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GBCE · 02-21-2010, 07:38 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.

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GBCE · 02-26-2010, 02:08 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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SleepingOrange · 03-01-2010, 12:27 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

The Balancer's erstwhile suit backhanded a fireball, the metal pinging as it expanded but showing no real signs of damage. Gestalt was fascinated by this new development, but a little worried. What it had taken for just a stick, a prop, was channeling powerful magic, yet... Even as it inserted a bit of its consciousness into the thing, it still just felt like a stick! Staves and rods and other magical paraphernalia all felt magical, and their purpose was as implicit and obvious to the schrotgolem as the concept of green or blue was to a human with sight. Puzzling.

Gestalt was also a bit worried that it was in danger of becoming a one-trick pony. Well, a two-trick one, but the point was that the SMG and coilgun had already been used, and while impressive, were starting to lose their luster. The golem needed to come up with a new trick. Galus was chanting gibberish and pounding the base of his staff on the ground, clearly charging up some sort of powerful, devastating spell; well, Gestalt reasoned, two could play at the magic game.

It raised the Sunset's hands slowly and shakily, vocalizing something that approximated a grunt of exertion, then jerked them up violently. It sent some of its power into the floor, buckling and rolling the boards of the stage, sending a rolling hill of wood towards the "wizard"; Galus raised his eyebrows and threw himself to the side: unable to completely avoid the attack, he was sent pinwheeling sideways and crashed into a pile of lifeless armor. He picked himself up, wearing an expression of half stage fury and half real anger and pointed his staff at his enemy.

"Alright demon, it's time we end this."

**Schazer** · 03-01-2010, 05:12 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

Vyrm'n didn't answer the voice. She found herself incapable of doing so; and the tenuous points that may have, in some future more conducive to introspection, formed the basis for an answer hinted at something that left the Faceless uneasy with itself. The voice lurked in the darkest corners of the dark being. The idle threat of its mere presence, spontaneously, became that much more immediate - by a movement that may or may not've been a cruelly self-inflicted trick of an eye weary from standing vigil all that lonesome inner night. The voice's next words were trailing... curious, but self-aware of the inarguable intrusiveness.

I fail to understand, Vyrm'n, what your fascination is with those... weaklings.

It avoided the prior mocking tones, but the Faceless bristled anyway - Maxwell - The shadow, again, could not continue coherently - its myriad threads of logic drifting, anchorless and formless, through its dark mind.

The twisted mockery of conscience idly traced the thought to its source; its frown shifting into a smirk as it twined around and ensnared it, refusing to relinquish its crushing grip.

What about him? Hm? Obligation, again? Is it better, somehow, when you know it's self-enforced? Evidently you've deluded yourself it must be - but why him, then?Vyrm'n didn't like that, and a trebuchet-worthy hole in a plywood castle backdrop just illustrated the point. Shouldn't die was all the Faceless could force out through its rising temper.

Why him? Why not any of the others? The Galus boy is probably more use to fulfill whatever passing whims which seem to qualify as desires in you. Much more knowledgeable, at any rate.

He's... just another murderer. Maxwell - the mental shuffle between present and past tense was tangible to the pair - he's different. The previously steady tones of the ancient being now had a quality almost absurdly contrasting - Vyrm'n was in significant distress, and were she capable of it, close to tears.

Despite your dogged belief that he would be above thinking such thoughts, he would evidently stoop to such levels were it his own survival on the line.
Vyrm'n said nothing, but the stars were trembling.

If you're really that desperate to save him, kill the others. Kill the Observer, even. If you all escaped, what stops him from plucking Maxwell from his universe again?

... There'll be a way. Maxwell's looking.

You don't believe that. You only reluctantly helped the Sunset, and only in the hope of saving your precious Maxwell, for reasons you cannot even explain to yourself, it seems. You felt the Balancer's desperation; you felt him die. You didn't bemoan an opportunity lost to escape, you savoured his final cries. No, I'm not disgusted with you, the insidious entity added hastily, I'm not that kind of conscience. It snickered.

In fact, I can propose a way out of this ridiculous self-indulgent guilt you insist on wrapping yourself in. That boy, for once, spoke truth. Your domain to rule, out on that stage, your heroics not derided by this conscience which you seem so unrequitedly attached to, but celebrated by thousands - no - millions.

Now Vyrm'n, get out there. They're waiting.

GBCE · 03-01-2010, 05:19 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.

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SleepingOrange · 03-06-2010, 12:35 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

Gestalt was ready to cut the wizard-née-spaceman down in a storm of flying blades, when a thought occurred: for the purposes of this little scene, the golem was the villain. The villain can't win; the audience doesn't expect it, they don't want it, and they won't like it. In the still-unstable mind of Gestalt, pleasing the crowd had superseded killing its opponents: who knew what sort of deus ex machina this place was capable of pulling if things didn't go according to the rules of drama?

To that end, it waved the Sunset's hands, sending the swords across the stage like it had planned, but slowed them to the point that Galus had no trouble intercepting them, raising magical shields and batting them away with his staff. The Sunset's voice simulator roared with feigned rage, and the suit charged lumberingly across the stage, swinging its arms at lethal, but dodgeable, speeds.

Galus had no idea what was wrong with this thing; he'd heard about it brutally and efficiently swarming foes; he'd seen the way it could attack before. And yet, it was almost as though it wasn't even trying now; aside from the coilgun blast, not a thing it had done today hadn't been easily counterable. Still, the pragmatic pilot was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth; maybe contact with Samuel had broken it, or it wasn't accustomed to controlling this sort of body. Didn't matter; what mattered was the approaching juggernaut.

There was no way to deflect an eight-ton robot charging you, in Galus's experience, so this was going to have to be one hell of a finishing move. He wished he actually understood how to make this stick work, but it seemed to do about what he wanted it to. He concentrated, keeping the staff pointed directly at the oncoming golem, muttering suitably arcane-sounding gibberish. The staff vibrated, its tip cracking more and more, glowing bright blue and making a sound like silk being ripped. This had better work...

Gestalt was beginning to consider slowing down to give Galus time to finish whatever he was doing; the golem was nearly withing punching range, and the Urisian showed no signs of being any closer to unleashing his spell than when Gestalt had been all the way across the stage. It let one of the Sunset's steps falter just as there was a blinding flash of blue-white light and a sound like the air was being torn apart molecule by molecule. Galus's staff exploded into splinters, and a pulse of energy hit squarely in the Sunset's chest. It catapulted the suit over backwards, sending it sliding across the stage and smoking. The wizard too was struck with some backlash; he tottered backwards, colliding with a fake tree and leaning against it.

Gestalt raised its new toy's head, vocalizing a few threats, each quieter and more distorted than the last, then let its puppet collapse. Galus, for his part, slid down the trunk to a sitting position. "One step closer to freedom."

The stage manager whistled under his breath. He was nothing if not able to take a dramatic cue, and gestured to have the curtain closed. It slid shut on a scene of blasted field, dead knights, and a battered wizard letting his eyes close as the defeated demon gently smoked. He nodded, insofar as it was visible through the smoke, and waved a small crew onto the stage.

Galus was expecting any minute to be whisked off to another bizarre world and be forced to jump through even more strange hoops, but for the moment, he could rest his eyes. Or so he thought: as soon as the curtains were fully shut, a handful of men with brooms and sanders and boxes and other tools swarmed the stage, removing the props and repairing the floor and doing other seemingly-pointless things with great speed and unnatural efficiency. One of them picked the pilot up bodily and held him until his cohort had removed the tree, then plopped the increasingly-confused alien back on the ground. Galus looked up, surprised to still be on this stage; he was even more surprised to see the Sunset stand up, clicking and whirring as its self-repair systems activated under the efficient guidance of Gestalt.

"Wait a second, I thought I..."

"Yyuuuuuu did verrrry well ooooout there. Ckkkkshonvincing stuffp."

"You mean that was all-"

Before he could finish, Galus was interrupted by the booming voice of the stage manager. "Alright, nice work out there but we're on a timetable for act two. Or play two I suppose. Whatever, you know what I mean.

Either of you... boys? Either of you two boys have a preference for setting, or should we just keep ya guessing? You seem to have a knack for improv."

**Schazer** · 03-08-2010, 08:35 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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GBCE · 03-08-2010, 01:03 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by snoomanwaff.

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**Schazer** · 03-13-2010, 02:44 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

Vyrm'n struggled half-heartedly with conscience briefly, before giving up and skulking for the wings. It took all of her will not to glance back toward Maxwell or the supply closet. Her vision was turned inward, the pulses of identification restricted to furtive, resentful glances.

Conscience, coiled around its black, beaten prize that was Vyrm'n's heart, grinned.

Through the mess of backdrops and props that cluttered the darkness, the stars migrated noiselessly - yet the smoke-clad visage of the Stage Director turned expectantly towards the approaching shadow.

"Finally ready to join us, are you?"

Vyrm'n didn't nod, move, or show any kind of agreement beyond radiating something akin to sullen resignation. A hand slid from a pocket and clapped her encouragingly on what, in the Stage Director's eyes, qualified as a shoulder. A moment of indecision coursed through the Faceless, as it envisioned the immaterial trail that wreath of smoke would trace through the eternity; were the man to lose his footing and plunge into endlessness.

The hand lifted, and so did Vyrm'n's daze. The man shoved again with more force than seemed physically possible upon the Faceless, sliding her towards Galus and Gestalt. As her atomic vision surveyed the two, the shadow was momentarily blinded by - some quality of the pair, a new aural thread that snaked its way through the shifting weave.

Vyrm'n, foremost, was blown away by how powerful this new tone was. It energised the Urisian and the Schrotgolem, both rendered radiant with its force. And yet... its source was a different plane of reality to the one they all occupied. The Faceless would've pursued it, attuning itself to the harmonic of this reality, but the tone was already so loud here that Vyrm'n had no inclination to chase it to where it could scream her out of existence. Snapping back to reality and appraising the pair for any sign out of the ordinary beyond these exultant auras, the shadow took the perpetuation of The Sunset's suit in her stride. The Balancer no longer resided there: he simply no longer resided. The thought, somehow, pleased Vyrm'n, filling her with the dull glow of unheeded satisfaction. She idly wondered whether this was the roar that permeated the two contestants in front of her; but an uninterested glance told the Faceless it was not.

Gestalt studied the still-musing Vyrm'n with some trepidation; its still-developing "theatrical" mindset was warning the golem of the Faceless' possible deficiencies in its skill upon the stage. As far as the golem knew, Vyrm'n was a forward, direct creature - brutally so. Gestalt was doubtful if its Faceless mind were even capable of understanding the concept of "acting", let alone being negotiated to do so. Gestalt's consciousness examined the shadow, but it seemed hunched; unresponsive to the schrotgolem's queries. Before it could probe further, the Stage Director returned and was ushering them onto the stage, whispering, "Some of the set was damaged, so work with what you've got!"

Gestalt turned, with some trepidation, toward the hulking dark even as the Stage Director hurried them onward. Galus had already marched on, but by the sound of it had forcibly collided with a large piece of set that hadn't been there before. The schrotgolem noted with some relief as a hand slipped in front of Vyrm'n, obstructing her way onstage. A stream of dragonbreath smoke coiled around the solid shadow, before the man muttered,

"Now, just let those two professionals show you how it's done."

GBCE · 03-15-2010, 08:30 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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**Schazer** · 03-16-2010, 07:55 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

The curtains parted. Galus and Gestalt found themselves no longer in a meadow, but upon the gently creaking deck of a ship. The schrotgolem was interrupted from his curious inspection of the set by the marine bursting out from the doors under the aft deck. He had lost his helmet somewhere in the scuffle between scenes, but had substituted it for a rather dashing, if downright ridiculous, pirate hat. His cardboard pistol had also been replaced, this time with a plywood rapier, painted silver. He waved this around in mock anger at the suit of armour quietly smoking by the mast.

"uh... Get back to work! Unless you, uh... be admitting to mutiny, in which case you can, uh, walk the plank!"

The golem was formulating a reply, but then considered an implied rapport between the pair would just delay the much-anticipated fighting. Gestalt was just about to raise the machine-gun when he felt the prickle of discontent from the crowd and lowered it. Lurking suspicions were coalescing in the golem as it worked its mind around what the change in scenery entailed - in this case, that brush with the stone revealed to Gestalt the nature of the world, and age, this scene had been set in; and the wooden set's attempt to recreate that. Gestalt was uncomfortably aware that guns didn't belong on this stage - nor, for that matter, did a futuristic suit of power armour. With this in mind, the schrotgolem raised the Sunset's arms in a placating motion and backed off the stage, where the Stage Director was pre-emptively uncrossing his arms to shove the golem back on.

"A sssszwooord." No surprise registered within the cloud of smoke; the Stage Director merely shuffled through a pile of props at his feet, whipped out a wooden cutlass, handed it to the golem with a dismissive wave, and took another drag on his fuming cigar. Gestalt did not return the way he'd exited; instead looking around for a ladder to the lighting rigs, locating it, and ascending. The Stage Director (and Vyrm'n, who was still at his side) watched wordlessly as Gestalt manipulated the hulking suit up the ladder; neither making any comment as costumes bounded by, disembodied, towards the doors onto the main deck.

Galus strutted about on stage, managing quite well to take into his stride the piecemeal crew that was bumbling about on the deck, despite their odd appearance - one corsair was a ventriloquist's dummy Maxwell would've found familiar, another was a stickman made of garden implements with a bandanaed mallet for a head, still another was one of the suits of armour from the last scene, refurbished with white shirt and straggly beard. The Urisian was starting to get some idea what was going on, and did his best to fill the role of the harsh captain, beleaguering his unfeeling crew. Despite the grumbling seeds of boredom beginning from the crowd, Galus kept the fruit at bay, until he heard a worrying groan from above. He glanced up, to see the Sunset's iron bulk swinging down on a rope.

"MMUUUUUTINNY!" bellowed Gestalt, as the schrotcrew drew weapons and took sides. Galus easily ducked beneath the killer pendulum, which completed its ark, released the rope, and landed adroitly upon the poop deck to whoops and cheers from the audience. The whole ship lurched violently, prow thrusting into the air - despite the elegant landing, Gestalt was still landing on a floating ship with a several-ton suit - nearly knocking Galus off his feet, the Urisian having expected the floor to stay stable. Recovering, he whipped out his rapier and dashed through the melee, to take down the ringleader.

Gestalt was understandably distracted, despite the bolstering support of the audience; orchestrating both sides of a whole fight and paying attention to the Sunset's suit was a considerable challenge. Luckily, Galus' first strike was easily parried; the wooden blades clanging with a pleasant metal bite. More crew on each side of the mock-battle fell as the golem prioritised increasing concentration upon its duel with the Urisian; the balance between believability and ensuring Galus' safety was testing the limits of Gestalt's finesse. The earlier cheering and clapping of the spectral crowd faded as the pair quieted save for the clash of non-existent steel, and to Gestalt's distress he realised the silence was not a tense one, but polite interest that threatened to spill over into further derision if something drastic didn't happen.

"Ugh, what're they doing out there?"

Vyrm'n was generally ignoring the terse commentary of the Stage Director as it muscled its way out around his perpetually-smouldering cigar, though she was wondering the same thing. She could excuse Galus' incompetence, perhaps, but what was the problem with Gestalt? The shadow's confusion was interrupted by the Stage Director pointing her towards the stairs which led below the stage.

"There's a hatch from the brig, try shake things up a bit. Or something."

Vyrm'n needed no second invitation. Slithering with a new, guiltless purpose, it slipped around more mountains of scenery until it found the hash of light that shone through the grille into the ship's brig. Above, the shadow still perceived golem and Urisian, locked in their pantomime battle. Vyrm'n crouched, before leaping bodily into the plywood bars. They stood no chance against the oncoming shadow, and the Faceless leapt onto the stage to a splintering crunch, further upstage from where the other two contestants were sparring. Galus didn't even have his helmet; this would be too easy. The shadow slithered up the rigging, flowing into the crow's nest as it swayed far above the deck of the ship. Somewhere out there, Vyrm'n could hear the crowd muttering. In a fluid motion, it tipped itself out of the nest and hit the deck beside the pair with a second crunch, this time of the floorboards breaking. Galus turned as the shadow rushed forward to grab his arm; his initial reaction to reach for his absent gun cost him as the shadow subjected him to maximum centrifuge as it swung him full circle and tossed him into the crowd, right over Gestalt. The schrotgolem was too busy trying to figure out how to salvage this development, plot-wise, to catch Vyrm'n before she leapt into the shocked crowd and barrelled up the rows of seats to catch the dazed Galus. Before she had climbed halfway, the darkness juddered as a blistering clip of machinegun bullets tore into her. The shaking darkness did not need to turn around for Gestalt to know it had her attention. The screeching, vacillating voice function said with as much deadly seriousness as it could muster,

â€œYouuuuu aaarrrgh ruuuuuiniing the ssshzsshow.â€

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Robust Laser · 03-16-2010, 07:42 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95.

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GBCE · 03-27-2010, 08:02 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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Sruixan · 04-06-2010, 12:34 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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When it comes to interior decoration, the backstages of major theatres have never won any awards. Why should they? All the glamour and the pizzazz happens up front, on the stage itself - that's what gets covered in the most luxurious furnishings and elaborate ersatz doodads money can buy, coated in whatever shade, strength or shape of light you can think of (and probably a couple you wouldn't want to think of - very few plays really need fluorescent strobe spotlights, but hey; they look snazzy, alright?) - all this under the pretence of making things look more real. Hmph.

No, for reality, try this - desolate, deteriorated corridors with floorboards that probably haven't actually seen better days, illuminated (if you can call it that) by the odd bulb hanging onto its wire for dear life, swaying and swinging without there even being a breeze to have set it off. Piles of boxes, presumedly holding unnecessary props that the director will never know if he'll quite need again, towering from floor to ceiling and beyond; where age had born holes in the upper echelons, whole towers had been carefully moved under them so that the most could be made of this newly-conquered space. If that was the logic behind it. Maxwell hadn't quite figured out why such a silly thing should occur, but he bet it had something to do with scene.

This was a play, was it not? OK, so the connotation was foolishly obvious, verging on the worryingly dull, but there was possible irony in the fact that the round was staged in a theatre, where they would continue their performance for the enjoyment of the Observer. Of course, why choose a plain old boring theatre that you could pluck out of any town in the multiverse when you could "make" one that had a sinister element to it; that had corridors that provided the perfect backdrop for battle sequences; that had curious quirks to give it the character to go against the chaos? The warrens of tunnels made backstage a proper stage in its own right.

It also made it a hell to navigate to anyone with legs.

Maxwell was starting to become quite envious of Vyrm'n's ability to just screw gravity and flow through whatever mediums happened to be in the way between Point A and Point B. Still, there were advantages to being human... probably.

And then, somehow, he reached his destination. But here there was a scattering of brazen detritus that hinted at him being too late - scraps of costumes, the rubble and remains of cardboard architecture, the component parts of many a prop...

...it was quiet though. He hadn't expected that. It would be helpful, though. It was getting rather tiresome, but he was going to have to have a good think about all this.

At the point where the light that escaped from under the closet door no longer reached out, Maxwell sat down. If he couldn't muster up the courage here, well...

**Schazer** · 04-19-2010, 11:52 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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Vyrm'n's interior - well, monologue didn't seem quite the right word for it any more - had been a turbulent mess even before Gestalt had opened fire on her, and all while the crowd whispered away at Vyrm'n's mind. The resentful, insidious, muttering crowd, gnawing away at the last vestiges of the Faceless' shaky grip on sanity. Their disapproval rose and fell, dragging Vyrm'n's battered mind with it, until finally the last desperate hold snapped and was cast away.

Gestalt saw none of this, save for a final tremor across the starscape before the Faceless fell still, still sprawled across the theatre seats. Like a slick, inky slurry, the beast seemed to lose cohesion, and liquified slowly down the steps and seats, pooling at the foot of the stage. Whispery screams greeted the strange sight as the spectral individuals who came into contact dissipated into nothing. The strange blend of terror and cruel amusement flowing from the crowd confounded Gestalt even as he pumped another round of bullets into an uninterested shadow. It continued to wend its way down through the crowd, who refused to flee even as their pale mockeries of existence were snuffed out in the darkness which slid underfoot. The schrotgolem's barrage paused, as an errant poker which had only moments prior been the thigh of a corsair quested forward and prodded the ink.

From that tiny point of contact, the universe exploded forth in Gestalt's mind, threatening to tear the spirit asunder and cast the scraps eons apart, had he not swiftly divested itself of the iron bar. The poker landed with a splash and clatter as the suit took a step back, the crowd forgotten. The first time Gestalt had stared into the void, he had been stunned by the sheer scale of everything. Amazed into temporary silence, perhaps, and more than a little fearful - but more like the discovery of an immutable fact; a constant like gravity or entropy or death, even. This time, though, there was nothing. Nothing but a cruel, destruction-loving grin reveling at how nothing was left, save for its own hateful satisfaction. Again, the schrotgolem's existence feared for what it saw, but the second void caused intense revulsion in Gestalt. He couldn't explain it in that infinitesimal moment, but some fundamental part of the golem's existence screamed out a warning.

This darkness... is wrong.

Gestalt raised the smoking machine-gun arm a little higher as the melted Faceless slithered up onto the stage. It seemed to be struggling into its usual effortless pillar-form, instead settling for a sludgy, starless pile at the edge of the stage. The top of the slagheap lurched drunkenly in the Schrotgolem's direction, and a slick, black grin (the toothy mouth alone, no eyes or face) made Gestalt flinch as he tried to stare the malevolence down. A voice, dark as starless night, yet with a familiar corrosive Karmic tang to it trickled into Gestalt's mind.
Allow me the humans, golem, and I may find a use for you yet.

The machinegun fire echoed through the theater just as Maxwell sat down. He leapt up again with a shocked yelp, patting himself over frantically for where the bullets had struck, the motion slowing as he realised how absurd it was. It took only one glance in the direction of the suddenly more violent proceedings onstage, before the man began clambering over boxes of props again with only a twinge of guilt. Maxwell approached the imposing wall of the backdrop, behind which he could ascertain the screechy warble of Gestalt in the power suit. Extricating his rapier in the gloom, the swordsman punched a hole as subtly as he could, and peered through. As the shivering formlessness that was Vyrm'n melted to the hiss of extinguished souls, a chill ran down Maxwell's spine.

Vyrm'n, no...

Something rushed across Maxwell's field of vision; he spun around sharply to find nothing, save for a cutout of a shrub to stumble over as he tried to figure out why the room had gotten inexplicably darker. All the man got for his troubles were afterimage pinpricks as he blinked furiously.

Vyrm'n's doing again, I can only presume, thought Maxwell as he glared through the peephole again. No, there was definitely something wrong with Vyrm'n, and though Maxwell had his suspicions that the previous gunfire was an aggravating factor to whatever state she was in now, he could see the real problem. The audience. While they demanded some kind of flimsy shell of premise to make the bloodshed more palatable, no sane setting could accommodate the Faceless' alien form. Her blunt forwardness was no match on that stage for Gestalt's capacity for trickery, or even Galus' straight human (as contentious as the definition of that was) experience.

Maxwell shut his eyes, slumped against the plywood, and took more time than was strictly necessary to adjust his trilby while he mulled over the various factors at play, then with the last vestiges of whatever insight Vyrm'n's atomic vision was granting him, worked his way round the disaster zone, laying a hand on boxes in turn, until he found what he was looking for.

"Gestalt." The lid snapped open, before a glowstick appeared, cracked, and then dribbled lurid foamy yellow all over the box. The fluid shifted about to simply spell:
yes

"I need you to... stall Vyrm'n." There was a pregnant pause, followed by another rattle of spent casings and the whine of the Nightmare. The sole, neon word was underlined before the box slammed shut and lumbered off. With a sigh, Maxwell made for the Stage Director, who was leaning nonchalantly by the main switchboard. Pulling out his notebook and scrawling furiously, Maxwell paused only a moment before tearing out a page and handing it to a disinterested Director.

"Y'want this? It doesn't seem too... minimalistic?"

"It's what I need," Maxwell replied as forcibly as he could manage. Peering onstage to where Gestalt was fending off the slick beast with a glowing coilgun, he added hastily, "Sooner, rather than later, I guess. Just... work around those two, if you must."

"Alright," acquiesced the Stage Director. His agreement was accompanied by a pall of smoke as he started pulling the curtain on the sparring pair. No applause greeted the end of the act, as most of the extant audience were too bewildered by goings-on to show any enthusiasm. After ensuring his order to fetch Galus from the seats was to be executed, Maxwell took his leave, took a deep breath, and started for the door.

The sad remnants of the once-mighty Karmist huddled in a corner, the air about him chattering with the rattle of shards of stone and glass he no longer had the strength to raise. His conscience-cleansing light, the energies of the schrotgolem - they had fled this broken being, and left Samuel finally, truly alone with his demons. They sunk in like cold, replacing Gestalt's curious control with a sinking deadness. A pale hand reached out in listless desperation toward a quietening fragment of glass as lifetime upon lifetime of regrets and unatoned murder swallowed Samuel up. The screaming had stopped a while back; now the man only had the strength for one desolate sob as his long-overdue conscience ensnared him.

And then, far beyond the shroud of past atrocities, came the rattle of a machinegun - and its echo, a tone of salvation audible only to Samuel.

Unseeing, long-drained eyes struggled to focus again on the world around him, the one he'd have to negotiate to reclaim that missing light. The Karmist scrambled to his feet; fell to his knees, and crawled towards the door even as his accusing tormentors dragged him ever downward. Step by agonising step, Samuel finally dragged himself to rest by the slender crack of gloom slipping beneath the storeroom door before he collapsed, gasping raggedly, hands searching scrabbling for a way out even as the demons snarled from within his skull.

Overhead, a gentle click, and the door eased open as the man padded desperately, ineffectually, at it. Samuel, vision reduced to demons and light, was unaware of the greatcoated man gazing down upon him, one still hand resting on the doorknob, one notably less still one grasped tightly round the barrel of a shotgun.

Sruixan · 04-19-2010, 03:24 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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**btp** · 04-19-2010, 05:02 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.

Ending a life is a funny thing. It never leaves you unmarred, unaffected. Regardless of the individual or the means, there is always someone or something that tells you ever so silently that what you have done...or what you are about to do, is inherently wrong. Of course the means of dealing with it vary. Most attempt to bury the experience under heaps of other events. "Time heals all" just means that given enough time, the single action will be more easily forgotten amidst the flurry of other experiences. Others drown themselves in it, desensitize themselves to the innate evil of it by repeating the act incessantly. Be it a solider or a madman, the toll is still the same. The worst way to deal with the act, however, the way that damages the human psyche to the fullest extent, is with logic.

This is the path that stood before the genius Maxwell. As he stared at the pitiful man before him, crawling on his knees, eyes crusted and dry from sobbing, the reasons behind his course of action assaulted him at once.
He is the most dangerous. No he has changed. He is a risk to my...our safety. You are going to die here anyway. He's defenseless. Pitiful...how can I...

Indecision held the swordsman fast. Even as the outstretched arm of the Karmist gripped the barrel of his gun, he could not bring himself to fire. Samuel rose up before Maxwell, pressing the shotgun against his chest. The weary eyes of the Karmist stood level with the swordsman. For a brief moment, it seemed to Maxwell as if he was looking into the eyes of another human being yet again.

"It's unbearable boy," The Karmist spoke in a rasped tone, the torturous screams having worn down his voice. Maxwell said nothing in response. "The weight is terrible. I can't carry it any longer...I've lost my will, the faceless took it. End this suffering for me, please."

Mention of Vyrm'n made Maxwell stiffen. "What do you mean? What did Vyrm'n take from you?"

"I was never a strong man. I loved the smell of death, I had to love it, it was a part of me you see. It pushed me forward, kept me going. Your friend...she has the core of death inside of her. Pure blackness. Something my light found irresistible. I can't go on without it, and it would never come back. End me, please."

The words of the old man, and indeed he appeared far more aged than before, produced the opposite of their intended affect. Maxwell's grip on the gun began to loosen gradually. You've come to far to not. I haven't come from anywhere I've been brought. It's the only way he wants it. What is wrong with Vrym'n? What is wrong with me? Nothing of course, in appearance. A wound perhaps? Darkness internal? eternal? He want's escape not redemption. Let him suffer let him free? Freedom in death? Will I even be free. No no time for regrets only action. Action before regrets? Action fed regrets? I..

"What a wretched game...what a terrible power...bringing death to these worlds. Destroying their balance. I am too tired."

"These worlds aren't real. They're fabrications. You can take solace in that. You've brought death to nothing here." Maxwell corrected the Karmist, partly out of argument, partly out of pity.

Samuel shook his head. "No, boy. You can't tell because you can't feel it. These worlds have life in them. Each one a unique place we're taken too. A place with a history and a future. The flow of life extends both ways...though in more than one our presence cut it short. Please I can take no more of this. End me."

Maxwell was frozen. This statement had occurred to him but he had denied himself the possibility for more happy options. The Observer had never displayed any ability to create...only to transport. True there were barriers of sorts, but even the name itself..."Observer" implied that it was a being who knew of existing worlds and places and simply moved about them. The revelation itself would not be so grand were it not coupled with the insight of the "darkness" contained within his protector the faceless. Vyrm'n had all too quickly resorted to murdering the life force of the garden, chased after Cabaret the instant the second round started, and even now possessed such a darkness inside her that would render even the death Karmist feeble in comparison. What does she want with me? Are her motives even that simple? are the palpable are they...

A piercing cry of frustration erupted next to him, breaking his line of thought. With a sudden jerk Samuel ripped the shotgun from Maxwell, placed the end of the barrel against his head and with fresh tears streaming down his cheeks uttered his eulogy.

"What a miserable life. What a miserable game."

With a blast of finality, the Karmist's life ended. Maxwell stood there alone once more.

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GBCE · 04-20-2010, 03:06 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.

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GBCE · 04-20-2010, 04:17 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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Robust Laser · 04-20-2010, 04:35 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95.

Suddenly, the theater went dark, but only for a moment. Soon, the lights flashed on once more, but there was something missing. A lot, actually. There was no more illusionary audience, no more Stage Director, and nothing left of the stage that made up the show. The remaining contestants were still in the theater, though. The recently fallen Samuel was still there, unmoving. There was one noticeable difference. The doors to the back of the theater were now open.

From the open doors, a groaning could be heard, and a single lurching man shambled through one of them. He didn't look so well, not well at all. In fact if it weren't for the whole thing with it walking, he could pass as dead.

The voice of the Observer was heard.
"Welcome, shoppers, to the Value City Mall! We've recently done some renovating, to remove all those pesky exits that were once here. Please be advised that you should take care when in the vicinity of the many thousands of undead patrons that are in the mall at this time. The most important thing, however, is to have fun! Enjoy!"
The Observer's voice cut out, leaving no more sound but the moans of the living dead.

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GBCE · 04-24-2010, 12:14 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

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Robust Laser · 04-28-2010, 12:58 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95.

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Sruixan · 04-28-2010, 11:37 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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SleepingOrange · 04-28-2010, 03:22 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

Gestalt, used by now to the abrupt changes of scenery, took in its surroundings. The mostly-headless corpse of Samuel, the disoriented mass of Vyrm'n, the dazed human competitors, and the shambling corpse lurching across the abandoned theater... All took a backseat to the yawning psychic chasm that was the absence of the power that had flowed from the phantom audience to the battlers.

The Sunset's arms felt heavy to a being unfamiliar with the concept of muscle, the thousand once-automated processes that Gestalt had had to take up for itself screamed silently for attention, and the ghost of life that still clung to the empty shell of the suit fought Gestalt at every turn.

"It is... Too much..."

The suit did nothing so elegant as slowly sink to its knees or stay standing, eerily still and quiet. It simply crashed onto its face with a great cacophony of steel and wood colliding as the schrotgolem withdrew its influence. The zombie paid it no heed and continued inexorably towards the stage, its limping gait unhurried if irregular; the humans raised eyebrows and wondered what it meant; Vyrm'n was as inscrutable as ever, reacting only by letting a ripple pass across its puddled, pitch form.

Gestalt curled up inside the rest of its body, mentally stroking the familiar and simple tools it still had. Without the mental din of The Sunset's body screaming into the ears the golem didn't have, the scene was somewhat different; in the vast empty silence that the sudden withdrawal of the Power of Theater had left, there was a sinister, buzzing chord, quiet but insistent. Gestalt had no way of divining its meaning or source, so let it be, returning its attention to the corporeal things in the room.

The other contestants had scarcely moved since arriving, but it had been barely seconds since they had been transported. Maxwell seemed more preoccupied by Samuel's oozing corpse than by the zombie gradually approaching the stage, but Galus was already fumbling for his gun, wondering if he had lost it in the chaos of his stage-battle with Gestalt. Vyrm'n was undulating into the shadows, motives and intent unknown and unknowable. The schrotgolem decided to wait and see how this scene would play out before involving itself. Zombies were new, and therefore threatening.

Sruixan · 04-28-2010, 04:40 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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Contary to popular belief, time travel is possible. Kind of. Depending on how pedantic you want to be, it happens all the time. It's been pointed out that the contents of our thoughts, our memories, no matter how rose-tinted they might be, are not just snapshots of frozen time and space - they can play themselves back, changing details ever so slightly at the whim of the subconcious, allowing you to notice things that were never truely there, or might have been there, or were in fact there, just a little bit out of shot. Until, that is, you dredged it up, purely by putting your mind to it. Nothing is set in stone - the past can be changed quite easily, quite simply by thinking about it...

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"Follow me..."

And so began another view on a scene that had been replayed, in light of the grander scale of things, just mere moments before the current present. Whereas in the Escherscape, however, the end of the film was not far away, here it has only just begun. This window onto another time is being looked through at a rather different angle...

No longer was the mind of Maxwell Deakin occupied with the quaint knitted cushions or the craftsmanship of the dome. No longer was it appropiate to dwell on memories of adventures had in those velvet seats.

Now, in his mind's eye, Maxwell looked up at the stars. After all, he knew what was going to happen next...

"Where shall I start, where shall I start... Maxwell, how many stars are there in the sky?"

"Depends, of course. I mean, right now, there are only about a hundred or so displayed on this dome... one hundred and thirty, if memory serves... but of course, there are hundreds more in the sky at any given point in time, night or day, no matter the orientation of our planet or that of the viewer beholding them..."

"Even then, there are those whose light has yet to reach us, or those that have yet to be born, to our eyes, but are in truth out there, or those who are just too dim for us to see with the naked eye... it's a lot, I think..."

There was a chuckle here, from the wisened woman in the centre of the room, tinkering with the projector.

"Oh, Maxwell... try a hundred thousand billion billion, give or take, well, quite a lot, actually!"

"There should be a mathematical definition for "a lot", really..."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I have another question for you; it's your question, just better, really. How many "planets" support life in our solar sytem?"

"Depends on your definition of life, or if you meant to include the world "could" in your question..."

"Right here, right now."

"Well, um, one. But they think that Skeek might-"

"One."

"-have the potential... oh. Oh, I see. I get it. You want me to extrapolate outwards, having considered the conditions under which life can exist and adjusting for the number of stars that are suitable, then to come to the somewhat sobering conclusion that there must be other planets that sustain life out there and just because we haven't found one yet doesn't mean that they don't exist. Then, let me guess, we're going to get out that so called paradox and have an argument about that. Way ahead of you, Betty."

"No."

The ceiling went white, white with the simulated light of a hundred thousand billion billion stars.

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There was sickening thump as the intangible remains of a head flopped onto the floor. The gun too fell at Maxwell's feet, but this was not worth noticing.

"A general theme that crops up in most religions is the concept of the sancity of life - that is, that as life has been created by a God, it is henceforth a sacred and precious thing, not to be played with by the likes of men."

The scattered remnants of the Karmist, crimson and puce and a myriad of other nauseating variations, were still. Completely still. Lifeless and lackluster, soon to gather dust.

"Of course, one need not be of a religious disposition to hold some of that view, the idea that life is precious at least. That conclusion can be reached by cold hard logic alone."

The only thing that was moving still was the blood - an apathetic ooze that dribbled from the gaping void, the physical leftover of the death of Samuel Therion.

"One celestial body out of over a hundred - what lovely chances, hey? Considering that we have a star that's just right, an orbit that's perfect enough to persuade people that it was designed - beautiful chances, don't you think?"

If only he'd left that shotgun at the carnival, seen through that flaky attempt at the "self-defense" argument. How did that even add up? Maxwell plus gun equals dead person...

"So many people lose sleep at night, fretting over the deceptively simple paradox that lies at the heart of extra-terrestial life. If there is other life, where is it? Pick an answer, any answer, for there are a plethora of theories to choose from. And none of them are perfect."

Here's another corker - the simple deduction that the death of a murderer would save innumerable invaluable lives in time. A priceless jewel of his powers of self-persuasion, that one. But of course, he didn't do it. There was no way he could have done it. Simple as that. All he did was give a dangerous being a means through which to express that ability to kill.

Pity he hadn't thought that far...

"However you plug that hole, it still remains that as of this point in time, the humans on this planet are the all the life in the observable universe. Every single morsel of sentience is contained upon this globe. So what if there are other worlds out there, filled to bursting point with that sparkle of life? However much you can find in the universe, spread it out through the very medium that contains it and you come to realise just how tenuous life truely is. Every living soul has merit, for every death takes away a definite, discerable amount of life in the universe. How lucky and unlikely existance is, that's what makes it precious. Call that sacred if you will, but that's the long and short of it, Maxwell."

The blood was now at his shoes, lapping against their soles, flowing around them, two immobile islands in a river running red.

"Any questions?"

What had he done?

"How many times have you given that speech to some unsuspecting victim?"

The truth was simple. There was a dead body on the floor and Maxwell was to blame.

There was a door, a way out. He knew that much for sure...