So, this is it. RP for 2013 is finally over, and we're off into the golden age of next year. And the best way to enter next year, as always, is arse first with eyes drunken gazing back on the events that have passed. Pairings have formed, controversies were had and jokes were laughed at, but as always there are hidden secrets - things that were considered to occur in RP but never panned out, for one reason or another. And depending on the number of characters involved, the amount of unused stuff varies.
And so, in post-RP tradition, and also in celebration of this being my 100th post on this blog, I would like to present the Steel Komodo Season 3 Cutting Room Floor, full of ideas and stuff that never got used for one reason or another. Hey, it's not Monster Mash, but at least it's something!
1) Section Zero refers to a place in Rutledge where the worst mutants are kept. In pain, insane and dangerous to themselves and others, they're hidden away in padded cells until a cure can be found for their condition. Robbie actually came from Section Zero - his psychic powers are actually quite deadly, despite being a shadow of what the Observer could do, and his cell was specially designed to dampen them in case he went as crazy as the others did. How did Daniel and Carol get him out? He's the only one allowed out for a few hours every day, so he can have a walk and stuff. Also, they give him Sparkle, which is a kind of depressant that some residents began making out of the wild mushrooms that grow outside Rutledge. Sometimes they give it to Section Zero inmates to stop them braining themselves against their cell walls.
There was also a sequence planned where, via UTG or sifter or whatever, some guys would have visteted Rutledge, probably because Robbie got kidnapped. You'd have learned a bit about how things worked there, and met the priest guy and stuff. Also, there was going to be a parody of this song when the mutants of Section Zero tell the Kobbers to take Robbie and GTFO.
2) The guy who runs Rutledge is a priestly guy who is partly based on Gill from Street Fighter 3. He's hoping that, somehow, he can find a way to make the mutants he has in his asylum to rebuild society, which is why I mentioned the activities Carol and Daniel did. His power is twofold - with one hand, he can awaken dormant memories or implant knowledge in a person's mind, and with the other he can either delete meories or edit current ones to make people forget. That second power is the most dangerous one, and he knew it, so he always gave people the choice, when it came to it. He didn't want to risk doing something he'd regret, with powers like that.
And yes, that power was themed on the Truth vs. Ideals thing Reshiram and Zekrom had going on.
3) I was gonna showcase Crusoe's "true" form at some point, but the best I could do was make a shitty recolour of Bills from Battle of Gods. So I said "fuck it" and never used it, because with Daniel's appearance being based on fanart of Bardock we already had enough DBZ.
4) Three Fears that never turned up due to the change in setting where the Plague Doctor, an eccentric old spirit of disease and plague who cared more about alien biology than winning the Grand Game, the Grotesque, a living embodiment of nightmares that would have most likely attacked someone in their sleep in the form of a nightmarish carnival, and the Deep, the Father of Fears who is actually either Poseidon or Jormungand. There was going to be an amusing scene with him where he invited visitors for tea and scones.
There was also going to be an appearance by the Quiet, the Fear of Nothing that is fated to wipe out all life on Earth after the War of the Fears occurs. There was going to be an end-game sequence after defeating Slender Man, where the Quiet turns up and thanks the Kobbers for preventing what was basically Armageddon. But I was so tired after doing the final battle I just said "fuck it" and didn't bother.
5) Swain and Mr. Scars were going to have bigger roles, but that didn't pan out due to time constraints.
6) Originally, the Killer Instinct character was going to be Sabrewulf, searching for a cure to his lycanthropy. I had been looking forward to writing scenes with him interacting with Lyall, and he would have eventually acquired the cybernetic arms from KI2 at some point.
7) While not mentioned in the Mega Post, Firebrand and Persolus spent some time recuperating on the ZFS before returning to Earth. They were also waiting for the heat to die down after Gorr'Rylaehotep and Barghest got so soundly trounced - the Fears would have been mighty suspicious after that.
8) I was originally also going to have a go at the Red Cap, but if you looked her up you'll know why I didn't do it. I also felt it would have been trying too hard to recapture the essence Dirk pre-taming - there isn't much that can capture that particular spark.
9) Concerning Dirk's book plot, it was actually going to be longer. Richard Longshore would have sued Dirk for attempted libel, and it would have lead to a courtroom scene that would have properly cemented the centaur author as a dick and a money-hungry egotist - a kind of mirror-universe Dirk mixed with General Cleft. This was also an opportunity for Dirk to call him out (i.e. quote more Nostalgia Critic) and end the plot on a more desicive finale instead of the off-hand newspaper review I had to do.
10) "Barghest" was an extremely last-minute name for Black Dog's entry into the Halloween Brawl. I could have used the names given in those documents, but I wanted to be a bit more creative. Also, those documents on Fears (at least, Black Dog's and Slender Man's) were actually written a long time ago out of boredom - I didn't anticipate CW and Harpy would actively go looking them up.
11) On the subject of those documents, there was a heavily encoded .zip file in there labelled "HABIT". I'm kinda glad you guys didn't open that one.
Basically, it refers to the character of HABIT from EverymanHYRBID. In ZFRP, Habit would have been one of Slender Man's servants, but not a Proxy - he was a guy with serial killer tendancies possessed by a Jigsaw/Hannibal Lecter-ish demon thing. Collectively known as Habit, they were a wild card in the Collective, and what hints I would give in the files lead to the conclusion that they are either dead for some reason or missing. One certain thing was that he was exiled from the Collective for... some reason or other.
12) There was a sequence planned where the Monster Hunters would have faced of against Dire Miralis. Who is basically the Monster Hunter equivalent of Satan. Alatreon was gonna play a bigger role as well, but then Stan got tied too much to the Society and the plot.
13) The plot point about Rock suffering a memory overload from absorbing weapon data from living beings was gonna be bigger, but there were so many plot things on my hands right now that I didn't want to do it. Also, I was totally going to pull a "Babe the Sheep Pig" and have Rock ask Sine if it was okay for him to call her mom. But I didn't do it because... I didn't want to.
14) Jewel Man was the only Robot Master I was sure of sending up on the outset. Guts Man and Plug Man were the result of a lucky Random.org roll. On the subject of Jewel Man, I was going to defy the stereotype and make him just flamboyant but straight, using his girlish mannerisms to mess with people's heads. But then I lost some brain cells to cider and now he's a horrible characature.
15) There was a bit after Chaosplot where Stan idly mentions tasting copper. If you paid attention in school, you'd know that's one of the first symptoms of an impending heart attack. I was gonna put Stan in peril, for once, so Gemma could be the one saving the day, but then I completely forgot all about the plot. No excuses of tiredness or alcohol here, I just completely forgot it was going to be a thing.
16) Also, to clarify, Robbie is a future version of the Observer, rendered powerless and amnesiac by the Cleansing - the event where the Quiet wipes out life to stop the Fears from fucking everything up. By being exposed to Robbie, the Observer became aware of what was going to happen and the change in timeline that was to occur. He had a plan to pull a Starscream and gain Gorr'Rylaehotep's powers for himself, to try and prevent the War of the Fears, but of course that didn't pan out.
And so there you go. Stuff that didn't make it into ZFRP, or was pushed aside for something else. Hope you enjoyed reading this, and if not then you can simply chase the memories away with a stiff drink. Kind of like what I'm doing right now :U
Showing posts with label Plotline Ideas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Plotline Ideas. Show all posts
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Saturday, 3 March 2012
Let The Trial Commence
WARNING WITH A CAPTIAL W: The following piece contains written descriptions of intense horror and graphic violence that some people may find disturbing. Reader discretion is strongly advised, and you may wish to turn to a more cheerful, less grimdark post to avoid nightmares.
That said, if you can actually stomach this sort of thing, you may wish to listen to this while reading, for atmosphere.
The first sensation that Boris "The Weasel" Vandeleur became aware of when he awoke was the throbbing headache.
At first, this didn't strike him has odd - as one of the most successful smugglers of booze in the city, with a reputation of being able to get anything past anyone in the world, he had a penchant for throwing big, excessive parties in honor of the huge amounts of money and success this enterprise was making him. It was not uncommon for him, after a successful series of deals had slipped by the fuzz, to crack open a bottle of Ol' Hobgoblin and get down to a night of debauchery with his aides and co-workers. The results of this excessiveness most often boiled down to a throbbing headache similar to this one, coupled with waking up in someone else's bed and a day of exchanging awkward looks with someone he barely knew otherwise.
He briefly wondered whose bedroom it would be this time - these parties often got like a fucking mystery tour sometimes, with him ending at a different place every time. He struggled to pry his eyes open by force of will, wondering whose face would he see looking back at him. Would it be dear young Clementine again - bouncy, smiling and with an ass that could stop oncoming traffic? Would it be slim yet serious Darla, with her nose always in a book and a head for figures? Or would it be one of those new girls that recently joined up with his workforce? Hopefully it was the tall, curvy one with red hair and green eyes. He liked green eyes, for some reason.
The answer to all those questions was the worst answer he could have hoped to get: none of them whatsoever. Upon reflection, he should have twigged the moment he felt the rush of cold air around his scraggly body, but he foolishy chose to open his eyes, wondering if the central heating of this bedroom was broken. When he did so, he gave a choking gasp - not just because his headache got significantly worse thanks to a sudden harsh light, but because he was not in any sort of bedroom at all. He was, in fact, surrounded by four grimy walls of a uniform concrete grey, stained with grease and dried blood. There was a door on the other side of the room, but between him and that was a very large pit, with a single, thin rope strung out over it, like a circus tightrope. The light that had stung his eyes came from a single lamp, which idly swung back and forth like the pendulumn in a grandfather clock.
But what caught Boris's eye was the symbol painted onto the door - a two-headed eagle, wings spread, clutching a sword and scabbard in both taloned feet. This was a symbol Boris had come to fear ever since he'd gotten into the smuggling business, one he had hoped never to see in what remained of his life, which now seemed incredibly short. One look at this symbol, and a horrible realization had come to the crime boss's head like a hammer blow to the skull, and all the stories and terrors he had heard over the grapevine came rushing back to him.
He was in Purgatorio.
Scratch that - the memories were coming back. Memories of being kicked about by men built like oil tankers, of eating cold slop from bowls and being poked in the back by electrified prods. He was still in Inferno Penitentiary - he'd been carted here about five months ago, although God alone knows how those fuckers had managed to find him. He'd been in this hellhole for over three months now, and was hoping to endure the remaining two with the same dead-eyed complaince he'd put on to avoid the worst this place had to offer, with minimum fuss or incident.
So what was he doing in Purgatorio now?
-------
Solomon, Arbiter of Morality, watched through the two-way looking glass as the man known as The Weasel swore and backed himself against the far wall of the Trial Room. Remarkably, finding the lanky man hadn't been so difficult - he'd found him curled up in the gutter outside a public house five months ago, snoring his head off and with a pink feather boa wrapped around his neck. It had been merely a case of comparing his face to the official description before carrying him to Inferno Penitentiary. The feather boa had been sent to the laboratory for drug testing - the man had probably been on the Pops at the time as well, considering the sick down his front.
A shudder rippled through the officer's body as he observed the actions of the now-hysterical Boris. None would think it of such a scrawny specimin, but this man had committed a list of moral crimes that would endanger a small forest - drug trafficking and pimping among them. But his notorious alcohol smuggling, in blatant defiance of the High President Elect's 18th Amendment, was the one thing alone that had placed him on the Arbiter's list of Public Enemies. And because each and every one of his actions counted as a Moral Crime, it was his duty, and his alone, to track this man down and bring him to justice - something he was eager to do. Considering the length of the list, a stay in the Second Circle was hardly nessecary.
But it's not like he deserves this...
Wait, where had that thought come from? With a grunt, the Arbiter shoved it back into his mind, adding a mental note to not skip breakfast again. One gloved hand reached down and snatched up the microphone that stood on the table in front of him, raising it to his mouth.
"The court is now in session, Arbiter Solomon presiding..."
-------
"The accused is tasked with crossing the rope they see in front of them to reach the door on the other side. If they are successful in this endeavour, they shall serve a minimum sentence of in the Second Circle of Inferno Penitentiary. If they fail, they will be excecuted by the sawblades beneath them. Therefore, the accused has only one chance to escape this room.
"Let the trial commence."
The tannoy clicked off, leaving Boris in a cold sweat. Sawblades. It had to be shitting sawblades, didn't it? Of all the ways those draconion fuckers could have offed him in their little butcher's den, they had to pick the whirrling, hissing, arm-chopping sawblades. That wasn't how he wanted to go! He always wanted to die an obese blob on comfy cushions, wiping chicken grease from his jowls while hot babes fanned his body with palm leaves! He'd have been the best crime boss ever, embarrasingly rich off all that alien tech that kept falling from the-
The whirring.
Oh, God, the whirring.
They'd started up the blades.
With a wimper, Boris looked down. There they were, all eight of them, arranged in a big block to ensure that if he fell, there was no possible way he wouldn't hit any of them instead of the nice, safe floor. The light glinted off their rapidly-spinning edges in a manner that sent chills down his spine. "You're fucked," it seemed to be saying, in the gravelly, smokers-lung voice of his late daddy-oh. "You've done screwed yourself up this time boy, and ain't no angel in heaven's gonna get you outta this one."
There was only once chance.
He'd have to try the rope.
Carefully, he put one foot onto the oddly shiny cord...
-------
Solomon's attention was distracted by the click of the latch to the door unlocking. Without turning around, he realised at once who had come to visit him, and soon he could hear the footsteps of two other people as they shouldered their way into the room to join him. One set of footsteps formed a long, regular stride, suggesting a tall, well-built man who did a lot of running in his job. The other set was more of a shuffle than a walk, and was accompanied by the clink of a metal walking stick on the concrete floor, indicating an older man who had some difficulty with his legs nowadays. Thanks to his rigorous detective training, Solomon had become good at recognising people by their footsteps, and he knew at once who had entered - Samson, Arbiter of Violence and regular visitor to the meidcal wards, and Jonah, Arbiter of Heresy and the oldest man on the force.
The two newcomers filed up on either side of Solomon, joining him in watching Boris as he wobbled his way across the rope. For a few moments, save for the rustle of their trenchcoats, all was still.
"'Ow's this one doin'?" Samson was the first to speak, his thick Scottish accent unmistakable to all who knew him.
"He's gotten further than the last one," was the reply from the younger Solomon. "Only slipped about once. I think he stands a chance of making it."
Jonah growled in his throat. "Hedonistic scum. He deserves the fate that awaits him at the bottom of this pit."
Or does he? Solomon caught himself thinking, and brushed that thought aside before it could take root. Thoughts like that were dangerous in the Arbiters. The one thing that held the group together, despite their differences and individuality, was a very clear understanding on the punishment for crimes on a large scale - an eye for an eye and all that.. Either you accepted this and went along with it all, or you were considered a Rogue. And a Rogue usually ended up dead.
"Ach, ye'd think they'd learn," rumbled Samson as he ran one hand over his mossy beard. "Mebbe their mama's didn't spank 'em enough when they wuz bairns, or somethin'."
"A lot of good that would have done this man," sniffed Samson. "He grew up in a violent family, from what I heard. His father used to threaten him and his brother with a kitchen knife if they didn't do their chores. No amount of spanking would fix his mental trauma."
"A poor excuse for supplying drugs and alcohol to Creek Street." Jonah tapped the floor with his walking stick - the sound was like gunshots in the cold air of the viewing room. "That place is a wretched hive already, thanks to the Daughters of Salazaar clogging the streets with their profane rituals. It didn't need this man distributing his filth to the masses. He should have taken the warning when it was given to him."
"Well, we've got the gobshite," Samson retorted, "so ah guess that makes ye job easier, eh?"
Jonah could only dignify that with a dull grunt, as the trio continued to watch.
-------
He was going to make it.
Oh, of course, he'd slipped once or twice, and the unending buzz of the deadly saws beneath him was maddening him. But he was already halfway across the rope now, and the door was growing closer and closer to him, step by step. If he could get this far, then what chance did those authoritarian bastards have of stopping him now? A chuckle ran through The Weasel's thin frame as he imagined walking out of Inferno after a few brief weeks, ready to get his business back on track and catch up with his darling girls. Perhaps he could start with getting the money out of Fat Jones down in the Gravel Pit - the dumb bastard was late with his pay again, and Boris hated people who were late. They usually ended up with a bullet in their heads.
Really, he thought to himself as he took another few steps, this trial wasn't that hard. What had he been so scared about? Those nasty urban legends that got circled around were nothing but fairy tales to scare the new boys! He'd been doing balancing acts on the tops of tall walls since he was a nipper! This was a cakewalk compared to that! He'd be out of that door in no time!
Although, come to think of it, this was an odd sort of rope. For one thing, it stung his feet-
He slipped.
And this time, it wasn't one of the small slips he'd taken earlier. It was a big slip, the kind you take when your attention is elsewhere and your sense of balance decides to go out for tea while you're not looking. Boris felt the sickening lurch in his stomach as he fell, and he quickly twisted, reached out with both hands and grabbed. By a miracle, he managed to wrap his fingers around the rope he'd been balancing from a mere second ago, and coughed as his body jerked with the sudden stop. His fingers sang with pain, and he dangled from the cord like a monkey in a badly-designed zoo enclosure.
"Shit," he hissed under his breath, and looked down. The saws seemed a lot closer now, their edges sharper and brighter, the whirrling of their motors and axles much louder. Up this close, he could see they were of the old Clayton and Sons make - diamond-studded teeth on an aluminium core, originally designed for use in the motor industries his father worked in. He could almost feel their edges slicing through the air, as if they had come to life and were hungry to get at him. A thin sweat broke out on his forehead as all his nervous terrors returned, and he kicked out with both feet randomly, as if he could simply get rid of the looming presence of the things the same way one kicks a spider off their shoe.
He looked back up at the rope, the only thing that was keeping him away from the saws. His eyes scanned it's length frantically, trying to find some way in which he might easily get back up onto it and continue. The shiny surface, however, offered no holds, glinting mockingly at him in the light of the lamp. Now that he looked closer, he could see it wasn't like any rope he'd seen before. It was slivery, and the texture on his skin was more akin to metal than the woven hemp he was accustomed to. And it was hurting his fingers, the same way it had been hurting his feet from moments before as he'd been walking over it.
Curious, he shifted one hand along, wincing as another jolt of pain lanced through his hand.
And then he saw the blood.
He gasped, and withdrew his hand to look at it, now dangling from his other one. There was blood there, too, pooling out of a long series of cuts on his hand. And it had collected on the rope, trapped in the silvery weave and glinting on the sharp edges of the-
...Razor wire.
"Fucking hell..."
It was made out of razor wire.
The colour drained from the man's face as the realization hit him like an express train. All his strength left him as the shock set in, rendering his mind numb and ice-cold. As if in a dream, he saw his free hand slip away from the painful rope; as if in a dream, he saw his world tumble and twist around him; as if in slow motion, he saw the room turn to present the whirring blades that were rising up to meet him, hungry for his blood, reaching out to claim him.
Here I come, mama...
-------
There was an explosion of blood. Bits of arm and torso went everywhere. Something that looked like intestines splattered onto the floor between the saws. Samson jumped as a head, bearing a dazed expression, splatted against the mirror and dissapeared again.
There was a pause. Then Solomon, who had been holding his breath all this time, let it out steadily as he reached over to the control panel and flicked a switch. Instantly, the blood-stained saws stopped spinning, coming to a complete halt as the power was cut off from them, their teeth glinting with liquid crimson in the dim light, as if laughing at the horror of what had just taken place.
"Fiat Justitia," growled Jonah, glaring with satisfaction at the mangled remains of a former crime boss.
Let Justice Be Done, Solomon mentally translated as he watched another door open, and a team of men in white suits rush into the room, armed with brooms and hoses. Hardly justice when saws are involved.
(I WARNED YOU BOUT GRIMDARK, BRO
I TOLD YOU DOG
And yes, this is my character teaser for ZF7. Sweet dreams, all.)
That said, if you can actually stomach this sort of thing, you may wish to listen to this while reading, for atmosphere.
The first sensation that Boris "The Weasel" Vandeleur became aware of when he awoke was the throbbing headache.
At first, this didn't strike him has odd - as one of the most successful smugglers of booze in the city, with a reputation of being able to get anything past anyone in the world, he had a penchant for throwing big, excessive parties in honor of the huge amounts of money and success this enterprise was making him. It was not uncommon for him, after a successful series of deals had slipped by the fuzz, to crack open a bottle of Ol' Hobgoblin and get down to a night of debauchery with his aides and co-workers. The results of this excessiveness most often boiled down to a throbbing headache similar to this one, coupled with waking up in someone else's bed and a day of exchanging awkward looks with someone he barely knew otherwise.
He briefly wondered whose bedroom it would be this time - these parties often got like a fucking mystery tour sometimes, with him ending at a different place every time. He struggled to pry his eyes open by force of will, wondering whose face would he see looking back at him. Would it be dear young Clementine again - bouncy, smiling and with an ass that could stop oncoming traffic? Would it be slim yet serious Darla, with her nose always in a book and a head for figures? Or would it be one of those new girls that recently joined up with his workforce? Hopefully it was the tall, curvy one with red hair and green eyes. He liked green eyes, for some reason.
The answer to all those questions was the worst answer he could have hoped to get: none of them whatsoever. Upon reflection, he should have twigged the moment he felt the rush of cold air around his scraggly body, but he foolishy chose to open his eyes, wondering if the central heating of this bedroom was broken. When he did so, he gave a choking gasp - not just because his headache got significantly worse thanks to a sudden harsh light, but because he was not in any sort of bedroom at all. He was, in fact, surrounded by four grimy walls of a uniform concrete grey, stained with grease and dried blood. There was a door on the other side of the room, but between him and that was a very large pit, with a single, thin rope strung out over it, like a circus tightrope. The light that had stung his eyes came from a single lamp, which idly swung back and forth like the pendulumn in a grandfather clock.
But what caught Boris's eye was the symbol painted onto the door - a two-headed eagle, wings spread, clutching a sword and scabbard in both taloned feet. This was a symbol Boris had come to fear ever since he'd gotten into the smuggling business, one he had hoped never to see in what remained of his life, which now seemed incredibly short. One look at this symbol, and a horrible realization had come to the crime boss's head like a hammer blow to the skull, and all the stories and terrors he had heard over the grapevine came rushing back to him.
He was in Purgatorio.
Scratch that - the memories were coming back. Memories of being kicked about by men built like oil tankers, of eating cold slop from bowls and being poked in the back by electrified prods. He was still in Inferno Penitentiary - he'd been carted here about five months ago, although God alone knows how those fuckers had managed to find him. He'd been in this hellhole for over three months now, and was hoping to endure the remaining two with the same dead-eyed complaince he'd put on to avoid the worst this place had to offer, with minimum fuss or incident.
So what was he doing in Purgatorio now?
-------
Solomon, Arbiter of Morality, watched through the two-way looking glass as the man known as The Weasel swore and backed himself against the far wall of the Trial Room. Remarkably, finding the lanky man hadn't been so difficult - he'd found him curled up in the gutter outside a public house five months ago, snoring his head off and with a pink feather boa wrapped around his neck. It had been merely a case of comparing his face to the official description before carrying him to Inferno Penitentiary. The feather boa had been sent to the laboratory for drug testing - the man had probably been on the Pops at the time as well, considering the sick down his front.
A shudder rippled through the officer's body as he observed the actions of the now-hysterical Boris. None would think it of such a scrawny specimin, but this man had committed a list of moral crimes that would endanger a small forest - drug trafficking and pimping among them. But his notorious alcohol smuggling, in blatant defiance of the High President Elect's 18th Amendment, was the one thing alone that had placed him on the Arbiter's list of Public Enemies. And because each and every one of his actions counted as a Moral Crime, it was his duty, and his alone, to track this man down and bring him to justice - something he was eager to do. Considering the length of the list, a stay in the Second Circle was hardly nessecary.
But it's not like he deserves this...
Wait, where had that thought come from? With a grunt, the Arbiter shoved it back into his mind, adding a mental note to not skip breakfast again. One gloved hand reached down and snatched up the microphone that stood on the table in front of him, raising it to his mouth.
"The court is now in session, Arbiter Solomon presiding..."
-------
"The accused is tasked with crossing the rope they see in front of them to reach the door on the other side. If they are successful in this endeavour, they shall serve a minimum sentence of in the Second Circle of Inferno Penitentiary. If they fail, they will be excecuted by the sawblades beneath them. Therefore, the accused has only one chance to escape this room.
"Let the trial commence."
The tannoy clicked off, leaving Boris in a cold sweat. Sawblades. It had to be shitting sawblades, didn't it? Of all the ways those draconion fuckers could have offed him in their little butcher's den, they had to pick the whirrling, hissing, arm-chopping sawblades. That wasn't how he wanted to go! He always wanted to die an obese blob on comfy cushions, wiping chicken grease from his jowls while hot babes fanned his body with palm leaves! He'd have been the best crime boss ever, embarrasingly rich off all that alien tech that kept falling from the-
The whirring.
Oh, God, the whirring.
They'd started up the blades.
With a wimper, Boris looked down. There they were, all eight of them, arranged in a big block to ensure that if he fell, there was no possible way he wouldn't hit any of them instead of the nice, safe floor. The light glinted off their rapidly-spinning edges in a manner that sent chills down his spine. "You're fucked," it seemed to be saying, in the gravelly, smokers-lung voice of his late daddy-oh. "You've done screwed yourself up this time boy, and ain't no angel in heaven's gonna get you outta this one."
There was only once chance.
He'd have to try the rope.
Carefully, he put one foot onto the oddly shiny cord...
-------
Solomon's attention was distracted by the click of the latch to the door unlocking. Without turning around, he realised at once who had come to visit him, and soon he could hear the footsteps of two other people as they shouldered their way into the room to join him. One set of footsteps formed a long, regular stride, suggesting a tall, well-built man who did a lot of running in his job. The other set was more of a shuffle than a walk, and was accompanied by the clink of a metal walking stick on the concrete floor, indicating an older man who had some difficulty with his legs nowadays. Thanks to his rigorous detective training, Solomon had become good at recognising people by their footsteps, and he knew at once who had entered - Samson, Arbiter of Violence and regular visitor to the meidcal wards, and Jonah, Arbiter of Heresy and the oldest man on the force.
The two newcomers filed up on either side of Solomon, joining him in watching Boris as he wobbled his way across the rope. For a few moments, save for the rustle of their trenchcoats, all was still.
"'Ow's this one doin'?" Samson was the first to speak, his thick Scottish accent unmistakable to all who knew him.
"He's gotten further than the last one," was the reply from the younger Solomon. "Only slipped about once. I think he stands a chance of making it."
Jonah growled in his throat. "Hedonistic scum. He deserves the fate that awaits him at the bottom of this pit."
Or does he? Solomon caught himself thinking, and brushed that thought aside before it could take root. Thoughts like that were dangerous in the Arbiters. The one thing that held the group together, despite their differences and individuality, was a very clear understanding on the punishment for crimes on a large scale - an eye for an eye and all that.. Either you accepted this and went along with it all, or you were considered a Rogue. And a Rogue usually ended up dead.
"Ach, ye'd think they'd learn," rumbled Samson as he ran one hand over his mossy beard. "Mebbe their mama's didn't spank 'em enough when they wuz bairns, or somethin'."
"A lot of good that would have done this man," sniffed Samson. "He grew up in a violent family, from what I heard. His father used to threaten him and his brother with a kitchen knife if they didn't do their chores. No amount of spanking would fix his mental trauma."
"A poor excuse for supplying drugs and alcohol to Creek Street." Jonah tapped the floor with his walking stick - the sound was like gunshots in the cold air of the viewing room. "That place is a wretched hive already, thanks to the Daughters of Salazaar clogging the streets with their profane rituals. It didn't need this man distributing his filth to the masses. He should have taken the warning when it was given to him."
"Well, we've got the gobshite," Samson retorted, "so ah guess that makes ye job easier, eh?"
Jonah could only dignify that with a dull grunt, as the trio continued to watch.
-------
He was going to make it.
Oh, of course, he'd slipped once or twice, and the unending buzz of the deadly saws beneath him was maddening him. But he was already halfway across the rope now, and the door was growing closer and closer to him, step by step. If he could get this far, then what chance did those authoritarian bastards have of stopping him now? A chuckle ran through The Weasel's thin frame as he imagined walking out of Inferno after a few brief weeks, ready to get his business back on track and catch up with his darling girls. Perhaps he could start with getting the money out of Fat Jones down in the Gravel Pit - the dumb bastard was late with his pay again, and Boris hated people who were late. They usually ended up with a bullet in their heads.
Really, he thought to himself as he took another few steps, this trial wasn't that hard. What had he been so scared about? Those nasty urban legends that got circled around were nothing but fairy tales to scare the new boys! He'd been doing balancing acts on the tops of tall walls since he was a nipper! This was a cakewalk compared to that! He'd be out of that door in no time!
Although, come to think of it, this was an odd sort of rope. For one thing, it stung his feet-
He slipped.
And this time, it wasn't one of the small slips he'd taken earlier. It was a big slip, the kind you take when your attention is elsewhere and your sense of balance decides to go out for tea while you're not looking. Boris felt the sickening lurch in his stomach as he fell, and he quickly twisted, reached out with both hands and grabbed. By a miracle, he managed to wrap his fingers around the rope he'd been balancing from a mere second ago, and coughed as his body jerked with the sudden stop. His fingers sang with pain, and he dangled from the cord like a monkey in a badly-designed zoo enclosure.
"Shit," he hissed under his breath, and looked down. The saws seemed a lot closer now, their edges sharper and brighter, the whirrling of their motors and axles much louder. Up this close, he could see they were of the old Clayton and Sons make - diamond-studded teeth on an aluminium core, originally designed for use in the motor industries his father worked in. He could almost feel their edges slicing through the air, as if they had come to life and were hungry to get at him. A thin sweat broke out on his forehead as all his nervous terrors returned, and he kicked out with both feet randomly, as if he could simply get rid of the looming presence of the things the same way one kicks a spider off their shoe.
He looked back up at the rope, the only thing that was keeping him away from the saws. His eyes scanned it's length frantically, trying to find some way in which he might easily get back up onto it and continue. The shiny surface, however, offered no holds, glinting mockingly at him in the light of the lamp. Now that he looked closer, he could see it wasn't like any rope he'd seen before. It was slivery, and the texture on his skin was more akin to metal than the woven hemp he was accustomed to. And it was hurting his fingers, the same way it had been hurting his feet from moments before as he'd been walking over it.
Curious, he shifted one hand along, wincing as another jolt of pain lanced through his hand.
And then he saw the blood.
He gasped, and withdrew his hand to look at it, now dangling from his other one. There was blood there, too, pooling out of a long series of cuts on his hand. And it had collected on the rope, trapped in the silvery weave and glinting on the sharp edges of the-
...Razor wire.
"Fucking hell..."
It was made out of razor wire.
The colour drained from the man's face as the realization hit him like an express train. All his strength left him as the shock set in, rendering his mind numb and ice-cold. As if in a dream, he saw his free hand slip away from the painful rope; as if in a dream, he saw his world tumble and twist around him; as if in slow motion, he saw the room turn to present the whirring blades that were rising up to meet him, hungry for his blood, reaching out to claim him.
Here I come, mama...
-------
There was an explosion of blood. Bits of arm and torso went everywhere. Something that looked like intestines splattered onto the floor between the saws. Samson jumped as a head, bearing a dazed expression, splatted against the mirror and dissapeared again.
There was a pause. Then Solomon, who had been holding his breath all this time, let it out steadily as he reached over to the control panel and flicked a switch. Instantly, the blood-stained saws stopped spinning, coming to a complete halt as the power was cut off from them, their teeth glinting with liquid crimson in the dim light, as if laughing at the horror of what had just taken place.
"Fiat Justitia," growled Jonah, glaring with satisfaction at the mangled remains of a former crime boss.
Let Justice Be Done, Solomon mentally translated as he watched another door open, and a team of men in white suits rush into the room, armed with brooms and hoses. Hardly justice when saws are involved.
(I WARNED YOU BOUT GRIMDARK, BRO
I TOLD YOU DOG
And yes, this is my character teaser for ZF7. Sweet dreams, all.)
Friday, 14 October 2011
Jumping on the Bandwagon
RP Retrospective time! *dance*
SHUMA-GORATH
Shuma-Gorath is probably the only proper 80's character in my roster. I'm not sure if the Dr. Strange comics were still popular back then, or if any big plot arcs revolved around Shuma-Gorath at the time, but there he is.
Shuma was originally meant to be pompus yet eccentric - a comic relief character that went against his usual canon "I-Am-Aeons-Old-Fear-Me" persona. He said silly things, his powers messed up occasionaly and he loved ice-cold cider. In short, a silly blob of green tentacles that loved a laugh. He got Heavy Metal powers for a time, but that's not important.
Then the Big Bar Brawl happened.
Hot damn.
With his Metal powers gone and a huge grudge on his mind, I set about trying to make Shuma-Gorath an actual threat. I changed his manner of speaking to make him closer to his canon personality. I had him hire Eddie Riggs as a prophet - not a smart move on Shuma's part, I'll grant you that. He formed nasty plots with the Necronomitron that got scuppered when Alex beat Jaxx in FYM. Then, after Eddie axed James the Squirtle, he tried to re-manifest into the world through the poor turtle's body. That last one was not orchestrated by me, but by other posters. Damn you, saberwulf.
Now, he only makes guest appearances, drinking cider in a corner and making snide remarks. He's closer to his cranky, uppity self shown in Marvel vs. Capcom, and while that's not much in the way of character development, it highlights that while eldritch abominations can also be played for laughs, it's also a good case of what happens when your plotting gets foiled. Shuma's gone the David/Jaxx route of being "that drunk guy in the corner", and I'm not pulling him out of there any time soon.
EDDIE RIGGS
Eddie gets into Zoofights because of Glam Metal being popular in the 80's. While Eddie normally hates Glam Metal, any reason will do to basically put Jack Black into the bar.
Apart from being used by Shuma-Gorath, Eddie hasn't changed much over the course of the tournament. He's still an enthusiastic half-demon roadie, he still looks after a band called Ironheade, he still help out occasionaly and he is still Jack Black. Not much to say, really, except METAL!
RAIN (Nicola Winter)
Rain.
Sweet Merciful MacGuyver, Rain.
Where shall I even begin with this guy, a character who only barely makes it into Zoofights by basically being a huge musical in-joke between the guys at Midway?
Let's start from when he emerged from Gezora's washing-up water. I had originally intended him to be something of a goofy, hilarious douche, kind of the way I wrote him in my old fanfic "Stupidity in a Red Robe". Yet at the same time, Rain was meant to be the straight man to Eddie, the one who kept his enthusiasm in check and pointed out the flaws in his various "brilliant" schemes. He would also be a pompous brat on the side.
Then Ilsaria fell in love with Red Spy.
This happened because I was intending to have Rain impress her somehow. But then a weekend at London happened, and I was unable to post owing to no internet connection. So Rain pretty much sat in a corner for three days while a backstabbing Frenchman and a hired hunter got cosy, dashing all of my hopes and dreams. I tried to compensate by making him murderously angsty about it all, because when you come from a world where ripping out spines is normal you respond to things not going your way by, well... ripping out people's spines. But that plan got foiled, too, and so Rain entered a phase where he was a creepy stalker one minute and then was Eddie's drinking bud and fall guy the next.
For a while, I wondered if I'd written him into a corner.
And then along came Stella.
Cue the diabetes.
I already covered what happened in that pairing in a previous post, but let's just say that Rain, or Nick, as we now call him, has gone from a stuck-up brat into Bizzaro Alex - kind, compassionate and considerate, except for betraying his country and working under Shao Kahn the Konquerer. And now he's an Emperor.
Welp.
On a side note, I'm also jumping on another bandwagon and examining various "What-If" situations with my characters. One situation I'm examining is, "What if Rain didn't go back inside the bar after his talk with Erebus?" A.K.A, Evil Rain. I'm sure that what I come up with will throw everyone for a loop, and have some unneccesary grim or dark thrown in.
I also may post some rejected characters and dplotline ideas later.
SHUMA-GORATH
Shuma-Gorath is probably the only proper 80's character in my roster. I'm not sure if the Dr. Strange comics were still popular back then, or if any big plot arcs revolved around Shuma-Gorath at the time, but there he is.
Shuma was originally meant to be pompus yet eccentric - a comic relief character that went against his usual canon "I-Am-Aeons-Old-Fear-Me" persona. He said silly things, his powers messed up occasionaly and he loved ice-cold cider. In short, a silly blob of green tentacles that loved a laugh. He got Heavy Metal powers for a time, but that's not important.
Then the Big Bar Brawl happened.
Hot damn.
With his Metal powers gone and a huge grudge on his mind, I set about trying to make Shuma-Gorath an actual threat. I changed his manner of speaking to make him closer to his canon personality. I had him hire Eddie Riggs as a prophet - not a smart move on Shuma's part, I'll grant you that. He formed nasty plots with the Necronomitron that got scuppered when Alex beat Jaxx in FYM. Then, after Eddie axed James the Squirtle, he tried to re-manifest into the world through the poor turtle's body. That last one was not orchestrated by me, but by other posters. Damn you, saberwulf.
Now, he only makes guest appearances, drinking cider in a corner and making snide remarks. He's closer to his cranky, uppity self shown in Marvel vs. Capcom, and while that's not much in the way of character development, it highlights that while eldritch abominations can also be played for laughs, it's also a good case of what happens when your plotting gets foiled. Shuma's gone the David/Jaxx route of being "that drunk guy in the corner", and I'm not pulling him out of there any time soon.
EDDIE RIGGS
Eddie gets into Zoofights because of Glam Metal being popular in the 80's. While Eddie normally hates Glam Metal, any reason will do to basically put Jack Black into the bar.
Apart from being used by Shuma-Gorath, Eddie hasn't changed much over the course of the tournament. He's still an enthusiastic half-demon roadie, he still looks after a band called Ironheade, he still help out occasionaly and he is still Jack Black. Not much to say, really, except METAL!
RAIN (Nicola Winter)
Rain.
Sweet Merciful MacGuyver, Rain.
Where shall I even begin with this guy, a character who only barely makes it into Zoofights by basically being a huge musical in-joke between the guys at Midway?
Let's start from when he emerged from Gezora's washing-up water. I had originally intended him to be something of a goofy, hilarious douche, kind of the way I wrote him in my old fanfic "Stupidity in a Red Robe". Yet at the same time, Rain was meant to be the straight man to Eddie, the one who kept his enthusiasm in check and pointed out the flaws in his various "brilliant" schemes. He would also be a pompous brat on the side.
Then Ilsaria fell in love with Red Spy.
This happened because I was intending to have Rain impress her somehow. But then a weekend at London happened, and I was unable to post owing to no internet connection. So Rain pretty much sat in a corner for three days while a backstabbing Frenchman and a hired hunter got cosy, dashing all of my hopes and dreams. I tried to compensate by making him murderously angsty about it all, because when you come from a world where ripping out spines is normal you respond to things not going your way by, well... ripping out people's spines. But that plan got foiled, too, and so Rain entered a phase where he was a creepy stalker one minute and then was Eddie's drinking bud and fall guy the next.
For a while, I wondered if I'd written him into a corner.
And then along came Stella.
Cue the diabetes.
I already covered what happened in that pairing in a previous post, but let's just say that Rain, or Nick, as we now call him, has gone from a stuck-up brat into Bizzaro Alex - kind, compassionate and considerate, except for betraying his country and working under Shao Kahn the Konquerer. And now he's an Emperor.
Welp.
On a side note, I'm also jumping on another bandwagon and examining various "What-If" situations with my characters. One situation I'm examining is, "What if Rain didn't go back inside the bar after his talk with Erebus?" A.K.A, Evil Rain. I'm sure that what I come up with will throw everyone for a loop, and have some unneccesary grim or dark thrown in.
I also may post some rejected characters and dplotline ideas later.
Friday, 7 October 2011
Future RP Plan #1 - Kombat Rage
Welp.
That Fite sure happened, didn't it? Then Sine and Jumpropeman argued, again, and this time it almost came to blows. At the rate they're going, I can see one of them just snapping and challenging the other to a Fite, or at the very worst an actual fight right in the street. And it will be of cosmic proportions, because we're talking about a time ghost and a intergalatic deliverywoman here.
Which brings me to a plot idea I have for next year.
In Mortal Kombat vs. DC Universe (yes, I own that game :P), the realms of MK and DC were merged together by the creation of Dark Kahn, a fusion of Darkseid and Shao Kahn. The friction between the two realms created an energy that not only redistributed the relative power of the fighters (explaining how the Joker can take on Raiden), but also occasionaly induced violent fits of rage in characters, causing them to attack anyone around them - even best friends. Dark Kahn used these fights to hasten the merging of the worlds, which would eventually cause them both to rip apart and create a lifeless utopia where Dark Kahn was free to exist, as he could not live in either world due to being a composite of two beings from each.
While there probably won't be any DC characters turning up next year, the multi-dimensional nature of the RP'ing could easily be a similar set-up for this sort of "Hate Plague" plot. The presence of multiple worlds causes an energy to leak out from the cracks in reality, an energy that actively seeks out conflict and causes heightened aggression in the bargoers. Minor arguments turn into full-blown fistfights. A petty grudge turns into murderous hatred. Zephyrus' attempts at getting people to make up will either be ignored at best, or met with outright hostility at worst. Even sweet, mild-mannered Sarah will go Axe Craxy at the drop of a hat. Friendships, trusts and romances will be tested to their limit as the characters struggle to control the Rage.
The solution to this problem probably wouldn't be to kick the shit out of it. For one thing, that's what it wants - conflict. To try and solve conflict with conflict would only make it stronger. The solution would be a bit more philosophical - stuff about friendships and emotions. Or, there could be an expedition to locate the source of the Rage and shut it off, either through techincal wizardry or words. Whatever the solution, this is a poltline that strikes at the core value of the bar - friendship. It puts their little community at risk by turning them against one another, and only by overcoming their base instincts and putting trust first can they overcome it.
Thoughts? Suggestions? Let me know.
Also, on an unrelated note, I really need to shave.
That Fite sure happened, didn't it? Then Sine and Jumpropeman argued, again, and this time it almost came to blows. At the rate they're going, I can see one of them just snapping and challenging the other to a Fite, or at the very worst an actual fight right in the street. And it will be of cosmic proportions, because we're talking about a time ghost and a intergalatic deliverywoman here.
Which brings me to a plot idea I have for next year.
In Mortal Kombat vs. DC Universe (yes, I own that game :P), the realms of MK and DC were merged together by the creation of Dark Kahn, a fusion of Darkseid and Shao Kahn. The friction between the two realms created an energy that not only redistributed the relative power of the fighters (explaining how the Joker can take on Raiden), but also occasionaly induced violent fits of rage in characters, causing them to attack anyone around them - even best friends. Dark Kahn used these fights to hasten the merging of the worlds, which would eventually cause them both to rip apart and create a lifeless utopia where Dark Kahn was free to exist, as he could not live in either world due to being a composite of two beings from each.
While there probably won't be any DC characters turning up next year, the multi-dimensional nature of the RP'ing could easily be a similar set-up for this sort of "Hate Plague" plot. The presence of multiple worlds causes an energy to leak out from the cracks in reality, an energy that actively seeks out conflict and causes heightened aggression in the bargoers. Minor arguments turn into full-blown fistfights. A petty grudge turns into murderous hatred. Zephyrus' attempts at getting people to make up will either be ignored at best, or met with outright hostility at worst. Even sweet, mild-mannered Sarah will go Axe Craxy at the drop of a hat. Friendships, trusts and romances will be tested to their limit as the characters struggle to control the Rage.
The solution to this problem probably wouldn't be to kick the shit out of it. For one thing, that's what it wants - conflict. To try and solve conflict with conflict would only make it stronger. The solution would be a bit more philosophical - stuff about friendships and emotions. Or, there could be an expedition to locate the source of the Rage and shut it off, either through techincal wizardry or words. Whatever the solution, this is a poltline that strikes at the core value of the bar - friendship. It puts their little community at risk by turning them against one another, and only by overcoming their base instincts and putting trust first can they overcome it.
Thoughts? Suggestions? Let me know.
Also, on an unrelated note, I really need to shave.
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