RE: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round... Uh, Seven? The Oasis]
12-31-2014, 12:35 AM
You know, it was always something. Always. Something. Whether it was pancakes that could drown you in syrup what is a pancake or timestream lemurs we do not recognize lemurs or communist bee guns which doesn't even make sense bees? it was always something stupid. I shouldn't be surprised to see squids is that a squid leaping all over the place and graffitiing my arch-nemesis, I really shouldn't. Apparently it's not bad enough to make us all kill each other you keep mentioning killing, we do not understand why the bastards have to make everything as nonsensical as possible on top of it do you really have no idea what's going on?
Etiyr finally stopped its mental tirade long enough for Ekrith to get a thought in edgewise.
We do not. We were headed towards the breakroom, when suddenly we were gone. There was an arthropod and a message and a sense of duty, and we were gone again. We were here, told we were hated, told to kill, then we were overcome. I remember that part. You lost it and started shrieking and I think you passed out. I suppose it would be too much to ask for a minion that wasn't totally worthless and you know what forget I said that last bit, I'm just a bit distracted lately. How about instead you just keep getting us away from that nasty rusting water and I'll fill you in.
Ekrith's steady progress away from the all-but-boiling subterranean lake had slowed significantly since Banksii's arrival, mostly so they could watch in baffled curiosity as the squid wrangled the worldship and doggedly made hamtentacled social and political statements in black and white across its surface. Etiyr almost laughed as Lucky was given the smiley face he had wished for it; it didn't occur to him that there might have been any connection between his internal monologue and reality. It was just a coincidence. At the typewriter's urging, Ekrith began to move again.
Fill us in on what, exactly? Well, my little zeitgeist, my crawly little hive mind in a hive, you've had the rather bad luck of winning the multiverse's worst sweepstakes. Publisher's Clearing Slaughterhouse, I like to think of it, and no don't ask you won't get that joke. You don't need to, move on. See that little tunnel over there? Let's head that way. Thing is, this big fat lump of shit somehow ended up with the power to rewrite reality, and apparently the best use for that he could come up with is abducting random upstanding citizens of reality and telling them to kill each other. I am, of course, not a fan of his. Turns out, neither is his assistant, which might be good news for us, except his assistant hates us almost as much as he hates his boss. Don't grab that, it'll break and you'll fall and drop me. Can't have that. So now we either have to play along, and I shouldn't have to tell you how much I don't like being told what to do, or row as hard as we can and fight the power. That's what I've been trying to do for a while now, but the big old metal menace getting its collective ass kicked by calamari right now is apparently more interested in looking out for numbers one through one trillion than playing nice and going against the rules. Keeps killing off the other contestants, which means it's only a matter of time before it comes after you.
The Afu was having a fairly easy time avoiding dangerous wildlife; being able to sense their thoughts before their more literal senses could pick anything up left plenty of mental energy for mostly not understanding the strange circles the typewriter thought in. Why would they do that? Hell if I know, which let me tell you is either the most or the least appropriate expression I could use right now. See, you and me, we've got a good rapport. I can hear you, you can hear me, you're in enough little pieces that if I'd rather you didn't hear something I said, we can just push that aside no trouble. Just like that. Lucky, though, and that's what old murderball calls itself by the way, Lucky is lots and lots of little minds too. Not like you, though, lots of actual complete individual personalities. Tiny tiny little brains, all scurrying around working at cross purposes. Makes communication pretty hard, and it keeps killing off my other friends that can talk with their mouths instead of just a keyboard. It's become clear there's no talking to it. Murdered poor Elimine, dear little Gabe, even AMP, fractured fucker that he was. And that's why I need your help. There's a big evil for us to tackle if we want to survive this, but first we've got to look at the smaller evil and take care of that.
What do you want us to– Before they could finish that thought, Ekrith dropped Etiyr; he couldn't really see what had happened to them, but he had to assume it had something to do with the vines lashing at their limbs, or maybe the dripping floral "mouth" descending towards their… head? Top? Whatever. While Etiyr lay on the floor, clacking helplessly, he couldn't help but wonder what force – cosmic, divine, or otherwise – kept ensuring that any time he had a reasonably-not-useless thrall, they got themselves killed in the stupidest ways possible before he got any real benefit out of them. This one had probably been the shittiest of all, but at least it'd had arms and legs.
Then, as he watched, Ekrith apparently-instinctually reached for a hammer at their belt, arm stretching to swing at the petal-rimmed maw. It shouldn't have mattered: the apparently-thoughtless plant thing had been moving so quickly that it seemed impossible the clumsy alien would be able to strike it, but as the hammer rose and fell, it slowed down. In fact, the faster the hammer moved, the slower the plant – no, everything – did. By the time it struck, Ekrith was the only thing Etiyr could perceive that hadn't just frozen. There was a quickly-stifled shriek, an explosion of pink and green and sinew and sap, and everything crashed back into normalcy.
Huh. Maybe this one wasn't so shitty after all.
Thirteen minutes or thereabouts left, although if Etiyr was reading things correctly and played his cards right, that might only be technically accurate.
Etiyr finally stopped its mental tirade long enough for Ekrith to get a thought in edgewise.
We do not. We were headed towards the breakroom, when suddenly we were gone. There was an arthropod and a message and a sense of duty, and we were gone again. We were here, told we were hated, told to kill, then we were overcome. I remember that part. You lost it and started shrieking and I think you passed out. I suppose it would be too much to ask for a minion that wasn't totally worthless and you know what forget I said that last bit, I'm just a bit distracted lately. How about instead you just keep getting us away from that nasty rusting water and I'll fill you in.
Ekrith's steady progress away from the all-but-boiling subterranean lake had slowed significantly since Banksii's arrival, mostly so they could watch in baffled curiosity as the squid wrangled the worldship and doggedly made hamtentacled social and political statements in black and white across its surface. Etiyr almost laughed as Lucky was given the smiley face he had wished for it; it didn't occur to him that there might have been any connection between his internal monologue and reality. It was just a coincidence. At the typewriter's urging, Ekrith began to move again.
Fill us in on what, exactly? Well, my little zeitgeist, my crawly little hive mind in a hive, you've had the rather bad luck of winning the multiverse's worst sweepstakes. Publisher's Clearing Slaughterhouse, I like to think of it, and no don't ask you won't get that joke. You don't need to, move on. See that little tunnel over there? Let's head that way. Thing is, this big fat lump of shit somehow ended up with the power to rewrite reality, and apparently the best use for that he could come up with is abducting random upstanding citizens of reality and telling them to kill each other. I am, of course, not a fan of his. Turns out, neither is his assistant, which might be good news for us, except his assistant hates us almost as much as he hates his boss. Don't grab that, it'll break and you'll fall and drop me. Can't have that. So now we either have to play along, and I shouldn't have to tell you how much I don't like being told what to do, or row as hard as we can and fight the power. That's what I've been trying to do for a while now, but the big old metal menace getting its collective ass kicked by calamari right now is apparently more interested in looking out for numbers one through one trillion than playing nice and going against the rules. Keeps killing off the other contestants, which means it's only a matter of time before it comes after you.
The Afu was having a fairly easy time avoiding dangerous wildlife; being able to sense their thoughts before their more literal senses could pick anything up left plenty of mental energy for mostly not understanding the strange circles the typewriter thought in. Why would they do that? Hell if I know, which let me tell you is either the most or the least appropriate expression I could use right now. See, you and me, we've got a good rapport. I can hear you, you can hear me, you're in enough little pieces that if I'd rather you didn't hear something I said, we can just push that aside no trouble. Just like that. Lucky, though, and that's what old murderball calls itself by the way, Lucky is lots and lots of little minds too. Not like you, though, lots of actual complete individual personalities. Tiny tiny little brains, all scurrying around working at cross purposes. Makes communication pretty hard, and it keeps killing off my other friends that can talk with their mouths instead of just a keyboard. It's become clear there's no talking to it. Murdered poor Elimine, dear little Gabe, even AMP, fractured fucker that he was. And that's why I need your help. There's a big evil for us to tackle if we want to survive this, but first we've got to look at the smaller evil and take care of that.
What do you want us to– Before they could finish that thought, Ekrith dropped Etiyr; he couldn't really see what had happened to them, but he had to assume it had something to do with the vines lashing at their limbs, or maybe the dripping floral "mouth" descending towards their… head? Top? Whatever. While Etiyr lay on the floor, clacking helplessly, he couldn't help but wonder what force – cosmic, divine, or otherwise – kept ensuring that any time he had a reasonably-not-useless thrall, they got themselves killed in the stupidest ways possible before he got any real benefit out of them. This one had probably been the shittiest of all, but at least it'd had arms and legs.
Then, as he watched, Ekrith apparently-instinctually reached for a hammer at their belt, arm stretching to swing at the petal-rimmed maw. It shouldn't have mattered: the apparently-thoughtless plant thing had been moving so quickly that it seemed impossible the clumsy alien would be able to strike it, but as the hammer rose and fell, it slowed down. In fact, the faster the hammer moved, the slower the plant – no, everything – did. By the time it struck, Ekrith was the only thing Etiyr could perceive that hadn't just frozen. There was a quickly-stifled shriek, an explosion of pink and green and sinew and sap, and everything crashed back into normalcy.
Huh. Maybe this one wasn't so shitty after all.
Thirteen minutes or thereabouts left, although if Etiyr was reading things correctly and played his cards right, that might only be technically accurate.