting for. It was worth making sure he got what he was used to. Whatever it took.
“Mehai so'a ba'kai'eks ka'kai'ti'eks skirmai, Tormentor'ets.”
“Now that you've shown up, I'm only left wondering why it took so long.”
“Mus'ke'ti'nai, so'a strimket.”
“You're making words up now, Pantarei. It would be in your best intent not to test me.”
“Makrei'mo'kai, paskai'schiksei.”
“Are you here to meddle? Here to win your sacrifice back? I, for one, would love to see you try.”
“Do not tempt a god, Tormentor.” Even the god's accent bled might. Elongated, impressive, baroque in speech.
“Loose threats, old-timer. It took me long enough to dredge up a cult that still worshipped you. I took her because I am an evil being, and I wanted to stab you right in the little solace you still get. So go on. Take her back. I dare you.”
“You shall mourn the day of turning yourself against me, scum.”
The inescapable whiteness of life let loose his eyes. Vuul was Vulm'mram once more, or at least in breath. There were no words for him to express defeat, taboo in what of the world stood straight. These were words he wasn't familiar with, quarantined in the back of his mind as wrong, spoken in allochthonous tongue and indecipherable diphthong. Words he had to wash out of his mouth, the filth, scum of the earth, disgusting, Vuul. You cannot carry the rank of Vulm'mram like you cannot carry the empire into victory.
Yes he can.
YES HE WILL.
There was no serene grace to his next assault. Vuul was a berserker, lashing into the field, not even remotely aware of what took him down last assault, flailing his weapons around, a dance of swords, a danse sacrale, sacrifice to the spring of death, waltz to Ankt.
Oceans of blood spilled. Leak that reeked of deities. Vuul couldn't hear it, but knew that the world inside her sounded like rain. It was such a beautiful, blightful, crimson rain. As she shook in despair, heart beating, she rained the battlefield.
What was this?
There was red on Rollo. They were questions. Mortality. Elixir of the dying. Worry and joy in scarlet fluid. But what was it? It felt as if with every touch his fingertips grew colder, lifeless, numb in tragic elan. Instinctively, he raised his red hand to his nose, and smelled the gods calling to him. Condemning him. So'a nai'ts'kai so'a evai'kai. That which is not dying is not alive. Their exact words, though he couldn't understand.
When he lowered his hand again, he wanted to feel why his shoulders were becoming so slow, but it drooped alongside his lips and made him drink Charon's wine. It made him see why life was worth dying for, why death was worth living towards. He felt a golden yellow light coursing through his limbs. It took each of them off carefully, and replaced them with ice, then with life and fruit that was worth dying.
There was a pipette in the air. It raced over Rollo, tracing the flames.
As it turned to become pencil, Rollo saw it dripping with Charon's liquid... wine... death... thunder, ice, life, white, air, gods, war, hate, lust,
blood
There was blood on him. He knew that now.
The demon above drew scars on him. His eyes were wide open.
His screams were either ecstasy or agony. He was okay with that.
Slowly the ice was growing over his body. For what is not dying is not alive.
For what is not dying is not worth dying for.
"So there are supposed to be seven rounds in this thing."
"Right."
"And nobody here has ever seen it before."
"Allegedly."
"So I got an idea, while all the important people are too busy to notice anything here."
Doug looked skeptical, and then decided to get the obvious question out.
"What are you holding behind your back?"
Henry revealed a small stack of paper, with grids and signatures, "Well I'm glad you asked. I figured you wouldn't want in until others were, so there aren't as many spots available as there were before."
Doug grabbed one of the sheets of paper. It was a betting pool for who gets offed in round one. He supposed the rest of the papers were for each other potential round. The demon guy seemed a popular choice. 'Who brings fruit to a deathmatch' somebody scribbled in the margin.
Henry continued, "I'm allowing betting up to a round in advance, and with exception for this first round, getting in on a round's pool while it's going costs twice as much, since you've got more to go on. I had Raoul from Legal help me out with some of this stuff. We've also got one for when our own 'entry' gets eliminated, if he does, and if it ends once he's out since it's our channel. If you're interested, we've also got a 'cause of death' pool going. I just took as many suggestions for betting as possible, and people are eating it up."
Doug grabbed a few more sheets of paper to look at them, "Henry, what if the Boss walks in? You'll probably get fired for this."
Henry merely pointed at a square in the middle of the Cause of Death pool sheet round 1. "Spider squished by Beckham Monster." It had the boss's signature.
"Well, can I tempt you today, Doug?"
"...I guess I'll put down some money on Martin for round 2, if only because his components could keep being useful to the story after he dies."
Somebody yelled from over where the TV was, "Oh my god, get over here. Rollo is getting killed!"
There was a black light there to pick him up, but Rollo couldn't see that anymore.
There was a god hidden in the air, but Rollo couldn't breathe that anymore.
Only a couple of the staff were glad that Rollo was eliminated from the game. Apparently most didn't consider that Rollo would be killed first, if at all. It didn't take too long to deal the winnings for the round.
In a sense, it was a poetic end. Killing off Rollo this early in what was certain to be a grim spectacle, it definitely set an example. Still, it pained the group of animators to see their work die away. “Is he dead?”
"It's just a show, man. A show being delivered by some particularly ambitious hackers, but still a show," Henry said, holding an unmoving pencil to a drawing pad.
"I know, but I had a bit of an uneasy feeling. What are you drawing?"
"Uh, I was gonna draw that scene out, but I can't really drive myself to finish it. That alien warrior dude was easy, but I'unno. I guess even after watching it, it's hard to properly visualize how to draw the joyful guy like this."
"Ha, so you do feel bad about this!"
"I guess. I mean I've only spent several years of my life animating him."
Somebody walked over from the cubicles towards the conversing workers, "Oh, hey Henry, Doug. How's the, uh, show going?"
Henry raised an eyebrow accusingly at their new companion, "Why Christian, I thought you said you were going to 'get some goddamn work done you slackers.' Or am I misremembering your words?"
"Yes, yes, laugh it up. I don't know. I just... for some reason halfway through drawing a frame, I just stopped. Suddenly lost all my momentum. I think I need to take a break or something, because I just can't draw Rollo right now."
"You.. can't?" Doug was skeptical, "I'll be right back. Henry, give me your drawing pad."
"Doug, no offense, but you can't even draw when you trace."
"I'm not going to be using it. Hold on a second."
Henry and Christian waited in anticipation to find out what the hell Henry was going on about, and they watched him go from animator to animator. By the time he came back, he had an unaltered sketchbook.
"Uh huh," Christian snarled, "Now what exactly were you out to prove?"
"Nobody could draw Rollo. Something's up."
"Like what, Rollo is actually dead?"
Doug stared at Christian, slightly dumbfounded, "Oh my God. What if..."
Henry popped in, "Doug, don't be crazy. Rollo's a cartoon character."
"But what if!? There's got to be a reason we can't stop the broadcast! There has to be a reason that nobody can draw something they've drawn hundreds or even thousands of times before! There's got to be a reason that happened once the TV showed our most popular cartoon get slaughtered."
Christian scoffed and started to leave, "I'm going to go have an extended lunch, and when I get back, I'm going to continue on my work, no matter what your stupid theory is. Have fun."
Henry flipped the bird at Christian as he left, thinking he couldn't see that, but sure hoping he did, "Doug, your guess seems absolutely insane, and if this weren't the strangest day I've ever had here, I'd normally not even consider the possibility of it. I'm gonna go see if the next round is starting and what happens with that, and you do some of that internet sleuthing you're so good at and see if you can find anything out."
Doug ran immediately to his cubicle and headed first to the most popular cartoon message boards.
Henry took more bets for the second round.
quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur.