The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)

[Dastardos]

Awesome. Logician.

I can't tell if I'm excited to fight such a glorious opponent, or really depressed and disappointed that I won't be in the Semi-Finals.

That's the third person to regard the announcement of fighting me with a tentative *gulp*. I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

In any case, may the better man win. Don't count yourself out yet, Dastardos; I've lost twice to Ultrajoe, so I'm not invincible.

Apologies Abound

I wanted Zemalac though. I wanted to remove his character's vocal cords out.

Then how would he be telling the story later?

He wouldn't be able to, so I'd have to win by default!

 

[Zemalac]

Awesome. Logician.

I can't tell if I'm excited to fight such a glorious opponent, or really depressed and disappointed that I won't be in the Semi-Finals.

That's the third person to regard the announcement of fighting me with a tentative *gulp*. I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

In any case, may the better man win. Don't count yourself out yet, Dastardos; I've lost twice to Ultrajoe, so I'm not invincible.

Apologies Abound

I wanted Zemalac though. I wanted to remove his character's vocal cords out.

Then how would he be telling the story later?

He wouldn't be able to, so I'd have to win by default!

The dramatic reveal after the battle: Cazinto is telling his story in sign language.

 

[000Ronald]

"Blasphemy" she told herself complacedly. "God grants strength, not taxicabs."

From The Stand by Stephen King

Malcolm sat across from God. God looked cross. "What did I tell you about loyalty?"

"I was loyal" Malcolm said. "I did your work for three years, I-"

God put up one hand, and Malcolm fell silent. "We both know that's not what we're talking about.

Of course it was true. They were talking about the last match, about how he had nearly died-nearly let himself die, so someone who deserved to live could.

"It's my choice. If I want to die, I-"

"No, it isn't." God said. "If you would have died there, I would have sent you to hell."

Malcolm clenched his fists. "What?"

"I explained it to you when you agreed." God said, "If you tell anyone what it is you do, you go to hell. If you kill an innocent, you go to hell. If you do something stupid and get on my bad side, you go to hell. Silence, digression, loyalty: Those are the rules."

Malcolm was aghast. "You can't do that."

"Are you kidding?" God replied, laughing. "I'm fucking God, and I'm a jealous one; I can do whatever I want."

"But...but..."

"And if you pull that crap again, you're getting a one way ticket straight to hell. No pearly gates, no wife and daughter, just an eternity of anal rape. I have investments in this; you're going to win this, like it or not."

Malcolm bowed his head. "And then what."

God leaned back again, cupping the back of his head in his hands. "You know. Same old, same old. I give you wet jobs, you do 'em, I heal you, repeat as necessary."

"...how long?" Malcolm said, barely audible.

God shrugged. "Until evil is eradicated from earth, or you screw up. I'd guess the latter is more likely. Earth is always going to have a couple of fucknuts lurking around."

Malcolm was unable to speak.

"So, from now on, you kill your opponents. I don't care if it's My son, you shoot him dead, then decapitate him and eat his brains for good measure. And no more talking to Lucifer, ever. Got that?"

Malcolm nodded solemnly. He understood; he was a tool to be used until he broke. And he was on the fast-track to do just that. Last match he didn't know how much of this he could take. Now he knew; that last "wet job" was too much.

But he wanted to see his wife and daughter again, now that he knew he could. He knew he would do almost anything for that, even this horrible, horrible thing he had agreed to before knowing what it was.

So he nodded his head and listened as God told him what he was up against.
______________________________________________________________________________

After a flash of light, Devon found himself in a dark room. He had the heavy-ass gun, he had the piece-of-crap knife/dagger, and he had his wits. For a moment, he supposed he might be better off with just his wits, but his sense of humor was gone. Most of his good feelings were gone. He had been thinking recently of the movie Hero; an action movie with Jet Li, one of his favorite films of all time. It was a good example of a movie that told a story that had a point, that point being that the ultimate ideal of a warrior is for that warrior to not need to exist. Buried under that, however, were dozens of other little messages, like the pen is mightier than the sword, and selfish people can only lead themselves to ruin. Something that had often stuck with Devon was how the main character, a (literally) nameless hero turns against his entire country for the greater good of the world. Devon had always thought the message behind that was being on one side of a war doesn't make you the good guy or the bad guy; it just means you've chosen a side, maybe the wrong one.

Devon imagined how he felt was the same as the nameless hero had. He had chosen a side, and he was feeling more and more sure it was the wrong one. This Sephiroth guy, the guy that had brought him here, was obviously some kind of divinity, but he was fairly certain that both of them were on the wrong side of something very big, bigger than anyone was letting on, at least to him.

Devon scratched his head, deciding his next move. He didn't want this. He could give up, and it would all be over; he'd have done something.

On the other hand, that would be quitting, and what's more, cowardly. Devon was a lot of things; he was not a coward. Quitting may stop the asshole he was working for in his tracks, but there may be something more he could do. Hell, if he got this seat thing, he may be able to turn the guy to...sand? Water? Flaming dog poo? Devon smirked, despite himself; that last option had particular appeal. Maybe all his good feelings weren't gone.

So Devon walked across the room and opened the door. Within seconds he was gasping for breath.
______________________________________________________________________________

"What?"

"I said he's protected by divinity. You're not allowed to kill him."

Malclom stood in the weapons rack, pistol in one hand. An angel, a mid-rank one, had come up to him and told him something absurd; he could not kill his next opponent.

"You mean my weapons won't work?" Malcolm said. "That my sword won't touch him? That-"

"Oh no." The angel said in his squeaky voice. "You can kill him, but it would be a void of your contract. Just though I'd give you a heads up. You're cool, and-"

"That can't be right. I was just told to kill any opponent I have."

The angel made an odd sighing noise and flexed its shoulders. "That could be a problem. Cases like this we usually go with whatever The Big Guy said last, but this protection comes from a power higher than his."

"Higher?" Malcolm asked, perplexed. "But...he's God. The Almighty."

The angel laughed and clapped a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Yeah, him and fifty-something others, pal. He's a vassal, nothing more. A placeholder. No one knows where the real God is; some think there never was one. Personally, I think he got fed up with all the bullshit and left."

Malcolm didn't know what to say; he was suddenly winded, and needed to sit down. "So...all this time..." Malcolm was unconscious of his slipping to the floor. "I haven't been working for The Good Lord? Just...an egotistic...asshole..."

"Bureaucrat, yeah. It sucks, I know; he's had two other people like you, they both ended up committing suicide. Couldn't take it." The angel slid down to meet Malcolm. "But you're different, I think. Made of tougher stuff, on the inside. That's what counts. It's people like you that make the right choices when it matters."

Malcolm rubbed his eyes. "What do I do? What can I do?"

"Didn't I just say?" The angel said. "You'll make the right choice. Hell if I know what it is, but if it's you making it, it'll be the right one.."

If there were tears left in him, Malcolm would have wept. He didn't know anymore.
______________________________________________________________________________

Someone was strangling Devon. Hell if he knew who it was, but he was slowly losing air.

Whoever it was wanted something, but Devon had no idea what; he was being shouted at in a foreign language. Guy knew what he was doing, too; Devon didn't have the breath to shout obscenities at him, and that was something. There was some sort of animal screeching, too, maybe a monkey-

Before he had time to react, Devon was thrown to the ground. He would have gotten up, but something hard, cold and big was pressed against his neck. "Who are you?"

"Devon Warner." Devon answered. The voice holding him was deep, calm, practiced.

"What are you doing here?"

"Look, pal, I don't even know where here-"

The blunt object pressed tighter on his neck. "That doesn't answer my question. Don't make me ask again."

Devon saw no point in lying. He was pretty sure he was fucked anyway. "I'm here to fight someone, kill them if I have to." Devon said. "I don't want to," he added quickly. "But I got bait-and-switched."

The hard, cold object remained in silence for a moment longer, then was lifted. "Get up." the voice behind him said. "Your weapons threw me off; I thought you were an insurgent. Do you have any on you I can't see?"

"I have a really frail dagger and the gun." Devon responded. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No." the man behind him replied. "I don't kill innocents. Turn around."

Devon did. He couldn't clearly see the man in front of him; his body and most of his face were draped in heavy robes, and was holding a lethal-looking hammer, which he had tucked into his belt-cloth-thing. Devon could see his eyes, and a bit of hair; the hair was yellow-blond and cut short and the eyes were a very vivid black. At the man's side stood...a monkey. A fucking monkey. Devon didn't know what the fuck to make of that. "And you said I looked like an insurgent."

"It's a disguise." the man replied. "Let me see your weapons."

Devon shrugged and gave him the dagger Rahk-Tal had tried to kill him with. Immediately he knew he had done the wrong thing. "This is...something that should not be here. And that gun is the same, I should have seen it before. Hand them over."

Devon put his hand on the butt of the gun and drew it. "Bullshi-"

An elbow slammed into Devon's face, and his wrist was twisted. He dropped the gun without thinking, and fell on his back. "Fuck."

"Where did you get these?" The man asked.

"The gun was from a guy called The Conduit. I haven't fired it once. The dagger was from a telepath named Rahk-Tal."

"Both were used against you?"

Devon sat up, rubbing his face. "Yeah, they were. What are you going to do with them?"

"Destroy them. They don't belong in this realm of existence. The bandoleer, as well."

Devon heard a gun cock, and opened his eyes. The monkey had pulled a revolver out of its ass and was pointing it at him. The black-eyed man was facing away from him, taking apart The Conduit's gun. "Is the monkey going to kill me?" Devon asked, half joking.

"If you don't give me the bandoleer, yes." The man replied. "That blow should have shattered your nose. What are you?"

"The Eighth, The Pillar of Sun." Devon replied, taking of the bandoleer and handing it to the monkey.

The black-eyed man froze. "Say that again."

"I'm The Eight, The Pillar of Sun. I figure it's why I'm-"

The black-eyed man dropped the gun and knelt down to Devon's level, taking his face in his hands. For a moment, Devon thought he was going to die, but he was handled with unusual care, like a glass sculpture or a newborn baby.

The black-eyed man stared intensely in Devon's eyes for several long moments. "Yes." The black-eyed man said, standing up. "You are. What are you doing here?"

"I told you, I'm fighting someone." Devon said, standing and dusting himself off. "If I can, I'll talk them out of-"

"You're no warrior, and you're barely older than twenty." The man said. "How do you intend to fight?"

"By talking whoever it is out of fighting, if I can." Devon replied. "Now will you answer some of my questions?"

The man took a deep breath, looked away for a moment (To the right, Devon thought. That means he's thinking) then looked back. "Yes."
______________________________________________________________________________

Malcolm found himself on the rooftop of a building high in a desert city, maybe somewhere in Iraq. He could see American solders in the distance, leading a much smaller force. Shaking his head, Malcolm looked around, found the roof entrance to the building, climbed down.

Job was simple enough; find his opponent and waste him. There was a time constraint of about ten minutes, but if he had been informed right, these guys thought he was some sort of hero, and would do whatever he said. Pseudo-God (as Malcolm found himself calling him) couldn't find any information on the opponent, which was odd; it seemed to bother him more than it should have, more than it would have bothered Malcolm. Worse case scenario it was another person like him, another mutant zombie freak, and Malcolm had more than a little training under his belt.

Opening the door to the building, he was greeted by a man wrapped in robes, who spoke to him in Arabic. More and more people were becoming nonplussed by Malcolm's...appearance, and this man young seemed to be one of them. "Hello, Warrior of God. We have not found this infidel as of yet, but as soon as we have-"

"Don't harm him." Malcolm said quickly, walking past the young man. He couldn't be older than fifteen. "Even if he attacks you. I have to dispose of him, understand?"

"Yes, mighty Warrior." The young man replied, bowing slightly. "I will inform everyone. Please, come with me."
______________________________________________________________________________

"'Here' is Mosul, Iraq. American-led forces and The Taliban have both been bombing this area to high hell, so most of it has been abandoned; there are still a few insurgents here, though, and this is one of their last refuges, so they're not going without a fight."

The black-eyed man continued. "Right now we're in the north-east corner of the fifth floor of what was either a hospital or a hotel, I'm not sure; the southern wall may as well have been demolished. There are fifty insurgents here, and they're holding thirty-odd civilians hostage in a room wired with explosives. In about fifteen minutes, those American-led forces are going to blow this place out of the sky; in about six the insurgents are pushing the switch.

"Here's the oddest part; they're talking about you. I thought they were crazy at first, but they're saying that one of them received a message from God that his champion was to strike down a powerful infidel, and that the reward for aiding him would be great. The way they talk about aiding, though...it was as though it was just to set this up. That's not to say they won't attack you if they see you, but they won't attack the other guy.

"There are a few things you need to know; if you or your opponent starts looking for the hostages, they pull the trigger. If neither of you win soon enough, they pull the trigger. To be fair, that's not important; I'll take care of the insurgents and the hostages, don't worry. It's what I do.

"I would suggest you pick a place and stay there. You're of Divine alignment; any confrontation, as I'm sure you know, is going to come to you, so there's no need to seek it out. Staying in one spot also avoids having them think you're looking for them, which would kill at least thirty innocent people. That being said, I wouldn't recommend you stay here; too confined. There was a lobby down that way, I would go there; there's plenty of room for cover, in case he's armed, and it's where part of the wall was bombed off, see if you can use that to your advantage.

Devon nodded, taking everything in. Whoever this man was, he knew what he was doing; in his mind, Devon imagined a cross between Batman and Solid Snake. "I'm not armed, though."

The black-eyed man fell to one knee, and lifted his robe, did something odd with his ankle. "Don't let the blade's looks deceive you; I've only seen one that was finer, and it was at the side of the man who gave it to me. I've been using it for two years, but I suspect it's much older than that." The man took the bandoleer from the monkey, and pressed his blade to it; the knife cut though it with disturbingly little effort. Sheathing the knife, he handed it to Devon, handle-first. "I can replace it, so don't worry about taking it."

"That's nice," Devon said, taking the knife (and the sheath) but I was hoping for something more along the lines of a firearm."

Devon though the man shook his head. "Can't spare that. I would if I could." Devon felt he was being sized up, before he started walking away, monkey at his heels. "You don't need it as much as I do, anyway."

"Why don't you help me?" Devon asked. "You're here; why don't you fight?"

The black-eyed man didn't reply. Devon shrugged, and walked to the lobby.
______________________________________________________________________________

"Great Warrior! The Infidel has shown himself! He is two floors below us, waiting for you!"

Malcolm turned to the man. He was in his mid-thirties, and held a dead man's switch in his left hand. Malcolm could tell it was a dead-man's switch, because he had the switch pressed in.

About three feet to Malcolm's left were thirty-three people, tied, gagged, and blindfolded. At there center was a homemade bomb Malcolm was sure would level most of the building. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. Why would Pseudo-God let this happen? Why would God let all this happen? These people had done nothing to harm anyone; more than a few of them hand't even seen ten years of their lives yet.

He wasn't going to let anything happen to them. One person, no matter how important, no matter how divine, was not worth the life of a child. "Take me." Malcolm said, standing.
______________________________________________________________________________

Devon pointed his index finger to his temple and make-believe blew his brains out. The waiting is killing me he thought. What he didn't expect to happen was for a bullet to actually whiz by his head, hot enough that he could feel it on his cheek.

Without thinking, he flipped back, falling over the crate he had been sitting on, then rolled over, taking cover behind a large chunk of wall. The black-eyed man had been right; the entire southern wall, along with any unsupported floor, had been blasted away. A small part of the wall had fallen from an above floor into the building, creating an ideal cover area.

Devon drew the knife the black-eyed man gave him; it looked like used cast-iron, black and brittle, and the handle was wrapped with dark leather. The blade was about four inches long, the handle about the same. The appearance had unsettled Devon, until he tried it on a piece of the wall; it had cut out a small square literally effortlessly, as though he had still been cutting through air. So this thing was a keeper.

Taking a deep breath, Devon ran out of his hiding place. He might have stayed there, but there were lives other than his at stake. More bullets chased after him; they all missed. Devon ducked behind a sturdy-looking wooden desk and shouted, "Look, I don't want to hurt-"

There desk flipped over entirely, and Devon found himself fighting off his opponent. He was...he looked like a fucking zombie, his skin rotting and falling off, his hair almost non-existent, his smell, oh god the smell...And he was pressing on Devon, trying to bite at his face, his arms, anything he could, his saliva falling all over Devon. He was strong, too; Devon couldn't hold him off for long. "Please, listen. I don't want to kill you. If you have any sort of reason at all, if there is anything in you that's still human please, don't do this, not like this."

That had gotten to him, that last bit. His mouth closed, and he rolled over, moaning. "What am I doing? What am I doing?"

Devon sat up, got a handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped the saliva off his face. "What's you're name?" Devon asked, and his opponent looked at him in a peculiar way. Yes, there was something in him distinctly human but...that just made everything else about him worse. Devon might have been able to imagine a worse situation, but he didn't want to. "If you're a person, you have a name. What is it?"

"I don't remember." Malcolm said. "They call me Malcolm now, but...that's not my name. It never was."

The insurgents were shouting at them, waving their guns. One of them was holding something, shouting. Malcolm shouted something back. "They want us to fight. They say I'm supposed to kill you."

Devon raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't know. I was told to kill you, then I was told I can't kill you...It's so confusing."

The man with the strange-looking device waved it, shouted again. Malcolm shouted something back, stood up. "He says if we don't fight, he'll set off the bomb. You know about the bomb, right?"

Devon nodded, standing up and brushing himself off. "Odd guy with a monkey came in and told me. He said he was gong to take care of it, but I don't know. You'd be better off killing me."

"You could kill me." Malcolm replied.

"No. I'm supposed to lose this. If you were a mindless...thing, then maybe, but I would still be dead. I couldn't fight you."

Malcolm nodded. "I understand. So what can we do?"

Devon shrugged. "It's me or thirty other people. I don't know what you're fighting for, but I don't know what I'm fighting for, either. So I leave it to you."

Malcolm turned away, and clenched his fist. This was a good man before him, better than him, better than any he had ever met. The Insurgents were getting agitated now, and the one with the detonator was counting down; ten, nine, eight, seven...

Malcolm took a deep breath, and made his choice. Malcolm ran at Devon, knocked him down, and stalked towards the man with the detonator. He had let go of the switch; nothing happened. He pressed it again, again, and managed to tell the other three to shoot before Malcolm's teeth ripped out his throat. Malcolm grabbed one of his throwing stars, slashed the throat of the man closest to him, and threw it between the eyes of another. Turning around, he saw one hurling a moltov cocktail at him. It was inconsequential; things like that couldn't kill him, anyway. The bottle broke, and fire ignited over his skin. Malcolm roared, and ran at the insurgent, snapping his neck like a brittle twig. Malcolm turned to Devon, who had gotten up. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Don't worry about it." Devon said. Good, and strong, too. "What do we do now?"

"You go find someplace to hide, close to a window. I'm going to take out as many of these bastards as I can."

Devon took measure of Malcolm. "You're on fire."

Malcolm smiled for the first time in a long time, understanding the double meaning. Yes, he had made the right choice. This young man was worth defending. "Go. I won't see you again."

"You will, if I-"

An explosion rocked the building, and the floor above them began to collapse. Without thinking, Malcolm ran, grabbed Devon, and threw him out of the building just as it began to fall in. A large piece hit Malcolm's head, caving it in, knocking him unconscious; he didn't see Devon vanish in a flash of light in mid-air.
______________________________________________________________________________

The Americans were storming what was left of the hotel. It was a moot point; Rex had seen to it that the civilians had gotten out before the bomb went off (he left the bomb as a little present for the Taliban bastards that had done this). The Americans didn't get into this war for the right reasons, and he was glad they were coming home soon.

What deeply concerned him was the charred, broken corpse, half buried under rubble about twenty feet in front of him. He could smell it from here, and it was disgusting, but it was still...alive. In as much as something like that could be alive, in any case. More interesting is that it didn't leave immediately, like The Pillar; it meant that two parties could operate on two completely different sets of rules. Khedive Rex was sure that Sutacross would find that intriguing.

A portal appeared above the still-living corpse, the horrid thing, and descended, taking it to whatever wretched thing it called master. Devon had proven that this thing, despite its situation, was still human. That was important. Anything that had humanity could be saved, and anything that could be saved could find peace.

Rex found himself wishing it found peace one day, and left quiet as a whisper.

Nope, no taxicabs. The Lord helped those that helped themselves.

From The Stand by Stephen King

Spoiler: Notes

If you're wondering about the quotes, they are from The Stand, pages 494 and 495 (of the uncut version) respectively. I'd know; I'm staring at it right now. I thought they fit what I wanted to do with the piece; two people being manipulated by greater powers, but another, even greater power guiding them, trying to see them through, because they're both good people and deserve better than what they have. I figure the 'We need help' The Poet reckoned quote might've worked at the end, but it wouldn't have been as...circular.

Khedive Rex [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.68543?page=2#684483] from the first Ratings War was featured in this story. I'd like to thank Khedive Rex (user) and The Sorrow for letting me do that, and thank Sorrow again for not holding a grudge. For the bitching. About the rafts.

The film Hero [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hero_(2002_film)] referenced in this story is one of my favorite films of all time, and without a doubt one of the best I've ever seen. If you like breathing, you'll like this move.

To those wondering why I specifically chose Mosul, Iraq as a location; I happened to have a Time handy that said Mosul and Baghdad were the two most dangerous places in Iraq. I thought Baghdad would've been a little obvious.

 

[Dastardos]

I haven't even had a chance to start mine. Been really busy and been sick and haven't had a chance to do anything but brain storm.

 

[Lord Krunk]

I'm surprised no one has posted yet. I'm almost done with mine; it should be up later today, I just need to check up on a few things.

Apologies if I sound elitist.

Well, I spent one day searching for msh's posts, one day studying them, and at the moment I'm just working out where to start. I know where I'm going, and how it's going to end. But it's less than serious, I assure you.

 

[000Ronald]

Well now I feel bad. Mine's already finished and everything; I even put some notes at the end to clarify a few things.

...umm...sorry, I guess.

 

[Lord Krunk]

Well now I feel bad. Mine's already finished and everything; I even put some notes at the end to clarify a few things.

...umm...sorry, I guess.

Why are you apologising? Getting it done early is something to be congratulated.

Better than forfeiting, which every single person I've competed against so far have done. I'm working my way to the top by default, and that irritates me.

 

[Lord Krunk]

The Ratings War 3
Round 3 ? Prelude
Food for Thought​

The portal opened before Axle and Athena, a gaping maw that beckoned them to their next test. Axle began his advance, but Athena grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back just inches away from his fate.

?Listen, Axle, and listen well. The DJ is vastly different from our previous opponents, and we need to change our style to suit this.?

Axle turned around to face the solemn-looking girl. ?What do you mean??

?I mean that I have met this guy before, long ago. We are both borne of the Void.?

Axle was confused. This guy was obviously powerful, and probably suitable to Athena?s tastes. ?But what makes this any different??

She frowned. ?I?m many things, Axle, but if there?s one thing I?m not, it?s a cannibal. Not only that, but I have my own gripes about killing my own kind. We need to force him to surrender.?

Axle turned back to the portal. ?I?m sure we can work something out along the way. He operates oddly, so I won?t be able to anticipate his actions, but where there?s a will, there?s a way.?

He attempted to step through the portal once more, but was once again halted.

?Just one more thing. You?re familiar with mortal fairytales, aren?t you??

He nodded.

?Well, The DJ has gone by many names over the years. You might remember him as the Pied Piper of Hamelin.?

Axle?s eyes glazed over. He knew exactly what she meant by this.

?So, Axle, I need to ask you a favour. He?ll most likely fuck with one head in particular, and I?m guessing mine is of greater use to him. If I do anything irrational, anything out of the ordinary? do whatever it takes to stop me. That is all I ask.?

He hesitated, but nodded eventually.

?Just some food for thought.?

They both smiled at each other and stepped through the portal to the next round.

Spoiler: Stuff

Here's a little Prelude (a nod to my musically themed opponent), a taste of what's to come.

 

[Dastardos]

Logician, I love what you did with Malcolm in your piece. I also really enjoyed the intro, and the part about there being a 'higher' god than the one that Malcolm answers to.

It gave me some ideas of things to do with my entry. I'm gonna start tomorrow.

 

[mshcherbatskaya]

Krunk, here's a list of all my DJ-related posts. Sorry it isn't more tidy but anyways...

http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=2#1824304
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=2#1847435
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=3#1866568
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=6#1930841
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=13#2430274
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=13#2448572
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=16#2738667

 

[Dastardos]

Entry Number 3​

Kicking the door in, Malcolm saw the two bodies slump over, their brains covering the walls behind them. Malcolm narrowed his vision and glared at the man in front of him. He screamed like a coward as Malcolm approached him.

?C?mon Malcolm! We can talk this out! Think of everything we?ve been through, think of how good I?ve been to you!? the man squealed, cowering in fear behind the desk.

?How good you?ve been to me? You?ve made my life hell! You turned me into a monster, and make false promises to me so I?d be your tool. Fuck you!?

?No, Malcolm wait! I... I can bring them back. I can make your life whole ag-?

BLAM

Malcolm fired the gun in the air, interrupting his false god.

?Stop lying and at least die with dignity.?

Malcolm pressured the gun against God?s forehead, and smiled as he listened to the sound of his skin sizzling; burning. ?I wanna hear you scream John.?

BOOM

?Yaarghh-!?

BLAM

 

[Dastardos]

This is the beginning of my entry. I'll try and post a little more every day.

 

[Lord Krunk]

Krunk, here's a list of all my DJ-related posts. Sorry it isn't more tidy but anyways...

http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=2#1824304
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=2#1847435
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=3#1866568
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=6#1930841
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=13#2430274
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=13#2448572
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=16#2738667

Thanks.

 

[000Ronald]

Logician, I love what you did with Malcolm in your piece. I also really enjoyed the intro, and the part about there being a 'higher' god than the one that Malcolm answers to.

It gave me some ideas of things to do with my entry. I'm gonna start tomorrow.

Oh, good. One thing I was worried about is whether or not they'd think my representation of Malcolm was a little off. That's not to say it's still off, but you saying that makes it less likely.

 

[Khedive Rex]

*Snip*

Excellent story. I must say, I liked the way you handled Khedive Rex. I wouldn't have thought to put him in the Middle East but the area suits his personality. If there were a real Khedive Rex I could imagine him freeing hostages in Mosul.

Overall, a very nice story.

 

[Lord Krunk]

Spoiler: Early for once.

Yep, here it is. By the way, you might want to read this short post [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/362.107952.3251282] before you go ahead, it might help you understand some bits.

THE RATINGS WAR
Round 3 ? Fugue
Dinner And A Show​

?Huh. Looks like we?re smack bang in the middle of the Chicago Fire.?

Axle was the first to step through the portal. He paused to glance around him, but later devoted his time to covering his eyes from the soot. Flames surrounded him on the street, teeming with humans that darted this way and that as they searched for their loved ones. None seemed to notice their sudden appearance, or the portal that was now closing behind Athena, but he knew that there were more pressing matters on their minds. A familiar feeling of dread washed over him.

We need to beat this DJ guy in record time, or else this city will come crashing in over our heads!

Athena was less worried, however, a telltale glint in her eyes as they darted from one screaming civilian to another. Rubbing her hands together, she reared for the attack. Axle caught her just as she was about to pounce on an elderly woman nearby.

?Let?s just stick to the plan, shall we??

She stopped struggling in his arms. ?Fine.?

Putting her down, he looked around the street for any sign of their competitor. There was no doubt that the sight was shocking, but in a way it was also beautiful. The fires danced across the streets, leaping from building to building to shower the world in burning ash. They encircled them, enclosed them, and trapped them. And the ensuing chaos it had created made it dance all the more. It was beauty like this, the combined beauty of life, death and nature that he had been so deprived of in his life as a Nihilistic Disciple.

Starts to make me wonder why I?m pursuing such a despicable goal.

Watch out you might get what you're after
Cool babies strange but not a stranger
I'm an ordinary guy
Burning down the- *chhk*

Axle?s attention switched to his radio. It never stopped in the middle of a song, let alone stopped at all.

That could only mean?

Athena?s sudden gasp made him lose his train of thought. She was pointing through the fire at a silhouette. Hesitantly, Axle stepped forward to meet their challenger.

---------------------------------------​

What?

Jericho leaned forward in concentration, eyes darting about the battlefield. The DJ was getting closer to the team, and his radio had suddenly stopped working.

But it never stops. Not even this DJ fellow could have switched it off, unless?

His head swivelled across the Nimbus Stadium and, as he expected, his eyes met with an empty chair.

Judas.

He stood up immediately, wings spread as he calculated his next move.

?Job, I?m lending you my camera for the time being. Record every moment of this match; I won?t be back to see the finish.?

Before Job could reply, his colleague was already in full flight. Sighing, he picked up the camera and hit the ?Record? button.

?Fine then.?

---------------------------------------​

Athena gripped her pistol and stepped with Axle toward the silhouette.

Your move, Piper. I?m not going to kill you, but I?ve got no qualms doing stuff to your legs.

The figure stepped through the flames to face his opponents. What they were greeted with was nothing less than surprising; The DJ was one of the strangest people that they had ever seen. He wore a long woolly coat, a scarf that trailed behind him, no shoes, and a fedora that shaded his absurdly shaped sunglasses. His sleeves were bunched up as well. Nothing could describe the image that stood before them, the sooty, inappropriately clad man that smiled warmly at the very people that stood against him. He held a lute in one hand and gestured for them to come closer with the other.

?It?s safe to go ahead? explained Athena. ?There?s nothing he can do to us over there that he can?t do from a distance. If anything, he?s giving us an advantage.?

Axle marched forward in response, unblinking as he approached The DJ. Athena glided past him and halted face to face with her brother.

?Hey Pipes, what?re you doing here??

He indicated his lute. ?The music. It call me here, I answer.?

?You know, I liked you better when you weren?t this mystical.?

?I liked ya more when ye was more mystical!?

She shrugged, laughing. ?Fair call.?

The DJ smiled again and began tinkering with his lute. ?I bin doin? a bit a research, an? I find out ?bout a guy, called him Nero. Played dis lute as he saw Rome burnin?. Thought I might give it a try,?

Axle was becoming impatient. ?It?s great to know about some dead guy, but shouldn?t we start fighting soon? I mean, look around you. This place is falling apart!?

The man?s smile remained unwavering, almost haunting. ?Just like yer life, Axle. For tonight, dis street our dancefloor. So let?s dance!?

They both knew what was coming next, as Axle charged forward and Athena drew her pistol. But The DJ was one step ahead of them, whistling such a wondrous melody that the two were forced to stop in their tracks. Frozen in place, all they could do was listen as he began to strum his lute to the tune of the melody. The music felt incredible, a force flowing through their bodies like a river as their bodies began their swinging to the strums of the lute. All the troubles in the world were gone now; the inferno that surrounded him like a distant memory. Athena turned and sauntered toward him, her long, ebony hair swinging to the melodious thrums. Locking their hands together and gazing into one another?s eyes, they began their waltz.

---------------------------------------​

Jericho was amazed at the loudness of the audience; their wolf whistles were drowning out all other sounds in the heavens. But what the cheers were for, he had no time to question. For he was on a mission, and two warrior?s lives ? more importantly, his career ? were at stake. He was standing before the gates of Celestial Automations, a place that he had last entered on his 2000[sup]th[/sup] deathday. He wondered if the Quantum Mechanics would remember him after all these centuries.

Taking a large gulp of ozone and holding his head high, he began his advance into the factory. If there was a technological issue, they were certain to know the solution.

-----​

Judas glanced at the security monitor to see Jericho burst through the front door. He pressed his fingertips together in expectation.

?Oh, Jerry. And here?s me having second thoughts about your predictability as well.?

He took a sip from his coffee cup as he waited for the inevitable.

-----​

Jericho stormed through the furnaces toward the head office. The Mechanics were of no help to him; they had never seen an instance where one of their devices had broken down. Now there was only one person that would be able to assist him: the manager of the institution, Chairman Newton himself.

But as he opened the door to his office, an ominous chill ran up his spine.

?Hello, Jerry. Fancy meeting you here.?

---------------------------------------​

Axle stares into Athena?s deep black eyes and she did the same, dancing all the while to the beautiful melody that enveloped the two like a sheet. He knew that there was something he was supposed to remember, something that he must beware of. But in this world with only him, her, and the music that guided them, there were no worries. He knew he had a duty, but he didn?t care anymore. For he was in the most wondrous place in the world with the most beautiful lady at his side?

Wait, ?beautiful?? The Great Shadow? Something?s wrong here.

He began to shake his head and the world, the heat and the flames began to return to him. He also noticed The DJ, who continued to smile that smile that chilled him to the bone. His whistle became louder; the thrums became deeper and softer. He turned back towards Athena and resumed his dance, moving closer and closer to her as she smiled welcomingly. The world began to heat up around him, but it was not because of the flames. A shiver ran up his spine as her hand traced along his back. Athena moved her face closer to his, and their lips locked together.

Time froze. There was nothing else but them now, and eternity at their beck and call.

---------------------------------------​

Jericho was too shocked to move. Sitting on Newton?s desk was none other than Judas, and lying at his feet was the unconscious Chairman.

?Took your sweet time, didn?t you?? he said, a hideous smirk forming on his face.

?What have you done? I thought you were on my side!?

He burst into laughter at that comment. ?On your side? You can?t be serious; after all, we?re both after the same story.?

?Is that what all this is about??

He shrugged. ?You got me. As you know, only one of us can use this story, or else we?re both disqualified. So, I decided to get you out of the picture.?

Cheers began to erupt, shaking the heavens around them.

What?s going on down there? I hope Job?s recording it?

?But what would you achieve in switching off the radio? We know they need that thing.?

?Silly Jerry. I don?t care which way this battle goes, because I?ll have a juicy story either way. But you have devoted all your time to this Athena woman, so you?ll need this victory. And I have the only way you can succeed.?

Jericho was trapped in a Catch-22. It was either lose his story, or submit to Judas? will. He only hoped that there was another way out of this mess.

?Okay then, let?s do this. What do you want me to do??

Judas chuckled. ?I don?t want you to do anything. If something were to happen in the next few rounds, I merely want your solemn promise that you will only be a spectator. That is all I ask.?

Jericho?s eye twitched. Something about this was wrong, and he didn?t like it one bit.

---------------------------------------​

It seemed to last forever, that kiss. But neither Axle nor Athena cared; they were in each other?s arms, and that?s all that mattered. Her hands wrapped around his neck, and his hands clasped around her waist. Athena let go of him and stepped back for a second.

?I- I think I?m falling for you.?

If I do anything irrational, anything out of the ordinary... do whatever it takes to stop me.

And then Axle remembered. The world came back to him, and he clasped his hands to his ears to drown out the thrums of The DJ?s lute, only letting go to clench his fists together. Launching a set of blows on his opponent, the instrument ? and a few of The DJ?s teeth ? was destroyed.

?You?ve screwed with us for long enough. It?s time to end this!?

The oddly clad man stood back, astonished. This man, this Axle, was fighting the music. No, more like he was channelling it. Never had he seen anything like this before.

Axle clenched his fists as tightly as he could and began his barrage, until The DJ was a limp bleeding figure on the ground beneath him. He had never felt so angry before, or so alive. But this man, this beast had twisted his god into a lovable ditz, and almost did the same to him. He raised his right foot to stomp him out of existence; this man could live no longer.

?Wait, no!? shouted Athena. ?Don?t kill him! Remember who you are!?

He backed away, realising what he had almost done. Toppling to the floor in tears, he felt so lost. What was he to do?

I almost killed a man.

---------------------------------------​

There?s no way that he would go to all this work for a promise. I?ll play his game, but there?s no way I?ll obey him if he does do something? what?s he planning?

?Fine. I?ll watch.?

For a brief millisecond, the side of Judas? mouth twisted into a malicious grin. ?I?m glad to hear that you?ve seen reason.?

He pulled out a microphone and held it to his face. ?Override last command.?

?That?s it? And where did you get that thing, anyway? You?re barely 1000!?

?This isn?t mine, you fool. Or, it wasn?t. You wouldn?t believe how easy Newton is to manipulate after a couple of drinks; he willingly gave it to me.?

?And I?m assuming he just fell unconscious??

?Yeah, but it doesn?t matter. In a matter of moments, your friend downstairs should find himself with a sudden advantage. Just remember our deal.?

Jericho nodded and exited the room without a word.

I don?t know what you?re thinking, but don?t think for a second that I won?t be watching your every move.

Judas smiled as his rival left the building. Kicking the limp body of Sir Isaac to the side, he began his own exit. ?That was easier than I thought it would be.?

---------------------------------------​

Athena put her hand out to Axle and he took it, rising to his feet. He couldn?t believe that he had almost killed someone, let alone disobey his mistress.

?Listen,? she started, ?I?m done. Finished. Sated. There?s no reason for us to be in this infernal place any more.?

Axle stared at her, dumbfounded.

Did she just say she was full?

?In fact,? she continued, ?I don?t want to be here for a moment longer. That?s why I am relinquishing this battle to The DJ. I, LADY ATHENA, SURR-?

But Axle had other thoughts on the matter, and before she could complete her sentence he punched her across the face, knocking her out instantly.

?This is wrong. I don?t know what you did to her, DJ, but I want you to bring her back.?

The DJ rose to his feet, baring his now-crooked teeth in an awkward grin. ?Ye don?t know what I done, eh? I did nuthin? but show her de path te healin?, an? she be de one te step down it.?

Axle grabbed his collar and raised his fist. ?Don?t fuck with me, pal. The Great Shadow doesn?t get full. What have you done with her??

He smiled. ?Ah, ye noticed. Ever heard a snake charmin?? Well, I play variation of that. I play song that make ye ?Great Shadow? dance out of body.?

?Well, where is she now??

?Still in de body, jus? asleep at th? moment. It?s bad luck te stop player mid-song, so I don?t know how far she gone. But she wake up in a few hours; I still have much healin? to perform on de little wench.?

Axle clasped his hand around The DJ?s mouth before he could make another sound. ?Not this time, pal. Now what?ll it take you to surrender??

The DJ laughed. ?Like gay band once say, Ye Can?t Stop De Music.?

Axle thrust him against a nearby wall as a lamppost nearby him exploded into millions of tiny shards. ?I?ve had it to here with your mind games; the only thing that?s stopping me from throwing you into a fire is your precious ?wench?! Just surrender alread-? *chhhk*

Inside his pocket, he felt a familiar vibration. A familiar sound. His greatest weapon against The DJ had returned.

?Ah well, I guess I?ll just have to find a way to make you surrender. How about I find a song that even you can?t stand? I?m sure that there are plenty of butcherers out there that can help me ruin everything you live for. For example; what if I were to force you to listen to THIS??

He whipped out his radio and it began to play a song. One that neither would ever forget. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu_moia-oVI]

?Nae, turn it off! It not music, it TORTURE!?

?Shame, it won?t end until you surrender. So, do you want to go for a few more verses or quit while you?re ahead??

?Ah, I surrender!? He shouted at the sky, wincing. ?Just get away from me!?

A bang echoed through the streets of Chicago, and Axle turned to see a portal opening a few metres away from him. Grabbing Athena?s limp body and thrusting her over his shoulder, he left the way he came.

---------------------------------------​

Judas sat next to Miss Magdalene in time to see Axle leave through the portal. Raising a digit, a cup of coffee flew in his hand and he began to sip it. Mary opened her mouth to speak.

?You know, Jericho?s been watching you ever since you arrived. Are you sure he?ll actually stick to the deal??

Judas chuckled and turned towards her. ?I never expected him to. In fact, I?m counting on it.?

Spoiler: Long post is long.

As always, feedback would be much appreciated. Khedive, if you're willing?

This piece had barely any fighting (and even what little I had could better be described as a beatdown), but I guess it suits The DJ's pacifistic nature. Keeping him in character was incredibly hard as well; writing him in the third person just doesn't feel... right.

I also tried to find another form of victory other than the one I chose, but once I thought of it, I couldn't not do it.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. It incorporates elements that I've never written before (villains and romance), so I hope that didn't detract too much from the story.

Msh, I can't wait for your rendition.

 

[000Ronald]

Spoiler: The Logician Reviews: Dinner and A Show

Or alternatively; The Logician Reviews: Krunk's...Ratings...War...post...thing...ness...

Krunk, I have to give you props; you've overcome a great obstacle, that obstacle being portraying The DJ. I got the impression from The DJ that I did from The Conduit; due to his nature, he would be unreasonably difficult to write for, but you did it, and I think you did a better job than I did with The Conduit.

That being said, there was a massive failing in your piece; your own characters. I didn't feel that Athena and Axel weren't the same characters I'd read about in your previous stories. I also felt it was odd that The DJ could control Athena; I thought it was poor planning. It might've been better to have them as equals, and have The DJ control Axel. The ending was also very poor; The DJ is music, so how could he be defeated by music, even a rickroll?

All in all, I can't say I liked Dinner and A Show. It started out well, but I got the distinct impression you didn't really know what you wanted to do and decided to grasp at at straws.

Apologies if this wasn't helpful.

 

[mshcherbatskaya]

Dammit! I just realized how late I am. It's like hitting the snooze alarm again and again and then finally realizing you're going to be late to work. Coffee's brewing, I'm in the shower, I'll be in as soon as I can.

 

[Lord Krunk]

Spoiler: The Logician Reviews: Dinner and A Show

Or alternatively; The Logician Reviews: Krunk's...Ratings...War...post...thing...ness...

Krunk, I have to give you props; you've overcome a great obstacle, that obstacle being portraying The DJ. I got the impression from The DJ that I did from The Conduit; due to his nature, he would be unreasonably difficult to write for, but you did it, and I think you did a better job than I did with The Conduit.

That being said, there was a massive failing in your piece; your own characters. I didn't feel that Athena and Axel weren't the same characters I'd read about in your previous stories. I also felt it was odd that The DJ could control Athena; I thought it was poor planning. It might've been better to have them as equals, and have The DJ control Axel. The ending was also very poor; The DJ is music, so how could he be defeated by music, even a rickroll?

All in all, I can't say I liked Dinner and A Show. It started out well, but I got the distinct impression you didn't really know what you wanted to do and decided to grasp at at straws.

Apologies if this wasn't helpful.

No, I would agree with everything you said there. It really wasn't the entry I was hoping for, but limitations (not being able to kill, when it's Athena's greatest power) got in the way.

I would also have to quasi-agree with you on the whole Axle/Athena OOC thing. I know I did that, but I intended to. In the earlier post, I gave the notion that The DJ would screw with their minds, and screw with their minds he did. The weren't themselves, and by the end Axle couldn't take it any more.

As for the poor ending, oh, how do I know. But really, when I thought to myself, I can kill a godlike entity, and I had something written far earlier with that very thought in mind. But how do I make a godlike entity surrender? Ultimately, I gave up searching for options and tried rickrolling the audience; it obviously didn't work as I had planned.

Thanks for your review, it shone a new light on my writing and I know what to improve/omit. But really, I can't wait for Msh's interpretation.

 

[Zemalac]

Ladies and gentlemen, for your appreciation: Emanuel Cazinto.

Spoiler: Battle Three How They Rise

"Thank you, kind sir. I really needed that drink. Alas, even wine cannot overcome the taste of some shames, though I will endeavor to ignore it in the telling of the next battle. For indeed there was a next battle, as there always is.

After my fight with Jayck and Jyill, I slept. I regret to say I did nothing adventurous, nothing that might be recounted in a dashing romance, no great exploits in the grey world of Purgatory. I merely consumed a great quantity of the provided wine and slept. Upon awakening I wandered aimlessly, thinking dark thoughts. I was in the grip of some maniacal depression, a black mood I had felt only rarely after duels past, a legacy of dishonor; for an honorable man does not fight duels with chandeliers and shadows.

I had felt this depression before, when the light was grey and the world was cold and the constant presence of honor was oppressive and pointless. It is a bitter potion, this feeling, when a man drinks too much and wonders if glory is a joke, or if all the rules are against him, or if he's done the best thing he could have done with his life. Back in Chadrais the feeling never lasted long. There was always a distraction, something to cheer me up and get my mind away from futile musings. And if there wasn't a distraction, then at least there would be a focus, some poor fool who could take all the rage and shame and confusion and cleanse my soul of the melancholy before his second carried him away, wrapped in scented cloth. I try not to do that, though I've known men who did. Men ever dueling away their grudge against the world. Bad business, that. Live too much on the edge of a sword, is it any surprise if you end up cut?

In Purgatory, there were no distractions. There was no music, no taverns, no friendly games and bright-eyed girls. All there was was time to think, to think endless grey thoughts in the grey-pearl light.

There were no distractions, but there was a focus. When Gabriel called my name so soon after I'd returned from Gorman Mansion my thoughts cleared, became sharp and cruel as knives. The angel led me to the portal once more, crimson cape slithering across the ground behind me like a trail of blood, plumed hat solidly on my head. Gabriel looked me in the eyes, shook his head, and began his fluttering walk at my side.

"You will be fighting Mort, in the Graveyard of the Fallen," he said. I did not speak in return, but nodded once, abruptly. No other words were exchanged. Not one for conversation, was Gabriel, but just this once neither was I.

I stepped through the portal with an even pace, knowing by now what to expect from such magic. The pearly glow faded away, and when my foot came down it crunched on gravel. I looked around, examining this new arena, not knowing exactly what I would find--after the Underbelly and Gorman Mansion, I had given up all hope of guessing at what the dueling field would be.

This one, as I should have guessed from the name, was a graveyard, though I didn't realize that at first--the scale of the thing...it was immense, that's the only way to describe it. Colossal tombstones brooded in dim light, overseeing domains of sweet-smelling flowers and mounded grass. Those headstones were as large as buildings, and if there had been more of a sun they would have cast shadows deeper than the ocean. A neat gravel path wound through the necropolis: it was this that I stood on, looking over the dusty graves and the flowers. The light was grey, but it was an honest sort of grey, unlike Purgatory's light. You knew there was a sun somewhere behind those brooding clouds. Somehow, that made it worse. The sun was there, shining bright and cheerful, but in the way were these damn clouds, which had all the cheer and goodwill of a thrown brick. They were very depressing, those clouds. Delightful place.

I peered at the closest headstone, trying to make out the words through the moss and dirt. It said (I think); 'Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--A field where a thousand corpses lie.'

Wonderful place, eh? Absolutely cheerful.

Anyway, I stood on the gravel path and looked around. There was no other living thing to be seen in this barren place, at least not at first, so I just strolled along, reading some of the headstones. They all bore strange little poems or grandiose names, all very depressing stuff. It was like a graveyard for particularly arrogant and large-minded kings. 'The Graveyard of the Fallen' was what Gabriel had called it, and, well, the place had certainly fallen. Everything looked like it had been grand and noble when it was new, but now it was old and ragged and the air was stale with grave-dust. I got the feeling that anything set down in this place for even a day or so would molder and join the display of eroded dignity.

I paced along the gravestone path, reading the ten-foot letters on the headstones. Some of them seemed vaguely familiar, names I'd heard before. I still don't know if my mind was playing tricks on me or what, but some of them I could have sworn...

Eh, nevermind. No. Stupid thought.

Anyway.

My mood was bleak to begin with, and I don't suppose you'd be surprised to learn that the graveyard atmosphere wasn't helping. It felt like there were eyes glaring at me from the shadows, enraged by my very presence in this place. I developed a wonderful feeling of paranoia, walking along that gravel path, expecting at any moment to have something lunge at me from one of the graves.

The graves came in incredible variety, which kept things interesting. There was one with a vast white facade carved in the shape of a faceless angel, clutching a stone harp in one hand; there was one that was shiny black, reflecting a long distorted picture of me as I passed; and there was one marble headstone with a stick-figure standing on top, a long way from the ground, clutching a long-handled scythe in one outstretched hand.

I nearly jumped out of my damn skin when the figure on the headstone moved. And I mean moved, fast and smooth, though I probably would have admired it more if its first action upon hitting the ground wasn't to try and take my head off. I leapt backwards, tripping over my own feet, which was fortunate because it meant the scythe whistled through the air above my head instead of through it.

It was a scarecrow--all wooden stick-limbs and carved pumpkin grin and old cloth. I thought I could hear little voices shivering on the edge of understanding--or maybe I just think I did, looking back on it now. If I didn't hear anything like that, I certainly ought to have.

Yeah, I'll explain it later. For now, keep up with the story.

I swept my cape back and drew my sword, without my usual flourish. I was intent on death, trying to wipe out dishonor through focus. If I could concentrate on destruction, I could forget how I won the previous battle, you see. I'm not proud of it, but...that was how it was, and that is how it is. I offer no excuses for the nature of the duel. If you know what I'm saying then you know the truth of it, and if you don't then there's no way I can explain it to you.

I drew my sword--did I say that already? I drew my sword, and the scarecrow brought the scythe around in a wide swing, once again aimed at removing my head from the immediate vicinity of my body. The problem with that is, if you do a wide swing with a long weapon it takes longer to get the blade to your opponent. To a trained swordsman such as myself it might as well have been moving through syrup, despite the scarecrow's unnatural speed. I ducked it easily and lunged, blade piercing cloth and hitting something more substantial beneath. Something screeched at me in a high-pitched voice, words I did not take the time to understand, and then the scythe was back and I was dancing nimbly away, parrying almost negligently. I probably should have paid more attention to that parry, because the scythe somehow slipped over my sword and cut a neat gash in my shirt and a deep slice through my flesh. The slash burned across my chest, and I...well, I became angry. Against Jayck and Jyill I had acted with dishonor, and the only blow I had received was a tear on the edge of my cape. Here in this place of fallen glory I was fighting this creature without hiding and without dastardly tricks, and so of course it was here that I was bleeding.

Occasionally--very occasionally, but enough to be disheartening if you think about it for too long--it seems that life has a grudge against honorable men.

I fenced my way out of the action and st--what? Oh, come on, I'm not here to explain fencing terms to you, I'm here to tell a story.

Fine.

I threw the scythe out wide with my sword and stepped back, blade en guarde and ready to parry any further attacks, none of which were forthcoming. I stood there, watching the scarecrow, and it watched me with empty eyes. I thought I saw something flicker in those hollows, though I couldn't swear to it.

Now I had time to examine my opponent, and I must say I wasn't impressed. It was exactly what it seemed to be: a scarecrow, somehow moving fast and trying to kill me. It was obviously a scarecrow and not, for example, someone in a ridiculous costume: no living man has limbs that thin. The arms and legs were sticks, the old shirt was leaking straw from where I had cut it, and the whole thing looked...rotten, somehow. Like the stains on the cloth were festering.

The scythe in its hands was wickedly sharp, though, with a shaft of dark cherrywood and a blade polished to a mirror shine, and that combined with its speed was pretty much all that mattered.

How do you kill a scarecrow? I stared into its carved eyes, and it swung the scythe at me. I deflected it easily: the thing had speed in spades, but not enough strength to plow through a solid parry. It didn't even seem to notice the blow I had dealt it earlier, which was somewhat infuriating. It moved just as fast as before--it moved sort of like a puppet, actually, with feuding hands directing its movement. Very fast, though. Damn fast.

We fought, and my thoughts were clean and pure for the first time since Gorman Mansion. There were no lingering doubts in my mind now: I had a sword, and he had a scythe, and we were both determined to see our weapon into the body of the other.

Now, a scythe is an interesting weapon to fight. It's surprisingly effective in the right hands, and a favorite of any peasant army. Usually they turn the blade on the pole, though, so the blade is upright instead of sideways like a farming scythe, which gives you a little more reach and a much better slashing edge. The scarecrow--Mort was its name, Gabriel had told me--hadn't done that. Only the inside edge of a scythe is sharpened, and that's the side that you can't really do anything with unless you hook it around your enemy and pull the blade towards you without him realizing what you're doing and dodging. With the blade out sideways, the best bet you have of doing any damage is with the point.

But damn, can you do a lot of damage with the point. It's got a lot of force behind it--I heard of a knight once who got his helmet split clean open with a single blow from a scythe. You get in the way of that point, you're done, and it doesn't matter how good you are or what armor you're wearing. Scythe hits you right, boom, down you go.

So I never let it hit me at a good angle. I got a couple shallow cuts, my clothes needed some mending afterwards, but the point never stuck me solid and I gave better than I got. Mort was fast but I was fast and had training to back it up, and it--he? Mort is a male name, right? I'll start calling it 'he,' then. He didn't seem to get the nuances of fencing. He had a good swing, and he could twist his stick-figure body into impossible shapes to dodge, but he couldn't do it consistently. He'd dodge one lunge, and try to hit me with his scythe, and I'd weave around it and flick the sword across an open limb or some other target. If he'd been a normal human opponent, he would have been dead within five minutes, worn down by too many small wounds. As it was his movements became more abrupt, frustrated, and he started weighing his blows more carefully.

On the edge of hearing, there were...voices? Little voices, squabbling like children.

'Gut him, Joed! He's taking Mort apart!'

'Poor Mort! He's mean.'

'I'm trying! He keeps on dodging!'

They were weird voices, sort of small and high. They sounded on edge, like they were doing the same thing I was doing--trying to burn away memory in the heat and focus of the fight--but weren't doing a good job of it.

'Doyle, what do you think you're doing?' one of the voices demanded. I gave the scythe shaft a sharp crack to prevent it from sliding through my chest, and listened with half an ear.

The hell are you talking about? I don't have some kind of 'eavesdropping habit,' you daft bastard.

I told you before, you have to do a little listening in at parties. That wasn't eavesdropping. And besides, this time it was a fight. Anything said in a fight is fair game. Shouldn't be having secret conversations in the middle of a duel, am I right? You know I'm right.

Right.

The same voice said: 'Laea could have dodged that one,' in an accusing tone. The scarecrow seemed to freeze, just for a moment, and then the entire thing just contorted and kicked itself in the right arm.

'Hey!' said a different voice, 'Don't do that! He didn't mean it!'

The scarecrow looked like it was fighting itself, with various limbs trying to attack other limbs and the entire structure shuddering. Then, just as fast as it had happened, it stopped, and resumed attacking: slightly faster, slightly smoother than before, amid a chorus of tiny outraged voices. I, as might be expected, had no idea what had just happened, but I wasn't about to let that stop me from continuing in my efforts to slice this thing into tiny pieces. Voices were just voices, and in a graveyard such as this it was best not to think about what they might belong to.

I cut in to carve another chip off the scarecrow's arm, and someone said, 'This isn't working. Fly!' And, to my surprise, the scarecrow flew.

No, I'm serious. It just rose straight up, hanging limply, like a puppet being pulled up by its strings. It managed to get in one last swing before departing into the sky, a wild slash that clashed off my own blade's parry, and then it was gone into the darkness of the Graveyard of the Fallen.

I spent a moment staring after it in astonishment. After all, I hadn't expected a creature such as this--without wings or any other kind of flying mechanism--to take to the sky. It was surprising, to say the least.

Mort vanished into the forest of tombstones, and I raged at him. 'Coward!' I shouted, among other, less complimentary things. I wasn't in my usual cheerful state of mind, and looking back on it I'd rather not believe that I said some of the things I did. Let us gloss over them swiftly and move on.

While I was shouting something cannoned into me from behind, flailing wildly with wooden limbs and a sharp scythe that fortunately enough became tangled in my cape instead of plunging into my back. I really ought to have been paying more attention. As you may have guessed it was Mort again, flying low to the ground and crashing into me like an angry wooden cannonball. He knocked me from my feet and I rolled, trying to avoid the scythe blade while he tried to get it out of my cape. He regained control of his weapon and I dived off the path, and his swing bit gravel where I had been moments before. He swung again, and I caught it on my sword and riposted with a hasty slash across his chest that didn't cut as deep as I would have liked because he got his scythe around faster than I expected and almost knocked my blade out of my hand. I retreated, backing up the mounded grass and parrying furiously. Mort seemed to have become faster, more certain, sending out blows with such speed and skill that I could barely block them all.

And then, unfortunately, I tripped. I wasn't looking where I was putting my feet--of course not! I had eyes only for Mort's blade. So I misplaced a step and fell back, trying desperately to stay on my feet, and then trying to hit the dirt when I noticed that staying upright would result in Mort's incoming scythe spitting me like a pig. So I fell, and Mort's blade whistled in after me, and I rolled desperately to the side and the scythe bit deep into the mounded grass, and something shrieked from the grave and hit him square in the chest. The world went white and red, everything edged in crimson and light, so bright it was unbearable for the briefest of instants, and then Mort was flying through the air and I was sailing right behind him, sent tumbling by whatever had lashed out from the shadow beneath the headstone. And I was flying, speeding at about ten feet off the ground. To my left and ahead of me Mort was cartwheeling end over end through the air, whatever power that had enabled him to fly having temporarily deserted him in the shock of the blow.

The gravel path passed beneath me, neat and orderly except where my footwork had tossed gravel over the sides. Ahead I could see a dim shape approaching: I braced myself for the impact, knowing that it was going to be a bad one. And it was. I hit the tree and felt ribs snap like twigs, then hit the ground and couldn't breathe for far too long. When I finally took a gasp of breath I immediately wished that I hadn't--breathing hurt.

I felt that the tree that had so wounded me should at least look like someone had hit it--perhaps a dent in the shape of my body--but it stood above me, annoyingly serene. It was a dark cherry tree in bloom, flowers coloring the graveyard air sweet with their scent. I found it ironic that the air I was desperately trying to force into my lungs smelled so good. I mean, that's the last thing you need, right? 'Oh, you need air? Here's some flowers to make it smell nice for you.' Life has a weird sense of humor sometimes.

About halfway up the tree someone had removed a stout branch, and the spot where it had grown was still as fresh and bright as a scar. Mort's scythe came into view as I stared at it, the scythe with its dark cherrywood shaft.

Kind of an odd coincidence, don't you think?

Mort came for me with his tattered scarecrow form broken and cracked, and I stood, wincing, blade still miraculously in my hand. This time there would be no mistakes: this time I'd end it.

And this time, I decided, I'd do it right.

I saluted Mort with my sword and came en guarde. He faced off with me, scythe cocked back, circling and looking for an opening, too battered to fly. This is how it should be, I thought. Two men--men? Two duelists standing face-to-face, fighting a duel honest and fair. No death from above, no shadows or flying or fire. Just the two of us, and only the gods as our witnesses.

'I am here to defeat thee in honorable duel, Mort,' I said. 'May the gods see only the most worthy to victory this day.'

The carven face didn't respond, and the voices on the edge of hearing were silent. We struck out as one, and our blades clashed together in a ringing, final note.

We fought, and fought well, despite all our injuries, me with my cracked ribs and bruised body, him with his splintering limbs and broken cloth. The scythe flickered out and around, trying to hook the life from my body, and I weaved around it as though I were smoke and struck out, only to be blocked by a wooden forearm. We danced with steel and wood in the grey light of the Graveyard, and only the dead were our witnesses.

He kicked out, and I smashed his leg. I went for the lunge, and he almost broke my arm. We each gave as good as we got, his speed making up for skill and my skill making up for his unnatural speed.

Whispers on the edge of hearing spoke to us: 'Get him, Mort!' 'Win!' 'That's my boy!'

We fought, and could have fought forever, despite the pain and despair and exhaustion that was creeping up like a thief in my body. This was the duel, pure and simple, dishonor nowhere to be found. This was life at its finest and death at its noblest. All the fear, all the confusion, all the strangeness and horrors of existence--all that could not touch this place, no matter how much influence they had on everyday life. The everyday and the ordinary do not apply to the duel: here is only the quick and the bright. Present to your enemy the edge of your blade, give him the sweet gift of steel, and he will do the same for you. No master can compose a symphony as beautiful as this, nor any artist capture the flicker of light on metal, nor any poet convey the speed of pristine violence.

We fought, and honor was our witness.

These things are beautiful: a fine wine, pooled in a crystal cup; a lovely woman, giving you the smile of things to come; a sunset, a living flower, an open road and a joyous song. But nothing, nothing can compare to the sublime beauty of the perfect strike. The moment comes and time stops, and everything is as clear as the air before a storm, and you see the movement, you see the moment. You see the opening, the space where his weapon can't be in time, and you feel like you must surely burst out into astonished laughter at how easy it is. You put your blade in the opening, and your opponent sees what you're doing and knows he is doomed, but there is nothing that he can do.

Two words filled my mind, in a voice not my own: DAMN YOU. And I struck.

My blade slid through the air straight and true, and passed through the grinning pumpkin as though it wasn't there, straight down the center. Something screeched, in surprise or pain I could not tell, and then Mort was staggering and swinging his scythe in an attempt to deal me one last blow. I ducked, and the blade buried itself in the cherry tree, wood returning to its maker. I slashed down, then up, then down again, and the twine tying the scarecrow's limbs together snapped apart like it had been eagerly awaiting the touch of my blade. Lacings cut, knots come apart and bindings removed by the precise efforts of steel, and Mort collapsed to the ground, every separate piece tumbling slowly through the air to bounce on the grey-lit grass.

And finally it was done, and the thing lying before me was just a bundle of sticks, straw and cloth, with a shattered pumpkin near the neck of the shirt. Was it still alive? Was it ever alive? It was just a scarecrow, made barely well enough to hold together in the field, and no more. It didn't move, and gave the impression that it never had.

Struggling out of the mess were three small, bright creatures, little toy-like figures with gossamer wings. One pushed his way out of the broken head, one came from the right sleeve, and one came from the left.

'You killed Mort,' said the one from the left, the yellow-and-green one, mournful and accusing.

'Well, yes,' I said, too overwhelmed at the suddenness of victory to consider the strange nature of the speaker. 'That was the idea.'

'You killed Mort,' muttered the one on the right, the red-and-green one. 'Gonna kill you.' He tried to take to the air, but one of his wings was bent at an unnatural angle, and he ended up on the ground in agony. Probably dislocated it when we'd been hit by whatever was in the grave earlier.

The third one didn't say anything. He looked like he had a major headache.

'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but might I ask who you are?'

'We're the fae,' gasped the red-and-green one, managing to sound threatening despite his pain. 'Watch out, or we'll get you.'

'Fae?' I was, as you might expect, somewhat confused. 'I'm not fighting you then, I suppose.'

'What?'

'Well, Gabriel told me I was to fight Mort, right?' I said reasonably. 'I defeated Mort, as you keep reminding me. The angel didn't say anything about you three.'

'We're with Mort,' said the one with the broken wing, firmly.

Now, I wasn't really sure what was happening with these creatures--did they live in the scarecrow? Did they make it move, like their puppet? What the hell was going on here? But that one phrase, 'We're with Mort,' made it all very simple.

'Well then,' I said, and saluted them with my sword. 'En guarde.' They stared at me.

'He means he's going to kill us,' said the one who hadn't spoken yet, the orange-and-blue one.

'No!' said the green-and-yellow one. 'I don't want to die too!' She raced across the ground and hid behind the orange-and-blue creature, peering over his shoulder. I shrugged.

'Then forfeit,' I said. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have killed them. They acted like children--albeit a cruel and violent child, in the case of the red-and-green one--and I had my fill of murdering children in Gorman Mansion. I would not do such a thing again.

'Never!' said the red-and-green fae.

'We forfeit,' said orange-and-blue, in a dull voice. I chose to ignore the first voice in favor of the reasonable one.

I swept my hat off my head and bowed to them. 'Then good day to you,' I said, and the pearly light of heaven rose around us and swept us all away.

This battle was good, I thought. No dastardly tricks, no shadows, no skulking about and dealing treacherous blows. This one was clean and simple. Gorman Mansion seemed far away now, scoured away by the focus and clarity of the duel. My thoughts ran clear and joyous: I am alive, I am satisfied, and I am the victor.

And in spite of everything, in spite of a falling circle of fire and crystal, in spite of two children dead from the shadows above, in spite of the music brought to a shattering halt, in spite of shame and cowardice and remorse and the tournament of sadistic gods, in spite of godsdamned everything, I am an honorable man. My wounds did not matter, nor did my enemy or anything else beyond that simple fact. I had won with honor.

You have no idea--no idea at all--how much that meant to me."