RE: Grand Battle (S?) (Round 1: Matmor Atoll)
07-16-2013, 09:50 PM
"CRASH!" "BASH!" "TRASH-A-FRASH!"
...Frash?
Okay, Kyle thought, a bit of a stretch, but I'd like to see the poet that can find twenty new rhymes for that an episode. It was getting to the point where he'd put about fifteen straight minutes of screaming into the microphone anyway, what wouldn't be swapped with another analogous outburst would just as easily pass by the editors and the fans alike.
He scooted his chair away from the microphone far enough for an impromptu break. The higher ups didn't seem to give a flying fuck over checking the actual content of the show but damn if they wouldn't get on your ass for taking a break from making it. They were perfectly willing to spend a chunk of their budget programming the computer to tattle anytime the pause button was hit while you were on their time. So the microphone stayed on and Kyle calmly attempted to knock back the remainder of his coffee in one gulp…
When one of the writers burst into the room, ramming the corner of the door into his chair and causing him to choke loudly
---
Krugrug peeled off a bit of flesh, bone, or whatever the blood soaked scrap of merman was that was stuck to his club. The leviathan he’d been facing off with fled either due to fear of his might or the fact that its riders were turned to putty and it had little interest in the battle. Oh well, Krugrug thought. More would come and he would easily frash them all.
Then all of a sudden, the air became caught in Krugrug’s throat. The great orc suddenly became helpless, choking on seemingly nothing at all. His knees landed hard in the sand, he doubled over and struggled on the edge of the sea to keep his head out of the water. His eyes grew wide as he thought that this stumble could give some beastie their chance to end him.
---
“Milosh, what the hell!?”
Kyle turned to face the balding bastard whose head was now poking his head into the room. Milosh was one of the head writers, an eastern-European bloke it seemed. Unlike most of the other writers, he hadn’t gotten to study booze and pornography in American college, but luckily he was a quick study.
“Sorry about that, man. Didn’t know you were in here, even.”
“Did the bright-red, glowing ‘RECORDING’ sign not give you a clue?” Kyle said, gesturing towards the little box hanging above his door.
Milosh took a slight peek and said “I think the batteries are dead.”
Awesome, more broken shit, Kyle grumbled to himself.
“Anyway,” Milosh continued, “you should come to the writer’s room. Brian’s birthday is today, there are donuts and beer dropped off from his wife.”
Kyle stared at him unimpressed. “You just want to show off your latest waste of time, don’t you?”
“We have house of cards big enough to hold up Richard’s laptop!”
“Fascinating. I have to get back to recording though.”
Milosh noticed at the obvious distance between him and the microphone.
Kyle held up finger quotes. “’Recording’. The same way I’m sure you need to get back to ‘writing’ with the rest of the crew.”
Milosh shrugged and acceptingly went back to his side of the hallway while Kyle went to see how much of his spasm made it onto the record.
---
A small party of medics darted along the atoll, combing land and sea for survivors. Behind them trailed a pair of containers, one already half-filled with the injured. The bodies they examined ranged from peacefully floating just under the surface to bruised and contorted messes…and then there were the even less fortunate with their limbs drifting slowly from the pulpy messes of their torsos. But the party silently passed over these souls turned into nothing but nauseous gore.
The bodies grew thick around a small sandbar to the south. The party could hear the sounds of struggling, an individual gasping loudly for air. The Medical Squad Chemicalist took out a series of vials, discouraged more than anything by the sounds of an injured soldier. If his body was intact and capable of the trip, he’d get some muscle relaxant and a trip to salvation. If his lung were punctured and torn…the Chemicalist climbed up onto the island, thinking sour thoughts and reaching for another lethal injection.
The party navigated their way to the top of the hill of sand and immediately scuttled back behind it, dropping prone. Their hearts raced as they peered over the mound, staring at the monstrosity that had caused more destruction than had ever been seen by their people. They looked at each other with certainty in their eyes. They were going to die. They, practitioners of medicine were never made to feel expendable like the soldiers, never trained out of their cowardice. The Chemicalist took a brave enough glance to see the beast in full view. It wasn’t calm, but it wasn’t raging anymore. It was like it was…sick. Like it had been the one violently without air…
The Chemicalist stood up, to the complete surprise of his brothers. They grasped at his ankles, trying to restrain him, but he shook them off, determined. They clutched the rim of the sandy hill as their brother resolutely walked up to the intruder, who held himself unsteadily off the ground, still retching loudly. Now, sure of his superiority over the murderous cur, he kicked it square in the side, surprising the now-helpless orc and knocking him to his back. The Chemicalist grabbed a fateful vial from his side-pouch and readied it. He glared, stalwartly at his enemy. Krugrug stared back, immobilized from shock and fear and lack of air. The Chemicalist brought his fist to the monster’s chest. It was cold with dry sea water. Shivering even. The merman stopped and looked down again at the creature at his feet, this time as an animal, rather than a beast. It had the fear of death in its eyes, the one he saw not seconds ago in his brother’s. It was meek. It sought mercy. It needed help.
The medics sat safe behind the sand, watching their brother empty a vial into the barbarian’s mouth. They gathered around their brother with silent elation before he pushed them away. “It’s unconscious. Prepare the pressurized transport.”
He walked to the trailers floating in the water. “This things coming with us, to the infirmary.”
...Frash?
Okay, Kyle thought, a bit of a stretch, but I'd like to see the poet that can find twenty new rhymes for that an episode. It was getting to the point where he'd put about fifteen straight minutes of screaming into the microphone anyway, what wouldn't be swapped with another analogous outburst would just as easily pass by the editors and the fans alike.
He scooted his chair away from the microphone far enough for an impromptu break. The higher ups didn't seem to give a flying fuck over checking the actual content of the show but damn if they wouldn't get on your ass for taking a break from making it. They were perfectly willing to spend a chunk of their budget programming the computer to tattle anytime the pause button was hit while you were on their time. So the microphone stayed on and Kyle calmly attempted to knock back the remainder of his coffee in one gulp…
When one of the writers burst into the room, ramming the corner of the door into his chair and causing him to choke loudly
---
Krugrug peeled off a bit of flesh, bone, or whatever the blood soaked scrap of merman was that was stuck to his club. The leviathan he’d been facing off with fled either due to fear of his might or the fact that its riders were turned to putty and it had little interest in the battle. Oh well, Krugrug thought. More would come and he would easily frash them all.
Then all of a sudden, the air became caught in Krugrug’s throat. The great orc suddenly became helpless, choking on seemingly nothing at all. His knees landed hard in the sand, he doubled over and struggled on the edge of the sea to keep his head out of the water. His eyes grew wide as he thought that this stumble could give some beastie their chance to end him.
---
“Milosh, what the hell!?”
Kyle turned to face the balding bastard whose head was now poking his head into the room. Milosh was one of the head writers, an eastern-European bloke it seemed. Unlike most of the other writers, he hadn’t gotten to study booze and pornography in American college, but luckily he was a quick study.
“Sorry about that, man. Didn’t know you were in here, even.”
“Did the bright-red, glowing ‘RECORDING’ sign not give you a clue?” Kyle said, gesturing towards the little box hanging above his door.
Milosh took a slight peek and said “I think the batteries are dead.”
Awesome, more broken shit, Kyle grumbled to himself.
“Anyway,” Milosh continued, “you should come to the writer’s room. Brian’s birthday is today, there are donuts and beer dropped off from his wife.”
Kyle stared at him unimpressed. “You just want to show off your latest waste of time, don’t you?”
“We have house of cards big enough to hold up Richard’s laptop!”
“Fascinating. I have to get back to recording though.”
Milosh noticed at the obvious distance between him and the microphone.
Kyle held up finger quotes. “’Recording’. The same way I’m sure you need to get back to ‘writing’ with the rest of the crew.”
Milosh shrugged and acceptingly went back to his side of the hallway while Kyle went to see how much of his spasm made it onto the record.
---
A small party of medics darted along the atoll, combing land and sea for survivors. Behind them trailed a pair of containers, one already half-filled with the injured. The bodies they examined ranged from peacefully floating just under the surface to bruised and contorted messes…and then there were the even less fortunate with their limbs drifting slowly from the pulpy messes of their torsos. But the party silently passed over these souls turned into nothing but nauseous gore.
The bodies grew thick around a small sandbar to the south. The party could hear the sounds of struggling, an individual gasping loudly for air. The Medical Squad Chemicalist took out a series of vials, discouraged more than anything by the sounds of an injured soldier. If his body was intact and capable of the trip, he’d get some muscle relaxant and a trip to salvation. If his lung were punctured and torn…the Chemicalist climbed up onto the island, thinking sour thoughts and reaching for another lethal injection.
The party navigated their way to the top of the hill of sand and immediately scuttled back behind it, dropping prone. Their hearts raced as they peered over the mound, staring at the monstrosity that had caused more destruction than had ever been seen by their people. They looked at each other with certainty in their eyes. They were going to die. They, practitioners of medicine were never made to feel expendable like the soldiers, never trained out of their cowardice. The Chemicalist took a brave enough glance to see the beast in full view. It wasn’t calm, but it wasn’t raging anymore. It was like it was…sick. Like it had been the one violently without air…
The Chemicalist stood up, to the complete surprise of his brothers. They grasped at his ankles, trying to restrain him, but he shook them off, determined. They clutched the rim of the sandy hill as their brother resolutely walked up to the intruder, who held himself unsteadily off the ground, still retching loudly. Now, sure of his superiority over the murderous cur, he kicked it square in the side, surprising the now-helpless orc and knocking him to his back. The Chemicalist grabbed a fateful vial from his side-pouch and readied it. He glared, stalwartly at his enemy. Krugrug stared back, immobilized from shock and fear and lack of air. The Chemicalist brought his fist to the monster’s chest. It was cold with dry sea water. Shivering even. The merman stopped and looked down again at the creature at his feet, this time as an animal, rather than a beast. It had the fear of death in its eyes, the one he saw not seconds ago in his brother’s. It was meek. It sought mercy. It needed help.
The medics sat safe behind the sand, watching their brother empty a vial into the barbarian’s mouth. They gathered around their brother with silent elation before he pushed them away. “It’s unconscious. Prepare the pressurized transport.”
He walked to the trailers floating in the water. “This things coming with us, to the infirmary.”
---I've earned exactly nothing in my life from NOT being a cocky bastard---