ckk185
Crazy Bunny Girl Scientist
- Location
- Port city
Then how do they come back?
-
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A Christmas Catastrophe
- Thread starter Aleph
- Start date
A good nonlethal Starlight Breaker suffices in the event that they are unable or unwilling to talk.
pheonix89
In the dumbest timeline
- Location
- North American Plaguelands
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Um, this is Game Theory, remember? Bombardment spells in general aren't that good at non-lethal unless you are firing at a a strong target. And SLB in particular is absolute crap at it, because it isn't so much a beam as an shotgun-style spray of magic, and its stupidly hard to regulate.
Obviously anyone who is too fragile to survive a Starlight Breaker with at least 1 hp left should have stopped to talk first.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
But he mustn't! We went over that, Shinji! Taught you a mantra for it and everything!
"Thank you for using the Tokyo-3 Runaway Train Express, for all your running away needs..."
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Epilogue: Santa’s Last Secret
Epilogue: Santa's Last Secret
The fires are still burning in Santa's Christmas Wonderland. A quick scan tells Donald that the coal fires will keep burning for decades at least. The entire pocket dimension will become totally uninhabitable long before that. It may even collapse before the fires burn out. In the wreckage, rampant out of control Autopolitan nanotech wars against itself and the few surviving tribes of elves, who have formed a savage resistance fighting against the machines which seek to exterminate them. Comet, Dasher, Cupid and Vixen seem to have become leaders of the struggle. He wishes them luck. Maybe they'll think to abandon the cause and evacuate before they die out. Maybe not.
Donald crosses his arms and sighs happily. What a heartwarming message of Christmas joy. It warms the spirit no end, it really does.
But he's made his way back to the office and the bloodless corpse of Rudolph, despite his noticeable hangover and mussed clothes. He lost his tie at some point, probably when she… well, enough about that. He groans, clutches at his head, and wishes he'd remembered to bring some SoberUp with him. Urgh. Well, he has to do this now. At the very least before Henrietta decides to poke around here.
He bribed Usagi with very cheap - by his standards - jewelry to keep the Autopolitan busy until he gets back. He smirks. The blonde girl is almost as useful there as Rose is for distracting Henriette. And possibly for similar reasons.
Donald rummages through Rudolph's desk until he finds the switch to turn on the banks of CCTV monitors, and scans through them. Oh, Rudolph. He might have been a good pathfinder, a walking foglamp and a muscle-bound giant with explosive laser vision, but he wasn't cut out for running things. He was a paranoid micromanager who'd even put cameras in the employee bathrooms. Christmas elves didn't even need to go to the toilet. Entirely pointless.
And yes, here's the records. He plugs in an autohacker, and has a smoke while he waits for it to break the password. A chime alerts him to the result, and he looks down and shakes his head.
"'ih8allt3hotharr@indear'," he says to himself. "Someone had a chip on his shoulder. Although at least he wasn't utterly useless at password design. Not good enough, though."
He flicks back through the records. Rudolph was a compulsive data-storer who wanted to keep everything close to hand. His files start in 1982. And yes, checking the records that was the year he took control. And look here. A folder labeled 'Boring Accounts'. Donald checks it instinctively, because at the least it's probably embarrassing pictures of the other reindeer taken in the showers or something.
But no. It's a camera log from the middle of June 1982. The middle of summer, when Santa's powers are at his weakest, Donald thinks. Naturally, he presses play. It's a recording of this office. The decorations are - somehow - radiating an aura of Eighties. Oh, and of course, they're not all on fire. Rudolph is here, talking to a black-clad team of humans. Donald is almost sure that they're not elves, because they're all too tall for it. Even if it's touch and go for the shortest one.
"He's in hibernation," the recording of Rudolph says, his voice weedy and not booming. He's a lot smaller than the corpse lying in a mutilated pile. "Look, just make it quick, okay?" He reached forwards and handed a large gold key to the black-clad man in a balaclava. "Do what you have to do. Don't… don't make him suffer."
The black clad man takes the golden key, and hands it to one of his gas mask wearing subordinates. "We understand, Mr Rudolph," he says politely. "We'll… help him sleep."
"Yes, yes," Rudolph says. "Help him sleep. Yes."
The man - yes, he thinks it's a man - who's got the key nods. "It's genuine," he says.
"Good," says the lead man. "Mr Rudolph here is holding up to his end of the bargain." A man in some kind of camouflaged power suit steps in from off-screen, holding something which looks distinctly like a weapon. Donald doesn't recognise the specific make, but that much is clear.
"Remember, I was never here. You just killed the guard," Rudolph hisses, and trots off-screen, revealing the dead elf with a bullethole in her forehead behind him.
The black-clad figures check their weapons, and stack up behind the door while the one with the key silently opens the lock. On the leader's go signal, they swarm in, and then the camera feed cuts off in a wave of static.
"Hmm," Donald says to himself. "So that's how Rudolph did it. Someone helped him. Or put him up to it."
Donald then goes and checks Rudolph's emails, because he can. There's one of interest, on the to-do list with its expiry date passed. He reads it.
"Dear Rudolph
"We haven't forgotten you. We put you in your current elevated position. You can be disposed of just as easily. Your contract does not have a break clause. We understand that there may have been a break in our communications, but we have not forgotten one of our assets. We own Santa Enterprises. We own you.
"Acceed to our demands, or we will have you removed. If you have not replied by the 23rd of December, we will find you in default. Steps will be taken to remedy this.
"Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
"Yours sincerely,
"Your Creditors"
Well well well, as the man who fell down three sources of potable water said. Donald has his suspicions as to what that means. He plugs in a grabber to copy everything from the hardware here, and then wipe it.
Taking a step forwards and pulling out a hypertech device, he opens the final door and slips through, shutting it firmly behind him again. It doesn't take long to pick his way through the devastated hallways to get to what is labelled as the master bedroom. It's not a bedroom, though. There's no bed. From up high, he looks down on the long-dead, badly burned and horribly mutilated corpse of the creature which men had called 'Santa Claus'.
The body isn't human. Not even close to it. No wonder he'd always worn a big coat and covered his face with a beard and his head with a hat. The walls are decorated with shed antlers.
His shed antlers.
Yes, Donald had been right to trust his gut and distract everyone else from coming in here. It wouldn't have done to let people see it. It would have distressed the children. "Just think of the children," he mutters to himself, with a cynical laugh. Like seeing a dead body would have distressed Lucy.
He's growing increasingly fond of that little girl. She's hilarious. And also a budding capitalist, for all that Gnarl insists that she's an Evil Overlady in the making. And now he has the worrying suspicion that her pyromania may well have saved them all from a much worse fate. She's completely wrecked all of Santa Enterprises' infrastructure. Anyone who wanted to use it would have to start again from scratch. And that's a good thing, because these… creditors wanted to make use of the delivery system which let Santa reach every child on earth to deliver something.
Totally an evil plan of some sorts. He's not sure what the evil plan was going to do, but Donald is broadly in favour of evil plans being stopped.
Donald will need to drink to Rudolph's cowardice and indecisiveness once he gets back to the bar. In being kind of shit and unable to take major decisions, the reindeer may have unknowingly done the best job he ever has done. Well, his best job that wasn't to do with being a bioengineered foglamp.
He fingers the incendiary grenades he has in his pocket. The useful thing about Lucy setting everything on fire is that a few more fires won't be noticed. The body goes up with a whoomph, which spreads rapidly to the wall hangings.
Yes, this place is best forgotten.
Tipping his hat to the funeral pyre of the late Kris Kringle, Donald Sykes leaves the room, the fortress and the dimension in quick succession; locking up behind him as he goes.
He doesn't want to be late for the New Year sales, after all.
The fires are still burning in Santa's Christmas Wonderland. A quick scan tells Donald that the coal fires will keep burning for decades at least. The entire pocket dimension will become totally uninhabitable long before that. It may even collapse before the fires burn out. In the wreckage, rampant out of control Autopolitan nanotech wars against itself and the few surviving tribes of elves, who have formed a savage resistance fighting against the machines which seek to exterminate them. Comet, Dasher, Cupid and Vixen seem to have become leaders of the struggle. He wishes them luck. Maybe they'll think to abandon the cause and evacuate before they die out. Maybe not.
Donald crosses his arms and sighs happily. What a heartwarming message of Christmas joy. It warms the spirit no end, it really does.
But he's made his way back to the office and the bloodless corpse of Rudolph, despite his noticeable hangover and mussed clothes. He lost his tie at some point, probably when she… well, enough about that. He groans, clutches at his head, and wishes he'd remembered to bring some SoberUp with him. Urgh. Well, he has to do this now. At the very least before Henrietta decides to poke around here.
He bribed Usagi with very cheap - by his standards - jewelry to keep the Autopolitan busy until he gets back. He smirks. The blonde girl is almost as useful there as Rose is for distracting Henriette. And possibly for similar reasons.
Donald rummages through Rudolph's desk until he finds the switch to turn on the banks of CCTV monitors, and scans through them. Oh, Rudolph. He might have been a good pathfinder, a walking foglamp and a muscle-bound giant with explosive laser vision, but he wasn't cut out for running things. He was a paranoid micromanager who'd even put cameras in the employee bathrooms. Christmas elves didn't even need to go to the toilet. Entirely pointless.
And yes, here's the records. He plugs in an autohacker, and has a smoke while he waits for it to break the password. A chime alerts him to the result, and he looks down and shakes his head.
"'ih8allt3hotharr@indear'," he says to himself. "Someone had a chip on his shoulder. Although at least he wasn't utterly useless at password design. Not good enough, though."
He flicks back through the records. Rudolph was a compulsive data-storer who wanted to keep everything close to hand. His files start in 1982. And yes, checking the records that was the year he took control. And look here. A folder labeled 'Boring Accounts'. Donald checks it instinctively, because at the least it's probably embarrassing pictures of the other reindeer taken in the showers or something.
But no. It's a camera log from the middle of June 1982. The middle of summer, when Santa's powers are at his weakest, Donald thinks. Naturally, he presses play. It's a recording of this office. The decorations are - somehow - radiating an aura of Eighties. Oh, and of course, they're not all on fire. Rudolph is here, talking to a black-clad team of humans. Donald is almost sure that they're not elves, because they're all too tall for it. Even if it's touch and go for the shortest one.
"He's in hibernation," the recording of Rudolph says, his voice weedy and not booming. He's a lot smaller than the corpse lying in a mutilated pile. "Look, just make it quick, okay?" He reached forwards and handed a large gold key to the black-clad man in a balaclava. "Do what you have to do. Don't… don't make him suffer."
The black clad man takes the golden key, and hands it to one of his gas mask wearing subordinates. "We understand, Mr Rudolph," he says politely. "We'll… help him sleep."
"Yes, yes," Rudolph says. "Help him sleep. Yes."
The man - yes, he thinks it's a man - who's got the key nods. "It's genuine," he says.
"Good," says the lead man. "Mr Rudolph here is holding up to his end of the bargain." A man in some kind of camouflaged power suit steps in from off-screen, holding something which looks distinctly like a weapon. Donald doesn't recognise the specific make, but that much is clear.
"Remember, I was never here. You just killed the guard," Rudolph hisses, and trots off-screen, revealing the dead elf with a bullethole in her forehead behind him.
The black-clad figures check their weapons, and stack up behind the door while the one with the key silently opens the lock. On the leader's go signal, they swarm in, and then the camera feed cuts off in a wave of static.
"Hmm," Donald says to himself. "So that's how Rudolph did it. Someone helped him. Or put him up to it."
Donald then goes and checks Rudolph's emails, because he can. There's one of interest, on the to-do list with its expiry date passed. He reads it.
"Dear Rudolph
"We haven't forgotten you. We put you in your current elevated position. You can be disposed of just as easily. Your contract does not have a break clause. We understand that there may have been a break in our communications, but we have not forgotten one of our assets. We own Santa Enterprises. We own you.
"Acceed to our demands, or we will have you removed. If you have not replied by the 23rd of December, we will find you in default. Steps will be taken to remedy this.
"Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
"Yours sincerely,
"Your Creditors"
Well well well, as the man who fell down three sources of potable water said. Donald has his suspicions as to what that means. He plugs in a grabber to copy everything from the hardware here, and then wipe it.
Taking a step forwards and pulling out a hypertech device, he opens the final door and slips through, shutting it firmly behind him again. It doesn't take long to pick his way through the devastated hallways to get to what is labelled as the master bedroom. It's not a bedroom, though. There's no bed. From up high, he looks down on the long-dead, badly burned and horribly mutilated corpse of the creature which men had called 'Santa Claus'.
The body isn't human. Not even close to it. No wonder he'd always worn a big coat and covered his face with a beard and his head with a hat. The walls are decorated with shed antlers.
His shed antlers.
Yes, Donald had been right to trust his gut and distract everyone else from coming in here. It wouldn't have done to let people see it. It would have distressed the children. "Just think of the children," he mutters to himself, with a cynical laugh. Like seeing a dead body would have distressed Lucy.
He's growing increasingly fond of that little girl. She's hilarious. And also a budding capitalist, for all that Gnarl insists that she's an Evil Overlady in the making. And now he has the worrying suspicion that her pyromania may well have saved them all from a much worse fate. She's completely wrecked all of Santa Enterprises' infrastructure. Anyone who wanted to use it would have to start again from scratch. And that's a good thing, because these… creditors wanted to make use of the delivery system which let Santa reach every child on earth to deliver something.
Totally an evil plan of some sorts. He's not sure what the evil plan was going to do, but Donald is broadly in favour of evil plans being stopped.
Donald will need to drink to Rudolph's cowardice and indecisiveness once he gets back to the bar. In being kind of shit and unable to take major decisions, the reindeer may have unknowingly done the best job he ever has done. Well, his best job that wasn't to do with being a bioengineered foglamp.
He fingers the incendiary grenades he has in his pocket. The useful thing about Lucy setting everything on fire is that a few more fires won't be noticed. The body goes up with a whoomph, which spreads rapidly to the wall hangings.
Yes, this place is best forgotten.
Tipping his hat to the funeral pyre of the late Kris Kringle, Donald Sykes leaves the room, the fortress and the dimension in quick succession; locking up behind him as he goes.
He doesn't want to be late for the New Year sales, after all.
So, Vigilance killed Santa? I suppose it could have been some other shady spec-ops group operating in the early 80s, but my sense of narrative causality is telling me otherwise.
It might have been Imago!America. I mean, Santa wears red and gives out stuff for free. He's basically a Communist.
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Look, you can't prove that there was graffiti like "VIGILANCE WOZ 'ERE" and "JB <3 JB" scrawled on the walls around Santa's corpse.
Because Donald set them all on fire to erase the evidence.
Innocent until proven guilty! Hah!
Well, Taylor did say that the flightpath patterns changed about when heroes showed up.
Clearly superheros come from the technology the USA stole from Santa.
- Location
- The end of all things
And Taylor thought she was joking when she imagined being recruited by women in black from a secret conspiracy...