RE: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round... Uh, Seven? The Oasis]
09-10-2014, 07:22 AM
For a course of Etiyr, serve a raging drop of anger in a standardized ocean: to minimize statistical error, ensure that birds fly, grass grow, sun shines and Etiyr rages. Such is the way of things. Garnish with frustration, in Etiyr grey.
The sun was shining now, high above the rocky orifice that led to growing grass and flying birds, casting sharp shadows on one wall and leaving the rest in bioluminescent dimness. In the gloom, Etiyr came to.
There you are
So this was his savior. Insectoid - no, comprised of fucking insects. Ugh. But they were getting away from the water, so fine; drowning wasn’t exactly fun. At least he’d bought some time. He could think about this, cradled in this fucking screaming insect pile’s arms, but one of them was kind of hard and metal and distinctly un-insectlike and if he was having a really, really really bad fucking day was almost certainly okay let’s slam the brakes Barkley it is isn’t it
Stocktake:
1) One metal chassis-body, which, against all odds, he seemed to have become a little accustomed to: out of the boiling water, though cradled in that fucking arm they all had grown to know and hate; *breathe, breathe, wait typewriters don’t breathe* This arm at the very least wasn’t made of magnetic force and miscellaneous scrap metal, but fuck fuck fuckity fuck it just had to keep coming back, didn’t it?
You were there. - The typewriter signalled his host - At the end of the last fucking round, weren’t you. You got the arm. Rocks tumbled from above as their footing slipped; the arm shot out and steadied them as he was juggled from one appendage to another. What are you? What are you now? I had the arm and it fucking killed me - it killed me and didn’t kill me and doesn’t Green-fucking-Bowler-Hat Crumb have it now? Who-
“Our name is Ekrith. We are a shipwright.” They shifted, slightly, and pulled their collective body up another outcropping. The seething water below surged, lapping eagerly at the traces of their arrival. “Spaceships, we are afraid. Not very useful.”
Fucking spaceships. Of course they’re not very- Backtrack. ’Our’? No. No no no no no fuck fuck fuck no. He typed it, for good measure - fuckity fuck no - You’re a zeitgeist. You’re another fucking zeitgeist. So even fucking Crumb can’t think up an original contestant?
We do not understand. What is a contestant? And what are you?
Mister Fucking Collective Noun Ekrith, my name is Etiyr and I’m the last singular mind left on the fucking plane. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get off this flight now-
You wish to be released?
NONONONONONONONONONONONONOFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCFUCKFUCCCCCCCCCCCCKNONONONONONONONONO
Above them the faint light began its fade to grey.
2) One soul. Sort of. A consciousness, at any rate, which had quite missed being free from its metal prison: now with added caveat of possibly becoming free from its metal prison, if he played his cards right.
Nothing changed about me for six rounds. Then all that fucking happens. Or didn’t happen. Or whateverthefuck time is this way round clack. clack. clackity clack. So what happens now? Winding out, he let the paper go. The churning waters below swallowed up the words, obliterating them.
Default: characterized by uniformity and homogeneity, the surface of filthy water reflecting a dirty slate sky: faultless. The beginning and end state of everything, the alpha and omega of the universe.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Default by default.
3) Psychological studies showed that lists with three items in them lent a sense of finality and fulfillment. Sure, it wasn’t going to work for him, but what the hell, maybe someone would find some peace in it all.
Maybe they could just wait it out until Crumb committed Hedonist-cide. Do you think- No. Crumb would almost certainly murder the Hedonist precisely after the point where it wouldn’t matter anymore. Which meant they almost certainly had to proceed through this round in the normal way. All right. Time for some action, then. Nineteen minutes on the clock. Sweetly: Ekrith, could you turn me a bit? I want to see that beachball up there. He tightened his grip on the insectoid’s collective mind. You see that? That’s the other contestant. We’re competing, see; inside there are millions of individual minds that are all hell-bent - and believe me, I know fucking hell-bent - on killing us both. All of you and all of me.
...
So here’s what we’re going to do, okay? We’re going to see if we can’t fucking take them down first. Are you with me?
...we...we do not understand…
He tightened his grip. He felt himself push through, even as his effort spalled little psionic fragments apart from the Ekrith-mind. Fucking hell, he hated gestalt minds. You don’t have to kill anyone, don’t you worry. I just need you to help me. You’ll help me, won’t you?
I’ll help you. But we... we’ll help you... Pseudopodian limbs turned the typewriter as they climbed, platen gleaming as it came into view of Lucky VII above.
Fucking excellent. Spawning paper from hell-knows-where, the Bearer of the Endless Scroll began to type.
-co-co-co-co-
A yellow and purple splash in the default sky, working its way between the cracks; somewhere behind the scenes, someone, someone black and secret grey, someone blossoming into stains flips with great force some kind of universal table,
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
sending flying trillions upon trillions of checkbooks detailing the microtransactions of existence. Electrons exchange photons and find themselves owing each other planets.
Defaulting on default.
“The Bringer of the Third Letter has spoken to us, even unto the channels that inform the Worldship VII about us! Perhaps a lesser deity would have given the worldship a clue of our existence, but not our Unholy Platen; in Its infinite wisdom, Etiyr, champion of the Nine Initiations, has given us this:”
CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCALL RIGHT MY LITTLE FUCKING SUBJECTSAll right - Listen up, cockwits. I don’t fucking know what you want or even pretend to know what’s going on there right now, but whatever the fuck you’re doing, it probably fucking sucks worse ass than a donkey proctologist with a booty fetish and a degree in plastic surgery. SO YOU WANT TO PROVE YOURSELFSo here’s what we’re going to do: first of all, we’re going to start helping each other. Second, we’re going to track down Crumb and smash his fucking face in. THENThird, we’re FUCK going to SHIThave some fucking cake, UPI don’t know.
All of us.
-l-l-l-l-
Welcome aboard Lucky VII. The ship’s command has been somewhat a matter of debate at points, including that one where it was all the points (infinite beatitude of existence!). Point being (or otherwise) was that sense was quite possibly impossible within the confines of our beach ball of wünder.
High Admiral Itzel consternated at her bridge crews. To her left, Pope Itzel consternated at her. To his left, Chief Foreman Itzel consternated at him. And so on.
“This is ridiculous,” Head Dean Itzel said, “I was under the impression that Lucky VII was a University Ship, not some quasi-military donger party.” Her voice rose. “And experimenting with magic? I’ve every mind to resign!”
“Everything is going to be fine!” First Researcher Quirrinal almost-shouted over her; they tapered off as various Quirrinals tried to talk first. “Everything is - is absolutely safe,” Lead Engineer Quirrinal spoke up, addressing the muttering crowd of crews. “We’ve calculated everything within the relevant limits. We even had Magus Quirrinal helping us, but he apparated.”
“And what about Etiyr’s offer? Are we going to just reject it out of hand?”
“You call that an ‘offer’, Diplomat Itzel? It’s more of a threat than anything! I wouldn’t take that offer if it had stock options in Epigen!”
“Well, if we can kill them both, we focus on gloriously defeating Crumb ourselves!”
“How do you propose to do that, Warlord Itzel?”
“Let’s turn to Demolitions Expert Quirrinal…”
As the bridge crews argued, a hand-sized panel in a disregarded weapons section moved aside. Behind it crawled a pale five-digited hand, attached to nothing in particular. Deftly, it reconfigured a few key cables, then tied a black ribbon around them before pulling another key switch. There were some minor burns.
Squid exploded from the roiling water below them all. Some were fried instantly in the air, others lashed out for the nearest rocky outcropping and clung on, to wait for the tide. Others formed advanced civilizations in dark nooks, trapping hapless little mammals for food; their societies inevitably collapsed whenever their food source ran out, turning them to cannibalism. In this way, dried squid jerky is made.
One landed on Lucky VII itself, Etiyr was pleased to note. His pleasure grew as he saw the squid’s determination not to let go, shrink fields or no shrink fields. His pleasure shrank when a tiny family of tiny proto-octopi made his chassis their base of operations against the oppressive squid regime.
Step right up, step right up, step right up folks!! Here it is, the battle you’ve all been waiting for, the moment that you, dear, dear audience, exist only and only to experience! Feast your eyes upon the bout of the century, consume the course set before you, ride the wave and take a goooood gander at:
IN THE LEFT RING:
Onychoteuthis banksii, the common clubhook squid! Betentacled, bewitched, bizarre! But what’s more?! This is no ordinary squid!! Ladies, gentlemen, non-specific and/or less cultured beings:
BANKSII THE SQUID!!!!! That’s right! Quadruple-wielding spray cans and spray tans, chromatophores for the perfect getaway from the cops, shades like nothing you’ve ever seen before (or through, for that matter), the only thing our prize-fighter Banksii here doesn’t have is a hooded sweater for those media anonymity opportunities!
IN THE RIGHT HOOP WHICH IS CLAMPED UNDERNEATH THE LEFT RING:
Itzel iterations, terminal Quirrinal quivers stocked with magical science arrows, this shrunken ship has a tiny massive arsenal like you wouldn’t be spatially challenged to disbelieve! Always stuffy, always such the head of everyone’s private little sphere instead of staying in their own, they were the favorite to run the show, weren’t they? But now the competition is fierce! Heeeeere’s:
EXOPLANET/WORLDSHIP/WHATEVERTHEFUCK “LUCKY” VII!!! A basket of bootlickers, a corral of captains, a dearth of devastating personal revelations and a bloody civilization to boot! Except most of the population is themselves, if you catch one’s drift. And drift they do, except when they’re a cohesive, functioning unit of scientific and exploratory efficiency; ha-HA, nooope! Ya just couldn’t keep a straight face, could ya?
IN THE CENTER ROCKY OUTCROPPING UNDER IT ALL, NOW HOME TO NEW NEW NEW OLD NEW SQUIDOPOLIS:
Fellow audience members/onlookers Good Old Etiyr and Newcomer Ekrith (Don’t let them know we’re here, either! They don’t get to be part of the in-crowd yet, for their sins), looking up at our sweet, sweet contenders. They’ll be relevant later, but not now. Not now. This moment is for the gladiators.
“What did we do?! What did we do?!” was the general cry aboard the bridge.
“Squid, High Admiral. Squid. Squid.”
The sun was shining now, high above the rocky orifice that led to growing grass and flying birds, casting sharp shadows on one wall and leaving the rest in bioluminescent dimness. In the gloom, Etiyr came to.
There you are
So this was his savior. Insectoid - no, comprised of fucking insects. Ugh. But they were getting away from the water, so fine; drowning wasn’t exactly fun. At least he’d bought some time. He could think about this, cradled in this fucking screaming insect pile’s arms, but one of them was kind of hard and metal and distinctly un-insectlike and if he was having a really, really really bad fucking day was almost certainly okay let’s slam the brakes Barkley it is isn’t it
Stocktake:
1) One metal chassis-body, which, against all odds, he seemed to have become a little accustomed to: out of the boiling water, though cradled in that fucking arm they all had grown to know and hate; *breathe, breathe, wait typewriters don’t breathe* This arm at the very least wasn’t made of magnetic force and miscellaneous scrap metal, but fuck fuck fuckity fuck it just had to keep coming back, didn’t it?
You were there. - The typewriter signalled his host - At the end of the last fucking round, weren’t you. You got the arm. Rocks tumbled from above as their footing slipped; the arm shot out and steadied them as he was juggled from one appendage to another. What are you? What are you now? I had the arm and it fucking killed me - it killed me and didn’t kill me and doesn’t Green-fucking-Bowler-Hat Crumb have it now? Who-
“Our name is Ekrith. We are a shipwright.” They shifted, slightly, and pulled their collective body up another outcropping. The seething water below surged, lapping eagerly at the traces of their arrival. “Spaceships, we are afraid. Not very useful.”
Fucking spaceships. Of course they’re not very- Backtrack. ’Our’? No. No no no no no fuck fuck fuck no. He typed it, for good measure - fuckity fuck no - You’re a zeitgeist. You’re another fucking zeitgeist. So even fucking Crumb can’t think up an original contestant?
We do not understand. What is a contestant? And what are you?
Mister Fucking Collective Noun Ekrith, my name is Etiyr and I’m the last singular mind left on the fucking plane. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get off this flight now-
You wish to be released?
NONONONONONONONONONONONONOFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCFUCKFUCCCCCCCCCCCCKNONONONONONONONONO
Above them the faint light began its fade to grey.
2) One soul. Sort of. A consciousness, at any rate, which had quite missed being free from its metal prison: now with added caveat of possibly becoming free from its metal prison, if he played his cards right.
Nothing changed about me for six rounds. Then all that fucking happens. Or didn’t happen. Or whateverthefuck time is this way round clack. clack. clackity clack. So what happens now? Winding out, he let the paper go. The churning waters below swallowed up the words, obliterating them.
Default: characterized by uniformity and homogeneity, the surface of filthy water reflecting a dirty slate sky: faultless. The beginning and end state of everything, the alpha and omega of the universe.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Default by default.
3) Psychological studies showed that lists with three items in them lent a sense of finality and fulfillment. Sure, it wasn’t going to work for him, but what the hell, maybe someone would find some peace in it all.
Maybe they could just wait it out until Crumb committed Hedonist-cide. Do you think- No. Crumb would almost certainly murder the Hedonist precisely after the point where it wouldn’t matter anymore. Which meant they almost certainly had to proceed through this round in the normal way. All right. Time for some action, then. Nineteen minutes on the clock. Sweetly: Ekrith, could you turn me a bit? I want to see that beachball up there. He tightened his grip on the insectoid’s collective mind. You see that? That’s the other contestant. We’re competing, see; inside there are millions of individual minds that are all hell-bent - and believe me, I know fucking hell-bent - on killing us both. All of you and all of me.
...
So here’s what we’re going to do, okay? We’re going to see if we can’t fucking take them down first. Are you with me?
...we...we do not understand…
He tightened his grip. He felt himself push through, even as his effort spalled little psionic fragments apart from the Ekrith-mind. Fucking hell, he hated gestalt minds. You don’t have to kill anyone, don’t you worry. I just need you to help me. You’ll help me, won’t you?
I’ll help you. But we... we’ll help you... Pseudopodian limbs turned the typewriter as they climbed, platen gleaming as it came into view of Lucky VII above.
Fucking excellent. Spawning paper from hell-knows-where, the Bearer of the Endless Scroll began to type.
-co-co-co-co-
A yellow and purple splash in the default sky, working its way between the cracks; somewhere behind the scenes, someone, someone black and secret grey, someone blossoming into stains flips with great force some kind of universal table,
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
sending flying trillions upon trillions of checkbooks detailing the microtransactions of existence. Electrons exchange photons and find themselves owing each other planets.
Defaulting on default.
“The Bringer of the Third Letter has spoken to us, even unto the channels that inform the Worldship VII about us! Perhaps a lesser deity would have given the worldship a clue of our existence, but not our Unholy Platen; in Its infinite wisdom, Etiyr, champion of the Nine Initiations, has given us this:”
CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCALL RIGHT MY LITTLE FUCKING SUBJECTSAll right - Listen up, cockwits. I don’t fucking know what you want or even pretend to know what’s going on there right now, but whatever the fuck you’re doing, it probably fucking sucks worse ass than a donkey proctologist with a booty fetish and a degree in plastic surgery. SO YOU WANT TO PROVE YOURSELFSo here’s what we’re going to do: first of all, we’re going to start helping each other. Second, we’re going to track down Crumb and smash his fucking face in. THENThird, we’re FUCK going to SHIThave some fucking cake, UPI don’t know.
All of us.
-l-l-l-l-
Welcome aboard Lucky VII. The ship’s command has been somewhat a matter of debate at points, including that one where it was all the points (infinite beatitude of existence!). Point being (or otherwise) was that sense was quite possibly impossible within the confines of our beach ball of wünder.
High Admiral Itzel consternated at her bridge crews. To her left, Pope Itzel consternated at her. To his left, Chief Foreman Itzel consternated at him. And so on.
“This is ridiculous,” Head Dean Itzel said, “I was under the impression that Lucky VII was a University Ship, not some quasi-military donger party.” Her voice rose. “And experimenting with magic? I’ve every mind to resign!”
“Everything is going to be fine!” First Researcher Quirrinal almost-shouted over her; they tapered off as various Quirrinals tried to talk first. “Everything is - is absolutely safe,” Lead Engineer Quirrinal spoke up, addressing the muttering crowd of crews. “We’ve calculated everything within the relevant limits. We even had Magus Quirrinal helping us, but he apparated.”
“And what about Etiyr’s offer? Are we going to just reject it out of hand?”
“You call that an ‘offer’, Diplomat Itzel? It’s more of a threat than anything! I wouldn’t take that offer if it had stock options in Epigen!”
“Well, if we can kill them both, we focus on gloriously defeating Crumb ourselves!”
“How do you propose to do that, Warlord Itzel?”
“Let’s turn to Demolitions Expert Quirrinal…”
As the bridge crews argued, a hand-sized panel in a disregarded weapons section moved aside. Behind it crawled a pale five-digited hand, attached to nothing in particular. Deftly, it reconfigured a few key cables, then tied a black ribbon around them before pulling another key switch. There were some minor burns.
Squid exploded from the roiling water below them all. Some were fried instantly in the air, others lashed out for the nearest rocky outcropping and clung on, to wait for the tide. Others formed advanced civilizations in dark nooks, trapping hapless little mammals for food; their societies inevitably collapsed whenever their food source ran out, turning them to cannibalism. In this way, dried squid jerky is made.
One landed on Lucky VII itself, Etiyr was pleased to note. His pleasure grew as he saw the squid’s determination not to let go, shrink fields or no shrink fields. His pleasure shrank when a tiny family of tiny proto-octopi made his chassis their base of operations against the oppressive squid regime.
Step right up, step right up, step right up folks!! Here it is, the battle you’ve all been waiting for, the moment that you, dear, dear audience, exist only and only to experience! Feast your eyes upon the bout of the century, consume the course set before you, ride the wave and take a goooood gander at:
IN THE LEFT RING:
Onychoteuthis banksii, the common clubhook squid! Betentacled, bewitched, bizarre! But what’s more?! This is no ordinary squid!! Ladies, gentlemen, non-specific and/or less cultured beings:
BANKSII THE SQUID!!!!! That’s right! Quadruple-wielding spray cans and spray tans, chromatophores for the perfect getaway from the cops, shades like nothing you’ve ever seen before (or through, for that matter), the only thing our prize-fighter Banksii here doesn’t have is a hooded sweater for those media anonymity opportunities!
IN THE RIGHT HOOP WHICH IS CLAMPED UNDERNEATH THE LEFT RING:
Itzel iterations, terminal Quirrinal quivers stocked with magical science arrows, this shrunken ship has a tiny massive arsenal like you wouldn’t be spatially challenged to disbelieve! Always stuffy, always such the head of everyone’s private little sphere instead of staying in their own, they were the favorite to run the show, weren’t they? But now the competition is fierce! Heeeeere’s:
EXOPLANET/WORLDSHIP/WHATEVERTHEFUCK “LUCKY” VII!!! A basket of bootlickers, a corral of captains, a dearth of devastating personal revelations and a bloody civilization to boot! Except most of the population is themselves, if you catch one’s drift. And drift they do, except when they’re a cohesive, functioning unit of scientific and exploratory efficiency; ha-HA, nooope! Ya just couldn’t keep a straight face, could ya?
IN THE CENTER ROCKY OUTCROPPING UNDER IT ALL, NOW HOME TO NEW NEW NEW OLD NEW SQUIDOPOLIS:
Fellow audience members/onlookers Good Old Etiyr and Newcomer Ekrith (Don’t let them know we’re here, either! They don’t get to be part of the in-crowd yet, for their sins), looking up at our sweet, sweet contenders. They’ll be relevant later, but not now. Not now. This moment is for the gladiators.
“What did we do?! What did we do?!” was the general cry aboard the bridge.
“Squid, High Admiral. Squid. Squid.”
----
So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime