The Grand Battle II! [Happy End!]

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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"Alright! Places everyone! Get these sets ready! Get some props up here. Tell the makeup artist to be ready! We're gonna give 'em a hell of a show."

Show? Oh, good grief. Makeup artist? For crying out loud. Props...

Ah... well, that wasn't too bad. Maxwell had had the privilege of loitering around Xavier as he helped out the local dramatic society and knew reasonably well what one could achieve with some papier-mache and a bit of imagination. Well, maybe a bit more than a bit, but the point still stood. The idea, however, of being thrust onto a stage, as was the inevitable conclusion of this foreshadowing waffle, and made to play a part? Especially considering that, what with this being a battle and all, it wasn't likely that the contestants would be mincing their way through the Classics, or acting out a neat little murder mystery. He had half a mind to bet that there'd be a gutter at the bottom of the stage just to make sure the orchestra didn't have to play the rather daunting piece, "Blood Red in Death major".

"If you need anything, ask me for it, and I'll see what I can do."

...a ticket out of here, please...

"Ten seconds. Nine. Eight."

Showtime. Cabaret would have bloomin' loved this. Pity on him, poor cha-

Why did he give you the mask? You never settled that line of inquiry, did you Maxwell? The train of thought got somewhat waylaid... it was precious enough for him to want to keep it from damage in the blast, and that means it must most definitely have had or indeed still have some significance, right? So... what does one do with a mask, Maxwell? Come on, it't not that difficult...

In the darkness, peppered only by the pinpricks assumed to be Vyrm'n's stars, Maxwell performed a last minute costume change. It was no rehersal, after all. He'd have to look his best for the crowd; they were expecting it.

And slaughter. I guess they're expecting that as well. I wonder if they know quite what they're going to be getting...

"Showtime."

With storybook timing, the deed was done. If he was honest, Maxwell was rather disappointed with the consequences - he'd expected at least a tingly sensation, or the awfully odd sound of someone tinkling some bells in his ear, but then again, pomp and circumstance was probably not the main concern to the person making a mask for a purpose far from the norm. Mind you, the curtains opening in sync was a nice touch. On the whole then, not bad. Would wear again.

The foremost issue raised by the mask was the fact that it was very likely crafted for the face of the magician especially. Consequently, Maxwell was having difficulty of shaking off the illusion of having a nose far wider than was achievable without being donated to a circus. He was relatively certain someone had just pushed Galus onto the stage, but for all he knew fuzzy blue snot had started flowing from his right nostril. But what was the more likely thing to have happened, considering especially that that was probably a tomato he could make out sailing through the vista offered by his left pupil...

Now, how had Cabaret done it? With the minimum of effort, if memory served. Concentration must play one heck of a role though, which might explain the ex-magician's luck with conjuring...

A flick of the hand, a twist of the wrist, a contortionist's job with the mind, and Maxwell was the proud owner of an exceptionally bemused goldfish, dripping slightly onto his shoes. He had half a mind to try for a bowl to keep the bugger in, but, considering that he'd been aiming for a turkey sandwich...

Oh, the curtains were on fire. Good show, Galus. So, make that one awkwardly large goldfish bowl, complete with two or three taps and a hose for good measure...

Originally posted on MSPA by snoomanwaff.

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Spoiler*Starts clapping* Bravo, Maxwell must have had some prior experience with presdigitation.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

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SpoilerThe fishbowl immediately made me think of Glere in Epic Clash.

Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95.

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SpoilerThe fishbowl immediately made me think of Glere in Epic Clash.

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SpoilerDitto.

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.

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SpoilerHahaha. I was wondering when that mask would show back up. It still has the " :3 " logo on it I assume. I had wondered if the mask gave Cabaret conjuring abilities, or only amplified his pre-existing abilities. Seems that Maxwell has answered that question. (Though an "amplified" Maxwell would have been a scary thing, a physic monster of mental inquiry.)

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SpoilerAlso, I want to change up the way I've been writing. I could really use some critiques from folks that have read my posts.

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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SpoilerI would also appreciate some criticism

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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SpoilerOk... well, seeing's you asked for it, bob xD

One thing that occasionally bugs me is repeating words in proximity. Invariably it makes me go back and check that yes, you have repeated it and breaks the flow of my reading. But maybe that's just me [img]images/smilies/pc_insolent.gif[/img]
Uh... also, on occasion certain phrases feel awkward, or don't convey the imagery you're trying to get through. But again, this may have more to do with my own 'experiences' of words so it might not hold true for other people.

Opirian... I think you've got the same issue too, unless, you know, you want Galus to appear as a bit of a clutz. I always imagined he'd be grizzled and rough, but the way you write makes him come off as hapless more than anything else.

It's why I tend to get so long-winded; because Vyrm'n (in my head, at least) isn't to-the-point and simplistic - her thoughts meander a lot and I try to convey all her facets, which tends to lead to a style somebody described as 'Tolkeinesque'.

...

Yeah, I'm not very good at this xD

Should I reserve? I think so.

Also: Edit of potentially useful note: Stage Director's font colour is the same as Gestalt's. Best we do something about that. Might I suggest #BF0000?

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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The suit so recently associated with The Sunset jerked up from a pile of medieval armor and tottered across the stage. Gestalt was clearly not fully in command of the incredibly complex machine, and was having trouble focusing too much on the intricate mechanisms, its consciousness now spread across several boxes, their contents, and Samuel.

It stumbled to a halt; the auditorium was filled with a sound like feedback and static, which flanged wildly before dialing gradually in towards more listenable tones.

"VVvvvvOOOOOice is A A NOvel exsssssssPERzzzzzerience."

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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Vyrm'n shivered as the Balancer was dragged into the all-consuming dark, fixated upon that final defiant bellow. The Faceless had seen death, even administered it on most occasions. From first awareness to being dragged across incomprehensible space to this Grand Battle, all its life the shadow held the position of being a killer. Vyrm'n had never expressed sentiment one way or the other over this fact. The bequeather of the shadow's present sum life experiences; the researcher's servant; Vyrm, had possessed a detached comprehension of what death meant. Admittedly, to her, having experienced it once before, perhaps it wasn't such a big deal.
Regardless, beauty was another concept that Vyrm found negligible in her life; so in turn Vyrm'n could barely comprehend, let alone savour, free of the shackles of perpetual introspection. Until now.

The Sunset's fading howl was the most invigorating thing the Faceless had ever heard. It had no idea why this peculiar arrangement of atomic pitch stirred up this new emotion within itself; its origin was alien and immune to the grinding gears of Vyrm'n's metacognition.

The shadow had been so engrossed in this new sensation that it did not notice the world disappearing about it. Then, darkness; followed by more darkness with a fresh quality - a new battlefield. With this new-found excitement, Vyrm'n suddenly wanted to fuel it; make this intriguing feeling even more manifest in its quiet song.

"Showtime."

The backstage dark was no impediment to Vyrm'n's vision - if anything, the song of the approaching suited man set her more on edge. It spoke of space folded up and packed away, out of logical sight, with a tantalising ellipsis of a decrescendo that left the rest to one's expansive imagination. As trite as it seemed, with this strange, smoke-wreathed entity, anything truly was possible. The Stage Director exhaled a wreath of smoke which failed to dislodge the cloud hanging about his obscured face.
"Get moving, FAcelESs. You're needed up front." Neither Vyrm'n nor the clouded man noticed the way "Faceless" seemed grafted into that sentence. In fact, the man seemed supremely unconcerned that one of his actors was a seven-foot-tall pillar carved from the night sky. He motioned Vyrm'n along with a hand that had more force behind it than the Faceless was expecting - it was fairly propelled onto stage. The audience, who had been muttering disapprovingly at Gestalt's uninspired soliloquy, acquiesced a few oohs and aahs as the shadow poured onto the stage. Maxwell, who seemed to be entertaining the spectral crowd with some degree of success, turned mid-conjuration to see what the distraction was. He blanched at the sight of the Balancer, and his mind wandered enough to cause a perpetual chain of silk scarves to flow from his greatcoat pocket. Trying his best to make the mistake look deliberate (the mask helped hide his confusion, though it could not disguise his fumbling hands to a bemused audience), Maxwell furiously worked over through his head what he was witnessing.

What the Sunset just said, how it had said it, what in fact it was saying... None of it added up. Its movements jerky, almost puppet-like - though increasing in grace even as he watched through the side of his mask. Voice... looking to the other side, Gestalt noted with some relief to see Vyrm'n pounding onto the stage; definitely smaller, no doubt, but no less magnificent.

It had to be Gestalt. As his train of thought halted, so too did the stream of scarves. Standing up with a flourish, Maxwell took in the polite applause; though he knew what this crowd was assembled here today to see. Vyrm'n slid across the stage, and coiled around him to more lukewarm appreciation. The darkness, warmed slightly by the overbearing stage lights, brushed against the back of Maxwell's neck as the Faceless towered over him.

-What's going on Maxwell- The confusion in Vyrm'n's voice was absolute; encompassing all manner of subjects which were not helping the wellbeing of the Faceless' mind - The crowd, the Stage Director, Cabaret's mask, the smoking suit of violet armour on the other side of the stage - all of it was starting to be too much.

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.

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A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, dimly illuminating the small room. The scent of ammonia wafted though the air. Various bottles of assorted cleaners lined the metal shelves, some open, a few tipped over. A pair of mops cast long narrow shadows which clung to the contours of the gray brick wall. On the floor, shards of glass glittered amidst a canvas of broken ceramic and crushed stone.

The closed door muffled the jeering of the ethereal audience, and any clamoring from the stage was drowned out by the quiet sobbing of the man in the corner. Tears streaked down Samuel's face as the effects of his earlier Karmic exchange began to wear off. The thrill of death faded away, uncovering the shame and guilt which tormented the Karmist. The demons of memory sharpened their claws once more, ready to force upon Samuel the remembrance of all the wrongs he had committed. With his light gone from him, Samuel had no means to stop the oncoming attack.

The last bit of the Karmic haze dissipated, and sharp, painful claws dug into Samuel's mind. A shriek shot along the walls of the room. The glass and ceramic debris trembled with the Karmist as he begged the memories to leave him alone. They persisted, accusing, condemning, producing thousands of images and sensations of the blood-lust that had marked the Karmist's life. In a futile effort to escape their onslaught, Samuel wrapped his consciousness in darkness. The fragments of the shrapnel-arm which lay about him responded in kind. A tightly packed, jagged cocoon enclosed Samuel, muting his cries.

The demons knew this trick and retaliated. Denying Samuel any solace, they pierced his defenses with unyielding ferocity. The poisonous memories flooded into his mental shell, engulfing him, drowning him. The self-destroying Karmist had nothing left to do but scream.

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Having been tossed most unceremoniously to backstage, Galus took some time to brush himself off before choosing to return to the front or revisit the other rooms in the back. He was not too keen on being humiliated again, and his Ursian senses dreadfully hated the scent of tomatoes. A thought crossed his mind to use this opportunity to acquire some new weapons, but was cut short by the sound of a muffled scream coming from a nearby janitor's closet. He took a few steps toward the wooden door but stopped short as a second scream reached his ears. He knew then who he would encounter should he enter that room. A short battle between curiosity and caution waged on in the pilot's mind.

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SpoilerJust FYI, in case it isn't clear. Samuel has cocooned himself up in the janitors closet, so if anyone does enter it, they'll be faced with a big ole ball of shrapnel sitting in the corner.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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SpoilerDon't worry, I already talked to bob. I promise I'm not stepping in his cornflakes.

What used to be the balancer flexed each of its joints in turn; it wasn't a very entertaining performance, and Gestalt's new body didn't exactly fit the medieval scene. The audience that wasn't ogling Vyrm'n was peppering the schrotgolem with boos; it was beginning to notice that it was having more and more trouble controlling itself, especially with any finesse... Maybe this contest's silly rules were worth paying attention to.

But... What did humans find amusing?

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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Reserved.

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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Spoiler*sips soda* I hope work won't prevent me from posting in this to much.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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Dealing with Vyrm'n and the audience at the same time was going to be tricky, worth rounding up to impossible, so Maxwell made the hopeful tactful decision to abandon his ramshackle performance and concentrate on the Faceless instead. A quick glimpse provided him with the knowldge that Gestalt was going to be taking centre stage...

Let's get out of the spotlight, Vyrm'n. You and me have some catching up to do...

Leaving the schrotgolem to take its baby steps in its own time, Maxwell tried his best at "whisking" Vyrm'n and himself away, but, stubbornly refusing to remove the mask until he was far enough from the audience to keep his illusion of a professional attitude in check, this whisk was rather closer to the noun than the verb. The several spirals required to circumnavigate the curtains would have tarnished his reputation even more, were it not for the audience's current bemusement concerning the tottering tower of armour that was trying its hardest not to topple itself. Still, once they could confide in the shadows once more, the mask was off and the connection recieved the appreciation it so throughouly deserved.

It is quieter here, is it not? Much better to explain in the calm...

Admittedly, the biggest problem with this new rendevous was the darkness, but there was no real reason to be fearful of what might happen in it. Well, yes, there was, but Vyrm'n was worried enough as it was...

Forgive me if I come across in a manner quite derogatory, but are you familiar with the idea of "performing"? To do things willingly, or at least with partial consent, for the benefit of others?

...the resultant pause was a tad too long, Maxwell noted. He might have accidentally struck something sinister there...

-Yes-

That was... a bit short. Dare I ask, or do you want some answers. No, no, don't tell me, you-

-want answers. I don't like this one bit, Maxwell-

Yeah, neither do I. The Observer wishes us to perform in front of an audience of... I think it is thousands. They all kinda blur into each other when you look at them; goodness only knows quite how far back their seats go, but they are here to be entertained. And...

Something struck Maxwell. Metaphorically, not literally - the tomatoes had long since been put away for another shocking performance, and instead two and two were put together in quite a violent mental explosion.

I think... I think they are a bit like you, Vyrm'n. I think... I hope, I guess, I believe, I might as well bet on the fact that they get excited... by the prospect of death. I know, Vyrm'n. That you find your fix, for want of a better term, in the demise of others. It must be their songs - the conclusion to any piece has to reek of grandeur; going out with a bang, make a lasting impression, be it through the blood that never quite comes out of the carpet or the mental playback of a scream that harbingers the end. So they ooh and aah at simple conjuring tricks, but that is pity, not praise. Sadist be it, but they want to see someone suffer.

Devil's advocate didn't quite come close. Treading a fine line overestimated the width of the tightrope severly. Cutting it close was only accurate in so far as Maxwell was quite partial to most of his appendages. But it was going to work, wasn't it?

I can't provide them what they want. But I know who can. You can. You find this setting mind-bogglingly confusing, right? So how do you deal with it? You get out. Simple. What the audience want is the same as what you want, when it comes down to it. Pick your foe - it would be rude of me to recommend, but I can think of a being who hardly deserves to breathe, let alone live, not naming any names of course. Sorry, sorry, sorry, but someone's gonna die. I intend to see what I can do about getting us out of this mess and I promise I shall keep my intestines to myself, Vyrm'n. In the meantime, if I can't succeed, and I'm sad to point out that so far I've been fairly futile, there's the other way. And that's your domain to rule.

Privately, half of Maxwell's brain wanted to push the other half out of his ears for what he'd just been thinking. Conversely, the other half was staying as calculating and cold as it could under the heat of the moment, and it was looking for loopholes. Two kinds of loopholes. The kind that would get them out, and the kind that would let his conscience take a break from reality for a while.

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Spoiler*insert mental anguish concerning what I might have brought upon Maxwell's character here*

As a side note, the original draft here had a 134 world sentence in it. I had forgotten, it appears, what a . looked like for some considerable time...

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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SpoilerI should not be finding this such a wonderful turn of events, really I shouldn't...

-You want me to kill Samuel-

Their connection shut off with a snap; only then did Maxwell realise he'd forsaken the spoken word, this time, to talk with the Faceless. Struggling with himself, Maxwell nodded, but Vyrm'n was not satisfied.

-Say it-

Another futile attempt at mental communication, and the genius gave in. "Yes. Vyrm'n, please... I want you to kill Samuel Therion."
The words were, from an atomic viewpoint, nothing special. They energised and oscillated the darkness backstage in a manner both human and Faceless recognised as communication, same as any other sound. With the proclamation, though, came a stream of subtelties beyond a Faceless' comprehension - but not Vyrm'n's. The link reopened again, but the shadow did not respond. Maxwell did not have to read too far into the rush of background thought to know he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake, but some perception of the Faceless had shifted; the cool reflection turning slowly upon some inexplicable axis, and revealing its cold, sharpened edge.

"Y-you don't have to, I sup-" the Faceless cut him off with a mess of thoughts, before the shadow started to shift away, seeking out the Karmist. The only indication was a quiver in the starscape as it was jolted out of its stationary drift. Its usual atomic perception clouded by the alien sensation of betrayl, Vyrm'n shuffled round backstage, sluggishly processing the sense of disappointment and ascertaining exactly what the problem was. Samuel had to die - they both knew Maxwell was lying - of course Vyrm'n had to kill the Karmist. She just never wanted to hear it coming from him.

Maxwell just stood alone in the dark, the smoke of the Stage Director curling round a corner with grey querulousness - a herald for the approaching horror. Still clutching Cabaret's mask in one dejected hand, Maxwell wretchedly waved with the other.

"Vyrm'n... I don't understand-"
The shadow stopped, and rushed at him angrily. The tendril which lashed out was more like a punch. The Faceless wasn't even coherent any more; just a disconnected stream of hopeless frustration. Maxwell pieced together, with a sense of bewilderment, the cause of Vyrm'n's conflict from the fragments of memory the Faceless dredged up in its attempts to rationalise its reaction. A known lifetime of spending day after day killing, in unknowingly fruitless pursuit of some barely-understood truth, out of a sense of knowingly archaic duty for another, streamed through the black fist in that single tap of contact before the man was knocked down.

The drifting stars and that snaky curl of smoke were the only discernible movement backstage, until Vyrm'n slunk away in a swirl of pinprick lights. A dull crash indicated to a still-prone Maxwell the Faceless was taking its frustration out on the set en route to the supply closet, where it knew Samuel was hiding.

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SpoilerSorry for the short post; about twelve different things I've gotta get done today and for some reason I put fulfilling my reserve for this at the top of the list...

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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Gestalt was dripping with tomato by now and barely able to control its new appendage at all. It wobbled hopelessly, unable to come up with any plan what would placate these howling figments; a prompter in the wings rolled his eyes at the suit and hissed "Come on, just fight something for crying out loud."

An idea crystallized in the span of a moment, and Gestalt raised The Sunset's SMG; at the same time, it forced the piles of armor to stand up in an approximation of a group of knights, swords raised and charging. A hail of bullets cut down the "warriors", which dramatically collapsed, one by one.

"FFFooooOOlish KNIIght-moooRTals! Is NOne POwerFUL ENouUUUGH to ssszzzzssstAAnd agAINst me, THE DEEmon of SUNest?"

Gestalt had little to no idea where that thought had come from: maybe it was the remnants of his link with Samuel; it might have been some sort of recovered memories from its time in its own world; for all it knew, it might have something to do with the nature of this theater-world. All the schrotgolem cared about was that it felt its power returning, and the audience's hisses and boos were turning to quiet interest and scattered cheers.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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What had he done? Well, he'd done a bad thing, that was for sure. A bit too hopeful, a bit too arrogant, a bit too reliant on the misplaced belief that somehow, things could turn out alright. On the other hand, Maxwell had achieved his aims, hadn't he? Samuel was with all likelihood a dead man thanks to that conversation. That man was perhaps the last person he'd want to be lugged with power over life and death, but (and this thought intruded quite undesirably), was it perhaps the case that such an ability had warped the mind of the man? No, no, no; could he not have chosen to ignore it? Could he have steered clear of the opportunities for evil control over his "karma" gave him? Were he a man wrought from good, surely. But he manipulated it for his own personal gain, and that, that was what sickened Maxwell to the point where he believed he had to die. Life, no matter from what perspective you might choose to view it, was precious indeed. He'd had that drilled in to his mind a long time ago and he saw no reason to pull out and destroy that ideal.

"Ideal". Pah. It wasn't ideal in the slightest. It meant that he just couldn't quite face the daunting prospect of murdering another person... well, more like entity in this case, but the point still stood, towering counterproductively over his conscience, a sentinel seeking any misdemeanour he might try to slip past. The past few minutes, for example. He was guilty, plain and simple. He hadn't done the deed himself, but he'd willingly unleashed Vyrm'n upon Samuel and there was nothing he could do to stop her. Having felt the sheer strength of her ability to slaughter, having perceived the vigour with which murder filled her, he knew he'd only gone and sealed the fate of anyone who dared get in her way.

"And, sooner or later, that someone's going to be me, isn't it?"

That had most certainly been spoken aloud. It had needed to be said. At some point, hopefully either very far in the future or relatively soon, Vyrm'n wasn't going to have much choice. She could kill; he couldn't. Therefore, one had a distinct advantage over the other...

"Now what the hell are you doin' on the floor there?"

That voice, to the best of Maxwell's knowledge, belonged to the director of the sombre drama. He wondered how much the poor bugger knew...

"That's actually quite a good question... to be honest, I'm not so sure qui-"

"Honestly, you thespian types... I should have hired a bunch of cats instead, they'd be easier to work with than you lot. Do you not realise the trouble you and your friends are causing me at the moment? One of you, one of my cast, has gone and locked himself in the janitor's closet and's crying his bleedin' heart out as we speak. That's not how you entertain an audience! It never has been and it never will! For goodness sake, do me a favour and get out there and act! At least one of you has enough sense, but I'd like it better if you all could, you know, do what you're here to do, alright?"

With noticeable embarrassment, Maxwell rose and saw fit to dust himself down before engaging in any form of contact with the presumed director. The man was dressed in a manner that was perhaps a tad too tidy, with an surreally clean suit and... well, any attempt at describing his head and hair and the way he styled those would be somewhat thwarted by the lack of it. Or at least, the illusion that he lacked it. Obviously he'd made a sound or two, but was that proof of the existence of a mouth behind the substantial shroud of smoke that surrounded the place where one would seek it? Of course, the rational explanation was the cigar securely grasped in his hand, but that was not at all rational when Maxwell considered the vast quantity of the haze...

...woah, woah, hold on there. Pay attention to the man, Maxwell!

The genius and improptu actor steeped his fingers, and, with a slight tilt to his head, put on his best inquisitive look. His best wasn't actually all that good, being silly enough to sometimes make the person he wished to question burst out into laughter, but then the stage director was probably not the type of person to chuckle at anything lacking in several coatings of thickest irony.

"You say someone's holed themselves up somewhere? I guess that's Samuel, right?"

"How the hell should I know? I only know someone's in there because of the racket they're making... if he's the one most capable of shrieking his heart out, then yes, most definitely..."

"Look, where's the closet. I... I might try, you know, having a word..."

There was a palpable sigh from behind the cloud.

"Do you need directions, really, when all you have to do is head towards the biggest noise in the building that isn't on my stage?"

"No... I suppose not... one last question... how much have you got this place insured for?"

On that feebly cryptic note, Maxwell fled flawlessly in a direction picked not entirely at random, leaving the director thoroughly confused about the sanity of his last minute cast and suddenly rather aware to the fact that he hadn't had any SMG's given out to any of the actors...

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There were three assumptions that Maxwell was currently surviving on. The first was that Vyrm'n was quite reluctant to kill Samuel - this seemed a relatively safe bet, considering the amount of trouble the Faceless was going to to create havoc en route. The second was that Samuel was not the sort of person to kill on sight, evidenced by the way he toyed with him in the previous round in the manner that all good villains are obliged to.

The third was that he could either conjure up or steal a kettle as soon as was humanly possible.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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Galus had decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and that intruding on a psychopathic killer with magic powers having an emotional breakdown was not the wisest of choices. He scuttled back towards the stage, reasoning that those acrid fruit the audience loved throwing were a lot more harmless than... Whatever Samuel was capable of.

The Urisian arrived in the wings just in time to see "the Demon of Sunset" issue a challenge. Matthews was nothing if not resourceful, and an idea popped into his head. A quick conversation with one of the stage-hands provided him with what he needed, and he prepared to make his big stage debut.

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Gestalt was laughing maniacally through The Sunset's throat, grinding one of the knights' helmets into the ground with The Sunset's foot, and desperately hoping someone would show up before the audience got bored again. Its new auditory sensors picked up a voice from across the stage, and it swung its new eyes up to see what was going on.

"I, Galus, Wizard of Ceres, will slay you, demon!"

The pilot had donned a tattered blue robe and eschewed his helmet, and was waving a balsa staff in his off hand. Gestalt roared and loosed a flurry of bullets at him, missing by a wide margin; Galus dove dramatically out of the way, doing his best to make it look like he had been in real danger.

"Taste my magic, vile beast!"

He spun his staff dramatically and squeezed off several shots from his pistol; the bright energy streaked towards the schrotgolem, who "barely" managed to sidestep in time.

"YoOOOO'll hhkkhhave to DOOO BEtter than THAAKT, pUUUny wizazazarrrrd!"

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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SpoilerI aplogize for not posting, I'm still sick... and that was great SO

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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One of the most common methods utilised by soul-weary beings to supposedly calm their minds, often practised in religions where meditation plays an important part in the associated ideaology, is generally referred to as the lotus position. This entails sitting cross-legged in a manner whereby the feet (and by nature, the legs) somehow find their respective ways to the opposite thigh from whence they came, where they settle for as long as the entity in charge wants to be at peace with themselves.

In theory, it's not a half bad idea, encouraging physical stability and calming breathing. However, when the limit of one's acrobatic adroitness is falling out of bed every morning and just about being able to get up afterwards; when one is relatively certain that, no, that's not generally what shape my leg is supposed to form when I move it like that; when you are currently harbouring a shotgun underneath your coat that does a remarkable job at hampering your ability to sit down; when you are worried that the whole ordeal is making you desperate to discover the nearest lavatory; when you're feeling less stability, more stabbity - the only positive effect it had on the mind was making Maxwell realise that focusing the mind was probably not going to help his ability to conjure objects any more accurately, unless what he was trying to summon was the concept of pure pain, or death to all his enemies (including all of the writers of those silly books that stressed at great length the benefits of properly carried out yoga in maintaining one's lifestyle that had, by some intrinsic sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-clause of the multiverse, to dot themselves innocently about library shelves, just waiting patiently to be picked up by unsuspecting and curious passers-by...)

On the plus side, though, he was now the proud owner of a nice purple towel that felt remarkably soft for something that hadn't existed six seconds previously and - thank heavens - a sandwich of rather nondescript composition, looking potentially more ancient than would have been truly appreciated, but, hey, it was food!

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SpoilerI am relatively certain that sentences are not supposed to be 212 words long. I am relatively certain that that is the case. I am also relatively certain that I have an abominably massive cold and henceforth I really couldn't care less about that fact if it came up to me in the street one day and tried to mug me for all I was worth, including the removal of most of my vital organs for sale on the black market - at least it would stop them hurting so much...

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.

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There were not enough props to break. A costume rack lay flung on the ground, the tacky clothing left in tatters. A pair of cardboard horses, heads crushed and crumpled from the mane up, had suffered one-too-many bashings against the wooden panels. An airborne spool table splintered against a cement wall, scattering broken shards along the spotlit floor. Unlike the convoluted corridors of the escherscape, the countless deathtraps of the amusement park, and the dual worlds of the labyrinth field, the distractions in the Auditorium were sparse.

Vrym'n whipped about, searching for another object whose destruction was inconsequential. She was no more than a few meters from Samuel's makeshift cell, and the grating cries of the Karmist did little to assist her attempts at self-diversion. Black claws ripped into a nearby curtain, thousands of threads snapping at the faceless' indecision.

You have lost yourself, Vyrm'n.

Vyrm'n froze. She had not heard this voice before, and yet she knew what it was. It was sound without song, consciousness without substance. It produced the same feeling in her as the voice in the Escherscape, but more focused and intelligible.

What are you?

Vyrm'n, the Voice responded, a tinge of sarcasm in its tone, I'm hurt. After eons together, you cannot recognize me? You truly are far gone.

Each word echoed through the Faceless. Every statement confirmed the fact that Vyrm'n knew could not exist.

I am your Void, Vyrm'n, and I want you back.

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In the janitors closet, the incessant wailing of the Karmist rose to a climax, and then ceased.

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Spoilerwow bob, what lousy edit, it's almost as if you reserved, forgot you reserved, ran out of time, and then rushed to post the minimum amount of information at the very end. [img]images/smilies/mspa_face.gif[/img] Well hopefully others can post with this now.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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The stars drifted onward, oblivious to the ripples that had been cast beneath the surface. Vyrm'n's mind raced as she frantically processed this information. The voice did not respond as it watched the shadow's thoughts turn over, until Vyrm'n finally replied, in a cautiously deduced tone.

Liar.

The remorselessness manifest found this proclamation amusing, but didn't ask for proof. It had already seen what logic Vyrm'n had employed to reach this conclusion - and besides, she was right. The Faceless was even stiller than usual; tensed, almost; as though she feared the monster would strike at the slightest perceived provocation. A query flickered from one darkness to the next, the voice considering its answer for a moment. It could tell Vyrm'n would be mistrustful no matter what it said, so it sufficed with a joke.

I'm your conscience, then. An unseen grin tainted the voice. The vestiges of Vyrm made the Faceless want to rub her non-existent temples; frankly, between Maxwell, Samuel, and this whole battle, she didn't want to think about anything else. Ever. Consciousness flicking distastefully towards the rent curtain fibres drifting through the air, the shadow slid over to beside the closet door, where the new-found silence was something of a comfort.

You don't want to go in there.

You don't want me to go in there. Vyrm'n spat this uncharacteristically perceptive remark in acid tones, but did not reach for the door. Instead, her focus shifted perceptibly away, and the Faceless stood in its externally uninteresting equivalent of a sulky hunch.

Conscience- the voice had no idea whether the shadow was being humoured by a generally humourless creature, or whether the Faceless had bought the story. Either way, she sounded distinctly resigned. Did he send you- a rapid riffle through Vyrm'n's thinking, then double-checking a reference to something the insidious entity had not been previously aware of. The Faceless didn't even let the voice respond; the swiftly curtailed foray of its curious tendrils confirmed the Researcher was not behind this. Enough thought sloshed through, thanks to the rhythmical ebb and flow of pain that was The Sunset's mark upon the seemingly impermeable beast. The voice considered what it saw, then finally replied snidely:

Would it be easier if he did?

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SpoilerUgh, out of time. Continuation'll either be up in a few hours, or a few days depending on what happens.

Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.

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SpoilerPhoo! I just finished reading this. I have to say, the writing here is excellent.

I have yet to read the others, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I love this one the best.

My attitude may or may not change after I read the other ones.

Anyways, MORE POSTS FASTER LONGER

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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SpoilerAww, shucks

Gestalt charged across the stage, The Sunset's feet slamming noisily on the wooden floor; Galus raised his staff and shook it, yelling gibberish and making pushing motions. Gestalt took the hint and fell backwards, arms pinwheeling and SNG harmlessly peppering the wall and ceiling with bullets. It clambered back to its feet and retreated slightly, shouting "AAAAARRRise, NNnnnnecrOTIC SEEEERRVVkkkkantsszzz!"

The schrotgolem stood the bullet-riddled knights back up and had them lumber across the stage, swinging their swords blindly. As Galus picked them off one by one with his "magic missiles", The Sunset's coilgun was charging, filling the auditorium with a hum, then a whine, then a scream. The last zombie fell, its helmet blown to a smoking pile of slag, and the Usrisian looked up to a blast of purple energy hurtling towards him. There was no way he could avoid the blast, and with what he assumed was his last thought cursed the golem; his arms shielded his face, inadvertently bringing the staff up. Galus's eyes squeezed shut, and he waited for inevitable, searing death.

There was a loud hiss and crackle, but a distinct lack of vaporized torsos, so the pilot risked opening his eyes. He was shocked to see a glowing, now-fading, magical shield hovering in front of him, and surprised to notice the tip of his shoddy staff glowing weakly. And cracking slightly. A slow smile spread across his face, and he pointed what no longer looked like a useless prop at his opponent. This was going to be more fun than he realized.

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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Spoilerhuzzah I am no longer that sick, so now I shall catch up in this at my best chance.