A question: does anyone know what the environment inside purgatory looks like? I need to know stuff like that before I write.
The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
- Thread starter The Sorrow
- Start date
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RW3 has officially begun! And we have so many more participants! And I'm not in the first battle which means I can just watch from the side-lines and not work! And we can do outside of battle conversations again, just like RW1! And vid has collected all the character sheets into one post so I don't have to go searching!
Khedive Rex is very happy. Khedive Rex would like to hug all of you.
Khedive Rex is very happy. Khedive Rex would like to hug all of you.
Everyone has such extensive intro's and I still haven't provided one for Lex. Other than a character sheet and a note on voodoo the Lex character is really still un-introduced.
Sorry everyone. Like Crowghast I'll be working on it tirelessly until it's done.
In addition to trying a different kind of character, I'm trying to write him differently as well. I think one of my big weaknesses as an author is a tendency to over-describe, so with Lex I'm trying to keep things much more spartan. Who would have thought writing less would be more difficult?
Anyway. Sometime soon. It'll be up long before I have to fight anyone. If all goes according to plan it'll be up before this fight is over.
Sorry everyone. Like Crowghast I'll be working on it tirelessly until it's done.
In addition to trying a different kind of character, I'm trying to write him differently as well. I think one of my big weaknesses as an author is a tendency to over-describe, so with Lex I'm trying to keep things much more spartan. Who would have thought writing less would be more difficult?
Anyway. Sometime soon. It'll be up long before I have to fight anyone. If all goes according to plan it'll be up before this fight is over.
Break a rib-I mean leg! Yeah. Break a leg ...
Ai, ai, ai--it figure that, even to battle for a divine throne, ya gotta fill out a job application, hm? Ah well, I can sing the blues or I can fill out the form, I s'pose...
Name: I had lotsa names, not sure which one they want here. I just put "The DJ" here--it not my name, it my title, but my name change and change from time to time and place to place and person to person. And even the title change from age to age. But yeah, "The DJ." It do for now.
Description: I gotta describe myself? Why? You gonna see me when I step out. I don't e'spect that the dueling ring gonna be too terrible crowded, you gonna know it me. And in truth, I dunno what I look like. My face change like my name, more than my name, even. Lotta people think me a brown man o' some sort, but I ain't even a man always. I look human, tho'. Most times, anyhow.
Weapons: None. Weapons can't do nothing that I want done.
Abilities: My ability is that I Express. That don't sound half pretentious now, hm? But that it right there. I do what music do, and music? It Express. It express feeling, ideas, it give shape to thought, even though it got no shape of it own. I can make you move, I can make you stand still as a statue inna middle of a busy subway while someone make a fiddle sing or a saxophone moan. Music change your mind, music change your heart, music make you think, and music make you stop thinkin' so that for once you step outta you mind and just live for a liddle bit.
I unify. I divide. I make discordant harmony and loud silence. I start springtime riots in concert halls and bring silent nights of peace to the battlefield. I preserve. I disrupt. I balance. I comprehend.
I think maybe people gonna find this frustratin', all this back an' forth mysticism. How you gonna fight something if you don't know what it do? Hones'ly, I dunno how you gonna fight me. I got no intention of fightin' anyone. I di'nt come to fight you.
I come to free you.
Haha, you scared now, eh?
Name: I had lotsa names, not sure which one they want here. I just put "The DJ" here--it not my name, it my title, but my name change and change from time to time and place to place and person to person. And even the title change from age to age. But yeah, "The DJ." It do for now.
Description: I gotta describe myself? Why? You gonna see me when I step out. I don't e'spect that the dueling ring gonna be too terrible crowded, you gonna know it me. And in truth, I dunno what I look like. My face change like my name, more than my name, even. Lotta people think me a brown man o' some sort, but I ain't even a man always. I look human, tho'. Most times, anyhow.
Weapons: None. Weapons can't do nothing that I want done.
Abilities: My ability is that I Express. That don't sound half pretentious now, hm? But that it right there. I do what music do, and music? It Express. It express feeling, ideas, it give shape to thought, even though it got no shape of it own. I can make you move, I can make you stand still as a statue inna middle of a busy subway while someone make a fiddle sing or a saxophone moan. Music change your mind, music change your heart, music make you think, and music make you stop thinkin' so that for once you step outta you mind and just live for a liddle bit.
I unify. I divide. I make discordant harmony and loud silence. I start springtime riots in concert halls and bring silent nights of peace to the battlefield. I preserve. I disrupt. I balance. I comprehend.
I think maybe people gonna find this frustratin', all this back an' forth mysticism. How you gonna fight something if you don't know what it do? Hones'ly, I dunno how you gonna fight me. I got no intention of fightin' anyone. I di'nt come to fight you.
I come to free you.
Haha, you scared now, eh?
Actually, it's just Harlequin.vid20 said:
Maybe I didn't fully edit it enough, but I'm absolutely horrible at naming my characters. So I've just decided that he will simply be Harlequin. I started with "the Harlequin" and then jsut switched it entirely
It works for what I plan to do anyway.
Minor detail. Irrelevant. Just thought I'd let you know.
And good luck to Bling and Zem. I can't help but want to have fought Bling myself, though, as it would fit marvelously.
Perhaps I'll get another chance.
Sorrow, this will take a year with single matches. I hate to presume to know your plan, but perhaps you could make a battle 'tree' and have 3 matches run at once. No need to post it, but it formalizes the process for you and means we don't twiddle our thumbs for weeks waiting for our turn. For the first round at least, please have more then one match run at once.
I like this idea, I don't want to be waiting for a year to get around to my post.Ultrajoe said:
and FYI: In July I will be going away for about 8 weeks, so I'm not sure if I can fully partake in this
Khedive Rex said:
For I also have been lax on my introduction. What with that lazy decision to recycle an older post, and the dogged decision [i\]not[/i] to finish the real one until I feel like it.
Well, not really, I started it and i've got a pretty comprehensive description for him but i'm stuck figuring out a backstory and I don't really have any other power than bringing the dead back to life when within a certain radius.
Like your character, Khedive, mine is also a challenge. I've had him in my head all my life, placing him in various situations and stories to see how they turn out before writing them. If [i\]he[/i] work out in it, nothing would. He was always emotionless, blank, so i'm trying to change that. Which has proved... futile. He's fine this way. So what the fuck do I do to him? If I don't change him somehow it'll be a pretty samey-same routine.
I'll probably have to edit the story I have heavily, revise the entire thing likely, buy a new fuckin' turkey for Thanksgiving dinner, yea? And then stuff the turkey and dress it and serve it and cut it and eat it. Which is why i'm afraid to open up the file and take a look. (I also dislike turkey.)
But, to be honest, I wouldn't worry [i\]too much[/i], everyone else can have a blast with their big posts while we conserve our energy. I don't expect either of our battle to occur for a few... months. So you and me, Khedive, can just relax and come up with tales for our perceived enemies!
Well, not really, I started it and i've got a pretty comprehensive description for him but i'm stuck figuring out a backstory and I don't really have any other power than bringing the dead back to life when within a certain radius.
Like your character, Khedive, mine is also a challenge. I've had him in my head all my life, placing him in various situations and stories to see how they turn out before writing them. If [i\]he[/i] work out in it, nothing would. He was always emotionless, blank, so i'm trying to change that. Which has proved... futile. He's fine this way. So what the fuck do I do to him? If I don't change him somehow it'll be a pretty samey-same routine.
I'll probably have to edit the story I have heavily, revise the entire thing likely, buy a new fuckin' turkey for Thanksgiving dinner, yea? And then stuff the turkey and dress it and serve it and cut it and eat it. Which is why i'm afraid to open up the file and take a look. (I also dislike turkey.)
But, to be honest, I wouldn't worry [i\]too much[/i], everyone else can have a blast with their big posts while we conserve our energy. I don't expect either of our battle to occur for a few... months. So you and me, Khedive, can just relax and come up with tales for our perceived enemies!
Act 2: Rise
Chapter 3: Divinity
-Providence was never a sweeter irony-
------
The dark blur landed before Junior Constable Geoffrey Paris vertically, swatting the gun from his hand. He had leapt from the roof of the building, the sound of the heavy treads slamming in the pavement arriving only a moment before a harsh steel arm grabbed him around the throat and pushed him up against the wall.
It was dark, early morning, but the shadows inside the furious horned face stood out as darker than the night. The angular plates of storm-coloured metal had no shine to them, and so the only thing for the struggling policeman to focus on was the opening into Evil before him. It made no sense, the armour; it fit too close to the skin, in a way that should have left the infamous crusader as mobile as a plank. Overlapping segments of the steel, like the carapace of some night-time horror, should have rasped and sparked as they folded to let the bastard move like a snake.
Instead, the monster moved like a dancer and often the first thing you heard was the sound of your ribcage bending inwards.
?Fhuck yhou? Paris choked out, beating ineffectually at the unmoving arm before him. Reaching for his mace, he raked the spray across the visor of his attacker, whose only response was to reach up and crush the bottle and his hand into a single, painful mass, the burning liquid pouring into his splintered fingers. He screamed, the sharp fingertips of the gauntlet rendering it into a hollow hiss.
?Nobody looks up? Said the metal mask, the amused tone rendered unnerving as it passed out of the helmet. ?Which is odd, constable....? He searched for a badge or nametag ?...Paris, because you had already been told this room was clear. Do you know what I do when I hear something like that, Paris? I look to where nobody else has?
A fist as dark as the deep earth rose into Geoffrey?s vision, and then there was only a crunch.
-----
They?re persistent, unrelenting, coming after me with all the vigour of the righteous. What?s giving them so much trouble is that I?m doing the exact same thing, Whahaha. But come on, seriously, they?ve got helicopters with all kinds of gizmos and whatnot to spot me, and they send in the green rookies to sweep out the perimeter. You know their problem? Too much faith in guns and badges, that?s what. What happens when someone who doesn?t fear the badge and who has proven he doesn?t fear the gun comes along? They try for more fear.
Terror is the greatest weapon of the people?s law, their only weapon, and they still try to tell me they?re the good guys. Do you know what you get when someone has a weapon in one hand, and an excuse in the other? Angels. Angels, who don?t use one to regulate the other, but instead have the power to shove one wherever they can fit the second.
And do you know the thing about Angels? They can?t defend squat, let alone themselves. They can only break, break and break.
A system built on destruction. Peace through superior firepower, a joke that nestles a truth more terrible than any imagined foe, any foreign threat. I think that?s what makes them so determined to stop me, the knowledge that all I am is superior firepower. Do you think it scares them, the truth that I am the peace they have been searching for all these years? The realisation I represent, that they might be accountable for all they do?
I?ll tell you what, I know I scare the shit out of them, Whahahahahaha.
?Knightmare? Say the papers, their beloved child welcomed back into the embrace of their pages. It?s hilarious, the beautiful paradox of the profit I bring them. Do you see it now, what fills my mind? My very name is the one they gave me, but theirs is a world that can profit from it. What kind of world does that make it, huh, what should I call Them?
What do I call you?
------
?Paris, what?s going on?? Matthew Roberts demanded to the receiver, and every second doubled his apprehension. Evil shouldn?t have been in that part of the complex, but what shouldn?t happen was rapidly becoming an all-to-frequent reality. ?Shit? He spat to one of the officers near him ?Take two men and see what happened to Paris, run if you see the bastard?
Things were dire; the armoured battering ram was on the verge of making it into the largest city for five hundred miles. In the maze of alleys, sewers and canals he might slip away forever, known only by the frequency of corpses found. He wouldn?t stay there forever, he was a man driven by something, but to lose him here was to lose possibly a dozen lives in requiring his trail.
?Get the SWAT team into gear, we?re moving in now?
-----
Shock and Awe is the military tactic of bringing to bear a precise and overwhelming force. It is the theory that hitting something hard enough and fast enough denies it the ability to respond. SWAT teams are trained for Shock and Awe in every facet of their being, quick of trigger and loud of voice. They are the loud and powerful arms of the law, beating down resistance with pre-emptive mental genocide. They are the masters confronting the enemy with a pack of Alpha-males, leaving nobody standing.
Shock and Awe would not be used today. The monster they hunted today was past shock, and beyond awe, and he would not go down voluntarily. Captain Dwayne Michaels, six year veteran and bear in human flesh, knew the type all too well.
?Safeties off the moment we go in the door? he said to the nine men who stood behind him, clipping Kevlar vests to their chests and pulling balaclavas over their heads. They were all pros; people he knew had the training running in their blood, who didn?t need to be told how to handle a cornered snake. Nevertheless, he felt duty-bound to deliver a briefing beyond the realms of tactical. ?This prick stares at flash-bangs just to piss them off? he said as he removed his own suppression grenades from his belt. ?Something in his hat, a filter. It could be fucking sunglasses, I don?t give much of a damn, but it means our first line of security is nine millimetres long and likes long walks in the god damned park?
Some of the men chuckled, the discomfort at the break in routine assuaged by the coarse humour. Michaels smiled, just like a thousand times before, relaxation was key to success, letting your mind slip into it?s muscle memories, getting his team calm was half the battle. ?He?s a cop-killer, a proven one. We go in silent, move room by room and clear whatever traps he?s laid, and corner him.?
?Bullshit you will? Said Roberts as he rounded the Van. ?Does anyone read the damn reports I send?? Michaels sighed; he was hoping he could slip into position before the operations leader found them. ?Do I need to tell you what happened the last time a SWAT team tried to sweep him out?? He said, and Michaels swore, he was hoping more that he could go without mentioning how the first attempt at recapture had gone again. Sloppy, that?s what that team had been, they should have checked what the liquid at their feet was, and instead the entire team had their guns on him when the floor went up in flames. It was basic doctrine, for god?s sakes, even if you couldn?t smell it through the filter.
Still, Dwayne respected Matthew, he had led the hunt for the media?s precious ?Knightmare? for almost the entirety of the two months. Matthew Roberts was a man who characterised ?By the books?, and it was the only reason he was still in charge after the fiasco at Bire Lake, the one where seven proud lives had been claimed in the flames.
?Listen? He said to the men in black before him ?The one thing that?s certain about this mission is that training means squat. He?ll die to a bullet, one lone bullet, but we haven?t been able to land one on him yet. For what it?s worth, we have tried really fucking hard?. The men absorbed his words, filing them away for consideration, just as they had been trained to do. God help us, Roberts thought as he left the SWAT team. They were the best in their field, the best in the state. The question was whether that would make the right kind of difference.
-----
I can feel you, Roberts. Out there you sit, in the fading light, eager to bring the flashing fiery justice down on my head. Did they give you a hat for your role? You don?t even know your place, do you? Toy soldiers, Roberts, Toy soldiers, and I?m tired and sore from playing tag. Gah, I like to think I?m patient, but I?ve been wedged among these rusty walls for an hour, squeezed into a bloody maze of warehouses and buildings, and it?s perfect.
Still fucking boring though... and I think I dinged my ass.
-----
Roberts pulled himself into the passenger seat of the observation van, the steam from his coffee long-disappeared as he dragged it from the cup holder. Two months, two months with a constant ten mile suspect zone. Longest anyone had ever lasted against those odds was two days. Two months.
His driver was one of the office lads, who picked the wrong week to do his driving experience. The scrawny, fuzzy-faced beat cop was putting up a strong front, but being behind the lines meant nothing when you were chasing someone like this. He stared out the window, craning to see any sign of the targets demise, so that they could back to precinct and he could tell everyone the most heroic and dramatic version of events he could dream up.
?Don?t worry? Matthews said, handing him a mint, ?He won?t try anything with the van, not while we?re in it?. That was true enough, the bastard needed to flee into the city, escape the tail he had dragged for miles and vanish into thin air. For that, he needed to outrun any reserve units that turned up, and this was the only vehicle on the complex that had the keys in the ignition. For now, anyway.
?Sure thing? Said the cop, with a wry grin ?And what if he decides to get us out??. That, Roberts conceded with a nod, was true enough. He motioned to the crew in the back, the officers observing the video feeds from the teams' helmets and the lone observation chopper circling above.
Without asking, the business-like woman closest to him began a pre-op rundown. ?Nothing seen from the air, even on thermals, just like at Bire Lake.? She said, switching over the to Michaels channel ?Captain, last time he escaped our thermal sweep by standing in a steam vent, check anything you see that could be masking him this time?
Roberts gave a mirthless chuckle. This was an engine line, smacked up next to a factory that made designer wooden bench-tops. They had only just got everyone out by the time he was estimated to be in the area. Half the place was still lit up like a Christmas tree. ?Call off the thermals, it?s a waste of our time. Go to visual sweeps of the insertion point? He said, his words radioed to the chopper, as he watched it circle lazily for another pass over the large skylights.
?Nothing? came back the southern drawl of the pilot ?Junk, peoples lunches, power tools, crates, big logs, but no sign of Evil?
?Don?t bloody call him that? Roberts grunted, downing the lukewarm remnants of his drink ?Half the reason he thinks he?s got a reason is the fact that we call him that?
------
Michaels moved silently, stalking forwards with his gun poised to react to any threat. Behind him a robotic symphony unfolded, black figures tagging each other as they passed, an overlapping exercise in perfection. Fields of fire covered every point of ambush as they approached the entry point, a back door onto the factory floor of the engine line. Small, wooden, but it had no natural observation points.
You couldn?t sneak up on any force that came through it.
?Roberts? Michaels hissed into his radio ?Are we a go??
-----
A cookie to whoever figures out how this is going to go down.
As a hint: They?re going to lose.
------
?You?re a go? Came Roberts whisper, and the team filed into the short corridor in front of the door. Their guns held low, ready whip up as they stormed through the door. They met each other?s eyes, each implicitly trusting the man beside them. They trusted themselves, and they trusted their leader, who raised three fingers in readiness.
3...
Shock and Awe is all about two things.
2...
Shock and Awe is about control. It is about being in command of all before you, and capitalising on the advantage that this brings. When you have control, you are functionally immortal, and practically unstoppable.
1...
Shock and Awe is about power. It is about meeting all resistance with overwhelming force. It is about dominance.
Go...
Captain Michaels rushed forward, kicking through the door in a display of pow
*HRRRMMMMMM-HHRM-HRRMM-HRRM*
His leg broke, and he was thrown backwards among the shattered fragments of wood, and all the training meant nothing in the world as Evil came through the door with Shock, Awe and a Chainsaw.
------
Whahahahahahaha!
Look at them tumble, look at them scramble! Cookies for all! All their plans mean nothing the moment someone comes through a door backwards! And door are fucking designed to work both ways! Look at them, slack jawed, hands trying to bring up guns far too slowly. Two of them standing on the right, maws agape, and so I crush the biting teeth into those open mouths, the screams mingling with the throaty roar of the saw.
Another, the first on the left, jams his gun to his shoulder and rubs the trigger like he?s trying to make the damn thing orgasm. I drop to my knees as the barking spray passes over my head, and soon the cocky bastard is down on the ground with me, his legs jetting blood from where his thighs had been. Men of peace are now in pieces. Protect and sever, Whahahahah. The ones at the back can?t decide what to do, in the three seconds I?ve been through the door they?ve lost men and abandoned their plans. Every facet of their minds screams for them to fall back, but not these two at the front.
They whip up their guns, acting on instinct at the dervish before them. I like that, I like that they can settle into their hindbrain. Me? I can?t seem to get the hang of adrenaline, I?ve never felt the need. So where their speed comes at the cost of any actual thought, I?m moving because what I have is imagination.
I haul their captain up into the air in front of me, and the split second lasts a lifetime as he hangs before the hailstorm of their guns. He falls, and the chainsaw sweeps into view, and then the pair of navy-wearing boy scouts are trying to breath through a few new mouths.
-----
?Shit!? Roberts roared as he stared at the helmet-feeds from the team. Shit, Shit, SHIT! Michaels gone, almost half a dozen others seriously wounded or dead, and all because some dick hadn?t checked the entry point. ?How the fuck did he get there!? I thought we had a bloody thermal bloody came-?
He had turned it off. He had turned it off because Evil had somehow fooled the thermal. The son of a ***** knew, somehow, that the thermal was off, and just waltzed up to the door. No, he didn?t know the helicopter, he knew Him. He knew Roberts would turn off the thermal in favour of a visual sweep, it was just like fucking Bire fucking Lake. Matthew slammed a fist into the control console, watching the shaking feeds as the survivors fled into the outside corridor, peering into the hall to try and gun down their attacker. Evil was gone, Roberts didn?t need to look to see that, he had sent his message loud and clear; ?Whahahaha?.
He was getting really fucking sick of that laugh, which is why he bashed his head on the roof of the van when it crackled into mirthful greeting through the radios he had stolen from the six men who lay bleeding in front of the door.
?R-R-R-Roberts?? Said the stereophonic chortle, the effect of six radios chattering at once giving the already metallic voice an added ethereal, echoing edge. ?I?ve got to say, poor form with the recon. Really, I thought it was standard to check under the door with a worm camera. I had the jumper cables ready and everything?. Roberts scowled, he probably did. ?Tell me though, couldn?t you convince them to lend you more than a dozen hounds and a bird? Perhaps they don?t understand the nature of the threat...?
Then the helicopter was blown out of the sky, and the nature of the threat became all the more apparent to the only police presence left in the field.
-----
Seriously, they wheel out 40 men to take down people who top their wives. And for a guy who aces a SWAT team they send another SWAT team? Something?s amiss, and when something?s amiss it means people are hatching plans. And plans invariably mean something to de with me, because hey, I?m one interesting guy. The question is whether it?s a plan of Roberts'... or someone more sinister.
The helicopter is coming down somewhere, the almighty boom shaking the table where the air-ram lay. The damn thing was designed to pressure-clean the insides of engines, but after one demonstration I think we could re-market it as a device for sending big groups of six-inch nails through a helicopter. Not much though, my sales credibility is shot with today?s consumer.
Look out there, to where Roberts is screaming incoherently for the backup he was promised hours ago. Yes, something wicked this way comes... and if it stops me saying hello to Matthew in person I will be most upset. ?Did you hear that? I?ll be most upset?.
Silence. Ugh, why does that not reassure me? I?d like to think I wasn?t a cynic, but either someone is throwing men willingly into the Maw of the big black wolf or someone made them throw men willingly into... etcetera. Take this chap for example, crawled all the way out into the open before he lost enough blood to pass out. Did he want to be one of the dozen-ish bastards to run at a cop-killer?
What about the surviving ninjas? Did they want to regroup, sprint around to the back of the complex and kick through the door to find ten barrels of oil attached to a sparking, lively arc weld- *FFWMP* ?er, did they? That means whoever is really pulling the strings is a callous bastard, or merciful enough to minimize my potential havoc. Either way, he?s an utter bastard.
?Hello Roberts? I call out as I approach the van. He?s quite rude, really, trying to drive off like that. Bang, bang, and now he?s got rims spinning on the concrete. I?m also out of ammunition for this thing I got off the power rangers, but if there?s one truth about the defenders of justice, it?s that there?s no shortage of killing power when peace goes on the march.
Look, here comes some now, the back of the van pops open as some scrubs roll out like of the van like it?s a clown car. The first one has a pistol, and it?s comic how he swears when the spinning butt of a sub-machine gun konks him in the forehead. There?s no other noise, just the crunching of my feet on the gravel and the muted curses of the police struggling out of cramped seats.
I can never fit my fingers into the little trigger guards of these pistols. I have to kind of hold it with one hand and shove the point of my digit in and try to masturbate the damn thing into firi- whoops. Oh wait; I hit one, no harm done, Whahahaha. Two more finally come tumbling out, one almost but not quite getting a shot off before he bites some boot. The second is quite surprised when I haul him up by the collar.
?How are you? Good? That?s good. Help me settle a bet?
------
?Keep your gun levelled at the window son? Roberts hissed, pointing his own pistol out his side of the car. He stared into the rear-view mirror, ready spin and fire the moment. Thnk Thnk Thnk ? The roof! Roberts spun in his seat and fired upwards, the Bullet punching up through the ceiling but not striking into anything that screamed. He had to come down somewhe-
?Roberts!? came the steely and jovial greeting as Evil dropped off the roof in front of the drivers side window, the young officer blasting his gun at the shape as fast as he could, and punching two holes in the chest of his fellow officer. Before he could think, the screaming manss head was pushed through the window and blown apart from behind.
By the time Roberts had wiped the blinding gore from his face, his driver had had his face slammed into the dashboard hard enough to kill and Evil had an arm affably on his window as if he was chatting over a fence. Roberts studied the unmoving face in front of him; the deep visor was darker than anything he had ever seen. It tilted slightly, as if its wearer were curious, but Roberts doubted there was anything about him Evil cared to know.
?Just say my name, Roberts? Evil asked, slowly and without sarcasm. It was a genuine request, as if he wanted a favour from the man who had just seen his friends die at his hands. ?That?s all I need from you, is just to say my name?
Roberts spat, the ropy phlegm draping over the dark, metal face like a raised eyebrow. ?Your name, you twisted sorry sack of piss, is what it always wa-?
Bang went the pistol, and Roberts slumped forward.
------
He spat at me. He spat on my face. I don?t get angry often, but that kind of thing just makes my fingers itch. Ugh... poor Roberts, he forgot my name right when he needed it most. I don?t suppose this chap behind me knows my name? Because there has got to be a chap behind me, because if you can make the entire world somehow oblivious to a battle like this, and stop the police storming me with a regiment, then you have the power to be an overly dramatic twat.
?Hello Mr. Knight?
Damn it, I should have made a bet.
?I don?t suppose you?d care to die when I shoot you?? I ask, because it?s worth a try. He smiles a bit, which pisses me off. Look at him, a suit, a god damned suit. Who does he think he is, scarface? Tasteful, I?ll admit, I?m a huge fan of the brown and the tie looks expensive enough, but it?s the pockets that drive me nuts. Why don?t they have a hole in them? It?s an error I attempt to correct with another awkward bang from my fiddly spud-shooter.
The man unharmed, lets out a tired sigh, taking off his glasses and dropping them in his intact pocket. ?Why?? He asks exasperatedly, giving a swift shrug and opening his palms in genuine questioning at me. ?Look at you, making jokes and running along car roofs. I know you don?t mean an inch of it? Says the man, gesturing at the fruits of my labour ?I?ve seen you when you had no mask to hide behind, seething in the interview chair in front of some overweight clerk. You haven?t changed, I can still feel the hate in you and read the thoughts in your head, but you seem determined to not let yourself take anything seriously?
?And what makes you think you?ve earned a share of the ire you think I should display?? I reply. See? I can talk shit too, you fucking tosser. Look at you, standing in front of me like you?ve got the world by the balls but you haven?t got the bloody brains to squeeze. If you know how I think, then I know you can hear this and I want you to know; I?m going to make you fucking eat those fucking sunglasses, so that when I stuff your head up your own ass you won?t get blinded by the sun you think shines out of it.
The bastard grins, a smug little tear in his face that I just itch to terminally widen, and gives me a thumbs up. A thumbs-up? the 80?s called, you pretentious dick, and they want me to beat your ass so hard you wind up going through them to bounce off Woodstock.
?That?s a little better? He says with a grin, putting his glasses back on. ?Now that we understand each other, I think introductions are in order?. Beats me why, I always thought you did things the other way around, but it wouldn?t shock me if this chap ate through his eye-sockets. Hell, that would probably impress me. ?My name? he says like I give a damn ?Is Alpha?.
?You know the name I?m given? I reply, tossing aside the gun and brushing assorted debris and detritus off my shoulders. ?And this is the part where you make me an offer I can?t refuse. However you are mistaken, Mr Alpha, because there is no offer I cannot refuse?
Alpha laughs, throwing back his head and rushing forth to grasp me by the shoulders and stare straight into my eyes. ?That?s right, there?s nothing you can?t refuse. But what if I had something you wouldn?t want to turn down? What if I told you, the self-appointed toilet-cleaner to the world, that right now the corpse of God lies in a celestial morgue and the powers that be rush to deal with his passing?? He says in one breath, running a hand over the curves of my head and trying to see past my eyes to the eyes he thinks should be there.
Well, that?s certainly a conversation opener, I must say.
?I?d say whoever did it was aiming poorly? I hiss violently ?God still lives, suffering still rides unbound. I know what happens when you cut out a cancer, the symptoms cease. Humanity is the cancer, God is the cancer, people in suits who need to get their hands off me are the cancer?. I reach up and grip Alphas face as he holds mine, two visages inches from each other.
Alpha smiles, moving to the side of my face, to whisper into an ear that isn?t there... the dumb shit. ?And what if I told you, you rude prick? He whispers, a shade reproachfully ?that even now the forces of the heavens wage a bloodsport to crown a new king of men??
------
Alpha watched him roar in rage, the bestial fury breaking through the façade in a wave. The cry of pure anguish was seemingly unending, the sound of a mission rendered futile. He didn?t blame the wretch, to find that his prey is a hydra with no end. It must be the re-breaking of a heart already shattered beyond reason. He raged, slamming his fists over and over into the side of the van, the strength of metal and anger denting the steel plating more and more with every blow.
And then, with a final, thunderous spinning kick that sent the vehicle rocking on it?s axles, the creature turned to face him and regained it?s composure. Sweet Jesus it was repugnant, the broken weapon of a broken cause. He was perfect, in fact.
Alpha stepped forward and circled the Knightmare, patting the shoulders of the relatively short warrior as he did: ?I can make you a part of this hypocritical contest, get you through the door into the blasphemous auditions they hold. I?m your concierge, if you will, and all you need to do is what you do best; measure judgement?
?I?ll do it? Said Evil, fingers clenching and unclenching in the aftermath of his outburst. Alpha could see the wheels turning and hear the thoughts inside his head; ?...group of pious fuckwits, gathered to take the throne and rule in a name alre..?. He was the perfect weapon, a willing tool in the machinations. No angel could find a better candidate, at least in terms of purpose.
Alpha nodded and a man appeared out of thin air, bound and gagged in chains and cuffs. His beard was prolific, and around his eyes strange marks glowed. It didn?t matter what they meant, what mattered was who he is. ?Kill him, take his place? Alpha whispered ?And then all you need to do is guard the gates to heaven. I?ll do the rest.?
?The entire thing is a an exercise in irony, Evil, so join the party as it?s final, undeserved salvation.?
------
The man with the glowing eyes, he?s in the running for the job?
How dare he!?
A crushing kick, one deserving of a beasts execution, swings up and down hard enough to break his body and depress the ground beneath it. Of all the heresies, and this is me using the bloody word heresy, that they would commit! It?s the betrayal of the promise that was never kept in the first place! Any God elected by death is a lie, is that why the world is what it is? Is that why they died, is that why it betrays it?s own? Is that why it kills?!
Who gives a shit, really? But I?ll be damned if I let another of the fuckers arrive after it took so long for this one to die.
...Damned. Whahaha, that?s funny, after all this time the only way to kill God is to defend his bloody desk. Hang on a second, does this make me... ?
...Ah, fuck.
Contestant: Evil
Allegiance: Angelic
Weapons: None
Allies: None
Abilities: None
Status: Pissed
Chapter 3: Divinity
-Providence was never a sweeter irony-
------
The dark blur landed before Junior Constable Geoffrey Paris vertically, swatting the gun from his hand. He had leapt from the roof of the building, the sound of the heavy treads slamming in the pavement arriving only a moment before a harsh steel arm grabbed him around the throat and pushed him up against the wall.
It was dark, early morning, but the shadows inside the furious horned face stood out as darker than the night. The angular plates of storm-coloured metal had no shine to them, and so the only thing for the struggling policeman to focus on was the opening into Evil before him. It made no sense, the armour; it fit too close to the skin, in a way that should have left the infamous crusader as mobile as a plank. Overlapping segments of the steel, like the carapace of some night-time horror, should have rasped and sparked as they folded to let the bastard move like a snake.
Instead, the monster moved like a dancer and often the first thing you heard was the sound of your ribcage bending inwards.
?Fhuck yhou? Paris choked out, beating ineffectually at the unmoving arm before him. Reaching for his mace, he raked the spray across the visor of his attacker, whose only response was to reach up and crush the bottle and his hand into a single, painful mass, the burning liquid pouring into his splintered fingers. He screamed, the sharp fingertips of the gauntlet rendering it into a hollow hiss.
?Nobody looks up? Said the metal mask, the amused tone rendered unnerving as it passed out of the helmet. ?Which is odd, constable....? He searched for a badge or nametag ?...Paris, because you had already been told this room was clear. Do you know what I do when I hear something like that, Paris? I look to where nobody else has?
A fist as dark as the deep earth rose into Geoffrey?s vision, and then there was only a crunch.
-----
They?re persistent, unrelenting, coming after me with all the vigour of the righteous. What?s giving them so much trouble is that I?m doing the exact same thing, Whahaha. But come on, seriously, they?ve got helicopters with all kinds of gizmos and whatnot to spot me, and they send in the green rookies to sweep out the perimeter. You know their problem? Too much faith in guns and badges, that?s what. What happens when someone who doesn?t fear the badge and who has proven he doesn?t fear the gun comes along? They try for more fear.
Terror is the greatest weapon of the people?s law, their only weapon, and they still try to tell me they?re the good guys. Do you know what you get when someone has a weapon in one hand, and an excuse in the other? Angels. Angels, who don?t use one to regulate the other, but instead have the power to shove one wherever they can fit the second.
And do you know the thing about Angels? They can?t defend squat, let alone themselves. They can only break, break and break.
A system built on destruction. Peace through superior firepower, a joke that nestles a truth more terrible than any imagined foe, any foreign threat. I think that?s what makes them so determined to stop me, the knowledge that all I am is superior firepower. Do you think it scares them, the truth that I am the peace they have been searching for all these years? The realisation I represent, that they might be accountable for all they do?
I?ll tell you what, I know I scare the shit out of them, Whahahahahaha.
?Knightmare? Say the papers, their beloved child welcomed back into the embrace of their pages. It?s hilarious, the beautiful paradox of the profit I bring them. Do you see it now, what fills my mind? My very name is the one they gave me, but theirs is a world that can profit from it. What kind of world does that make it, huh, what should I call Them?
What do I call you?
------
?Paris, what?s going on?? Matthew Roberts demanded to the receiver, and every second doubled his apprehension. Evil shouldn?t have been in that part of the complex, but what shouldn?t happen was rapidly becoming an all-to-frequent reality. ?Shit? He spat to one of the officers near him ?Take two men and see what happened to Paris, run if you see the bastard?
Things were dire; the armoured battering ram was on the verge of making it into the largest city for five hundred miles. In the maze of alleys, sewers and canals he might slip away forever, known only by the frequency of corpses found. He wouldn?t stay there forever, he was a man driven by something, but to lose him here was to lose possibly a dozen lives in requiring his trail.
?Get the SWAT team into gear, we?re moving in now?
-----
Shock and Awe is the military tactic of bringing to bear a precise and overwhelming force. It is the theory that hitting something hard enough and fast enough denies it the ability to respond. SWAT teams are trained for Shock and Awe in every facet of their being, quick of trigger and loud of voice. They are the loud and powerful arms of the law, beating down resistance with pre-emptive mental genocide. They are the masters confronting the enemy with a pack of Alpha-males, leaving nobody standing.
Shock and Awe would not be used today. The monster they hunted today was past shock, and beyond awe, and he would not go down voluntarily. Captain Dwayne Michaels, six year veteran and bear in human flesh, knew the type all too well.
?Safeties off the moment we go in the door? he said to the nine men who stood behind him, clipping Kevlar vests to their chests and pulling balaclavas over their heads. They were all pros; people he knew had the training running in their blood, who didn?t need to be told how to handle a cornered snake. Nevertheless, he felt duty-bound to deliver a briefing beyond the realms of tactical. ?This prick stares at flash-bangs just to piss them off? he said as he removed his own suppression grenades from his belt. ?Something in his hat, a filter. It could be fucking sunglasses, I don?t give much of a damn, but it means our first line of security is nine millimetres long and likes long walks in the god damned park?
Some of the men chuckled, the discomfort at the break in routine assuaged by the coarse humour. Michaels smiled, just like a thousand times before, relaxation was key to success, letting your mind slip into it?s muscle memories, getting his team calm was half the battle. ?He?s a cop-killer, a proven one. We go in silent, move room by room and clear whatever traps he?s laid, and corner him.?
?Bullshit you will? Said Roberts as he rounded the Van. ?Does anyone read the damn reports I send?? Michaels sighed; he was hoping he could slip into position before the operations leader found them. ?Do I need to tell you what happened the last time a SWAT team tried to sweep him out?? He said, and Michaels swore, he was hoping more that he could go without mentioning how the first attempt at recapture had gone again. Sloppy, that?s what that team had been, they should have checked what the liquid at their feet was, and instead the entire team had their guns on him when the floor went up in flames. It was basic doctrine, for god?s sakes, even if you couldn?t smell it through the filter.
Still, Dwayne respected Matthew, he had led the hunt for the media?s precious ?Knightmare? for almost the entirety of the two months. Matthew Roberts was a man who characterised ?By the books?, and it was the only reason he was still in charge after the fiasco at Bire Lake, the one where seven proud lives had been claimed in the flames.
?Listen? He said to the men in black before him ?The one thing that?s certain about this mission is that training means squat. He?ll die to a bullet, one lone bullet, but we haven?t been able to land one on him yet. For what it?s worth, we have tried really fucking hard?. The men absorbed his words, filing them away for consideration, just as they had been trained to do. God help us, Roberts thought as he left the SWAT team. They were the best in their field, the best in the state. The question was whether that would make the right kind of difference.
-----
I can feel you, Roberts. Out there you sit, in the fading light, eager to bring the flashing fiery justice down on my head. Did they give you a hat for your role? You don?t even know your place, do you? Toy soldiers, Roberts, Toy soldiers, and I?m tired and sore from playing tag. Gah, I like to think I?m patient, but I?ve been wedged among these rusty walls for an hour, squeezed into a bloody maze of warehouses and buildings, and it?s perfect.
Still fucking boring though... and I think I dinged my ass.
-----
Roberts pulled himself into the passenger seat of the observation van, the steam from his coffee long-disappeared as he dragged it from the cup holder. Two months, two months with a constant ten mile suspect zone. Longest anyone had ever lasted against those odds was two days. Two months.
His driver was one of the office lads, who picked the wrong week to do his driving experience. The scrawny, fuzzy-faced beat cop was putting up a strong front, but being behind the lines meant nothing when you were chasing someone like this. He stared out the window, craning to see any sign of the targets demise, so that they could back to precinct and he could tell everyone the most heroic and dramatic version of events he could dream up.
?Don?t worry? Matthews said, handing him a mint, ?He won?t try anything with the van, not while we?re in it?. That was true enough, the bastard needed to flee into the city, escape the tail he had dragged for miles and vanish into thin air. For that, he needed to outrun any reserve units that turned up, and this was the only vehicle on the complex that had the keys in the ignition. For now, anyway.
?Sure thing? Said the cop, with a wry grin ?And what if he decides to get us out??. That, Roberts conceded with a nod, was true enough. He motioned to the crew in the back, the officers observing the video feeds from the teams' helmets and the lone observation chopper circling above.
Without asking, the business-like woman closest to him began a pre-op rundown. ?Nothing seen from the air, even on thermals, just like at Bire Lake.? She said, switching over the to Michaels channel ?Captain, last time he escaped our thermal sweep by standing in a steam vent, check anything you see that could be masking him this time?
Roberts gave a mirthless chuckle. This was an engine line, smacked up next to a factory that made designer wooden bench-tops. They had only just got everyone out by the time he was estimated to be in the area. Half the place was still lit up like a Christmas tree. ?Call off the thermals, it?s a waste of our time. Go to visual sweeps of the insertion point? He said, his words radioed to the chopper, as he watched it circle lazily for another pass over the large skylights.
?Nothing? came back the southern drawl of the pilot ?Junk, peoples lunches, power tools, crates, big logs, but no sign of Evil?
?Don?t bloody call him that? Roberts grunted, downing the lukewarm remnants of his drink ?Half the reason he thinks he?s got a reason is the fact that we call him that?
------
Michaels moved silently, stalking forwards with his gun poised to react to any threat. Behind him a robotic symphony unfolded, black figures tagging each other as they passed, an overlapping exercise in perfection. Fields of fire covered every point of ambush as they approached the entry point, a back door onto the factory floor of the engine line. Small, wooden, but it had no natural observation points.
You couldn?t sneak up on any force that came through it.
?Roberts? Michaels hissed into his radio ?Are we a go??
-----
A cookie to whoever figures out how this is going to go down.
As a hint: They?re going to lose.
------
?You?re a go? Came Roberts whisper, and the team filed into the short corridor in front of the door. Their guns held low, ready whip up as they stormed through the door. They met each other?s eyes, each implicitly trusting the man beside them. They trusted themselves, and they trusted their leader, who raised three fingers in readiness.
3...
Shock and Awe is all about two things.
2...
Shock and Awe is about control. It is about being in command of all before you, and capitalising on the advantage that this brings. When you have control, you are functionally immortal, and practically unstoppable.
1...
Shock and Awe is about power. It is about meeting all resistance with overwhelming force. It is about dominance.
Go...
Captain Michaels rushed forward, kicking through the door in a display of pow
*HRRRMMMMMM-HHRM-HRRMM-HRRM*
His leg broke, and he was thrown backwards among the shattered fragments of wood, and all the training meant nothing in the world as Evil came through the door with Shock, Awe and a Chainsaw.
------
Whahahahahahaha!
Look at them tumble, look at them scramble! Cookies for all! All their plans mean nothing the moment someone comes through a door backwards! And door are fucking designed to work both ways! Look at them, slack jawed, hands trying to bring up guns far too slowly. Two of them standing on the right, maws agape, and so I crush the biting teeth into those open mouths, the screams mingling with the throaty roar of the saw.
Another, the first on the left, jams his gun to his shoulder and rubs the trigger like he?s trying to make the damn thing orgasm. I drop to my knees as the barking spray passes over my head, and soon the cocky bastard is down on the ground with me, his legs jetting blood from where his thighs had been. Men of peace are now in pieces. Protect and sever, Whahahahah. The ones at the back can?t decide what to do, in the three seconds I?ve been through the door they?ve lost men and abandoned their plans. Every facet of their minds screams for them to fall back, but not these two at the front.
They whip up their guns, acting on instinct at the dervish before them. I like that, I like that they can settle into their hindbrain. Me? I can?t seem to get the hang of adrenaline, I?ve never felt the need. So where their speed comes at the cost of any actual thought, I?m moving because what I have is imagination.
I haul their captain up into the air in front of me, and the split second lasts a lifetime as he hangs before the hailstorm of their guns. He falls, and the chainsaw sweeps into view, and then the pair of navy-wearing boy scouts are trying to breath through a few new mouths.
-----
?Shit!? Roberts roared as he stared at the helmet-feeds from the team. Shit, Shit, SHIT! Michaels gone, almost half a dozen others seriously wounded or dead, and all because some dick hadn?t checked the entry point. ?How the fuck did he get there!? I thought we had a bloody thermal bloody came-?
He had turned it off. He had turned it off because Evil had somehow fooled the thermal. The son of a ***** knew, somehow, that the thermal was off, and just waltzed up to the door. No, he didn?t know the helicopter, he knew Him. He knew Roberts would turn off the thermal in favour of a visual sweep, it was just like fucking Bire fucking Lake. Matthew slammed a fist into the control console, watching the shaking feeds as the survivors fled into the outside corridor, peering into the hall to try and gun down their attacker. Evil was gone, Roberts didn?t need to look to see that, he had sent his message loud and clear; ?Whahahaha?.
He was getting really fucking sick of that laugh, which is why he bashed his head on the roof of the van when it crackled into mirthful greeting through the radios he had stolen from the six men who lay bleeding in front of the door.
?R-R-R-Roberts?? Said the stereophonic chortle, the effect of six radios chattering at once giving the already metallic voice an added ethereal, echoing edge. ?I?ve got to say, poor form with the recon. Really, I thought it was standard to check under the door with a worm camera. I had the jumper cables ready and everything?. Roberts scowled, he probably did. ?Tell me though, couldn?t you convince them to lend you more than a dozen hounds and a bird? Perhaps they don?t understand the nature of the threat...?
Then the helicopter was blown out of the sky, and the nature of the threat became all the more apparent to the only police presence left in the field.
-----
Seriously, they wheel out 40 men to take down people who top their wives. And for a guy who aces a SWAT team they send another SWAT team? Something?s amiss, and when something?s amiss it means people are hatching plans. And plans invariably mean something to de with me, because hey, I?m one interesting guy. The question is whether it?s a plan of Roberts'... or someone more sinister.
The helicopter is coming down somewhere, the almighty boom shaking the table where the air-ram lay. The damn thing was designed to pressure-clean the insides of engines, but after one demonstration I think we could re-market it as a device for sending big groups of six-inch nails through a helicopter. Not much though, my sales credibility is shot with today?s consumer.
Look out there, to where Roberts is screaming incoherently for the backup he was promised hours ago. Yes, something wicked this way comes... and if it stops me saying hello to Matthew in person I will be most upset. ?Did you hear that? I?ll be most upset?.
Silence. Ugh, why does that not reassure me? I?d like to think I wasn?t a cynic, but either someone is throwing men willingly into the Maw of the big black wolf or someone made them throw men willingly into... etcetera. Take this chap for example, crawled all the way out into the open before he lost enough blood to pass out. Did he want to be one of the dozen-ish bastards to run at a cop-killer?
What about the surviving ninjas? Did they want to regroup, sprint around to the back of the complex and kick through the door to find ten barrels of oil attached to a sparking, lively arc weld- *FFWMP* ?er, did they? That means whoever is really pulling the strings is a callous bastard, or merciful enough to minimize my potential havoc. Either way, he?s an utter bastard.
?Hello Roberts? I call out as I approach the van. He?s quite rude, really, trying to drive off like that. Bang, bang, and now he?s got rims spinning on the concrete. I?m also out of ammunition for this thing I got off the power rangers, but if there?s one truth about the defenders of justice, it?s that there?s no shortage of killing power when peace goes on the march.
Look, here comes some now, the back of the van pops open as some scrubs roll out like of the van like it?s a clown car. The first one has a pistol, and it?s comic how he swears when the spinning butt of a sub-machine gun konks him in the forehead. There?s no other noise, just the crunching of my feet on the gravel and the muted curses of the police struggling out of cramped seats.
I can never fit my fingers into the little trigger guards of these pistols. I have to kind of hold it with one hand and shove the point of my digit in and try to masturbate the damn thing into firi- whoops. Oh wait; I hit one, no harm done, Whahahaha. Two more finally come tumbling out, one almost but not quite getting a shot off before he bites some boot. The second is quite surprised when I haul him up by the collar.
?How are you? Good? That?s good. Help me settle a bet?
------
?Keep your gun levelled at the window son? Roberts hissed, pointing his own pistol out his side of the car. He stared into the rear-view mirror, ready spin and fire the moment. Thnk Thnk Thnk ? The roof! Roberts spun in his seat and fired upwards, the Bullet punching up through the ceiling but not striking into anything that screamed. He had to come down somewhe-
?Roberts!? came the steely and jovial greeting as Evil dropped off the roof in front of the drivers side window, the young officer blasting his gun at the shape as fast as he could, and punching two holes in the chest of his fellow officer. Before he could think, the screaming manss head was pushed through the window and blown apart from behind.
By the time Roberts had wiped the blinding gore from his face, his driver had had his face slammed into the dashboard hard enough to kill and Evil had an arm affably on his window as if he was chatting over a fence. Roberts studied the unmoving face in front of him; the deep visor was darker than anything he had ever seen. It tilted slightly, as if its wearer were curious, but Roberts doubted there was anything about him Evil cared to know.
?Just say my name, Roberts? Evil asked, slowly and without sarcasm. It was a genuine request, as if he wanted a favour from the man who had just seen his friends die at his hands. ?That?s all I need from you, is just to say my name?
Roberts spat, the ropy phlegm draping over the dark, metal face like a raised eyebrow. ?Your name, you twisted sorry sack of piss, is what it always wa-?
Bang went the pistol, and Roberts slumped forward.
------
He spat at me. He spat on my face. I don?t get angry often, but that kind of thing just makes my fingers itch. Ugh... poor Roberts, he forgot my name right when he needed it most. I don?t suppose this chap behind me knows my name? Because there has got to be a chap behind me, because if you can make the entire world somehow oblivious to a battle like this, and stop the police storming me with a regiment, then you have the power to be an overly dramatic twat.
?Hello Mr. Knight?
Damn it, I should have made a bet.
?I don?t suppose you?d care to die when I shoot you?? I ask, because it?s worth a try. He smiles a bit, which pisses me off. Look at him, a suit, a god damned suit. Who does he think he is, scarface? Tasteful, I?ll admit, I?m a huge fan of the brown and the tie looks expensive enough, but it?s the pockets that drive me nuts. Why don?t they have a hole in them? It?s an error I attempt to correct with another awkward bang from my fiddly spud-shooter.
The man unharmed, lets out a tired sigh, taking off his glasses and dropping them in his intact pocket. ?Why?? He asks exasperatedly, giving a swift shrug and opening his palms in genuine questioning at me. ?Look at you, making jokes and running along car roofs. I know you don?t mean an inch of it? Says the man, gesturing at the fruits of my labour ?I?ve seen you when you had no mask to hide behind, seething in the interview chair in front of some overweight clerk. You haven?t changed, I can still feel the hate in you and read the thoughts in your head, but you seem determined to not let yourself take anything seriously?
?And what makes you think you?ve earned a share of the ire you think I should display?? I reply. See? I can talk shit too, you fucking tosser. Look at you, standing in front of me like you?ve got the world by the balls but you haven?t got the bloody brains to squeeze. If you know how I think, then I know you can hear this and I want you to know; I?m going to make you fucking eat those fucking sunglasses, so that when I stuff your head up your own ass you won?t get blinded by the sun you think shines out of it.
The bastard grins, a smug little tear in his face that I just itch to terminally widen, and gives me a thumbs up. A thumbs-up? the 80?s called, you pretentious dick, and they want me to beat your ass so hard you wind up going through them to bounce off Woodstock.
?That?s a little better? He says with a grin, putting his glasses back on. ?Now that we understand each other, I think introductions are in order?. Beats me why, I always thought you did things the other way around, but it wouldn?t shock me if this chap ate through his eye-sockets. Hell, that would probably impress me. ?My name? he says like I give a damn ?Is Alpha?.
?You know the name I?m given? I reply, tossing aside the gun and brushing assorted debris and detritus off my shoulders. ?And this is the part where you make me an offer I can?t refuse. However you are mistaken, Mr Alpha, because there is no offer I cannot refuse?
Alpha laughs, throwing back his head and rushing forth to grasp me by the shoulders and stare straight into my eyes. ?That?s right, there?s nothing you can?t refuse. But what if I had something you wouldn?t want to turn down? What if I told you, the self-appointed toilet-cleaner to the world, that right now the corpse of God lies in a celestial morgue and the powers that be rush to deal with his passing?? He says in one breath, running a hand over the curves of my head and trying to see past my eyes to the eyes he thinks should be there.
Well, that?s certainly a conversation opener, I must say.
?I?d say whoever did it was aiming poorly? I hiss violently ?God still lives, suffering still rides unbound. I know what happens when you cut out a cancer, the symptoms cease. Humanity is the cancer, God is the cancer, people in suits who need to get their hands off me are the cancer?. I reach up and grip Alphas face as he holds mine, two visages inches from each other.
Alpha smiles, moving to the side of my face, to whisper into an ear that isn?t there... the dumb shit. ?And what if I told you, you rude prick? He whispers, a shade reproachfully ?that even now the forces of the heavens wage a bloodsport to crown a new king of men??
------
Alpha watched him roar in rage, the bestial fury breaking through the façade in a wave. The cry of pure anguish was seemingly unending, the sound of a mission rendered futile. He didn?t blame the wretch, to find that his prey is a hydra with no end. It must be the re-breaking of a heart already shattered beyond reason. He raged, slamming his fists over and over into the side of the van, the strength of metal and anger denting the steel plating more and more with every blow.
And then, with a final, thunderous spinning kick that sent the vehicle rocking on it?s axles, the creature turned to face him and regained it?s composure. Sweet Jesus it was repugnant, the broken weapon of a broken cause. He was perfect, in fact.
Alpha stepped forward and circled the Knightmare, patting the shoulders of the relatively short warrior as he did: ?I can make you a part of this hypocritical contest, get you through the door into the blasphemous auditions they hold. I?m your concierge, if you will, and all you need to do is what you do best; measure judgement?
?I?ll do it? Said Evil, fingers clenching and unclenching in the aftermath of his outburst. Alpha could see the wheels turning and hear the thoughts inside his head; ?...group of pious fuckwits, gathered to take the throne and rule in a name alre..?. He was the perfect weapon, a willing tool in the machinations. No angel could find a better candidate, at least in terms of purpose.
Alpha nodded and a man appeared out of thin air, bound and gagged in chains and cuffs. His beard was prolific, and around his eyes strange marks glowed. It didn?t matter what they meant, what mattered was who he is. ?Kill him, take his place? Alpha whispered ?And then all you need to do is guard the gates to heaven. I?ll do the rest.?
?The entire thing is a an exercise in irony, Evil, so join the party as it?s final, undeserved salvation.?
------
The man with the glowing eyes, he?s in the running for the job?
How dare he!?
A crushing kick, one deserving of a beasts execution, swings up and down hard enough to break his body and depress the ground beneath it. Of all the heresies, and this is me using the bloody word heresy, that they would commit! It?s the betrayal of the promise that was never kept in the first place! Any God elected by death is a lie, is that why the world is what it is? Is that why they died, is that why it betrays it?s own? Is that why it kills?!
Who gives a shit, really? But I?ll be damned if I let another of the fuckers arrive after it took so long for this one to die.
...Damned. Whahaha, that?s funny, after all this time the only way to kill God is to defend his bloody desk. Hang on a second, does this make me... ?
...Ah, fuck.
Contestant: Evil
Allegiance: Angelic
Weapons: None
Allies: None
Abilities: None
Status: Pissed
Sorrow, I can understand and appreciate that you're busy, I'm busy myself. However, i'm going to suggest nicely that there are a few things we can do to accomodate for this fact. Things to keep you sane and us writing, things to make things move.
For a start, set up and publish a full match schedule here in the thread. One of those tree-thingies where you fight whoever you connect to first, and do things in big waves. If we have 16 people, that means we can knock over the entire proceedings in four rounds, or 6 weeks (give about a week and a half for each 'round'). We have more than 16 people, so this may well be essential to getting things done. Give people a week to post their story, PM them and give them fair warning, and perhaps two days leeway for 'cbf syndrome'.
This lets us run things on our own (Send the arenas/setting to a judge) and keeps things streamlined. Hell, if you want a match-list made i'll do it for you. Feel free to alter or change it if you see it as unfair or bias.
This way people are always writing, always scheming, and we don't get people quitting like in RW2.
I'm going to make up that match list now, i'll edit it into this post.
The above lineup was chosen by some random chance and some slection on my part to stop rematches occuring stupidly often. The idea is that every 'pair' plays, the winner formaing a new pair with the person who won the match next to them. Some matches have been chosen outside of random happenstance because running SergeantToughie down the maw of Khedive Rex in match 1 just felt wrong to me. You've improved, Toughie my lad, but a match like that doesn't give you much opportunity to improve further.
If you didn't want 12 matches right off the bat, we could hold 6 matches one week and 6 in the next. Feel free to alter this list or bemoan your placement, it comes down to what sorrow wants. I'd like to think this list is good, but I don't run the show.
For a start, set up and publish a full match schedule here in the thread. One of those tree-thingies where you fight whoever you connect to first, and do things in big waves. If we have 16 people, that means we can knock over the entire proceedings in four rounds, or 6 weeks (give about a week and a half for each 'round'). We have more than 16 people, so this may well be essential to getting things done. Give people a week to post their story, PM them and give them fair warning, and perhaps two days leeway for 'cbf syndrome'.
This lets us run things on our own (Send the arenas/setting to a judge) and keeps things streamlined. Hell, if you want a match-list made i'll do it for you. Feel free to alter or change it if you see it as unfair or bias.
This way people are always writing, always scheming, and we don't get people quitting like in RW2.
I'm going to make up that match list now, i'll edit it into this post.
Qayin: The Conduit
The_Logician
Mshcherbatskaya: The DJ
Labyrinth: Janet Pyke
Wesdabigman: Elsewise Ipswitch
Dastardos: Malcolm Lynch
Ultrajoe: Evil
Lord Krunk: Axle and Lady Athena
Zemalac: Emanuel Cazinto
Bling Cat: Drane
Armitage Shanks: Henry
Rogueshadows: Mort & The Fae (Awesome band name, by the way)
Khedive Rex: Lex
Higurashii: Rose
vid20: Jayck & Jyill
RagnarokTres: Corbett Amadeus
Nijablu: Harlequin
Vanguard1219: Nathan Lancaster
Flying Emu: Rahk-Tahl
Crowghast: Oliver
Newclassic: STan
Meatspace: Farfig Alhazarid & The Mark
SargentToughie: Garian
Mookie_Magnus: Micah Miller
The_Logician
Mshcherbatskaya: The DJ
Labyrinth: Janet Pyke
Wesdabigman: Elsewise Ipswitch
Dastardos: Malcolm Lynch
Ultrajoe: Evil
Lord Krunk: Axle and Lady Athena
Zemalac: Emanuel Cazinto
Bling Cat: Drane
Armitage Shanks: Henry
Rogueshadows: Mort & The Fae (Awesome band name, by the way)
Khedive Rex: Lex
Higurashii: Rose
vid20: Jayck & Jyill
RagnarokTres: Corbett Amadeus
Nijablu: Harlequin
Vanguard1219: Nathan Lancaster
Flying Emu: Rahk-Tahl
Crowghast: Oliver
Newclassic: STan
Meatspace: Farfig Alhazarid & The Mark
SargentToughie: Garian
Mookie_Magnus: Micah Miller
The above lineup was chosen by some random chance and some slection on my part to stop rematches occuring stupidly often. The idea is that every 'pair' plays, the winner formaing a new pair with the person who won the match next to them. Some matches have been chosen outside of random happenstance because running SergeantToughie down the maw of Khedive Rex in match 1 just felt wrong to me. You've improved, Toughie my lad, but a match like that doesn't give you much opportunity to improve further.
If you didn't want 12 matches right off the bat, we could hold 6 matches one week and 6 in the next. Feel free to alter this list or bemoan your placement, it comes down to what sorrow wants. I'd like to think this list is good, but I don't run the show.
I can't access the web on my comp at the moment, which is why I haven't done anything. I'm typing this from an iPhone. Expect updates this week.
I'm looking forward to this, Here's hoping that I'm in one of Sorrow's added rounds.
I'm ready to hit the ground running
I'm ready to hit the ground running
To justify, myreasoning for those matchups went as follows. The first round consists of:
[Player A]
[Player B]
Those players were chosen with the thought in mind that they have an even shot at taking down the other, so that nobody gets a free ride into round two because they got a player who doesn't put in as much effort as them (Really, effort is often the only factor that lets alot of Ratings War players down).
Round two has been similarly accounted for, with each of the possible opponents for our hypoithetical winner Player A only going up against his 'brother' matchup
[Player C] v [Player D]
So if [Player A] beats , he can only fight [C] or [D], who are the also people observed to put in as much effort and finesse into it as them. If you are player A, B, C or D, all of the other people you could concievably fight for the first two rounds have been selected as people you will have fun playing against. At round 3, all bets are off and you'll need to roll with the punches... as you have proven yourself capable of doing.
If you disagree with how I have estimated you against your opponents, tell me and i'll draft a few new sheets to see how things turn out. That said, some self-confidence might be the key to victory.
We will end up with a 3-way finale with this system, which as someone who was unstuck by a triple-header in the firsty ratings war sends alarm bells ringing in my head. For this reason I suggest the three defeated players in the round before last have the Triple-Header to see who gets a second chance at entering the final. As an example.
[Player A] V [Player 1]
V [2]
[C] V [3]
Assume the letters all win, and are faced with the ugly prospect of a triple-collision for the job as god. I propose we let the numbers get their filthy hands filthy and have the triple-header to see who earns a last-chance shot at the finals.
[1] V [2] V [3]
Leading to...
[A] V [3]
V [C]
Unless both players really want a rematch (it could fucking rule) then the number will not be forced to play against his prior victor... unless they make it to the final against one another.
[C] V [3]
And that's it, the final showdown for the job as God! With this system, everyone can plan fights well in advance and perhaps the characters have a copy of the match-tree as well, so they can threaten and size each other up in-game. It saves Sorrow's poor computer the task of trying to keep track of things
Excuse my filthy typing/spelling, my browser has somehow turned on overwrite without my permission and makes editing damn near impossible. I'll re-edit to make this make more sense when i found out how to turn the bloody thing off.
EDIT: Dastardos, you're in that bracket because if you put in as much effort as you are capable of (even if you are unaware of the fact), you're a competent match for any of your two possible second matches, and have a shot in your first. That said, the three people in your bracket have also been chosen because they have the same chance against you.\
EDIT: as an added bonus, whoever beats their way into round three is guaranteed a second shot at the title in the rematch. Because lets face it, if you die in hell... where are you going to go? This means that you have two matches of even chance, and then two shots at making the semi-final!!!!! (or one, if you win the first time). Provided we get the initial matchups right I can see this meaning a more enjoyable game for all.
As always, your opinions are apprecaited. Now to spam eye-grabbing words so people read my edits...
EDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDIT
[Player A]
[Player B]
Those players were chosen with the thought in mind that they have an even shot at taking down the other, so that nobody gets a free ride into round two because they got a player who doesn't put in as much effort as them (Really, effort is often the only factor that lets alot of Ratings War players down).
Round two has been similarly accounted for, with each of the possible opponents for our hypoithetical winner Player A only going up against his 'brother' matchup
[Player C] v [Player D]
So if [Player A] beats , he can only fight [C] or [D], who are the also people observed to put in as much effort and finesse into it as them. If you are player A, B, C or D, all of the other people you could concievably fight for the first two rounds have been selected as people you will have fun playing against. At round 3, all bets are off and you'll need to roll with the punches... as you have proven yourself capable of doing.
If you disagree with how I have estimated you against your opponents, tell me and i'll draft a few new sheets to see how things turn out. That said, some self-confidence might be the key to victory.
We will end up with a 3-way finale with this system, which as someone who was unstuck by a triple-header in the firsty ratings war sends alarm bells ringing in my head. For this reason I suggest the three defeated players in the round before last have the Triple-Header to see who gets a second chance at entering the final. As an example.
[Player A] V [Player 1]
V [2]
[C] V [3]
Assume the letters all win, and are faced with the ugly prospect of a triple-collision for the job as god. I propose we let the numbers get their filthy hands filthy and have the triple-header to see who earns a last-chance shot at the finals.
[1] V [2] V [3]
Leading to...
[A] V [3]
V [C]
Unless both players really want a rematch (it could fucking rule) then the number will not be forced to play against his prior victor... unless they make it to the final against one another.
[C] V [3]
And that's it, the final showdown for the job as God! With this system, everyone can plan fights well in advance and perhaps the characters have a copy of the match-tree as well, so they can threaten and size each other up in-game. It saves Sorrow's poor computer the task of trying to keep track of things
Excuse my filthy typing/spelling, my browser has somehow turned on overwrite without my permission and makes editing damn near impossible. I'll re-edit to make this make more sense when i found out how to turn the bloody thing off.
EDIT: Dastardos, you're in that bracket because if you put in as much effort as you are capable of (even if you are unaware of the fact), you're a competent match for any of your two possible second matches, and have a shot in your first. That said, the three people in your bracket have also been chosen because they have the same chance against you.\
EDIT: as an added bonus, whoever beats their way into round three is guaranteed a second shot at the title in the rematch. Because lets face it, if you die in hell... where are you going to go? This means that you have two matches of even chance, and then two shots at making the semi-final!!!!! (or one, if you win the first time). Provided we get the initial matchups right I can see this meaning a more enjoyable game for all.
As always, your opinions are apprecaited. Now to spam eye-grabbing words so people read my edits...
EDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDITEDIT
I like the idea of having a tier system with pre-established matches and I think the one you provided would actually work quite nicely. However, there are a few logistics that would need to be worked out.Ultrajoe post=362.107952.1943813 said:
First and foremost, having all 24 participants fighting at once would be ... well, a clusterfuck. And having 12 fighting at once wouldn't be all that much better. It's important to have everone posting regularly but I feel like with those kinds of numbers keeping track of fights between individual pairs would be more of a challenge than it should. It also sacrifices some of the tension between fighters, more like posting into the abyss than posting onto a thread where everyone is eagerly awaiting the results of your fight.
I propose splitting the preliminary round into three sections (4 fights in each. 8 fighter). Splitting the quarter's into two sections (3 fights in each. 6 fighters). And not splitting the semi's (3 fights. 6 fighters).
That's my suggestion on pacing anyway. I think it works a nice medium between efficiency and quality. Oh, and I support the 10 day deadline (week-and-a-half)
Secondly, if we're announcing the matches before hand, we need to either have Sorrow/a-Sorrow-Representative announce the arena for each fight individually before hand or have him declare an arbitrary arena for each set of matches (one for the first four fights. Another for the next four fights. Ect.) We could also in theory just have Sorrow announce a single arena for all of prelims but ... that's unsatisfying.
Depending on the amount of time Sorrow can devote to this, I think the best idea would be to establish a ... 'word-bank' if you will. List all the possible arenas in the OP with an extensive description so that Sorrow can just say "Qayin/Logician - world 4. Msch/Labyrinth - world 2. ect."
He could individualize the arena's for the later fights if he has the time, but for prelims that would probably work.
Also, because we have 24 fighters the finals is going to be fucked unless we get clever. It reduces to three instead of two so we may well have a three-way finale (Just like RW1 ... we should try to avoid that. Ultrajoe and Armitage will remember how cumbersome three-way fights are to write). I have no bright idea at the moment. For a while I was toying with a circle system where A fights B, B fights C, and C fights A; the judges vote on whose story was least satisfying and one person of three is eliminated. The problem is that still leaves us inevitably with one person having already written a canon story of how they beat their final's opponent. Which is ... unsatisfying.
... So, yeah. That's my treatise on the subject. I support the idea of a tier system with pre-established fights but, if we implement it, there are a couple other fine details we need to work out. I've given my opinion. What's everyone else's?