Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 2: S'kkoi]
12-31-2011, 10:52 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
Clicklicklick. Clack. Clacklacklack. Cliclacklackclick. Clacklack. Clicklack. Clicklacklick. Clack. Clicklick. Clacklick.
Martin didn’t know Morse code…well, not exactly. But he did have a program that translated it. So maybe technically he did know? But the epistemological argument about whether he did or did not know Morse code wasn’t as important as the question of why the pursuing crab monster knew Morse code and was clicking and clacking after him.
Martin (or a program inside Martin or whatever) translated the message. It said, ‘stopmartin.’ What the hell kinda message was ‘stopmartin’ oh wait ‘stop martin’ oh he got it now why did a crab monster know his name.
Martin whirled around. Crab monster, which had been struggling to keep up, stopped right in front of him. At least it was a courteous crab monster, he guessed?
This was a chance to ask questions, he realized, but there were too many questions to ask. “How’d you know my name” seemed a good start, though, so that’s what he asked.
Crabman clicked and clacked. ‘younotremember’
“No,” he replied, assuming that was a question rather than a statement.
‘tormentor’ Oh dear, he didn’t like the sound of that. ‘saymartinsaymalfunctionthismalfunction’
“…What?”
‘nevermindiamsamaelifnotrememberinbattletothedea thtormentorhostnotusuallycrab’
Well, he got some of that. Crabman was named Amsamael. Or maybe Samael. There was something about death (didn’t like the sound of that) and also Crabman’s not actually a crab.
“Well, I’m not usually a…shark thing either.”
‘iknowtormentordidfishthing’
Abruptly, Samael started waving his claws around. Martin eventually recognized it as sign language, which he knew as much as he knew Morse code, that is, simultaneously not much and very much. Look, do you know sign language, this clacking about isn’t the fastest thing in the world.
“Neither is reading sign language with crab claws.”
Live with it. What other questions.
“Well…you said something about a battle to the death, right? Am…am I supposed to kill you…?”
Please don’t. If anything, kill the Tormentor. There are others and we should find them.
“I don’t really want to find someone who wants to kill me.”
A crabby claw suddenly clamped on his arm, which was something that he never wanted to see a claw do. Before he could yelp, Samael (Amsamael? It could still go either way, really) started scuttling into a shadowy ruin. Martin couldn’t really do much besides follow.
From somewhere appeared a procession of grim-faced fishpeople, which was impressive as Martin had thought fish only knew how to gape mindlessly with large, flappy mouths. They did not carry weapons, but carried themselves in a warlike manner.
“Are those the others?” he said drily, only to have a claw slapped across his mouth (another thing he never wanted a claw doing). They waited until they passed. And then Crabman thumped a claw on the back of his shoulder (the crab equivalent of tapping someone on the shoulder?) and pointed to where the procession had come from, which wasn’t Morse code or sign language, but he understood it nevertheless.
“That’s a bad idea,” he said, but Crabman was already scuttling away and between swimming around alone with the knowledge that there were a (potentially large) number of other fishpeople out there who were supposed to kill him or staying with a guy who actually knew what was going on, Martin was pretty sure he wanted to stick with Amsamael. Samael. Crabman.
Clicklicklick. Clack. Clacklacklack. Cliclacklackclick. Clacklack. Clicklack. Clicklacklick. Clack. Clicklick. Clacklick.
Martin didn’t know Morse code…well, not exactly. But he did have a program that translated it. So maybe technically he did know? But the epistemological argument about whether he did or did not know Morse code wasn’t as important as the question of why the pursuing crab monster knew Morse code and was clicking and clacking after him.
Martin (or a program inside Martin or whatever) translated the message. It said, ‘stopmartin.’ What the hell kinda message was ‘stopmartin’ oh wait ‘stop martin’ oh he got it now why did a crab monster know his name.
Martin whirled around. Crab monster, which had been struggling to keep up, stopped right in front of him. At least it was a courteous crab monster, he guessed?
This was a chance to ask questions, he realized, but there were too many questions to ask. “How’d you know my name” seemed a good start, though, so that’s what he asked.
Crabman clicked and clacked. ‘younotremember’
“No,” he replied, assuming that was a question rather than a statement.
‘tormentor’ Oh dear, he didn’t like the sound of that. ‘saymartinsaymalfunctionthismalfunction’
“…What?”
‘nevermindiamsamaelifnotrememberinbattletothedea thtormentorhostnotusuallycrab’
Well, he got some of that. Crabman was named Amsamael. Or maybe Samael. There was something about death (didn’t like the sound of that) and also Crabman’s not actually a crab.
“Well, I’m not usually a…shark thing either.”
‘iknowtormentordidfishthing’
Abruptly, Samael started waving his claws around. Martin eventually recognized it as sign language, which he knew as much as he knew Morse code, that is, simultaneously not much and very much. Look, do you know sign language, this clacking about isn’t the fastest thing in the world.
“Neither is reading sign language with crab claws.”
Live with it. What other questions.
“Well…you said something about a battle to the death, right? Am…am I supposed to kill you…?”
Please don’t. If anything, kill the Tormentor. There are others and we should find them.
“I don’t really want to find someone who wants to kill me.”
A crabby claw suddenly clamped on his arm, which was something that he never wanted to see a claw do. Before he could yelp, Samael (Amsamael? It could still go either way, really) started scuttling into a shadowy ruin. Martin couldn’t really do much besides follow.
From somewhere appeared a procession of grim-faced fishpeople, which was impressive as Martin had thought fish only knew how to gape mindlessly with large, flappy mouths. They did not carry weapons, but carried themselves in a warlike manner.
“Are those the others?” he said drily, only to have a claw slapped across his mouth (another thing he never wanted a claw doing). They waited until they passed. And then Crabman thumped a claw on the back of his shoulder (the crab equivalent of tapping someone on the shoulder?) and pointed to where the procession had come from, which wasn’t Morse code or sign language, but he understood it nevertheless.
“That’s a bad idea,” he said, but Crabman was already scuttling away and between swimming around alone with the knowledge that there were a (potentially large) number of other fishpeople out there who were supposed to kill him or staying with a guy who actually knew what was going on, Martin was pretty sure he wanted to stick with Amsamael. Samael. Crabman.