The Ratings War IV: Paradise City
- Thread starter The Sorrow
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Hey wait, there's finally a post on this thread?
And it's not an entry? Damn.
Can we just declare this a Zem victory and move on?
And it's not an entry? Damn.
Can we just declare this a Zem victory and move on?
Yeah, it's over. Zemalac wins by default.
I have a finale planned. That'll come soon.
Honestly, this is the last Ratings War, at least the last run by me. I just can't do it anymore; it's a chore. I'm sorry.
I have a finale planned. That'll come soon.
Honestly, this is the last Ratings War, at least the last run by me. I just can't do it anymore; it's a chore. I'm sorry.
I should probably post at least what I have done thus far, then...I have a very nice conclusion to this piece planned, I just haven't quite finished it yet. I realize there may be no point to finishing it now, but...
I'll add what I have to my previous post. Consider this part one of part two.
EDIT: Hell, apparently posts have word limits. It cut me off during the middle of section III. As such, part one of Part Two of Unforgivable Testimony is below.
The computer whirred and beeped as the man with the bandaged hands looked through the files. He had a notebook at hand, and with it was constructing a vague picture of what had happened that night in Paradise City. There were two people he was tracking, a man named Nicklaus and a man named Perceverence: those were the names on the warrants he'd read, at least. One a killer, one a healer, or so it seemed to the man at the computer. Nick left a trail that was easy to follow, while Percy was all but invisible. They were both there, moving through the city like opposing winds.
The man had a map of Paradise City up on the wall, covered in pins connected with string, tracing all the inccidents he had archived. They started at the Gurney Wheel, travelled up Pennyworth, across Hyde Park to Richiter, down Eighth to Turner Square and from there under the overpass to Liberty Tunnel at the intersection of 33rd and Cross Street, where the trail ended with a pin slammed into the board by a forceful and fustrated hand. Beyond that, there was nothing. Reports were few and scattered, mentioning blackouts and men stabbed dead in alleyways, nothing substantial. For all intents and purposes, Corkscrew Nick and Percy vanished at Liberty Tunnel. Perhaps they had died. Yet here was the mark of Perceverence a report of a blind man seeing again, more than fifteen minutes after the tunnel explosion.
Something was wrong. Despite all his work, all the searching and collecting and interviewing, there was something he didn't know.
The man with the bandaged hands set his fingers to the keyboard, and tried to put the puzzle together. He could not.
I can. I know how the pieces fit together. I know all the wheres, the whens, the whos and the hows. I even know the whys, believe it or not.
Let me show you.
Part Two
THIS CITY ON
THIS CITY IN
Percy walked along the fog-cloaked street. He fancied he saw a thin figure in the mist, pacing beside him; the slender form of the knife.
"And what is your philosophy?" asked Percy of the knife.
"Life is but a stage," said the knife, "and all the people only players."
"That is no philosophy," said Percy. "Merely a quote for an unexamined mind to hide behind. Words are not what drive men."
"Are they not?" asked the knife of Percy. "You think humanity is run by ideas and concepts, I suppose? You think too highly of the common man, for he does not understand the philosophies that inform his existence. He thinks democracy is perfection, that capitalism creates poverty and that the Soviets were communist. 'Practical men who believe themselves exempt from any intellectual influence are usually the slaves of some defunct economist.'"
"Still, it is the ideas that drive the leaders," said Percy stubbornly, "ideals of good and evil. But what is good and what is evil? There must be an objective definition."
"You will be sorely disappointed," said the knife. "For even if you find such a truth, you will not be listened to. They will laugh at you, declare you mad and stone you through the streets.
"If so," said Percy, "then that will be my cross to bear."
"You have no cross," said the knife, "only fire on your back. They will deny you your crucifixion, tear from your sacrifice all meaning. That is what the world does to those like you."
"Elaborate," commanded Percy. The knife was silent for a moment, the only sound his soft footfalls and the tap of Percy's staff.
When the knife spoke he spoke with a different voice, one almost kind. "AND now", he said, "let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened:--Behold! Human beings living in a underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets."
"I see," said Percy.
"And do you see," asked the knife, "men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking, others silent."
"You have shown me a strange image," said Percy, "and they are strange prisoners."
"Like ourselves," the knife replied; "and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?"
"True," Percy said; "how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?"
"And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the shadows?" prompted the knife.
"Yes," Percy said.
"And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they were naming what was actually before them?"
"Very true."
"And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side, would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing shadow?"
"No question," Percy replied.
"To them," the knife said, "the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images."
"That is certain," said Percy.
"And now look again," continued the knife, "and see what will naturally follow it if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision, -what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass and requiring him to name them, -will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?"
"Far truer."
"And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to take and take in the objects of vision which he can see, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer than the things which are now being shown to him?"
"True," Percy now said.
"And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he's forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities."
"Not all in a moment," Percy said.
"He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?"
"Certainly."
"Last of he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water, but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is."
"Certainly."
"He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?"
"Clearly," Percy said, "he would first see the sun and then reason about him."
"And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them?"
"Certainly, he would."
"And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he would care for such honours and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer,
and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?"
"Yes," Percy said, "I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner."
"Imagine once more," said the knife, "such an one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?"
"To be sure," Percy said.
"And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable) would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death."
"No question," Percy said.
"So it will be with you," said the knife. "You will come back to this wretched world with your eyes full of sun, and the prisoners will strangle you with their own chains."
I'll add what I have to my previous post. Consider this part one of part two.
EDIT: Hell, apparently posts have word limits. It cut me off during the middle of section III. As such, part one of Part Two of Unforgivable Testimony is below.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The computer whirred and beeped as the man with the bandaged hands looked through the files. He had a notebook at hand, and with it was constructing a vague picture of what had happened that night in Paradise City. There were two people he was tracking, a man named Nicklaus and a man named Perceverence: those were the names on the warrants he'd read, at least. One a killer, one a healer, or so it seemed to the man at the computer. Nick left a trail that was easy to follow, while Percy was all but invisible. They were both there, moving through the city like opposing winds.
The man had a map of Paradise City up on the wall, covered in pins connected with string, tracing all the inccidents he had archived. They started at the Gurney Wheel, travelled up Pennyworth, across Hyde Park to Richiter, down Eighth to Turner Square and from there under the overpass to Liberty Tunnel at the intersection of 33rd and Cross Street, where the trail ended with a pin slammed into the board by a forceful and fustrated hand. Beyond that, there was nothing. Reports were few and scattered, mentioning blackouts and men stabbed dead in alleyways, nothing substantial. For all intents and purposes, Corkscrew Nick and Percy vanished at Liberty Tunnel. Perhaps they had died. Yet here was the mark of Perceverence a report of a blind man seeing again, more than fifteen minutes after the tunnel explosion.
Something was wrong. Despite all his work, all the searching and collecting and interviewing, there was something he didn't know.
The man with the bandaged hands set his fingers to the keyboard, and tried to put the puzzle together. He could not.
I can. I know how the pieces fit together. I know all the wheres, the whens, the whos and the hows. I even know the whys, believe it or not.
Let me show you.
=-=-=-
______________________________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________________________
=-=-=-
Part Two
THIS CITY ON
THIS CITY IN
BURIAL
Percy was buried. His coffin was stone and wire, his funeral suit a straight white robe, his grave marked by tragedy and destruction. Above him were many tons of stone and metal, pressing down, holding him in place. He could not move.
The stone had all stopped about an inch away from his skin, on all sides. He had a little space, a little air, a little magic to keep himself alive, for what little good it would do. The protection spell he had cast before going into the tunnel had saved him from the collapse. It would not save him from a more simple death. Every breath he drew depleted the oxygen a little more, thinned the air of sustenance. He did not have long, now.
With nothing else to do, he bided. "Slow," he said, and lay still, his heart beating perhaps once a minute, then every five minutes, then once every hour. Time sped past like it had no meaning.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Someone lifted the stone from before his eyes, someone who was only a blurry face behind a fireman's mask. Percy said "Haste" and walked from his tomb, leaving the man scratching his head, swearing he'd seen a body beneath the rubble.
Percy walked. There was no hurry. In the distance sirens screamed, but he knew they would wait for him.
There are times when you don't know whether what's happening is happening, or whether it's a dream. You know? Like when you're walking down the street, and it's a foggy night, mist seeping from the gutters like pus from a wound, and you feel like you're walking through a hallucination.
Percy moved deceptively slowly. Time passed at the rate he set, and so his measured pace took him past speeding cars in the blink of an eye. His magic defeated the mightiest of engines. Which made no difference, really. It wasn't an engine he was fighting against, it was a human mind, a mind that could see where the story is going and make sure it's the one on the winning side. Life is a narrative--or a stage, if you want to use the Bard's metaphor. If you do, then all men and woman are but players, or characters in the tale. We have heroes and villains performing their formulaic routines, but we all know how it'll come out in the end, don't we? The hero wins, gets the girl, gets the glory, and the villain gets a boot to the side and a pair of handcuffs. But the hero never wins for long, because then the story would end. And this story never ends. Both heroes and villains, moving across the stage pretending that their actions actually mean something, always with the same damn result. They say that life imitates art, but that's only because, you know, life is art.
The trick isn't to be the hero or the villain. The trick is to be the narrator.
Percy was buried. His coffin was stone and wire, his funeral suit a straight white robe, his grave marked by tragedy and destruction. Above him were many tons of stone and metal, pressing down, holding him in place. He could not move.
The stone had all stopped about an inch away from his skin, on all sides. He had a little space, a little air, a little magic to keep himself alive, for what little good it would do. The protection spell he had cast before going into the tunnel had saved him from the collapse. It would not save him from a more simple death. Every breath he drew depleted the oxygen a little more, thinned the air of sustenance. He did not have long, now.
With nothing else to do, he bided. "Slow," he said, and lay still, his heart beating perhaps once a minute, then every five minutes, then once every hour. Time sped past like it had no meaning.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Someone lifted the stone from before his eyes, someone who was only a blurry face behind a fireman's mask. Percy said "Haste" and walked from his tomb, leaving the man scratching his head, swearing he'd seen a body beneath the rubble.
Percy walked. There was no hurry. In the distance sirens screamed, but he knew they would wait for him.
What
an illusion of death
Yes.
Very well.
Tell them I'm coming.
they don't know
they can't know. I'm a mirage.a fake.
an illusion of death
Yes.
it must be. I died, for them
Very well.
They will know fear
Tell them from me
tell themtell them I'm coming
Corkscrews
Tell them I'm coming.
I'm coming.
The recording is tinny and muffled, sounding like a police radio.
"Control, this is Car Double-Aught-Six, come in Control." The voice is dispassionate and formal, the voice of an official man on official duties.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, this is Control," is the reply, another emotionless voice. "Receiving, over."
"Control, we are on scene at Liberty Tunnel," says the first voice, "and we are requesting backup. It's bad down here, over."
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, this is Control. All available cars are already en route to the disaster area," says Control. "Do what you can, over."
"Yes sir," says Car 006. "Over and--" Crunch.
There is static for a moment.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, come in Car Zero-Zero-Six," says Control.
"Control, we have a problem," says Car 006, very calmly, very professionally. The sound of shattering glass comes across the airwaves, loud and clear.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, please elaborate," says Control. There is a series of muffled thumps from the other end of the line. "Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond."
There is silence.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond. Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond. Hello? Are you there? Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond..."
"Control, this is Car Double-Aught-Six, come in Control." The voice is dispassionate and formal, the voice of an official man on official duties.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, this is Control," is the reply, another emotionless voice. "Receiving, over."
"Control, we are on scene at Liberty Tunnel," says the first voice, "and we are requesting backup. It's bad down here, over."
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, this is Control. All available cars are already en route to the disaster area," says Control. "Do what you can, over."
"Yes sir," says Car 006. "Over and--" Crunch.
There is static for a moment.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, come in Car Zero-Zero-Six," says Control.
"Control, we have a problem," says Car 006, very calmly, very professionally. The sound of shattering glass comes across the airwaves, loud and clear.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, please elaborate," says Control. There is a series of muffled thumps from the other end of the line. "Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond."
There is silence.
"Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond. Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond. Hello? Are you there? Car Zero-Zero-Six, please respond..."
There are times when you don't know whether what's happening is happening, or whether it's a dream. You know? Like when you're walking down the street, and it's a foggy night, mist seeping from the gutters like pus from a wound, and you feel like you're walking through a hallucination.
Percy moved deceptively slowly. Time passed at the rate he set, and so his measured pace took him past speeding cars in the blink of an eye. His magic defeated the mightiest of engines. Which made no difference, really. It wasn't an engine he was fighting against, it was a human mind, a mind that could see where the story is going and make sure it's the one on the winning side. Life is a narrative--or a stage, if you want to use the Bard's metaphor. If you do, then all men and woman are but players, or characters in the tale. We have heroes and villains performing their formulaic routines, but we all know how it'll come out in the end, don't we? The hero wins, gets the girl, gets the glory, and the villain gets a boot to the side and a pair of handcuffs. But the hero never wins for long, because then the story would end. And this story never ends. Both heroes and villains, moving across the stage pretending that their actions actually mean something, always with the same damn result. They say that life imitates art, but that's only because, you know, life is art.
The trick isn't to be the hero or the villain. The trick is to be the narrator.
=-=-=-
Percy walked along the fog-cloaked street. He fancied he saw a thin figure in the mist, pacing beside him; the slender form of the knife.
"And what is your philosophy?" asked Percy of the knife.
"Life is but a stage," said the knife, "and all the people only players."
"That is no philosophy," said Percy. "Merely a quote for an unexamined mind to hide behind. Words are not what drive men."
"Are they not?" asked the knife of Percy. "You think humanity is run by ideas and concepts, I suppose? You think too highly of the common man, for he does not understand the philosophies that inform his existence. He thinks democracy is perfection, that capitalism creates poverty and that the Soviets were communist. 'Practical men who believe themselves exempt from any intellectual influence are usually the slaves of some defunct economist.'"
"Still, it is the ideas that drive the leaders," said Percy stubbornly, "ideals of good and evil. But what is good and what is evil? There must be an objective definition."
"You will be sorely disappointed," said the knife. "For even if you find such a truth, you will not be listened to. They will laugh at you, declare you mad and stone you through the streets.
"If so," said Percy, "then that will be my cross to bear."
"You have no cross," said the knife, "only fire on your back. They will deny you your crucifixion, tear from your sacrifice all meaning. That is what the world does to those like you."
"Elaborate," commanded Percy. The knife was silent for a moment, the only sound his soft footfalls and the tap of Percy's staff.
When the knife spoke he spoke with a different voice, one almost kind. "AND now", he said, "let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened:--Behold! Human beings living in a underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets."
"I see," said Percy.
"And do you see," asked the knife, "men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking, others silent."
"You have shown me a strange image," said Percy, "and they are strange prisoners."
"Like ourselves," the knife replied; "and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?"
"True," Percy said; "how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?"
"And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the shadows?" prompted the knife.
"Yes," Percy said.
"And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they were naming what was actually before them?"
"Very true."
"And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side, would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing shadow?"
"No question," Percy replied.
"To them," the knife said, "the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images."
"That is certain," said Percy.
"And now look again," continued the knife, "and see what will naturally follow it if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision, -what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass and requiring him to name them, -will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?"
"Far truer."
"And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to take and take in the objects of vision which he can see, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer than the things which are now being shown to him?"
"True," Percy now said.
"And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he's forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities."
"Not all in a moment," Percy said.
"He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?"
"Certainly."
"Last of he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water, but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is."
"Certainly."
"He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?"
"Clearly," Percy said, "he would first see the sun and then reason about him."
"And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them?"
"Certainly, he would."
"And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he would care for such honours and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer,
Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,
and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?"
"Yes," Percy said, "I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner."
"Imagine once more," said the knife, "such an one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?"
"To be sure," Percy said.
"And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable) would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death."
"No question," Percy said.
"So it will be with you," said the knife. "You will come back to this wretched world with your eyes full of sun, and the prisoners will strangle you with their own chains."
=-=-=-
Corkscrew Nick was a man of words. He liked words. He could take a sentence and reduce it to rubble and then build it back up again. There were so many things that a word or a phrase might mean, that was why it was so interesting. He had once made a grown man cry by expounding upon all the various things that might be meant by the words "I love you."
Now, for the first time, Nick had time to examine the words Mr. King had said through his screen. Up until this point he had been focused on the words "everybody in this town wants you dead," which was not exactly conductive to constructive thinking. But he thought he'd gotten them off his trail now. According to the radio in the police cruiser he'd stolen, they thought he was dead. Or at least they weren't sending out orders to search for him. He had time now for other concerns.
"Your final task is pretty damn straightforward: get to me." King had said. "Find me. Make it through my security. Get to my office first and you win."
Where, then, was Mr. King? It was a riddle. Nick had learned, recently, to be wary of riddles. Get them wrong, and you'd get eaten.
King would be at the center of everything, like a spider in its web. Nick wished he had a map, to tell him where the center of the city would be, but suspected that would avail him little, for what fool of a mastermind would put his lair in the literal center of the city? Nick preferred to think that King would go with a more metaphorical center. But where might that be? Mr. King might have called it straightforward, but to a man used to thinking in corkscrews this task was nothing but.
"What would you have me do, then?" asked Percy.
"Me?" said the knife, incredulous. He was leaning against the wall before Percy, arms crossed forbiddingly. He looked older than Percy had thought he was, back in the tunnel. "I bid thee do nothing."
"Do nothing?" said Percy. "But surely I must act. The man King is corrupting this city, that much is clear, and the corkscrew man is not much better." He glared at the knife accusingly.
"That is not what I meant," said the knife. "I meant that I can't tell you to do anything. My words mean little to you, I see--certainly they cannot sway you to action."
There was a moment of silence. Then, not looking at Percy, the knife spoke again. "Perhaps," he said, "the corkscrew man is what this city needs. A purging by fire. He holds in his hands the burning sulfur of Sodom and Gomorrah."
Percy stared at the marble, tracing the veins with his eyes. "I cannot believe that," he said softly. "I cannot believe that the corkscrew man could ever be a force for good. Not by what he has done. His actions go against every objective definition of good that I have ever seen. He is evil."
The knife shrugged. "So be it, then."
The center. The point it all revolved around. How he hated riddles like this. There could be dozens of answers to such a thing. Thousands, if you had a philosophy degree. He had neither the time nor the patience to investigate all of them. So he had to winnow out of all the infinite possibilities, all the theoretically unlimited space that might contain Michael King's office, and find one spot. Specifically, King's lair.
"Hail to the King!" muttered Nick. "Bow your head, kiss the ring!" He peered suspiciously into alleyways as he drove past in his stolen police cruiser. "You're in my city, boy, let me tell you / Whole city was built by men who never knew / What was really going on behind the scene / I'm the king, son, sight unseen."
"Hail to the King!" sang the chorus from the radio.
"Hail to the King!" sang Corkscrew Nick. "I hope you don't mean / Any disrespect to the man on high / No one can ever escape this town / Set me off, the whole thing comes down. I'm the king, son, means I get the crown."
"Hail to the King!" shouted the radio.
"Hail to the King!" Nick sang. "I see what you're thinking. Defiance in the building? Whoa, everybody freeze! If you want to stand tall / You'll have to do it on your knees."
"Hail to the King!" roared the radio.
"You think this is funny? You think this is a game? You think I can't be laughing / And serious all the same? Give me some credit, man, / And hail to the King."
"Hail to the King!" bellowed the radio.
"Hail to the King," said Nick.
"Hail to the King!" screamed the chorus.
"To the goddamn King."
"Hail to the King! To the King! To the King! Hail to the King!"
There was silence, broken only by the sound of wheels on asphalt.
"Hail to the King," muttered Corkscrew Nick. A slow grin spread over his face. All the misdirection, all the riddles, all the secrecy...it all boiled down to one thing. One place. All the streets of the city laid out like spokes on a wheel, all leading to the same point. The gathering place, the center of the tournament, the center of power, the center of the world as far as this little game was concerned. It could be no other place, now that he thought about it.
The Gurney Wheel.
"What will you do, then?" asked the knife. Percy found his curiosity disquieting, somehow.
"I will do what is right," he said firmly.
"And how will you know what that is? asked the knife. "You barely know what good and evil are at the best of times. How will you navigate this gray city?" He flashed a slasher grin. "With Holy on your lips and vengeance on your breath? That way lies only heartbreak. You know that. That's why you haven't used Holy since you murdered White."
"That is not true," said Percy. "I tried to use it in the tunnel, but the roof fell before I could complete the spell."
"You know as well as I that the divine does not need time," said the knife. "The only reason that Holy would not cast is because you doubt yourself. The spell is powered only by your righteousness and resolve. You must persevere to cast it." The knife smiled. "Or have you forgotten that, Perseverance?"
"I have not forgotten," said Percy heavily.
"Then why would Holy die on your lips?" asked the knife. "Because you were interrupted by explosives? Or because you fear what the result would be? Because you fear another crack in your heart of stone, another incontrovertible proof that the world is impure? Because, perhaps, after burning the poor you were sworn to help, you can no longer bring yourself to turn the world to ash?" The knife peered at Percy with knowing eyes. "Or perhaps," he said quietly, "because you fear that once you have spoken the words and your fires burned their last, the corkscrew man would remain standing? The man White, who you thought was good, burned at the touch of the Holy. Who are you to say that the corkscrew would be touched? Who are you to judge what is right and what is wrong?"
"No," said Percy, "he would burn. He will burn. As, I think, will you." He raised his staff. The knife lifted his hands, as though to ward off a blow.
"You cannot burn me, Percy," he said.
"You are a demon whispering in my ear," said Percy. "You are but one more fly serving your lord. You will not stand at the touch of the Holy."
The knife laughed. "So speaks the white mage who killed White! So speaks the man who brings the dead to walk the earth! So speaks the fool who will heal a woman but not her child! So speaks--"
"SILENCE" roared Percy, and he struck out with his staff. The blow drew a long trough in the water, dashing the reflection to pieces, and the knife was no more. Percy stood back from the fountain, shaking, and turned away, lest he see the mocking face of the knife again when the water stilled.
But however hard he tried to ignore it, he still heard the voice whispering in his ear. You are uncertain, it said. Twist the corkscrew yourself. Purge this city by your own hand. Find truth in the Holy.
He ignored it, as he ignored all the rest of his demons.
Now, for the first time, Nick had time to examine the words Mr. King had said through his screen. Up until this point he had been focused on the words "everybody in this town wants you dead," which was not exactly conductive to constructive thinking. But he thought he'd gotten them off his trail now. According to the radio in the police cruiser he'd stolen, they thought he was dead. Or at least they weren't sending out orders to search for him. He had time now for other concerns.
"Your final task is pretty damn straightforward: get to me." King had said. "Find me. Make it through my security. Get to my office first and you win."
Where, then, was Mr. King? It was a riddle. Nick had learned, recently, to be wary of riddles. Get them wrong, and you'd get eaten.
King would be at the center of everything, like a spider in its web. Nick wished he had a map, to tell him where the center of the city would be, but suspected that would avail him little, for what fool of a mastermind would put his lair in the literal center of the city? Nick preferred to think that King would go with a more metaphorical center. But where might that be? Mr. King might have called it straightforward, but to a man used to thinking in corkscrews this task was nothing but.
=-=-=-
"What would you have me do, then?" asked Percy.
"Me?" said the knife, incredulous. He was leaning against the wall before Percy, arms crossed forbiddingly. He looked older than Percy had thought he was, back in the tunnel. "I bid thee do nothing."
"Do nothing?" said Percy. "But surely I must act. The man King is corrupting this city, that much is clear, and the corkscrew man is not much better." He glared at the knife accusingly.
"That is not what I meant," said the knife. "I meant that I can't tell you to do anything. My words mean little to you, I see--certainly they cannot sway you to action."
There was a moment of silence. Then, not looking at Percy, the knife spoke again. "Perhaps," he said, "the corkscrew man is what this city needs. A purging by fire. He holds in his hands the burning sulfur of Sodom and Gomorrah."
Percy stared at the marble, tracing the veins with his eyes. "I cannot believe that," he said softly. "I cannot believe that the corkscrew man could ever be a force for good. Not by what he has done. His actions go against every objective definition of good that I have ever seen. He is evil."
The knife shrugged. "So be it, then."
=-=-=-
The center. The point it all revolved around. How he hated riddles like this. There could be dozens of answers to such a thing. Thousands, if you had a philosophy degree. He had neither the time nor the patience to investigate all of them. So he had to winnow out of all the infinite possibilities, all the theoretically unlimited space that might contain Michael King's office, and find one spot. Specifically, King's lair.
"Hail to the King!" muttered Nick. "Bow your head, kiss the ring!" He peered suspiciously into alleyways as he drove past in his stolen police cruiser. "You're in my city, boy, let me tell you / Whole city was built by men who never knew / What was really going on behind the scene / I'm the king, son, sight unseen."
"Hail to the King!" sang the chorus from the radio.
"Hail to the King!" sang Corkscrew Nick. "I hope you don't mean / Any disrespect to the man on high / No one can ever escape this town / Set me off, the whole thing comes down. I'm the king, son, means I get the crown."
"Hail to the King!" shouted the radio.
"Hail to the King!" Nick sang. "I see what you're thinking. Defiance in the building? Whoa, everybody freeze! If you want to stand tall / You'll have to do it on your knees."
"Hail to the King!" roared the radio.
"You think this is funny? You think this is a game? You think I can't be laughing / And serious all the same? Give me some credit, man, / And hail to the King."
"Hail to the King!" bellowed the radio.
"Hail to the King," said Nick.
"Hail to the King!" screamed the chorus.
"To the goddamn King."
"Hail to the King! To the King! To the King! Hail to the King!"
There was silence, broken only by the sound of wheels on asphalt.
"Hail to the King," muttered Corkscrew Nick. A slow grin spread over his face. All the misdirection, all the riddles, all the secrecy...it all boiled down to one thing. One place. All the streets of the city laid out like spokes on a wheel, all leading to the same point. The gathering place, the center of the tournament, the center of power, the center of the world as far as this little game was concerned. It could be no other place, now that he thought about it.
The Gurney Wheel.
=-=-=-
"What will you do, then?" asked the knife. Percy found his curiosity disquieting, somehow.
"I will do what is right," he said firmly.
"And how will you know what that is? asked the knife. "You barely know what good and evil are at the best of times. How will you navigate this gray city?" He flashed a slasher grin. "With Holy on your lips and vengeance on your breath? That way lies only heartbreak. You know that. That's why you haven't used Holy since you murdered White."
"That is not true," said Percy. "I tried to use it in the tunnel, but the roof fell before I could complete the spell."
"You know as well as I that the divine does not need time," said the knife. "The only reason that Holy would not cast is because you doubt yourself. The spell is powered only by your righteousness and resolve. You must persevere to cast it." The knife smiled. "Or have you forgotten that, Perseverance?"
"I have not forgotten," said Percy heavily.
"Then why would Holy die on your lips?" asked the knife. "Because you were interrupted by explosives? Or because you fear what the result would be? Because you fear another crack in your heart of stone, another incontrovertible proof that the world is impure? Because, perhaps, after burning the poor you were sworn to help, you can no longer bring yourself to turn the world to ash?" The knife peered at Percy with knowing eyes. "Or perhaps," he said quietly, "because you fear that once you have spoken the words and your fires burned their last, the corkscrew man would remain standing? The man White, who you thought was good, burned at the touch of the Holy. Who are you to say that the corkscrew would be touched? Who are you to judge what is right and what is wrong?"
"No," said Percy, "he would burn. He will burn. As, I think, will you." He raised his staff. The knife lifted his hands, as though to ward off a blow.
"You cannot burn me, Percy," he said.
"You are a demon whispering in my ear," said Percy. "You are but one more fly serving your lord. You will not stand at the touch of the Holy."
The knife laughed. "So speaks the white mage who killed White! So speaks the man who brings the dead to walk the earth! So speaks the fool who will heal a woman but not her child! So speaks--"
"SILENCE" roared Percy, and he struck out with his staff. The blow drew a long trough in the water, dashing the reflection to pieces, and the knife was no more. Percy stood back from the fountain, shaking, and turned away, lest he see the mocking face of the knife again when the water stilled.
But however hard he tried to ignore it, he still heard the voice whispering in his ear. You are uncertain, it said. Twist the corkscrew yourself. Purge this city by your own hand. Find truth in the Holy.
He ignored it, as he ignored all the rest of his demons.
=-=-=-
CORKSCREW
=-=-=-
=-=-=-
Perhaps I may take over? Unless Ultrajoe, Khedive or the others wish to do so, I have some ideas for a new tournament that I'd love to try out.The Sorrow said:
And for anyone else reading this, would you be interested in participating in a new Ratings War?
I would definitely be interested in a new Ratings War. May even take part this time, if I'm able to write something up.Lord Krunk said:
Sam G said:
Awesome. I just need Sorrow's permission and about 3 weeks to prepare.Zombie_Fish said:
I'm a bit swamped with work right now, you see.
Very well. RW5 shall begin mid-August. Most likely early. That'll give Sorrow enough time to wrap up this one and for me to write that one.The Sorrow said:
In the meantime, This Group [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/groups/view/Ratings-War-Locker-Room] is still around for discussion and advice on how RW5 should be run, and I'm ready to take new suggestions.
Thank you very much, Sorrow, for this great opportunity.
Ladies and Gentlemen.
There has been a delay, but the wait shall not be much longer. RW5 is written and being proofread as we speak. I intended for it to be Post #6000, but life's complicated like that.
I'm also adding a few of my own innovations (a surprise, no peeking!) and I hope you'll enjoy them. I am definite that it will be up by the end of this week, and I hope to see you all there.
Stay tuned and watch the skies.
There has been a delay, but the wait shall not be much longer. RW5 is written and being proofread as we speak. I intended for it to be Post #6000, but life's complicated like that.
I'm also adding a few of my own innovations (a surprise, no peeking!) and I hope you'll enjoy them. I am definite that it will be up by the end of this week, and I hope to see you all there.
Stay tuned and watch the skies.