Petty Squabble [ROUND 3] [Goldhenge]

Originally posted on MSPA by Not The Author.

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The lounge radiated coziness, intimacy. There was a crackling fireplace off to one side, a coffee table with an actual coffee pot and mugs, and a semicircle of the most comfortable armchairs and couches available anywhere. It was nearly pleasant enough to make one forget that there was no logical way they could possibly have gotten there.

But then the room’s occupants realized they couldn’t move or speak, and the moment was lost.

A green-clad figure stood on the other side of the coffee table, pouring himself a drink. Nobody could quite remember when he’d arrived, but they were all certain he’d not been there moments before.

“Welcome, one and all, to my humble abode!”

The entity was dressed much like a stage magician – vest, gloves, mysterious cloak, top hat and all. His face was obscured by an eerie mask forged as a solid white toothy grin.

“I’m sure you’re wondering who I am and what you’re doing here. I am The Charlatan, a being of unimaginable power. I’ve summoned you to-”

The Charlatan paused, seeming to consider something, before returning his untouched cup to its place on the table.

“Actually, I ought to introduce you all to each other! I don’t think any of you have met.”

The coffee table and associated crockery began to shake, vibrations splintering the wood and cracking the mugs before the whole assortment violently collapsed into a single point and vanished.

“Let’s start at normal and work our way up.”

The Charlatan clapped, and the couch at the apex of the semicircle slid forward through the empty space the coffee table no longer occupied, swiveling to face the others as it did so. Seated there was what appeared to be a happy, loving family of five, though it was hard to tell how accurate that depiction was given the paralysis and all.

“Meet the Broderburgs! Tom’s strong and civil, Clarice is intelligent and inquisitive, Alison is tech-savvy and rebellious, Ethan’s energetic and stubborn, and Emma is… a… baby. Together, they can overcome any obstacle – at least, that’s what they’d like to think. They have a beat-up RV filled with camping supplies, too, but… sort of impractical to bring that in here, I thought. Don’t worry; you’ll get it back soon enough.”

The couch slid back and was replaced by an armchair cradling the least memorable figure in the room.

“This lovely lady is Nancy Little. She’s a secretary for some police station, though she’d rather be a detective. She could be a detective, too! But little Miss Little’s too insecure and apathetic to try, even with her implausible luck. This is arguably the… second-best thing that’s ever happened to her. You wanted an adventure, well; today’s your lucky day.”

The chairs shifted around again.

“This is Ashley, our first non-human! He’s somewhat reserved from childhood trauma, though you might see that – among other things – change in your time with him. He’s been trained by the military, and has had several opportunities to put his high endurance and twin knives to good use. A dependable ally, if a little two-faced at times.”

“This automaton is Gamehost 6. He’s the host of a game show entitled ‘Dice of Death,’ and is equipped with a vast store of trivial knowledge – and some equipment to help his show live up to its name. I’d suggest you stay out of arm’s reach, but that wouldn’t help any. Despite his mechanical trappings, Six is quite intelligent, and loves learning new tidbits of info to add to his repertoire.”

“Parsley Krose… Aheh, mm… Mister Krose here is a demon hunter. Yes. He hunts demons. In fact, he’s one of the best in the land. Capable of going from zero to bread in sixty seconds, you’ll find most of his arsenal to be edible, though not necessarily all that tasty. He’s under the impression that none of this is real, albeit for different reasons that the rest of you.”

“Envoy is the result of a failed first-contact attempt. Half alien-space-probe, half human-built-robot, he’s practically indestructible and can store information at a molecular level. He’s being… advised by a board of politicians and scientists, who should note that they’re only still in contact because I’m letting them. Wave to COFCA, everyone! I’m sure they’ll try to assist their impossibly expensive pet in any way they can. Who knows? Maybe they’ll even succeed.”

“John Smith – sorry, I mean ‘John Smith’ – is a time traveler. Or, was. He seems to have lost his temporal displacement… thingy. Not my fault, I swear! He still has a few tricks up his sleeve… and one in his chest, though that’s not exactly his favorite. John’s good with technology – certainly better than Alison – and he can deduce a lot from very little information. Bit of a nutcase, though.”

“Speaking of nutcases, Yanis Carnea! She’s the goddess of locks and doorknobs, and likes to look at things metaphorically. Once she “unlocked” some tectonic plates, which didn’t exactly net her any favor with the rest of the pantheon. In fact, she's been trying to unlock her mobility for the past several minutes. Carnea has something of an inflated ego, though all things considered she certainly has enough reason for it. Did I mention she’s a goddess? Yes? Okay. I think that’s everyone.”

The chairs back in their original positions, The Charlatan clasped his hands and straightened his posture.

“You’ve seen that a lot of these fellows are quite dangerous, and I’m sure most of you are wondering what all this is for. Well.”

He turned solemnly from his guests, letting the tension build a little before speaking again.

“You’re all going to kill each other.”

The room was silent, save for the quiet ticking of a small clock atop the mantelpiece.

Then there was a snicker, and the Charlatan burst into raucous laughter. About a minute passed before he managed to calm himself enough to speak.

“Heeheeheeheehee! You all thought… Heeheehehahaha! You all thought I was serious! Gaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahaha! Oh, man… Heeheehee! That’s great… Heheheh… Heh…”

The man shook himself and cleared his throat.

“Because I was completely serious. You’re all going to kill each other.”

The walls buckled ominously, wood creaking, cracks running through the wallpaper, bits of plaster coming down from the ceiling.

“Now, I figure some of you may not be all that comfortable with the idea of manslaughter.”

The lounge quietly exploded outwards, leaving its occupants and their seats unscathed.

“So I’m sending you somewhere to help you get acquainted with the concept.”

The sky above was a bleak grey-blue, the sort of day where just you knew rain would start at the absolute least convenient moment. The surrounding terrain was rocky, fragmented, pocked with craters and furrowed with trenches. Massive shards of earth stuck up at odd angles here and there, while a single giant mound of rock loomed in the background. The shallow impression in which the motley crew found themselves housed a few well-armed, heavily armored, recently deceased soldiers, several messily disassembled robots, and one faintly-glowing masked man. In the distance, one could see further evidence of prolonged combat – more skeletal robots firing shots at each other, robotic drones and helicopters flying overhead, plumes of smoke rising across the field, and giant mecha dispensing death here and there.

The entire scene was as immobile as the contestants who were to fight in it.

“Welcome to beautiful New Atlantis, everyone! This entire continent was raised from the seabed with geological manipulation technology. It’s not the sort of place you’d want to vacation at, though; if you couldn’t tell, there’s a war going on. That big plateau over there is actually Fort Ayers, home to a bunch of natives and probably some tech or another the invaders would like to have or, if necessary, destroy. You all don’t need to worry too much about who wins or loses – probably the natives – you just have to focus on not dying, and/or ensuring the death of one of these other shmucks. Whenever someone dies, the survivors get to leave and go somewhere potentially less deadly! Incidentally, there was a reason I introduced the Broderburgs as a group.”

“Well? What are you all standing around here for? Get to it!”

The Charlatan clapped his hands, and the contestants were flung across the battlefield, far from any of the others. Then time decided it had had enough, and the bullets resumed their flight.

SpoilerShow

As Charles said, welcome to New Atlantis! Petty Squabble continues the proud tradition of Grand Battles; Round 1 is based on an MSPAFA – this time, Supersoldier.

In essence, you’re on a battleground between humans and a bunch of robots (the natives), and a lot more robots with a smattering of supersoldiers. That masked guy from before? He’s shielded from most conventional projectile weaponry, rapidly heals what wounds he does sustain, shoots bolts of cyan energy from his hands, and can summon melee weaponry made of said cyan energy at will. He’s hallucinating, and won’t respond to external stimuli, including pain. He’s a tier one supersoldier. Just be glad there aren’t that many.

This location consists of a large, rocky, war-torn field, and Fort Ayers, which is pretty big and probably has some interesting things in it. Despite the significant use of robots, there’re a lot of human soldiers on the field, armed to the teeth. They’ll probably be at least a little curious as to who the hell you are.

Be creative, have fun, best of luck, etc etc.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

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"Well. This demon may be a cunning bastard, but damned if he's not creative about it."

Parsley had been expecting something a little more mundane from the demon's illusions, frankly. He'd never seen anyone dress like the Broderburgs, Nancy Little, or John Smith. And the rest of his illusory "opponents" were even stranger.

And then there was this battlefield. The weaponry was far more advanced than the simple rifles and cannons of his time. He barely had a chance to reflect on it before a soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground, moments before a beam of light passed over his head.

He stood up, only to find his rescuer pointing a strange weapon at his head.

"All right, you! Who the hell are you, why are you dressed like that, and where the hell did you come from?" the soldier shouted.

Is this an innocent villager trapped in an illusion? Or perhaps a servant of the demon? Parsley thought. I doubt he would be so brash as to show himself right now; most likely he's in the guise of the Charlatan.

"ANSWER ME!" the soldier shouted. "You have three seconds before I shoot. One... Two... What the hell?"

The soldier was stunned as Parsley reached up and turned his pistol into a small muffin. The demon hunter then shoved the illusory soldier to the ground and turned to flee.

"I'm not sure what that weapon of yours actually was," Parsley shouted back at his interrogator. "But I doubt it will make for a good meal."

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

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Tom Broderburg found himself dumped back in the driver’s seat of the RV, which was chugging along as though it had never stopped. The road, if possible, was even bumpier than the dirt roads that had been taking them to the campground before this whole battle-to-the-death situation had cropped up. What’s worse, he could hear the patter of bullets knocking dent after dent into the newly-waxed side of the vehicle.

“We’re gonna lose a tire one way or another,” he told Clarice.

Clarice was busy dealing with baby Emma, who, reacting either to the noise, the turbulence, the stress of teleportation, or the imminent doom, had started crying. Clarice never quite got used to the sound of Emma’s particular baby-bawl, which seemed particularly un-infantile. Her first two children had made the same sort of noise when dealing with any sort of upset; she understood that, like bad teenage poetry, the baby was only expressing itself the only way it knew how. With Emma, it was… different. Emma cried the way an adult cried, as though she carried all the sorrows of the world on her fragile shoulders.

She reacted to Tom’s question five seconds too late, darting the tired eyes of a new mother up at her husband. “We only have the one spare, we’re going to need to make it last. You could slow down a bit, at least.”

”Might as well clear the warzone as fast as we can, get our bearings. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Man says we have to kill each other, then introduces us to two armies who are eager to do the job for us.”

”That man said we just need to get comf'table with killing a lot of people!” chimed in Ethan, running up to the front of the RV to accost his father. “Have you been running any of them over?”

”Don’t distract your father, he’s trying to concentrate.”

”But mooooooooooom—“

Tom took one hand off the wheel to stop short Clarice’s reply. “It’s alright, Clarice, the boy should see this.” He gestured out the windshield, where little could be seen past smoke and fire. “You see, son, this is all that ever comes out of the violence. It’s not like one of your video games. People are dying out there.”

”People die in ‘my’ video games all the time, dad.” Ethan jabbed a fist up in the air to punctuate his murderous intent.

Alison darted her head towards the driver’s seat from her cross-legged position on the counter, where the arrhythmic clatter of gunfire was canceling out the soothing effect of her Walkman. “Listen, can’t we just kill these other guys and get this trip over with? I mean, you have your gun, right?”

Tom sighed paternally. “Now, Alison, you know my rule. Unless you plan on eating the other contestants in the battle, I don’t plan on killing them.” Alison blanched. “Listen, all of you. Whatever comes next, we’re going to make it through this together. As a family.”

Everything seemed to go quiet for a moment, which was odd, because the RV’s engine kept roaring and the gunfire didn’t abate. Only Clarice realized what the change was, and then only after a few seconds.

Baby Emma had stopped crying.

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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“GPS DOWN”

This alert blinked on and off in the corner of Six’s HUD. It was just the newest mystery in a torrent of perplexing puzzles. Six’s GPS never went down. Never. It would have greatly frustrated six if he wasn’t already preoccupied with even bigger questions.

First and foremost: What happened to the game he was hosting? He was right in the middle of an elimination!

Six scanned the area around him. He appeared to have been placed into a trench, among the strewn bodies of the dead and wounded. The roar of gunfire filled the air, punctuated every so often by the sound of an explosion or a nearby soldier’s cry of pain. It was a strange sight to see, an oddly, almost comically, themed robot among the bodies of the dead and dying. This particular strangeness, however, was lost upon the robot as he struggled with an emotion he did not often experience: Confusion.

“Replay Memory Designated ‘Recent,’” Six said calmly. The Charlatan’s introduction replayed before his eyes, and then abruptly ended. He thought on the Gamemaster’s words for a moment.

“You’re all going to kill each other.”

So, this was a battle of some sort, Six reasoned. A game. Just another game. He wondered what he had done to be transferred to another game show.

It was odd, though. Why would he have been introduced like a contestant, when he was strictly labeled as a Gameshow Host under MediaPolitical law? Was he the host or a contestant? Either way, the robot reset his question counter in preparation for this new challenge, whatever it would throw at him.

“HEY! YOU! UNREGISTERED ROBOTIC SOLDIER!” a voice rung out angrily. “GET OVER HERE, OR I’LL SHOOT!”

Six turned, and a soldier stood a ways down the trench, armed with a large rifle pointed at the automation. Noticing he got Six’s attention, the soldier repeated his command.

Six, his view of the current situation still muddled, pondered weather or not the soldier was a contestant, too, as he complied with his orders. He figured not, however, as it seemed as though the others introduced in the Charlatan’s lounge were the focus of this game.

“Follow me, unregistered robotic soldier,” The soldier barked as he continued along the trench. Six complied, lost in thought.

He replayed the scene back again. Just who was this Charlatan, anyway? The more six reviewed his actions, the less he seemed like a member of MediaPolitics. His demeanor, some of the way he worded things, the strange sense of immense power The Charlatan held about him, how the GPS was down...

Six dismissed such thoughts. He was overanalyzing things again. But the thoughts still nagged at him, like the blinking alert in the corner of his vision.

Six decided to focus on what was actually happening around him to get his mind off of these bothersome thoughts. The soldier and the robot had arrived at an underground bunker a short while ago, and now they were heading deeper and deeper into its bowels, makeshift lamps illuminating their way. Every once and a while a muffled explosion could be heard, and the ground would gently shake for a short time.

“Question 01: Where are we going?” Six asked.

“You don’t need to know, unregistered robot.”

“It would be helpful if you informed me despite the fact I am not in direct ne-“

“If you continue to ask me, I will shoot you, regardless of military protocol. Be quiet, and that’s an order.”

Six complied.

They continued in silence for some time, until suddenly the soldier turned and knocked on one of the metal doors lining the tunnels. A few words were exchanged, and then Six was led through the door and into the next room.

Five other soldiers were there, stern looks on their faces. They, along with the first soldier, stood in front of Six and began questioning him.

“Unregistered Robot, please state your registration code.”

Six experienced confusion for the second time in a few minutes. Registration Code? Six was confident he had no such thing…

The Six soldiers stood in front of the robot, waiting impatiently. One of them repeated the question.

Six soldiers. Six.

One of the soldiers sighed, leveling a rifle at Six’s cubed head.

“If you do not state or registration code, we will fire,” the soldier barked.

Six contestants. Every game of dice of death has six contestants.

“This is your last warning!”

Six knew what to do. The programming took over. This is what he was designed to do. Six contestants. Six.

“Question 02: Of the chemical elements between #95 and 100, three are named after humans. Name the three.” Six said suddenly, his voice startling the soldiers.

“That… that’s not relevant, Unregistered Robot.”

Six paused for a long moment, as if he was thinking of a response. The silence seemed to bother the soldiers, as some of them began to fidget. Another whistled a short tune.

“Contestant 1… you are…”

Another long moment. An explosion rumbled in the distance.

“INCORRECT.”

Six’s saw blade began to whirl.

Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.

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You know something? Carnea was pissed. Really pissed.

It would have been okay if she had been asked permission. Just a “hey, I have an idea for a fun little game, want in?’ She would have been interested. The outcome would have been obvious, of course. Just as it was obvious now. But like hell she was going to just go along with this game after being kidnapped and humiliated like that. You know how much reputation matters to a goddess? A lot. It matters a lot. You know what happens to a goddess with a poor reputation? She gets no respect. And then suddenly you’re the goddess of the hearth or something, not even in any of the damn stories the mortals tell their kiddies. She wasn’t going to just go out like that.

She was going to have a stern talk with this Charlatan at least. A lesson in common courtesy. Or maybe she’ll just stab him full of holes the next time she got the chance.

So Carnea, time to make the best of the situation. Look around. A great learning experience, right? Door to new cultures or whatever something like that. That’s good, right?

Something seemed to explode nearby and somebody saw her and fired. She reacted in a rational manner, by locking the bullets in place in the air and stabbing the man right through the stomach with her ridiculously long claws.

Okay, no, I just want to leave, Carnea thought as she tried to wipe blood off on the body’s…armor stuff. Right. There was some sort of exit, right? A goddess shouldn’t have to deal with things that she didn’t want to deal with.

Carnea toyed with the nicely ornamented doorknob that had, of course, always been in her hands the whole time. She tossed it up in the air and was rather disappointed when it fell back down in compliance with the laws of physics. No space portals. Or universe portals or whatever. There wasn’t a convenient wormhole or anything. You couldn’t even think of the whole multiverse as doors, really. Maybe they were more like separate houses and the houses had doors, but there were paths that connected the doors and she sure as hell wasn’t the goddamned goddess of pathways. How unfortunate.

So Carnea, time to make the best of the situation. So explosions aren’t your thing. Neither are overt fisticuffs. Or subtle fisticuffs, whatever that would look like. But this was a whole new world, with mysteries to unlock, opportunities unlimited, and no expectations to meet. And nobody here to belittle you for having a lowly job of helping little gostaks actually manage to get inside buildings.

There were so many things to learn. Like what were these little things? Carnea paused to flick a little at the bullets still locked in the air. Well. They weren’t very interesting. There were so many other interesting things to learn. Like, what’s an RV? Or an automaton? Or a ‘game show?’ The ones called Gamehost 6 and Envoy were the most interesting to her. The others were also interesting in some way, she supposed, if only for the fact that they all appeared to share the same familiar-and-yet-not appearance. Did they all come from the same place? They certainly all looked the same.

Another explosion rattled the ground and Carnea glanced up to look at another unfamiliar thing that was made of something silvery or something like that. She wasn’t really sure what it was. Maybe it would tell her if she asked it nicely. The goddess meandered upwards to what seemed to be the giant’s head, or at least the thing it used to see. She waved. It attacked.

Really, people were so violent around here. Well, stupid little Charlatan mentioned a war, but still, that was no reason to be just unfriendly.

After a few more dodging maneuvers, Carnea dived down into an unoccupied trench. She sat there for a while, just calming down, before deciding to simply unlock herself from the material plane. She didn’t like doing that. It made it a lot easier for others to just ignore her, mostly because they couldn’t sense her at all. And if it weren’t for her godly vision, she probably wouldn’t be able to see very easily either. But at least it meant not having to be concerned with anybody attacking her out of the blue. At least until she found one of the interesting contestants of the game she was absolutely not going to take part in because someone had been soooo rude.

There was a disconnect. She forced herself to remember the important matters at hand rather than contently drift off to the forever immaterial like some of the poor saps around here already floating away. Search for a contestant. Learn some of the interesting, unfamiliar things about stuff. Then maybe kill them. Eh. It could potentially get her to actually scold the Charlatan for a little bit.

Originally posted on MSPA by Een.

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Nancy was dreaming. That was the only possible explanation for the events unfolding before her eyes. She wasn’t actually in this odd drawing room, surrounded by strangers of the strangest variety. She was still seated stiffly in the back of the cab on the way home from work and had dozed off. Yes, that was it. Any moment the car would jerk to a stop and, eyes fluttering open, she would return to the waking world and go on with her life.

But then… why did this feel so real? Besides the fact that she couldn’t move so much as her pinky, the scenario was eerily genuine. Nancy daydreamed enough to know when she was having one, and this seemed far too tangible to be something her subconscious conjured up. The soft hissing of the fire, the way its light played off the faces of the people seated near to her, the voice of the bizarre green-clad magician… they all spoke to Nancy’s senses on a level that overwhelmingly suggested this was reality. This notion was even more unsettling than the contents of the dream itself.

She tried her best to listen to the Charlatan’s words, but her thoughts were getting in the way. They leapt all over one another, piling up and scurrying around inside of her head until she was too full of ideas to keep the little rascals in order. The price of an overactive imagination, she supposed, but even Nancy’s inventive nature was no match for what was going on here. Game show? Demon hunter? Space probe? The words were spoken in a manner that suggested Nancy should be familiar with them, but their meanings were lost on her. And how did the Charlatan know she wanted to be a detective? How did he know that she was just too nervous to try? Nancy blushed as the man announced what she felt was a terribly personal detail about her life to those assembled in the room. She instinctively tried to turn to see if anyone noticed the faint reddening of her face and was reminded once again that she was paralyzed.

The inherent concreteness of the situation coupled with the incredibly fantastical nature of the things going on around her was enough to make Nancy dizzy. As the Charlatan went on with the introductions and eventually announced that they had only been brought together to murder one another, Nancy hardly even heard or paid attention to her apparent competition. The flood of new sights and information was hitting her like a high tide and she could not help but be swept up in it.

It was only when the scenery changed that she was jarred out of her stupor. While the room earlier had at least been something Nancy could find familiar in some way, this was completely different. She eyes darted around in an attempt to look at everyone and everything all at once. Okay, missy, relax. You don’t know where you are or what’s going on, so just focus on something else. Pay attention to the man in green instead or something, she thought, trying to calm down. True to her thoughts, Nancy shifted her focus to the Charlatan, who was rattling off information once more.

“This entire continent was raised from the seabed with geological manipulation technology-” Annnd Nancy’s mind was wandering again. How did this fella except anyone to pay attention to him while he was yammering on like that? Like she even knew what mythological stipulation anthology meant or… whatever that thing was he just said. While the Charlatan rambled, Nancy examined her new surroundings again. She was definitely nowhere near the city, or even any rural area she’d seen before. Was this what Arizona looked like or something? Nancy firmly believed the deserts of Arizona were where boring people went to die, but she was also pretty sure they had giant cacti there, and while she didn’t know what a cactus looked like, she also didn’t see anything besides rocks, so there probably weren’t any here.

Before she had a chance to get comfortable she found herself flung involuntarily to a new location once again. Oh geez! What was she even doing here? She was pretty sure that fella in the green coat had more or less explained it, but she hadn’t been listening. Well wasn’t that just the cat’s pajamas. She supposed she’d just have to figure it out on her own. From the looks of things, it seemed like Nancy had landed in the middle of a warzone. Even the scatterbrained secretary knew this wasn’t a safe place to be. She was hardly dressed for the occasion, too, still outfitted in her work clothes and a smart pair of heels. She was fairly certain her shoes wouldn’t last long on this terrain, but who knew? She might have some luck with them. Nancy found that, no matter what she did, she had some luck with just about everything. This fact gave her some comfort over her current position.

First thing’s first, she needed to find a place to hide. To a lady who lived her life doing the most boring things possible at all times, this was the obvious initial step to getting out of the current predicament. It probably wouldn’t be all that hard. Afterall, Nancy was the luckiest girl in the world, getting to a hiding place without anything bad happening should be easy as pie! Bolstered by this thought, Nancy turned around to start her search, and found that directly behind her was a soldier with a large rifle held expertly in his hands. Oh. Well that didn’t seem very lucky at all, actually. If Nancy had to list some people that appeared to be upstanding, gentlemanly, cordial, chivalrous individuals… this man would be continents away from making the roster. She had never seen someone look so wickedly pleased at the plight of another human being.

“Oh gosh. I-I don’t suppose you’d, erm, just let me go would you?” Nancy asked the solder in the most charming voice she could muster.

The man sneered, leveling his rifle at her. “Bingo. How’d ya know?”

Nancy smiled weakly up at him as panic began to rise in her chest, “L-Lucky guess?”

Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.

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Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Ashley threw himself flat in a convenient ditch as a fusillade of light flew over his head, and mentally revised that to into the gunfire. His body went through the motions of army-crawling along the roughly-cut trench. Throughout, he felt that little mental note bounce around in his mind; a little electrical impulse looking for something to connect to, and he knew what was coming because then in his mind’s eye a pale hand picked up the note and he felt the gears of mental association turning -

<font color="Red">With your tanks and your bombs and your bombs and your guns, in your head, in your head, they are crying--

Now I’ll have that tune in my head all day, Ashley!

Pleased to be of service, darl. ;P Mmmmm...that ‘Charlatan’… didn’t he have the most amazing outfit? I’d totally wanna see what was under that mask…

Can we focus on the matter at hand, Ashley?

Why don’t you, darll? You know, right about to hit the end of trench and that reeaaaaaallly deep chasm right there and all--

He broke himself out of his reverie just in time, stopping short of a massive crevasse. His sudden stop dislodged some rocks, which bounced down quite a few stories and landed, clinking, onto the twisted metals strewn across the bottom. Ashley dared to look down into the depths: not only did he see war-machine wreckage, but also shattered bodies of robot and human alike. Slowly and with care, he turned his gaze to one end of the chasm, the shallower end; the chasm itself seemed to have been carved neatly into the ground by some form of energy-

CRACK!

The sound cut through the gunfire for a second, from the other, deeper, end of the abyss. The little sunlight that managed to fight its way through the grey-black clouds did its best to illuminate the world, but here it didn’t even bother – if chasms had contests on how abyssal they looked, this one would probably take home a few trophies. Ashley had seen more abyssal ones though, and he stared into the abyss, searching for the sound, for what seemed like forever…

…and the abyss also looks into you. Hi there, Abyss! You were carved out by a carrier ship, weren’t you?

Wha…how can you tell?

Ashley, Ashley, Ashley… just look at the sides darll!

Slightly grudgingly, he brought his gaze to the sides of the chasm. And then, mentally, he kicked himself (which caused Ashley a bit of consternation). The sides were smoothly carved out of the ground, like a ship with an energy shield had plowed its way into it. Shields that large and powerful were reserved for the troop carriers of combat; a lucky shot must have taken out whatever engines it needed to stay airborne but without disabling whatever internal generators keeping the shield up.

Very good darll! You got everything except the important bit! Have I told ya what an absolute genius you are, darll?

But what have I missed? What did I—

It was at this point that the robot troops that were previously inside the carrier working on escaping their wrecked ship came into the light, saw Ashley and opened fire-

</font>

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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The worst part of murder is all the blood.

Of course, Six kept a handkerchief in his pocket just for these situations. He furiously wiped the blood off of the saw blade that constituted his left hand. He hated blood. Hated it hated it hated it.

There was no way he could get the stains out of his outfit, unfortunately. Six had always either furiously washed his suit or requested a new one be made after each game. To Six, that sickly red liquid was an abomination.

Although unsatisfied with the stains, he gave up on trying to clean himself. There were things to be done. More games to be played.

Six looked around the room, looking for various exits. He tried to ignore the bodies strewn about the floor, but the pang of guilt throbbed in Six’s programming regardless. On and off the guilt flickered, synchronizing with the blinking “GPS DOWN.”

GPS down. As Six left through another door, he thought about the greater game he was somehow involved in. He still had no clarification. Still uncertain as to weather he was a contestant or the host. In fact, he began to think about the nature of the ones he at least knew were contestants. Most of them were humans, supporting the idea that he was the game host in some function. But the other two… one was robotic, like him, and the other… Well, he wasn’t sure what the other was.

Six headed down corridors randomly. He was too overwhelmed with new information. The bigger, more important, questions finally fell upon him like a flood. Where is he? Who is The Charlatan? Was this all really part of the MediaPolitical system? It was getting to be too much for the robot. So much to analyze, to understand. It was simultaneously a fantastic dream and horrible nightmare.

So Six stopped. Physically, and mentally, if only for a short time. If he was going to be either an effective host or contestant, he was going to have to choose something to focus on, at least for the time being. Six then determined that the best course of action to be a better at his role in this game would be to determine what his role in the game was.

There. Problem resolved. Focus on gathering more information. Still, deep down, Six knew that there was a epiphany missed. A realization unrealized.

Six turned on some Debussy to stave off the feeling, and continued down the corridor.

Meanwhile, Nancy was struggling to figure a way out of her rather dangerous predicament involving probably one of the worst men she has ever met sticking the barrel of a gun into her back. I mean seriously, who treats a lady like that?

“Keep marching!” the ruffian barked, jabbing the barrel harder into Nancy’s back to get across his point.

“Alright, alright,” she said, rubbing her back as she quickened her pace. “You don’t have to be so rude about it.”

“Whatever, lady,” the soldier replied with a disgusting smile on his grin, his breath practically smelling like death. “You’re prolly a spy, and in this war, spies aren’t worth shit if they’re found out, so you shut your pretty little worthless mouth, ok?”

Needless to say, Nancy was offended. A spy!? How could she, Nancy, the most boring lady in the world, be a spy? I mean, ok, it would be really swell and cool if she was, but she doesn’t even have the boldness to even try and be a detective! How on earth could she be a spy?

Suddenly, in the distance, amid the sounds of gunfire and explosions, Nancy heard… music? It was something classical, she was pretty sure, and she was confident she’d listened to this song before somewhere. She just couldn’t quite pin when and where, let alone the name of the song. Ugh. That was going to bother her so much.

Apparently her captor noticed the music, too, because he jabbed her again with the barrel of his rifle, practically knocking her over. “Are you doin’ that, you dirty spy!?” he shouted.

Ok, this was getting ridiculous. Couldn’t this guy have one ounce of respect for another human being? Nancy was infuriated, absolutely infuriated! But there was no point in getting angry at a guy who was pointing a gun at you, now was there? She stammered a quick, "No," and they continued on their way.

The classical music was getting louder. Although Nancy quite enjoyed its calming effect, it seemed to set the soldier off. He began to nervously look all around him, as if some monster was going to come out of the walls and attack him. It continued to get louder and louder, until it seemed the man was completely and totally on edge.

When Six saw them, he instantly recognized Nancy as one of the many contestants the Charlatan had presented to everyone. The other man, however, he did not recognize. To Six, though, it wasn’t important. He had a game to play, information to acquire.

When Nancy saw Six step out from the intersection they had just passed, she was startled for a moment. To see such a comically dressed figure amid the battle-scarred terrain was strange, almost startling. She then remembered that, oh right, this was that guy the Charlatan said was in a game show with that die for a head. What was his name, again? Nancy supposed it didn’t really matter, she could just ask him for his name later on, couldn’t she?

The man, however, didn’t take the surprise nearly as well. The man leveled his rifle at the automation and almost screamed a short order at him.

“DON’T GET ANY CLOSER OR I’LL SHOOT.”

The robot stood still for a long moment, as if thinking about a reply, the music playing slowly and thoughtfully. Finally, after a while, the robot finally uttered a reply.

“I need to speak to the contestant over-”

“SHUT UP!” the man replied, his voice filled with tension. His limbs were shaking, the gun wobbling back and forth. “YOU’RE PROBABLY WITH HER, AREN’T YOU!? PART OF A FUCKIN’ SPY LEAGUE. I’LL SHOOT YOU, I SWEAR I WILL!”

To Six, the man wasn’t dangerous or being irrational. He was simply getting in the way of running the show. And his programming dictated exactly what to do in such situations.

“Sir, you are interrupting the game show process. Please comply or suffer termination.”

“What are you even TALKING ABOUT?” The man screamed in reply. “A FUCKIN’ GAMESHOW!? THIS IS WAR GODAMMIT AND NOW I’M SEEING CRAZY DICE HEAD ROBOTS AND HEARIN’ FUCKIN’ CLASSICAL-”

The laser quickly turned the soldier to ash, his final words echoing emptily in the air. Six stared at the ashes for a moment, and then directed his attention toward Nancy, her eyes wide with fear.

“Question 08: Which former US state once called itself, ‘The breadbasket of America?’”

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

---

There was a knocking at the door to the RV, which had slowed to an even twenty miles an hour once the gunfire had died down.

“Alison, can you get that?” asked Tom.

”You’re closer,” muttered Alison, as though undecided as to whether or not she wanted her father to hear her.

He heard. “I have to keep my eye on the road.”

Alison made a great show of getting off the counter and walking up to the door, bumping her father’s elbow as she opened it.

On the other side of the door was what appeared to be an anthropomorphized cat twirling a doorknob around in her paws. Alison’s eyes widened. “Hey!” she said, shifting back and forth awkwardly. “You’re that goddess, right? You’re in the battle with us!”

”That I am,” purred Carnea, cocking her head with what she assumed was divine resplendence. “Carnea. Doorknobs and locks. Maybe you’ve heard of me. And you are…?”

Alison shook her head. “I haven’t heard of you. And I’m Alison. ‘Alice’ isn’t short for it.”

Carnea looked around the Broderburgs’ mobile home. It was certainly unlike anything she’d seen before, but it seemed rather… impractical. “Yes,” she snapped suddenly, as though somebody had asked her a question. “May I, um...”

”For heaven’s sake, don’t leave her standing out there,” barked Tom, nearly startling Carnea out of her frame of reference. “It might be dangerous, and besides, she's standing outside a moving vehicle.”

Alison silently stood aside, allowing Carnea to float into the RV. The door shut gently behind the goddess, who moved over by a couch and did something approximating a seated position. Alison sat on an opposing chair and watched her with something between trepidatious curiosity and childlike admiration.

Carnea was yet to develop a strong impression of the social norms of the culture from which this family hailed, but children were children, and she suspected she didn’t want to talk to this one. She looked around. The patriarch had his hands on the wheel that presumably controlled the mobile home; the mother pretended to tend to the infant, but shot Carnea a territorial glare out of the corner of her eye; the little boy appeared shy, or else frightened. Carnea gave the only sigh she could muster, a sibilant sound that was really just a controlled hiss, or a purr in negative. She addressed Alison. “To my business, then. I was wondering—”

”I don’t believe in gods,” ventured the girl, kicking her feet.

”You believe in One,” corrected Tom.

Alison rolled her eyes. “I think you’re just a regular sort of ghost cat,” she told Carnea, sternly.

Carnea was slightly taken aback by this. “I see,” she said, after a short pause. “A ‘regular sort of ghost cat.’ Well, I assure you—“

”If you’re the goddess of doorknobs and locks, why did you need me to open the door to come in?” asked Alison. “Are you a vampire?” she added, a hint of excitement coming into her voice.

Carnea licked her nose indignantly. The girl had a point. “It seemed polite,” she answered. Alison looked unimpressed. Carnea pressed on. “Anyway, I was just trying to figure this whole… battle situation out, and um… why do you think you’re here?”

”We were sent here by the Charlatan to kill the other contestants,” snapped Clarice. “Didn’t you get the memo?”

Carnea growled. “What I mean is… there’s an element of showmanship to this sort of thing, and um… what do you lot, er… bring to the competition? On a level of, you know. Abilities.”

There was silence in the RV.

”Well, there are four of us,” offered Alison.

”Five,” interjected Clarice, holding up Baby Emma.

”My dad can beat up anyone!” ventured Ethan.

”We’ve always wanted to travel,” said Tom. “Maybe the Charlatan thought he was doing us a favor.”

Clarice nodded. Baby Emma said nothing. She merely turned her little neck ever so slightly and shot her eyes in Carnea’s direction.

Carnea rose off the couch, suddenly under the impression that there was some sort of struggle going on here and that she was losing very badly. Something about that baby’s eyes… “Thank you for your time,” she said.

”Feel free to stay,” said Tom. “You’re not imposing.”

”On the other hand, we don’t mean to lock you into any obligation to stay,” added Clarice, tonelessly. “We’re sure you have plenty of battling to do.”

Something about this made sense to Carnea. “I’ll see myself out,” she said, fiddling with her doorknob.

”Okay well I’ll see you around,” said Alison. She got up, offered a hand, took a look at Carnea’s claws, and retracted the hand.

”Bye, Carnea!” shouted Ethan, a little too loudly.

”If you need us,” said Tom. “We’ll be… right here.” He hit the brakes on the vehicle and opened the door for Carnea, then addressed his wife. "This seems like a good enough spot to stop for now, doesn't it, honey?" Clarice nodded.

Carnea considered the door. The feeling that she was losing something continued unabated.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.

---

John laughed. He did that a fair bit, so it wasn't terribly surprising to anyone who knew him.

The pair of soldiers didn't know him very well at all, so they found it a bit disconcerting. That, combined with his sudden and unexplained appearance, made them suspicious enough that they thought they ought to capture him at once.

He complied. He really couldn't be bothered putting up any sort of resistance, occupied as he was with laughing like a drunkard at a comedy club. They had to hold him up as they marched him along, and his feet were half-dragging along the ground as the group moved.

They walked like that for several minutes, his captors commenting to each other on the cold feel of his suit jacket, joking about how me must be hopped up on something, and speculating about just where he'd come from. They tried to get through to him once or twice, but he just kept laughing, his only communication a few vague gestures and an extra-enthusiastic wave of chortles and guffaws.

John had had excellent practice at laughing over the years, and it had served him well. After all, what danger was a drugged-up laughing man? It certainly wasn't an appearance that inspired fear or caution, not by any stretch of the imagination. He was a thing, not a person, just something to be dumped somewhere and left to stew. Take the drunk idiot to a cell and let him sober up in his own time.

Once they had brought him into fortress and had him a fair ways in, a kick to the back of the knee brought one slamming backward and a full-body twist pulled the other down on top of his compatriot. They were quickly and efficiently relieved of their sidearms and the knives in their boots. One gun was held, the other had its clip removed and was thrown down the hall.

John allowed himself a small chuckle, then took a radio from one of the fallen soldiers. Thumbing it on, he said, "You've got an escaped prisoner in your base, I'm afraid. Armed, dangerous, and possibly unstable." He also plucked a striped card from a chain around one soldier's neck. "He's got a key which will need to be disabled, and you'll want to start sweeping the base for him." He fired a shot. "He's just killed- hang on." He leaned down a bit so the newly-made corpse's head wasn't obscuring the face of the soldier below it. He addressed the man with a casual, friendly half-grin. "Sorry, should've asked earlier. What was his name?"

The trooper's brain was still back on the part where John had gone from laughing like an idiot to killing his squadmate, trying to figure out what had happened in the interim, so his mouth decided it would volunteer the information and check in with his brain later. "Elbie. Bartholomew Elbie."

John clapped him on the shoulder and lifted the radio back to his mouth. "Right, sorry. He's just killed Barty, and rather seriously maimed-" He paused again and gave the soldier an inquisitive look.

The soldier looked back at him with an expression that said, "who, me?" John rolled his eyes at the idiotic question and nodded. "Uh, Peter Singer," the soldier replied.

He got a grateful expression and a pair of bullets to his kneecaps for his trouble. Standing, John finished by saying, "Right. He's killed Barty, maimed Pete, and he's loose in the base. He's going to ditch this radio once he's done with it, so tracing it's no good, but you'll at least have a good starting point. Have fun!"

He clicked the radio off, tossed it a ways down the hall, then grabbed the other from Singer and clipped it to his belt. A pistol in his hand and a spare clip in his pocket, he headed off down the hall, away from his ex-captors. He had no real destination in mind, but he wasn't terribly fussed about getting anywhere. He was just happy to move for a while.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

---

I believe I will reserve.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

---

Illusion or not, the battlefield was noisy. And Parsley needed time to gather his thoughts; he'd underestimated the strength of the demon's illusions.

The safest place seemed to be the compound. The Charlatan had called it Fort Ayers. Parsley moved towards it, still wary of his surroundings; it was likely that some of these soldiers were villagers, trapped in illusions of their own. He took cover where he could, trying to avoid drawing their attention; they probably saw him as some sort of monster, and he didn't want to make the demon's torment of them worse if he could help it.

Parsley soon spotted a large box, made of a metal he couldn't identify; it was held in the air by equally strange structures that he could only think of as its "legs". The words "DROP MEDIC" were written on the side of the box. He hid himself under it, and looked towards the base; he was starting to suspect it might be a shelter of some kind. Perhaps even a church.

He soon noticed two soldiers drag off one of his "competitors", who was laughing wildly the whole time; a strange sight. What had he said?

"John Smith... a bit of a nutcase." Seemed sensible enough. Apparently the demon valued consistency, if nothing else.

Why were they taking him to the shelter? Perhaps it was a church after all, and the man in their arms was a comrade they hoped to free from the demon's influence?

Parsley watched as they made their way past the guards at the front gate, and brought John Smith inside. He reflected on what to do next.

Perhaps these guards were still possessed of their senses? In that case, they would guide him to the shelter, and he might be freed from the illusion. In that case, it would be best to approach peacefully.

Parsley walked over to the entrance, holding his hands in the air.

"I'll come peacefully," he said. "Take me to the sanctuary."

***

"No, I have not gone crazy, he turned my gun into a muffin! Then he shoved me to the ground and ran!"

"Lenny, I don't have time for your excuses. Some morons tried to bring in a robot without disabling it up first, and it's loose in the base. On top of that, we've got two escaped prisoners, and one of them is taunting us. Things may be rough out there, but we need to get some men back in here to fix this or we're screwed. I don't care if you're only armed with a bag of pretzels, get in here and help out!"

"*sigh*... yes, sir."

"And if you see any other suspicious characters on the way, just shoot them. Or beat them with your muffin-gun, whatever. Point is, with the luck we've been having, we can't afford to take prisoners. Understood?"

"Yes, sir! ...what am I going to do with a stupid muffin?"

***

"We're not authorized to leave our posts," said one of the guards. "We have to wait for an escort."

"That's fine," Parsley said. "Need to keep an eye out for the demon's victims, I suppose? How do you keep yourselves safe?"

The guard looked at him strangely, as the other one talked to a small box in his hand. Parsley couldn't hear what he was saying, and wondered what the guard was actually doing.

Then he put down the box, and pointed his gun towards Parsley.

"Sorry. Just got new orders: No taking prisoners."

Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.

---

Ashley curled up tight as shots struck the wall of the crevasse around him, defacing its otherwise perfect smoothness.

Some kind of energy bolt. Don’t know about lethality – assume lethal, retreat, retreat, get out of line of fire—

<font color="red">Let me on darll! I can-

Ashley, is this the time?!

He began backpedaling down the line of the trench. The gunfire was intensifying – the pattern of increasing aim-cognition in the robots was easily recognizable if only by listening to the sound of the shots; their frequency increased as more troops took aim and better aim with each passing microsecond.

Just need to get back far enough-

blit

The impact of the shockwave jarred his entire body noiselessly – the sound of the sonic detonation itself was loud enough to deafen. But even as the trench collapsed underneath him, his instinct to scrabble up the sliding slope was overtaken by his training-

‘Don’t try and climb up a falling slope. You’ll stay in one place.’

He saw in his mind’s eye Ashley sitting in an easy chair, reading from their battered copy of ‘Field Training, Volume XII: Convenient Information Imparted By Various Sergeants’. She turned a page, and several other worn pages fell out.

Stercus darll, how much do you use this thing? ‘If you stay in one place with gunfire aimed at you, you’re dead, plater. Swiss cheese. Bloody swiss cheese-’ ew, diagrams.

At the same time, he devoted half his attention to finding cover as he slid down the sandy slope that used to be the side of the chasm. Automatically, he ducked and rolled as the large sonic cannon mounted on the top of the carrier charged itself, and dived for the bottom as it completely unexpectedly blew up. Several shards of shrapnel narrowly missed his tumbling form-

It must have been older than it looked. Everything here must be older than it looks…when you know what to look for…

It was simple to see the rusting rivets on the carrier, the robots’ battered and worn casings and the unfinished look on their weaponry. It was equally simple to discover that appearances were deceiving. Amidst the gunfire which he was miraculously dodging, the bottom of the collapsing slope was coming a lot closer.

Land, avoid fire, find cover, find cover-

Darll, would ya mind thinking in full sentences? And would ya just plating let! Me! ON?!

As he fell towards the bottom he saw the troops half buried in the falling detritus yet still clustered around his landing point, and so he took a split-second jump from the sliding ground…

Why should I let you on, Ashley?!

In midair, he reached out for the rusted gun barrel of a tank, and felt the singe of a near-miss burn through the cargo pants of his uniform—

They aren’t going to plating miss much more, darll! They can only aim better-

He caught the barrel and slid down its length, thanking his gloves for saving him a fortune in friction burn treatment-

Totally doesn’t match your uniform, by the way-

Shut up.

He landed on the front edge of the tank, which dented and flaked slightly under his weight, rolled along its side to hide – immediately shots poured into the body of the tank, so much so that the entire chassis moved-

I’m a plating smaller target! An incoursing! Smaller! Target!

Hell! Check your language, Ashley!

She was full of rage and desperation again, but that was nothing new; he’d met moodier girls, and he knew from experience he could hold her off through a full-scale seaborne invasion – in comparison, the tank’s armor plating caving under the gunfire behind him was small fry. The tank imploded, and he leaped through an opening in the wreckage into the skeleton of a ‘copter nearby-

Bad idea, darl.

The rusty metal crumbled as he touched it, exploding into a red cloud of iron oxide. He closed his eyes reflexively, trying but failing to prevent the particulates of rust from reaching his corneas.

Oh stercus. Partially deaf and now blind as well?

Told ya, darlll. Don’t worry, healing factor’ll have that sorted in a minute or two. But you won’t have a minute or two. Since you’ll be dead. Cause robots have infrared vision y’know.

Through the soles of his feet he knew she was telling the truth – there was, through the ground, the vibration of robotic footfalls – perfectly in step, a metronome ticking the seconds to death.

Aaaaand there’s a faster way to heal up, darll…y’know, using what your genes gave ya?

He flailed wildly in semi-red darkness, trying to find his bearings in an indistinct and clouded world, and all the while the sound of regular marching came up through his bones…

“Would ya rather die, darl?”</font>

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

---

…

Someone opened his mouth.

He was interrupted by another someone coughing, and then not saying anything.

It echoed a bit.

The COFCA Headquarters conference room had been designed to convey wealth, a sense of command, and above all, equality. The room was dominated by an enormous round table, black and reflective like a slab of obsidian. There was no head of the table for anyone to sit at, because no one benefactor held any more or less power than anyone else, and thanks to the dim lighting, everyone was cast into shadow, making all of COFCA appear identical. The contractors said the added anonymity was all to add to the effect of everyone being equal, but really the darkness was just so that everyone could clearly see the enormous LCD screens lining the walls and a circular display on the ceiling. These screens provided the video feed of Envoy's current status and surroundings that everyone was currently starting at, utterly dumbfounded.

So even if they had anything even remotely resembling an adequate response to what had just happened, no one wanted to break their limited anonymity and be the first to talk – except for one brave soul:

“Wh-” began Adrian Marcus, philanthropist, arms dealer and war profiteer.

It echoed a bit.

“It's a hoax!” exclaimed Dr. Leon Folstrom, xenobiologist, as he nearly jumped from his seat. “Now that we've poured billions into the project, someone is faking a crisis to con us out of even more!”

“A hoax?!” demanded a prominent political analyst. “It's sabotage! By human isolation terrorists!”

“But this project is a secret,” muttered a woman with large dark glasses on.

“Tenma Robotics has never seen this particular fault in any program ever written by Tenma Robotics,” a scientist wearing a HUD was reciting through the explosive commotion.

“Then it's an inside job! It's the roboticist's fault!”

“So, the Uae probe was really an alien TV satellite! Fascinating!”

“...or any robot designed or developed by Tenma Robotics...”

“Don't you see? These are the aliens!”

“Then it's an alien declaration of war!?”

“...or any robot I have personally ever seen...”

The screens built into everyone's places at the table lit up as one and rang simultaneously, startling politicians and business owners alike into silence.

“...real,” concluded the roboticist as he cleared his throat, “or fictional.”

Someone nervously tapped the screen at their seat, accepting the call, followed by a few others. A counter lit up at the middle of the table and ticked upwards with each confirmation, until they had enough votes to accept the message.

“This is COFCA ground control. Envoy's starchart positioning says it's about 130,000 miles off course – as in, back on Earth.”

“...rrrright,” said Dr. Folstrom.

“So what's going on?! It wasn't anything any of us did, and that message was addressed to you! Don't you know what's going on?”

“Did you... run into a wormhole,” offered Adrian Marcus.

“That only works in science fiction,” the man on the other end of the line replied with growing impatience.

“Then don't worry,” assured Eva Nguyen, actual diplomat. “It's all according to plan.” This was followed by a huge burst of argument, which Eva ignored as she instructed ground control to focus on preserving Envoy. “It's their job to protect our project just as much as it's ours,” she calmly explained, reading off a napkin she'd been scribbling on in the dark. “But if they're busy worrying about what's happening, they're liable to make mistakes. It doesn't matter who caused this or why – what's important is that we all work together, to protect the future Envoy will bring.”

As painfully rehearsed as that sounded, no one doubted that she was right. As ridiculous as this situation was, even COFCA could agree that what was important right now was that they could get Envoy out of it.

---

Envoy lashed out with one leg and performed a neat midair backflip to stabilize itself, with the combined help of the rocket boosters in its legs and its artificial reflexes, which had been recorded with a combination of state-of-the-art motion capture and a few particularly confused Olympic gymnasts. Like any good space exploration robot, Envoy had been fitted with a few things it could do by itself, for the purpose of self-preservation without pilots to babysit it 24/7 – things like dodging space debris, righting itself if it lost control of itself in midair, and attempting to smuggle dark matter back home to Earth.

A quick, neat burst from its boosters and jetpack stopped Envoy's harsh trajectory through the air, and it hovered in place, deploying its extra arms for balance as it surveyed the battlefield from a safe distance above the fighting.

A wild spray of machine gun fire from the ground flew past Envoy, and a few rounds struck its Uae armor. Envoy shifted its weight and turned in place rather gracefully as it zeroed in on its attackers with an array of powerful cameras (called 'optics' for $2,000 extra). Three mechanical soldiers ducked behind a tank modeled after some sort of spider as it adjusted its cannon. At the touch of a button, Envoy drifted to one side as a rocket streaked past. A peripheral camera picked up a helicopter getting shot down.

They must have been aiming at the humans, Envoy's operators reasoned as several Alert! icons appeared on Envoy's HUD.


The buzzing at COFCA headquarters died down as another call came through from ground control. It was voted in unanimously as people watched the screens overhead.

"COFCA, Envoy's taking fire!"

"From what side?" demanded a fat man with an electronic cigarette.

“…It looks like both, sir. The humans are attacking any robots they see-”

“…and the robots can tell we aren’t one of them,” the man finished grimly.

“That’s right, sir. Should we engage?”

He steepled his fingers. COFCA fell silent.

“The robots appear to have the humans outgunned,” the woman in the dark glasses began, “and the humans look like they’re fighting a losing battle. We should help the winning side, and get their support.”

“But the ‘winning side’ is comprised of emotionless robots,” Dr. Kolman shot back. “And they’d win without our support anyway. We should help the humans.”

“The humans won’t trust a robot!” said a bearded man in a casual suit.

“But it’s a robot ambassador,” several people insisted.

Envoy twisted around and boosted to evade a series of air-to-air rockets from the resistance’s helicopters. Machine gun fire ricocheted off of it, accomplishing practically nothing – until a few rounds struck a missile as it was passing Envoy. The midair explosion sent the robot flying, momentarily stunned. It hit the ground hard.

“If we help the losing side win,” someone was saying, “we’ll have their total support. It won’t matter who we are!”

“But the robots might have the technology to get Envoy back from Charlatan!”

“Wait!” exclaimed Megasenator Whittenberg, standing up suddenly. “Repeat what you just said!”

“The… robots might be able to help us recover Envoy,” the man repeated hesitantly. “I don’t think ‘Charlatan’ is going to just let us leave. A-assuming he's real,” he was quick to add.

“Exactly! Now, we all agree that technically, Envoy isn’t alive, right?”

There was a nod of agreement.

“So technically speaking, it can’t be killed, right?”

Another handful of nods. On the screens overhead, Envoy staggered to its feet. A handful of soldiers and robots cautiously advanced, using hills and abandoned piles of sandbags as cover.

“Which means that Charlatan can’t possibly expect it to become involved in a fight to the death! It’s not even sentient – it’s just a robot, controlled by people who are! So if it’s not alive, and it can’t be killed, then by Charlatan’s own rules,” he declared, “Envoy isn’t in the game at all! So, Charlatan has no power over Envoy!”

There as an eruption of applause.

Envoy stood up straight, leveling its gaze with the small coalition of soldiers. It deployed its extra set of arms.

“…But, Megasenator…” asked a man with short dark hair and a slight facial tic, “doesn’t that mean we’re the ones entered in this competition?”

All of COFCA fell silent.

“Meaning that he expects us to die in Envoy’s place?”

Whittenberg sat down and steepled his fingers.

“I’m… sure he must have meant Envoy after all,” he muttered darkly.

The man next to him stood up. “Motion to declare Envoy as our representative in this competition.”

All hands in the room shot up. Only a few people remembered to vote ‘yes’ on their screens.

“Motion passed!”

In lieu of a gavel, Envoy grabbed a spidertank by its cannon, flipped it over and slammed it into the ground.

Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.

---

After she floated out, the family filed out behind her and generally glanced around at their surroundings. She continued to meander away and looked back over her shoulder. This whole thing smelled like a big giant lock. She wanted to spring it open. But she also wanted to destroy it. There was a sense of wrongness about the whole thing, something that disturbed her enough to feel the urge to pry and yet also feel that this was something to not look into. To get rid of as soon as possible.

Oh come on, this was a stupid worry.

But maybe she should just kill them all sooner rather than later.

Well, this was a war. The dassing family couldn’t all protect themselves forever. Probably wouldn’t be a few minutes before the baby died. It’s a baby. And the rest of them too. All of them would probably get blown to bits in a moment.

But then again, there was always the old saying, if you wass something skent, it was best to skent it yourself. And then she could cozy up to the others with no more troubles on her mind.

Oooh, a soldier. Those are good at killing things. That’s what they’re trained for. And this one seems to have been trained very well.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Another one of the demons cut down. Its mangled face stared upwards with an inhuman grimace before the wicked body disintegrated. Sorrel continued on. The land was teeming with these foul beasts. It would take long to purify, but purify he must.

Something unfamiliar jumped out at him and he reacted quickly, but his blessed weapon had no effect. He stared at this new creature in shock and tried to attack again. What a terrible vision before him. Was it a demon somehow more powerful than the holy waters his sword was bathed in?

“Okay, I could let the first time pass, but really? A second time? It won’t work, you know.”

“I am not afraid,” he spat out. “I will fight you wretched beasts until I die.”

“I didn’t say anything about being afraid.” He sliced at the apparition again. “This is very disrespectful. I am a goddess. I’m trying to help you.”

Sorrel paused and looked the thing up and down. “You don’t look like any goddess I know of, beast.”

“I am a very powerful goddess, Sorrel.” Okay, she knew his name, that meant nothing. “It’s a shame you are so ignorant, but perhaps I could enlighten you about my power. It’s just a matter of…opening your mind, say. Letting my doctrines in…”

“I am faithful to my gods, beast. I will accept no religion of yours.”

“Hey, who said anything about accepting? All doors can just be forced open. I have a doorknob for that.”

Sorrel might have spat out something else, something potentially cool or brave, like, ‘No way’ or ‘The hell are you talking about’ or ‘I’m not a chicken, you’re a turkey’ but he was stopped quickly as a strange sensation came over him. It felt like a light had shone on his puny mortal mind. It felt like a connection to nature and to the world. It felt like the meaning of life. It felt like warm milk, but in his brain instead of his stomach. It felt like bliss.

And lo did Yanis Carnea distim this man and he did rask of Her rorm might and it was snave. Thus was the first droke of the mighty Carnea made. And Carnea did smile upon him metaphorically because She has no mouth and Sorrel the First was snave. And She blessed him with her rormness so that he be connected to Her always, at least in mind. And sharp-faced Carnea doatched:

“There’re some guys over there, you should probably go kill them. I'm going over there. Other stuff to do.”

Thus was Her decree. And Sorrel the First doatched back:

“I shall obey.”

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

---

There were, in fact, three soldiers. The other two were circling around the RV.

Tom Broderburg wasn’t sure why he had led the family out of the safety of the RV after the cat-faced young lady. He had just felt… locked in all of a sudden. Tom berated himself for sounding like a college kid in therapy, even in his own head. There was no call for that.

Alison realized that it was somewhat boyish of her to be thinking this, but she was excited about the prospect of adventure all of a sudden. She vowed to, if not stop complaining, at least complain more constructively.

“What are we standing around for?” she grumbled. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

Clarice figured she ought to trust Carnea, who seemed a bit too self-absorbed to do such a thing as up and murder her family. That didn’t mean she did trust Carnea, just that she felt she would if she were more sensible.

Ethan was very excited by the three soldiers who were closing in on them over the bluffs.

He turned to the closest one. “Hey!” he yelled. “Are you going to capture us?”

The soldier was a bit put off by this. She had learned from films that the thing to do when you’re surprised by the presence of civilians was to take off your helmet and let your hair sort of whip around your face a bit, so she did that, then suddenly felt naked at the lack of helmet and became terrified of being shot in the head.

She maintained her composure. “Capture you?” she called. “How about I escort you back to base? What the hell are you doing out—“

”Language,” interjected Tom, in fatherly tones.

”Sorry,” replied the soldier. “I’m Sargeant Jack Coastal. You want to get the he—ck out of this… heckhole before we all get shot? Pardon me for saying so, but—“

”Jack is a boy’s name,” pointed out Ethan.

”It’s short for Jacqueline,” said Jack. Sargeant Jack Coastal didn’t like kids.

”Do all girl soldiers have boys’ names?” asked Ethan.

”No,” growled Jack.

”Do all girl African-Americans have boys’ names?”

”No!”

”Ethan!” hissed Clarice. She grabbed her son’s head in admonishment, then addressed Jack. “I’m sorry, Sargeant. He’s at that age, you know? With the questions.”

”I don’t know,” said Jack, signaling to her men to start moving. “We ought to get back to base before your vehicle attracts too much attention. It isn’t any model I’ve ever seen before.”

”Only two years old,” said Tom proudly, recognizing the compliment.

”I’m sure the geeks up in the base will want to have a look at it. Whoever drives this thing, drive this thing.” Tom nodded and got back in the RV. “We’ll get up on the roof and provide cover.”

”Do you mind if I ride along up top with you?” asked Clarice. “I… dabble in journalism, my editors would kill me if I missed the opportunity to do a ridealong with a soldier on the front lines.” Clarice was not entirely convinced she wasn’t in Iraq.

Jack rolled her eyes, then nodded. “Alright, Alison, you’ve got Emma,” commanded Clarice, handing the baby over to her daughter.

”Sure thing, mom,” said Alison, happy for the chance to take the baby. Despite herself, Alison loved baby Emma. Everyone loved baby Emma.

”Hey, sarge!” called one of the soldiers from atop the RV. “We counted five, not counting the baby. One of these civvies must have snuck off!”

Jack raised an eyebrow at the Broderburgs. ”We had a friend with us,” admitted Clarice, before Alison could say anything. “She must have run off right before you showed. I’m sure she can handle herself.” Clarice gave her daughter a challenging look; Alison looked slightly distressed at the prospect of losing Carnea, but inwardly agreed that if anybody could survive a warzone, it was a goddess.

* * * * *

Carnea watched from the bluffs, out of sight. ”Our old cat used to run away all the time,” she heard the boy say, and smiled metaphorically. No, that didn’t work out to plan—apparently these New Atlantis types didn’t know how to conduct the proper amount of atrocities in warfare—but that left one army to take care of the job for her.

Carnea looked out over the hills. A rather substantial number of soldiers, glistening like metal, was making their way through the valley. The goddess began to drift her way in that general direction.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

---

Tentative reserve, hopefully to be filled tomorrow.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

---

"No prisoners, eh? Then I suppose I won't be troublin' ye," Parsley said, carefully taking a step back.

"Don't move!" the guard shouted. "Stay where I can see you, and you might get out of this alive." As he spoke, the other guard slowly raised his own weapon.

Parsley didn't say anything, and stood still.

"Now, I got orders to kill," the soldier said, not shifting his eyes away from Parsley. "But it seems to me you might know something about whatever's going on in the base. Care to share?"

"What good will it do me to speak, when yer eyes and ears are foolin' ye?" Parsley replied. "If ye even be real, that is."

"I don't have time for jokes, pal. And I can't take the chance this is a distraction. You've got one more try before I pump you full of lead."

Perhaps I can play along with the demon's game for now, Parsley thought. If he thinks he can catch me in his trap, he may lose interest in his other victims.

"Fine," Parsley said calmly. "A monster calling himself the Charlatan brought us here. He told us to fight until only one was left. And this is our battlefield."

The soldier didn't seem to believe it.

"No more chances."

He reached for the trigger.

He wasn't as fast on the draw as Parsley. Two large rolls suddenly appeared in the demon hunter's hands, and in one swift motion, he flung them at the guards' rifles, throwing off their aim.

Before they could adjust, he was standing between them, and a quick tap on the barrel of each gun changed key components into useless bits of bread.

One guard dropped his gun and charged the demon hunter, the other made the mistake of trying to fire. Parsley grabbed the man trying to shoot him with a useless gun, and flung him into the other man, knocking both to the ground.

After making sure they were unconscious, Parsley headed inside.

It wasn't long before he came to a pair of bodies. Further down the hall, he saw a third.

The demon was marking a trail for him.

"May as well follow it," he grumbled. "If any of ye have truly fallen at the demon's hand, then know that I'll help ye rest in peace."

A few unpleasant corridors later, Parsley walked past a set of double-doors. He would have ignored them and continued following the trail, if not for the sudden sound of gunfire.

"Demon's still not very subtle," he commented, as he turned towards the doors and flung them open.

He seemed to be in a dining hall. Before he could take in the sights too closely, however, he was distracted by two soldiers falling to the floor. Looking up, he saw a third soldier dangling from the second-floor window of a tall structure overlooking the room.

"That must be where the demon's guiding me," Parsley muttered to himself. "It's time to see what game he wants to play."

Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.

---

Loud and chaotic was quickly becoming the default state of affairs among COFCA. Even an attempt at examining Envoy's competition in the upcoming battle had almost instantly devolved into a discussion of semantics.

"...And that rebelliousness could very well tear this family apart internally, making them useless as allies and maybe even hindering our efforts!"

"I rather doubt they're going to dissolve because of one teen's dislike for her parents' music! You're taking this to extremes, and-"

"Taking this to extremes?! I'd say this situation qualifies as 'extreme,' wouldn't you?"

"Whether or not 'extreme' is the right term-"

"The good doctor has a point, you're exaggerating things far beyond observed facts!"

Before the argument could continue, the numerous screens in the COFCA conference room cut out, the live feed from Envoy replaced with nothing but static. The sound was still there, the sounds of bullets still punctuated by frequent explosions, but there was nothing to be seen.

Half a dozen people were reaching to contact ground control when the static cleared once more. As it did, though, the war-sounds vanished, replaced by a voice halfway through a sentence.

"-cess of elimination, this must be the audio."

A flurry of voices were raised all at once, demanding to know just who that was, how he was talking to them, what was going on here, and any number of other things.

"Well, that settles that, then. Thanks, you can be quiet now." The dismissive way he said it shocked the sensibilities of most of the people talking, and, for the moment, they did what he said. The remaining few didn't want to stand out from the group and keep talking, so they stopped as well.

"Right. Now, based on the temporal shift on these data streams, this can only be COFCA on the line here."

"That's correct, yes." Eva Nguyen stood, a gesture that, had there been any visual communication, would've put herself forward as the current spokesperson of the group. "And you are?"

"John Smith, temporal mechanics expert and communications enthusiast. I have a- Oh, sorry, just a second."

Several people exchanged glances as, through the stream, they heard the shattering of glass, two gunshots, and the sound of a number of bullets hitting cement.

-

The mess hall was rather nice, as far as mess halls went- it stretched through three floors of the base, the open space a nice change from the rest of the facility. The walls that bordered the first floor had a number of halls leading off in all directions- the room was a bit of a hub, and people passed through on a regular basis. The upper two stories had evenly-spaced windows all around, which looked out from offices, conference rooms, and the like. It was a very bureaucratic area in the base, and a number of higher-ups had offices that looked into that particular mess.

On their way through the big room, privates Peterson, Matthew, Andrews, and Smith (no relation to the contestant) were surprised by a chair that came hurtling out of the third-floor window. They were a bit more than surprised when Matthew took a shot to the chest and another to the shoulder. The surviving three fired a number of shots back, and then Peterson, the de facto leader of the group, had them head for the stairs, going up to the office to hopefully apprehend their assailant.

-

"Right, sorry. As I was saying, I have a communications device that's designed for a wide range of situations, and I was scanning through the frequencies to find the base-wide comm channel when I saw your streams. They were temporally shifted, and how could I resist?" There was a grunt of effort, a loud, metallic clang, and a sigh of satisfaction from John's end of the line. "Tried one, got video, tried the next, and here I am, at your service."

"Well, sir, the offer is most appreciated-"

"Appreciated? From what we know, he's insane!"

"'A bit of a nutcase' can mean a variety of things, Mr. Marcus. Has he seemed particularly unstable to you so far?"

"Well, the Charlatan wasn't wrong," John said, taking advantage of the higher volume he gained when speaking through the room's impressive sound system to effectively stifle any interruptions, "I am a bit off. Of course, you want someone a bit off in a situation like this. Someone completely sane, they'd go straight off the deep end at being thrust into a battle to the death by an extra-dimensional being and end up being completely useless unless you needed someone to gibber and drool. What you really want is someone just off enough to keep their wits about them when there's hell whirling all around them, someone who's been there before and lived to tell the tale. You want someone who can take a mad, impossible situation and be mad and impossible right back at it." There was another smash, more breaking glass, but a bit further away this time. Then, a door closed and John spoke again, more quietly than before. "What you want is me, my friends, and you just don't know it yet."

-

Peterson, Andrews, and Smith burst into the office. It was rather nice, clearly belonging to someone with points to spare. It was done up with old-style wood panelling, a full-on wooden desk and even a wooden door to the closet to one side.

It was a bit of a mess, though. The sleek, metal standing lamp that had probably been next to the desk had had its base pried off and all its wires pulled out. Those wires had then been tied around it, and the lamp braced across the window while the wires dangled down the outside. An escape rope- their assailant must've climbed down.

The three soldiers moved to the window as one to look down- indeed, at the other end of the cords, the second-floor window was broken as well. The three weren't sure why there was a desk lamp tied to the end of the cord, though. Counterbalance, maybe? Or had the wires from the floor lamp not been enough on their own?

The office looked nice, but whoever it was that had paid for all of the fancy wood hadn't bothered to get appropriate, old-school hinges for the closet door. Instead, it was outfitted with modern 'nosqueek' ones, so as John swung it open, the soldiers didn't even turn to look. Made things rather easy.

John gave a polite cough, and the three whirled to face him, bringing their guns to bear on him.

He shot them. Two managed to get off one shot each before they died, and both went wide, pinging off of the walls without doing any damage. That same two fell backwards, out the window. They landed with suitable crunches on the floor below. The remaining one, Andrews, had gotten his rifle's strap tangled up with the broken frame of the window when he spun around to face John. Both strap and frame surprised John with their sturdiness- Andrews now hung from them, saving John the time of figuring out some other way to lead whoever might be following his trail towards the office he was in now.

-

John cleared his throat at the end of the line. "Sorry about that. You know how battles to the death are, people shooting other people, things being loud, et cetera, et cetera. Or- hang on, you probably don't. I rather doubt any of you have ended up in a situation quite like this before. That's why you need me. I've been around the block with these things, I know the ropes. At the moment, however, I need to go. I'll call you back in a bit, see if you've thought about it. Goodbye!"

His voice cut out, and the sounds of gunfire and explosions returned in its place, accompanied by yet another burst of loud, competing voices in the conference room.

Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.

---

Ashley clutched at his throat – on some subconscious level he had known she was right about the imminent death awaiting and now that knowledge was betraying him. The hands at his neck were changing, he could feel them becoming smaller, he fancied he could feel the skin become paler –

No!

He forced her back, and himself forward, weaving in between blurry, dead hulks while the machines marched behind him. She fought him and he fought the world around him that seemed to fight against his very steps forward. She’d never been this determined, this desperate before, it seemed… though he knew that it always seemed that way in the middle of a skirmish.

<font color="red">Darrllll!!

“NO!”

His vision was clearing. He could see ahead the lip of the slope where the chasm’s floor became ground-level ground, and safety. He saw ahead through a mist of pain and exhaustion and gunfire: salvation.

No, darll, that’s an RV on the horizon, too far away to signal and driving away with soldiers on its roof. Kinda unsafe if ya think about it. Didn’t that Charlatan say the family had an RV…?

So they can save us!

Yeah, darll, I think you should be the one who insists that everyone else in the competition is going to kill us and I’ll just keep insisting that sentience and humanity (or otherwise) is essentially good ,mk? Totally wouldn’t try to smother an intelligent being to death by stopping them from manifesting even a scrap of existence on the material plane. Oh. Right.

He ignored her, and mustered up the last reserves of his strength for a shout-

“HELLLLP!”

“Did you hear something?”

Clarice looked up from her notepad, listened, and shook her head. “Just gunfire…”

Ashley fell forwards, landing on his hands in the rubble. He had hoped there might have been an operational radio close enough to pick up and interpret his shout as a high-priority distress signal, but it seemed he was out of luck or the sound of the robots behind him had drowned him out. They had stopped firing now, for whatever reason.

Plate. I’m going to be taken prisoner, aren’t I.

Juuuuuust maybe.

And then I’ll die.

Darl, darl, darll. How do you get dressed in the morning if you’re so busy stating the obvious?

You’re not helping!

Really? I thought this was helping. You want me to not help, darll?

You…oh, just shut up!

Mind stinging with the inadequate retort, Ashley put his efforts into crawling through the rubble. As he dragged himself forward, slowly, in the direction of the retreating RV, a shape began to distinguish itself against the rocky terrain and ruddy sky – a square, blockish shape that said ‘Headquarters’, ‘command center’, or even ‘camp’.

Hell, I’d be happy with a camp. As long as it’s a human camp. I expect robot camps don’t have much in the way of beds or medical care and I don’t need cybernetic limbs.

As long as they don’t kill ya darll. By the way, darll, interesting fact: you know who soldiers are less likely to kill? Women and children, even if it is for nefarious purposes soooo much of the time. Men.

We get it, Ashley.

’We’ wish.

The family in the RV were human, since the Charlatan introduced them first in the lineup. They aren’t currently being surrounded by a battalion of robot soldiers, so that means that they must be driving towards the human base.

He turned his head, directly away from the RV, and looked at Fort Ayers, much larger and much more looming.

But the Charlatan said there was some tech worth fighting a war for in there…

Not dying would be worth fighting a war for…wait, that didn’t make any sense, did it :P

No. Now I’d like to focus on not dying.

I don’t think anyone heard you shout, darll…

But someone had.</font>

Originally posted on MSPA by Een.

---

The impressionistic compositions of Claude Debussy filled what would have otherwise been a very awkward silence following the query posed to Nancy. She felt she had handled her current situation fairly reasonably so far. It had already been far too much excitement for an entire lifetime, let alone one day! And now she just saw a man reduced to spacedust by another man with a giant dice for a head. Was that even possible to contextualize? Nancy didn’t really think so.

She supposed she’d have to try, though. Alright, so maybe she wasn’t daydreaming, but this was definitely the weird sort of thing she’d come up with if she was. Maybe, somehow, she’d wandered into the daydream of someone else? That Charlatan fella? Someone she hadn’t met yet? It didn’t seem any less plausible than giant metal men and folks with dice for a head. She supposed for now that explanation would have to do until she stumbled onto a better one. She would definitely need a better one at some point, though, because her solution to the question of where she was left her with an even bigger problem: if this was someone else's daydream, just how was she supposed to get them to wake up? Yikes. Better save thinking on that one for later.

Okay, so, someone else was currently dreaming about a guy with a dice for a head. Right. Glad that was all taken care of then. That still didn’t change the fact that he had blood all over his weird circular bread knife hand, and that he had just turned her ex-captor into a pile of cheap cigar ashes. Instinct told Nancy to be frightened, but now that she thought about it, should she really be so terrified? After all, Nancy had been five hundred percent sure the soldier planned on shooting her or something else really inappropriate like that. Technically dice man had just rescued her! Like a hero or something! Gosh. That was pretty exciting actually, though the knightly chivalry of the moment was slightly ruined by the fact that he had just asked about breadbaskets. Why the heck did he want to know about breadbaskets? Did he collect them or something? This was some kind of crazy warzone, Nancy didn’t have time for breadbaskets!

Six, meanwhile, was also attempting to make sense of the situation in his own way. It was clear what his relationship toward anyone marked as a “contestant” should be, but no one else seemed to appreciate this. Had anyone answered his questions since he arrived? Even the simplest, most mundane ones had gone ignored. It was, very slowly, becoming apparent to him that the programming he was meant to rely on it did not account for this situation. It was as though everyone else around Six was running on an entirely separate set of rules and no one had bothered to tell him about it.

This contestant didn’t seem to be any better. Instead of answering his question she merely stared, eyes wide and unblinking. She really couldn’t just do that forever. Silence was just as incorrect as a wrong answer.

“Sweet Kansas cherries!” Nancy exclaimed suddenly, finally vocalizing her dissatisfaction with his apparent interest in breadbaskets, “I guess it’s real great that you’re keen on breadbaskets and all but I don’t really think—”

Now this was more like it. “KANSAS. CORRECT.”

“That this is the time! I mean, look, you seem like a real swell bird—”

“Question 09: Which month in the Gregorian Calendars is known for having a ruby as a birthstone?”

“And I’d love to bump gums with you ‘til next July and make this a real trip for biscuits—”

“JULY. CORRECT.”

“But I don’t think that guy was some one time button man!”

“Question 10: What language has the unique classification of West Low Franconian?”

“Don’t you get it? We’re in real dutch here—”

“DUTCH. CORRECT.”

“And sure, no dame likes anklin’ around with a roscoe stuck in her back and I really appreciate you bumpin’ him off like that, but—”

“Question 11: How many celestial bodies orbiting the sun are considered to be planets?”

“Trust me, we’re not gonna be hittin’ on all eight—”

“EIGHT. CORRECT.”

“When his pals show up and find him turned into…space dust! Are you even listenin’ to me? Look I know you got rats and mice for a head there but try and pipe this!”

Had Nancy’s otherworldly fortune caused her 20’s vernacular to inadvertently answer every question correctly, or had that fortune forced Six’s questions to be ones that she would inevitably get right? There was no way to be sure. Nancy’s good luck worked in ways that she did not understand. It very quietly and subtly warped the world around her in order to bend the odds in her favor. Its influence was gentle and small, but the impact was always the same: Nancy could simply do no wrong.

Regardless of Nancy’s luck, Six was certainly listening, but not really to the strange, dialect-ridden ramblings of the young police secretary. It was hard to pick out her answers from the giant mess that made up her day-to-day speech, but he was managing. And sure, maybe her way of talking was a bit… unconventional, but it was certainly better than what Six had dealt with earlier. You couldn’t run a show with uncooperative men in uniforms. Sure, the slaughter that had followed their unwillingness to answer his questions might have made for some good ratings, but Six was programmed to ask questions, and he was not very pleased when they all went unanswered.

Nancy, however, understood how it all worked. Or at least… it seemed like she did. The Charlatan had named her as a contestant, so she ought to anyway. And if she was a contestant, then it was Six’s job to ask her questions. The setting may have been a bit unusual and there was still a quiet nagging in the back of Six’s mind that spoke to the inherent irregularity of it all, but there was no need to overcomplicate things. He knew what he was supposed to do, and so he was going to do it.

“Question 12: What is the—”

Six paused and turned as the vaporized soldier’s aforementioned “pals” suddenly decided to make an entrance. A small group of them were heading past the door on their way outside when they noticed two individuals who very, very obviously did not belong. They stood still for a few moments, taking the situation in, but it didn’t last. They were professionals, and they knew how to handle unfamiliar intruders. Without warning they slipped into a loose formation and leveled their weapons at Six and Nancy.

Six had been optimistic about stumbling onto contestants thus far, but even he could tell that these men did not look interested in answering questions.

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

---

Six quickly assessed the situation.

The soldiers were not contestants. Six, now drawing a connection between the Charlatan’s introductions and contestants’ ability to answer questions, concluded that the soldiers were some sort of auxiliary threat, to make the show more interesting. MediaPolitics sometimes did that. Like that Christmas episode with the presents that were actually bombs.

Furthermore, Six reasoned from experience that, for whatever reason, these soldiers attacked Host and Contestant alike, regardless of game show protocol. Six supposed this was not a normal game show, however. Apparently there were more than six contestants, after all.

But… something still bothered him. That epiphany lost. That nagging feeling…

“GPS DOW-”

Six didn’t have time for this. From the expressions on the soldier’s face, they were getting ready to either run away in fear, or attack. And he certainly knew that expression all too well.

It was an expression Nancy did not have while answering questions. Her odd sentence structure and rather calm nature perplexed and intrigued Six. She did not fear him. She did not hate him. She didn’t even view him as some lifeless machine, like MediaPolitics did, to be used and then disregarded.

She required more questions, in order for him to understand.

Quickly, the robot edited the end of his sentence to be more contextually appropriate. “-most immediate path from danger?”

“Um, well, I dunno why you’d be so balled up over something like that, but that over there looks like-”

As Nancy pointed to a nearby intersection between hallways, she was promptly interrupted by Six, who grabbed her waist with his good hand, and promptly lifted her like a sack of potatoes.

“Come with me,” intoned the Gameshow Host as he headed for the intersection.

“Well, I don’t really have much choice in the matter, do I?” Nancy said as the soldiers began to open fire. “You pickin’ me up like you’re some sort of ragamuffin and all. You better not take any wooden nickels, ‘cause I’m not real keen on havin’ to deal with some piker’s mistakes.”

The pair turned the corner as Six replied: “I assure you that I will not take any wooden currency if I come across it, and I thankfully I am not capable of wielding pikes.”

“No! I mean- augh, forget it.”

The two ran through the trenches for a while in silence, Six dodging gunfire as best as he could, and Nancy putting a thoughtful expression on her face. Six was okay with the silence, however. This was not currently an ideal question asking-situation.

Suddenly, however, the girl asked a question of her own.

“Say, you feel real cold. And hard, like metal and stuff. Are you wearing some kind of armor? Are you like, some kind of Knight or something?”

When the term “knight” was mentioned, Six did not think of the heroes from fairy tales and medieval myth. He thought of the real knights; soldiers, killers, bound under some higher power and ordered to kill for it. He could see the connection, even if that connection was wrong. And although it was outside of protocol, he decided to reply.

“Generally it is not acceptable to answer a contestant’s question. I however, found yours interesting. In many ways I suppose you could compare me to a knight. I equally find you intriguing, contestant 1. I will continue asking questions once we reach a more appropriate area.”

Nancy honestly didn’t understand a lot of that. Nevertheless, she shrugged her shoulders and they continued on their way.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.

---

John had barely made it two steps from the office before his suit beeped at him. Swiftly, he brought the underside of his sleeve up to eye level, fixing his eyes on the small screen.

"Ooh, hello. A distress call? Now how- ahhh." Comprehension dawned as the screen explained. A damaged and disabled but still intact robot was, for one reason or another, transmitting paired audio and video. Right in front of it, someone had collapsed. They were now busily dragging themselves forward, evidently quite injured, and according to the suit, they'd screamed for help moments prior. A distress signal, by the definitions of the suit's programming, and a high-priority one at that.

John grinned. Before he could act on the signal, though, he heard shouts and gunshots from ahead. His grin widened, and with a chuckle, he started into a run.

-

Six and Nancy turned another corner, soldiers not far behind, and found another contestant, John Smith, coming towards them at a run. When he saw them, he slowed to a jog, then gestured to a door to one side. "Wait there," he mouthed, pointing insistently at it despite having no idea what was behind the door. He couldn't really read Six's face, and Nancy's was in a state of astonishment that didn't particularly seem related to his instruction. Reasonably satisfied, John didn't stop, just straightening his suit jacket and heading to meet the soldiers.

Seeing no particular reason not to obey, Six did as instructed, carrying Nancy along with him. This being- another contestant, he recognized- appeared to have knowledge that would be useful, as well as confidence in his tactics. Their situation could hardly be made worse, given that they were being chased by half a dozen armed soldiers, so there was nothing to really be lost by doing as he said.

-

John rounded the corner a dozen steps before the soldiers did, and had they been less well-trained, they'd probably have filled him with bullets. Fortunately for him, though, they were, and they held their fire long enough for him to start issuing orders with authority.

Authority, as many people know, can be obtained in several ways. Firstly, by looking the part- a person in ragged clothing and mismatched shoes isn't going to seem nearly as authoritative as someone in a military uniform or sharp suit. Secondly, authority can be gained by acting the part- if someone is obviously comfortable and used to being in charge, then it's a fair bet they are actually in charge of something. Thirdly, authority can be gained by genuinely deserving it- earning it through rank or something like that. That's often the easiest way and not terribly fun at all.

"Time is of the essence," John said, closing the gap between himself and the soldiers and coming to a stop just a few paces away. "There's a wounded informant out there, and we need him in here, alive. He's got top-clearance access codes, I've cleared them, don't worry, just hurry up and find him!"

"Sir, who-"

"Black hair, about five foot eight, casual military-wear; cargo pants, short sleeves, grey and black."

"What about-"

"You need to hurry. I'll take care of these two, just get out there and find him." They stared at him for a moment, but when he added a "Hustle!" and turned back to what was ostensibly his own mission, they headed off, double time, back the way they came.

John took a step or two back towards the intersection, then stopped, thinking. It didn't take long for him to make a decision, and he pulled the stolen pistol from his back waistband and fired off two shots at the retreating guards. They whirled (all but one doing so in shock, the other doing so as he fell, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder), and John added a completely mad cackle to make sure they thought of him as a threat, then dashed back the way he'd come.

-

Parsley was beginning to lose the trail when he heard the shots. He'd taken the two flights of stairs up, taken a brief look at the office, then taken the direction indicated by a bloody footprint that looked like it might well have been deliberate. Just a short ways down the hall, the sounds of gunfire started, along with running boots. He turned a corner just in time to see a figure move out of sight past the next one.

He was about halfway down the hall, voices starting to resolve themselves, when the boots started again, then were joined by a pair of gunshots. Not a second later, a man tore into view around the corner, heading towards him and cackling like a maniac.

"John Smith," Parsley remembered, "a bit of a nutcase."

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

---

Upon spotting Parsley, John Smith took a sudden turn to the left and ducked into a nearby room. Parsley followed, and saw the madman grinning at him as he entered.

"There's blood on your shoes," Parsley noted. "I suppose the demon's cast you as the culprit for whatever's been going on, hmm?"

"Stha. Elisgo muatri vanarsu, Lieri Krose?"

Parsley almost blinked.

"Chnaska triatzu halarku, Smith. Either you want me to know what you are, or you slipped up."

"Alnathua stro kanitza? Latheen esquatsi," Smith replied. There was a sudden sarcastic edge to his voice.

"I'm no novice, demon. You're speaking my native tongue. Not the language of this land."

Smith smirked.

"But what if that's an illusion?" he said calmly, switching languages. "Perhaps the demon made you hear it that way."

"Then he'd have to be close by," Parsley replied, reaching for his crossbow. "Y'see, I understand that demons can speak any language by checking the mind of whoever they're talking to. But there's a funny thing about that... when they don't know the language too well, they just copy pronunciation and such from the mind they're reading."

He grinned and fired a bolt of bread. It struck Smith in the lower torso; the breadstick crumbled upon hitting his metal suit, but it struck with enough force to make Smith flinch.

"When I was a young boy, my parents insisted I learn the proper way to pronounce stha. I shouldn't speak like a commoner, they always said," Parsley continued. He pulled another bolt out of his coat and loaded it into the crossbow.

Smith instinctively reached for his pistol, then paused. That would be too easy. Especially when this demon hunter's delusions offered such interesting opportunities.

"Well, you've figured me out," he replied with a smirk. "Yes, Parsley Krose, I'm the demon you're hunting. So, tell me; how do you like this world?"

"It's creative enough, I'll grant you that, but I prefer the real world," Parsley said. He reached into his coat and drew his blessed dagger. "I don't suppose you could see your way to bringing us back there?"

"Not really, no," Smith said absentmindedly. "The fun's just beginning, after all."

Parsley said nothing. He fired another bolt of bread, and ran towards Smith.

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

---

“...No, no, not Ashley – Ashley.”

“But you just said 'Ashley'.”

“No, I said Ashley.”

“Is there... someone at COFCA named Ashley?”

“No!”

“We've regained a stable connection,” interrupted a technician. The sounds of distant explosions on the battlefield were replaced by a high-pitched whine as the screens lit up and flickered back to Envoy's point of view. Carnea was floating a bit too close to the motionless robot, clearly unsure of whether to treat it like an object or another living being. She was talking at silently until the sound kicked back in a second later.

“-etter not be ignoring me,” Carnea threatened, jabbing a smoky finger in Envoy's featureless face. It dispersed and reformed. “I can just force your mind open... if you've even got one.”

Envoy's sensors switched back online and calibrated themselves, and ground control took control of Envoy's movements again. Even though it was basically invincible, they had been holding off on trying to move their precious robot until they could see what they were doing, so Envoy straightened noticeably, as if it had been startled awake. It turned slightly, focusing its Optics™ on Carnea's face. She noticed.

“Hm? That got your attention, did it?” she smirked, speaking to Envoy rather like it was a dog. “That's right, I can break right into your mind.” She jabbed another finger at Envoy's forehead. “In fact, I did just that to one of those soldiers with the masks a minute ago. He should be attacking the Broderburgs right about now.”

After a long moment of staring, her smirk faded. She leaned forward, looking into the lens that served as Envoy's eye. “Are you... alive in there?”

---

Megasenator Whittenberg lowered his red phone a fraction of an inch. He raised his free hand to massage his temples.

“I'm... I'm sorry. I must have misheard you.”

“No, sir, you didn't,” said a technician with a sad smile.

“I will give you a raise,” said Whittenberg, lowering his hand to point at the technician, “if you and your lab boys can develop a way to un-tell me what you just said.”

“Sorry, sir, but it's true: ”

“Envoy can't talk,” the megasenator said along with him, making no effort to hide his incredulous tone of voice. “That's great. That's great. Is this some kind of sick joke? Why did we build an ambassador and send it into space if it can't talk?”

“There were too many variables, sir. What if there was no atmosphere on the Uae homeworld? Soundwaves wouldn't be able to travel. And what if they used body language to communicate, or pheromones? They might not even be able to hear at all. And they certainly wouldn't be able to speak English,” the technician continued, “and even then, who are we to say what language the ambassador from Earth should speak? I mean, Mandarin Chinese is the most commonly spoken language on Earth. How would that look, if we didn't represent--”

By this point, the megasenator looked about ready to tie his phone in a knot and smash it over someone's head. Unable to hold in his laughter any longer, the technician who had been speaking had to turn away for a moment and cover his mouth. Another one tapped Whittenberg on the shoulder. “The speakers were top-of-the-line,” he quietly explained, “so they were sensitive and delicate. The radiation in space warped them beyond repair.” Whittenberg just glared, so he continued, talking over his coworker's laughter in the background. “It can still communicate with text, if you were to plug it into a computer,” he offered.

“Or you can try Morse code!”

---

Envoy balled its fists and looked up at the grim, dust-clouded sky as sophisticated programs back at ground control planned out a flight path that would avoid the routes that aircraft seemed to be taking. Carnea followed Envoy’s blank gaze, not really expecting to see the robot looking at anything in particular. She was just about to say something when brilliant flames exploded from Envoy’s rockets, launching it into the air with a shockwave that kicked up a wide radius of dust and smoke. The goddess actually had to shield her face from the searing heat and tearing winds, and the parts of her that she didn't cover were nearly blown away. The metal soldiers beneath her wispy feet melted into slag.

“You'll get Envoy killed!” exclaimed Monica Sorenson, actuary.

“Nonsense,” Lionel Ellsworth, Legitimate Businessman assured her. “Envoy's practically indestructible. We're just going to put Envoy at risk.”

Envoy bent as it reached the apex of its flight, aiming itself at what a set of green crosshairs on its HUD denoted as its landing site. As the rockets in its legs began to die down, fire surged from its jetpack, adjusting its trajectory towards what its radar told it was the location of the Broderburgs' RV.

“Mr. Ellsworth, that's what we're here to prevent,” Monica reminded him dryly.

“Eventually, yes. But right now, our goal is to get allies.”

A couple of missiles missed Envoy by a wide margin as it began its descent, cooling its jetpack and allowing gravity and aerodynamics to take over.

“Both armies might be potentially helpful,” he continued, “but only up until someone dies. Then we'll be sent off somewhere else, and it won't matter what we did here.”

Envoy ducked and curled up, performing a neat midair flip to aim its feet at the ground.

“...Unless we do something that will affect the later rounds – like make an ally with another contestant.”

Monica nearly stood up. “You're only saving the Broderburgs-”

“As a publicity stunt,” finished Mr. Ellsworth with a wicked grin.

On the screen behind them, Envoy's artificial gymnast reflexes kicked in, to take the force off of its impact with the ground. At the absolute last second, Envoy flipped over in midair, lightly planting its hands on the ground. It performed a neat handspring and flipped itself over again, holding its legs together for balance as in spun in two directions at once. By some strange miracle of science, Envoy landed gracefully on its feet with a loud thud that stirred up plenty of dust. It lifted its arms into the air, balancing and showing that it had completed its routine.

The Broderburgs clapped awkwardly from their RV, about 20 yards away.

The two COFCA executives stared at the screens for a few long moments.

“We can... fix that, right?”

“Our first impression, you mean?”

---

Jack lined up the barrel of her Pascal A6 with a fragile-looking joint on the back of the strange robot acrobat in front of her, preparing to quickly disable it before it could attack.

“What's that?” asked Clarice, clicking her pen and raising it to her notepad.

“I don't know,” Jack admitted impatiently. Her finger twitched on the trigger.

“You know, my daughter knows all about these kinds of things,” Clarice offered.

Jack pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can you just get back inside the vehicle?” she sighed. Envoy had stopped moving for the moment.

“Alison,” Clarice was already calling over the side of the RV. “Do you know what that... thing is?” As a career journalist, she refused on principle to use lazy words like 'thing,' but few other words could be used to describe the shiny metal... thing she knew only as Envoy.

“Looks like a robot, Mom,” Alison called back, in her can't-you-see-I'm-on-the-phone voice.

“It's a robot,” Clarice said plainly.

“Thank you,” said Jack through gritted teeth. She raised her walkie-talkie without taking her eyes off the strange metal soldier.

“Are you in position?” she asked the rest of her unit through the corner of her mouth. The walkie-talkie buzzed for a minute, an LED changed color, and Jack briefly heard a dial tone on the other end.

“About that,” replied a woman's voice in measured tones. “This is COFCA speaking. You'll want to get out of the way.”