Ohmaigah
Man be Vibin
- Location
- Ask Carmen Sandiego or Waldo
- Pronouns
- He/Him
We're currently in between turns RN so I don't think you could apply any points to anything.
FATHER QUEST - A Cartoon Network: Villains Victorious CK2-Style Quest Cross Over
- Thread starter HellaCooltricks
- Start date
We're currently in between turns RN so I don't think you could apply any points to anything.
Interlude: Up Past Your Bedtime With Father (Pt. 2)
Why.
Why.
Why.
The question pounds against your skill, bouncing back and forth, back and forth. At first, you were angry. How dare he ask you why you hated children? That was your own business! Clearly, you hated children for so many reasons! Practically everything about children made you hate them! That was obvious, it was clear, it was smacking him right in the face! You hate children because…
Well, it had to be obvious, right? They were annoying! They were obnoxious! You hated them for every reason one could! You open your mouth, rage already boiling inside, sparks flying off your fingers as you sat straight in your chair, looming forward. Any second, you'd pour forth that roiling, blazing torrent of hate you held for children.
Rising up from your chair, you look the camera in its lens, knowing thousands, if not millions if perhaps not billions of people were watching your next move. Within moments, you'd spill the smoking coals about every reason you hate children. All their annoying little antics, their spiteful pranks and utter disobedience.
You step forward, and out of your chair. The spot light shines down upon you, making you out as even bigger silhouette. Your time to shine. Your time to hate.
Your time to tell them why you hated children. Why you hated why they did. Why you hated everything that had to do with them.
You begin to speak.
And.
Why?
Nothing.
Like smoke from a firecracker dud, you barely get an indecipherable whisper out. The question hits your gut like a bully's fist, held back until the very last second for maximum effect.
Just the thought of snot nosed brats being happy usually made you simmer and seeth with enough invisible heat to peel wallpaper.
You never really had to think about why.
It dawns upon you that you don't actually have the words to explain it.
It was easy to point out flaws about children. Oh, they never took responsibility. They were selfish. They got underfoot. But how many adults did that apply to as well? And you were willing enough to tolerate Toiletnator.
So why kids? Why did they get under your skin even when they weren't doing any of that stuff?
It's not like you hated kids any less when they were eating ice cream. Or throwing frisbees. Or playing those GOSH darned "vidya-games" which even you have to admit are actually pretty fun. Every last thing they did made you feel utterly sick to your stomach.
Hate came naturally. But to rationalize it? To explain it? Perhaps in more confident days, you could have just blustered up half a dozen half-baked rationales. Maybe you would've even brushed it off as obvious. Why bother trying to explain it? You're Father. You hate kids. That's who you are.
But here and now, in a moonbase tellyvision studio, before the entire world, you were forced to give an answer to a question asked by a man who had helped get you back on your feet.
So why DO you hate kids?
You dig deep.
Had it been the KND? Perhaps.
Had it been Numbah One? Easily.
Had it been your brother? Maybe you'd even hated them a little back then.
But pointing the finger at individuals doesn't really satisfy the gut-revulsion you've had towards childhood for as long as you can remember being an adult.
So what're you left with? No rage. No fire. No vitriol. Nothing.
For a moment that stretched on for eternity and beyond, you stood there, blinking sheepishly through the camera lens at a global audience and hoping that some light bulb of hate will go off in your head.
The bravest of Moltar's studio hands, 362 among them, scurry into place. They're bracing for brimstone: thermal shielding at the ready and fire extinguishers in hand.
Moltar waits, leaning forward, his hands folded across his desk and his visor looking down upon you.
Hank is waiting too. You can see him cupping his phone on Moltar's video feed.
All of them are waiting for you to tell them.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you [don't] know?!" Moltar erupts.
"I mean I DON'T know! Are you happy?" You snap.
The studio seizes up with silence. Once or twice, Zorak hunches up, as if to tell a joke or give a jab, but he reads the room and silences himself. From the side stage, a pink Gem appears, popping her head around as if waiting for a cue to liven things up.
Instead you and Moltar just sit there.
Quietly.
It made for terrible television. But it was a lot nicer than being roasted.
".... You really don't know?" Moltar echoes, after a while. He flopped back into his seat, mushing into his seat like a dummy filled with volcanic mash-potatoes.
Moltar doesn't seem sure what to say. Though it's impossible to tell, you figure the molten man's face (if he has one behind that mask), is transfixed for a moment. Whether outraged, annoyed, or frustrated at your answer, you can't say.
You have no idea how long you've really sat there. Clearly Moltar thinks it's been long enough to come up with something better. You try again---racking your brains for a new answer, an explanation, a witty comeback, anything.
"I don't." you agree, hoping to disguise the defeat in your voice with earnesty.
…
"… I think I might get what you mean, sir."
Hank. You forgot him for a second. But his voice drags you back into the real world. Though the steel between his usually easy Texas drawl gives you cause for worry.
"Oh, REALLY?" You snap defensively. "You get what it's like to HATE something your entire life then come up as blank as a paste eater's homework on NATIONAL Telly-vision?"
Hank furrows his brow, and you instinctively stare down at your feet. Something about the way he looks at you fills your gut with lead-heavy shame.
What was it you always told your Delightful Children when you REALLY had to lay it on? 'I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.'
"Yessir. I reckon I do." Hank says plainly.
You look up, sullenly, the fires whimpering in your eyes.
"Now, I can't pretend I understand why you hate kids the way you do, sir. I've got a boy of my own. Sometimes he worries me, but dang it, I love that weird little kid. And sir, I won't lie: I find the thought of a grown man pickin' on children downright repulsive."
Oh. Here it comes.
"But I know you're better than that."
"What?"
"When I came to work for you with no experience outside of sellin' propane, you offered me a job. A darn good job. I won't flatter myself. I know there were probably better people for the position. I got turned down by just about everybody else I applied to when they found out I was supportin' a single income household. You're just about the only boss who's bothered to take the time to get to know me. Does that sound like an evil man to you?"
"But I AM Evil!" You insist.
"No denyin' you've done some pretty… morally reprehensible things." Hank agrees with you. "But I don't think the man I saw in that clip show woulda admitted to me what he was doing didn't make a lick of sense. I don't think you really wanna be that person. Hold on a minute---"
Hank ducks out of frame. You hear the sound of shuffling papers and he returns holding a copy of one of your government propaganda comics.
"---look here." Hank holds it up to the camera. The cover shows your fist clashing mightily against Jasper's helmeted headbutt. "You get back, and first thing you do is find a bigger bully to take down. My boy thinks you're a hero."
"But I'm---"
"No sir! Save it mister. I think, deep down inside, through all the fire and shoutin' and dad gummed 'super-villainy' whatsit you're tryin' to do good."
He can't be right. You're two billion percent positive. Everything you do is evil through and through. Even if the only person you can seem to convince of that is yourself. Even if you can't fully convince yourself, either.
Hank takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Now, I don't like talking about this. Let alone on live TV. But I knew a guy who hated kids just about as much as you do. Heck, I figure twice as much."
That much? You blink, impressed.
"A sooper-villain?"
"Not by reputation. Actually, by all accounts, the man was a hero. The government sure thought so, what with all the old medals I still haven'tt cleared out of the attic." Hank grumbles. "But he sure didn't act like it to people. Least of all to…" Hank's voice wavers. "Well, he wasn't a nice man, I'll tell you what."
"Sounds like a big fat jerk." You empathize.
Hank bristles for a moment. "Yeah. Probably. Only thing is, it's hard to think of him just that way. Sometimes I feel like maybe he didn't know why he acted the way he did either. Maybe if I'd tried harder, I could've at least understood him. Then again, maybe he was just too damn bitter and lonely to let me. But you're not him, Father. And I know when a man needs someone to be in his corner."
You look up, drifting your sight towards the stage lights.
"What?"
"I've had friends go through rough patches, and I know that the best thing I can do is stick by them. For better or worse, I've stayed with them through all sorts of crazy adventures I tell you what, Sir."
"...So… You'll stay?"
"If I didn't, I'd make a pretty sorry CEO, wouldn't I?"
You nearly dropped the phone. But you hang on, grasping it firmly with all the weak strength in your hands.
"Uh, I don't want to take up too much of your time on your show, Mr. Father sir. So I'll give it to you straight: I don't like the man you used to be. If you get to actin' like him again, I can't in good conscience be a part of that. But I reckon I can try to walk a little in your shoes too. Then maybe we can figure out what's behind this whole super-villainy thing together."
A moment passes. Hank was never the best at this emotional stuff. He himself had told you that. But this was enough.
"You're… You're right...Thanks Hank."
"You're welcome sir. I'll uh… Talk to you later."
With that, you let the receiver click, and feel the smallest flicker of hope fill you.
"Well. That was sappy." Moltar drolled. "Hey, cameras off for a moment." He flagged down his stage assistants, snapping his fingers to gain their attention. "Cut to commercial. We'll do the Pepe's Burgers spot, that plays well."
Molter turns back to you. He leans in conspiratorially, hands on his knees as though you two are sharing a secret.
"So. Now the cameras are off and your guy's gone, you wanna admit what it's really all about? Off the record, I mean. No disclosure."
"I ALREADY told you, I don't know!" You simmer. It's getting pretty tiring having to repeat yourself so often.
"Still sticking with that, eh?" Moltar chuckles. ".... I can't blame you."
"What?"
"Not knowing why."
You don't respond to that. Instead, you stand there, arms limp at your side.
"Not a lot of people do. It's really easy to hate, you know?" Moltar continues, still slumping over in his seat. "Hate can come freely. Hate can be natural. Some of us live to hate. But it's so hard to actually know why we do it."
You look up now, away from the floor.
"AND why's that."
"Because that'd ruin the fun, wouldn't it?"
Moltar sat up right now, grunting slightly as his suit shifting to meet the movement.
"I used to have somebody I hated. I hated his guts. His stupid face. His ego. I always knew I'd be a better show host than him. That I ought to be the one calling the shots. Manipulating the manual."
There is a small sudden pause; you can't see it, but you almost get the impression that Moltar is remembering something. He chuckles.
"He's gone. And here I am."
"THEN why did you hate HIM?"
"Because he ruined my plans and shoved me in an AV closet, duh."
The crass return makes you face away and begin to look for an exit. But he chuckles once more, turning to look outside into the void beyond.
"Okay, okay. I didn't hate him for that… Truth is, I hated him because he was a jackass. He insulted me. He made fun of me. But most of all… Well, for a long time I was like you. Hating for the sake of hate."
Moltar leans back, slowly reaching for a lever. You watch, quietly, unsure of what to say or do.
"But after I turned the tables, it dawned on me. I hated him because I always thought I ought to be there. I ought to be the one in the seat. I ought to be the host. That I deserved it more. That I was better."
Fire returns to you, embers of confusion sparking enough to make you stand once more.
"And what now?"
Moltar continues to ponder out into space, looking across the stars.
"What now?"
"Yeah. Now you're the HOST. So what now?"
For a moment, Moltar doesn't respond. He doesn't say anything. You wonder, for just a moment, what he was thinking.
"Now?" Moltar begins. "Now? I have to prove I've got what it takes."
Alarms disrupt the scene and you have scant seconds to react as a massive glass tube slams down from the ceiling to trap you like a firefly in a jar. Moltar looks on, his body language indecipherable and his face, as ever, impossible to read. Muffled klaxons blare,just loud enough to penetrate the thick walls.
Instincts kick in as you try to set yourself ablaze and melt away your prison. Your mind races at a mile a minute---you have no idea what's going on.
Though it's pretty clear 362 is a big fat liar.
And as the ceiling slides open above you, you see the big blue sphere of planet Earth loom like a swimming pool under a high dive.
You look to Moltar one last time, who is now trying to do something with his console; whether to stop it or proceed, you aren't quite sure. Regardless, the chamber makes a clunk. You feel the telltale sproing of a KND C.A.T.U.H.P.L.U.N.K. under your feet.,and with all the ceremony of a trash bag chucked into a dumpster, you are flung out into space.
You're tossed around the jar, bouncing and jumbling in zero-g,.There's way to right yourself or get your bearings, because in space, there IS no right way up. Instead you simply slam, again and again, into the glass wall, your flames sputtering and dying with every impact before you can get a good blaze going. The planet comes closer and closer, and the high dive analogue suddenly becomes a lot more apt as Earth's gravity takes hold.
You wonder idly if this time, you'll actually die. After all, you were a heckuva lot angrier when they dropped the moonbase on you.
Now?
Not so much.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It wasn't everyday that Izzy got the chance to skydive off the surface of the moon.
In fact, considering how she was banned from passenger, private and military flights, Izzy technically wasn't supposed to be skydiving at all, let alone flying. But space shuttles weren't legally airplanes so the TSA could go suck an egg.
As she soared through an incandescent halo of orbital laser fire, carefully dancing between streaks of searing hot death, Izzy felt like anything was possible.
So when she had just about reached the edge of the Molar Array's earthside range, it really didn't surprise her to see her boss trapped in an enormous glass jar hurtling towards re-entry.
For a moment, she ponders if saving Father is really a good idea. After all, he'd probably be pretty mad that she stowed away on his flight up here. But what the heck, Izzy liked danger. More importantly, would it make a better livestream if she recorded herself rescuing him or caught his splat live on camera.
She taps her lip, looks at stream chat, and then back up the hurtling pod. She resists a snort as she sees Father faceplant against the glass before its lopsided tumble tosses him about once again.
She decides that yes, it would be a good idea to save you. Would you probably survive either way? Prooooobably? But since you sign her paychecks, she figured she ought to at least try. Even if it would screw up her own stunt. Ooh, but then again, that might make it even more fun.
Taking a deep gulp, Izzy vents the rest of her air supply like a miniature jetpack, sending her careening ahead just far enough to intercept the pod. Even still, she has to strain her arms to reach it. She scrambles for purchase on the smooth glass, knowing well that one wrong move could send her slipping off into the empty void.
Her hands find purchase around a near-invisible welding seam. Latching on, she swings up to the roof? Floor? Eh, gravity hasn't kicked in yet. Doesn't matter.
She gets a solid handhold on the metal hatch and braces. She barely has the time to do so---once she hits the atmosphere, air resistance will fling her off if she doesn't stabilize its fall.
So many factors to consider. Angle. Mass. Surface area. She's just a hair away from catastrophe in every direction.
Catastrophe is Izzy's middle name.
Her second middle name.
Izzy Explosivo Catastrophe Kaleidoscope.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You're a little more focussed on trying not to puke than what's going on outside your pod, but you can tell that somebody is now hanging off of it wearing a green spacesuit suspiciously similar to the one Izzy had asked you to order "for no particular reason."
As the Earth swells larger and larger, Izzy hooks her legs around the handle of a hatch in the ceiling of the pod. Removing her own parachute, she carefully fastens its straps around the handle and waits.
It starts to get toasty inside, and you're pretty sure it isn't you. The flames of reentry lick around the edges of the pod. Still, Izzy holds tight, her suit keeping her safe enough to stand the heat. Meanwhile, your tumbling begins to slow.
You realise what Izzy is about to do.
It would be close.
But Izzy was a trained professional, minus the professional.
After all, that season of Total Drama In Space had to be worth something.
Right?
At just the right second, she takes a chance.
She pulls the cord.
Within a moment, a massive parachute deploys, ballooning out, slowing your descent. For a moment, Izzy thinks she's done it. Her celebratory 'Woo hoo!' is cut a little short.
She hears the tear.
"Uh oh."
The material connecting the pod to the parachutes comes undone. She doesn't even realize she's moving to grab it, but by the time she does, she already has it in her hands, straining with every rabid muscle she had to hold on to it.
The pod's flight slows just enough, and most importantly, stabilizes. But there's not a snowflake's chance in hell she can do this for too long.
Thankfully, it's just long enough for you to do two things.
The first is for you to finally, finally to stop pinballing around the containment pod.
The second is to panic.
And from panic comes fear and from fear comes rage. Your body acts on its own, and with a harrowing shriek of fury, you raise your hands up above your head, before throw your fists down at your sides in a violent tantrum.
A veritable afterburner propels you up to the top of the pod, but you are fast this time, adrenaline sharpening your instincts as you kick your feet up above you and land flat footed on the roof. Memories of minutes ago, of those so-called villains mocking you, return and give you the fuel you need to melt a dripping hole through what is from your perspective the ceiling.
Time seems to vanish, as you slow your careening descent to a controlled landing. Your concentrated blast counteracting your fall as Izzy shelters from the heat on the other side of the pod's roof.
Mile by mile, yard by yard, foot by foot, you return to the planet's surface. By the time the ground rises up to greet you, you're falling slow enough not to splat like a pancake but it's not gonna be a pretty landing.
Molten glass shatters around you, and you feel the roof of the pod smush you face-first into the dirt. You lay there for a while, totally pooped. Eventually, the weight of the pod's wreckage lifts off your back and you feel somebody drag you out into glaring daylight.
"First off, you're welcome! Second off, not my fault! Third off, uh, again, not my fault. Fourth off---are you allowed to do a fourth off haha---uh, I don't think this is your fault either. Or Spooky's."
Tossing her crash helmet aside, Izzy helps you to your feet. Another pair of hands helps you up as well. Hex shoots you a worried look.
"If by 'Spooky' you mean me, then… no. Not entirely."
"Ugh… DID I drop in at a bad time?"
You mutter, rubbing your aching head.
"Unfortunately, yes." Hex says. "Now hold still. Healing magic isn't my forte."
His staff flares with light as he attends to your injuries.
As soon as your percussion induced headache has cleared up, you take another look around.
Most of the neighbourhood is gone. In its place is an enormous crater full of scorched rubble and fire. Girly pink fire. Definitely not your fire. But probably about as hot. You think you can make out the McGarfields' new hybrid melting into a chrome puddle in what's left of their driveway. Serves them right for always bragging about it.
Oh, and your house. Your house is here too. It looks pretty much fine. Chalk one up for magical wards, you guess.
Hex stands in the middle of it all. As you look from the carnage back to him, he winces almost sheepishly. At least as close to sheepish as you can get when you're a skull-faced evil wizard.
"Whuh Happen?"
Hex and Izzy share a look with each other, before helping walk you back to your home.
"I'll tell you about my familial visit after you get some rest."
And that's just about the last thing you have ears for before you crash on the couch.
Why.
Why.
The question pounds against your skill, bouncing back and forth, back and forth. At first, you were angry. How dare he ask you why you hated children? That was your own business! Clearly, you hated children for so many reasons! Practically everything about children made you hate them! That was obvious, it was clear, it was smacking him right in the face! You hate children because…
Well, it had to be obvious, right? They were annoying! They were obnoxious! You hated them for every reason one could! You open your mouth, rage already boiling inside, sparks flying off your fingers as you sat straight in your chair, looming forward. Any second, you'd pour forth that roiling, blazing torrent of hate you held for children.
Rising up from your chair, you look the camera in its lens, knowing thousands, if not millions if perhaps not billions of people were watching your next move. Within moments, you'd spill the smoking coals about every reason you hate children. All their annoying little antics, their spiteful pranks and utter disobedience.
You step forward, and out of your chair. The spot light shines down upon you, making you out as even bigger silhouette. Your time to shine. Your time to hate.
Your time to tell them why you hated children. Why you hated why they did. Why you hated everything that had to do with them.
You begin to speak.
And.
Why?
Nothing.
Like smoke from a firecracker dud, you barely get an indecipherable whisper out. The question hits your gut like a bully's fist, held back until the very last second for maximum effect.
Just the thought of snot nosed brats being happy usually made you simmer and seeth with enough invisible heat to peel wallpaper.
You never really had to think about why.
It dawns upon you that you don't actually have the words to explain it.
It was easy to point out flaws about children. Oh, they never took responsibility. They were selfish. They got underfoot. But how many adults did that apply to as well? And you were willing enough to tolerate Toiletnator.
So why kids? Why did they get under your skin even when they weren't doing any of that stuff?
It's not like you hated kids any less when they were eating ice cream. Or throwing frisbees. Or playing those GOSH darned "vidya-games" which even you have to admit are actually pretty fun. Every last thing they did made you feel utterly sick to your stomach.
Hate came naturally. But to rationalize it? To explain it? Perhaps in more confident days, you could have just blustered up half a dozen half-baked rationales. Maybe you would've even brushed it off as obvious. Why bother trying to explain it? You're Father. You hate kids. That's who you are.
But here and now, in a moonbase tellyvision studio, before the entire world, you were forced to give an answer to a question asked by a man who had helped get you back on your feet.
So why DO you hate kids?
You dig deep.
Had it been the KND? Perhaps.
Had it been Numbah One? Easily.
Had it been your brother? Maybe you'd even hated them a little back then.
But pointing the finger at individuals doesn't really satisfy the gut-revulsion you've had towards childhood for as long as you can remember being an adult.
So what're you left with? No rage. No fire. No vitriol. Nothing.
For a moment that stretched on for eternity and beyond, you stood there, blinking sheepishly through the camera lens at a global audience and hoping that some light bulb of hate will go off in your head.
The bravest of Moltar's studio hands, 362 among them, scurry into place. They're bracing for brimstone: thermal shielding at the ready and fire extinguishers in hand.
Moltar waits, leaning forward, his hands folded across his desk and his visor looking down upon you.
Hank is waiting too. You can see him cupping his phone on Moltar's video feed.
All of them are waiting for you to tell them.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you [don't] know?!" Moltar erupts.
"I mean I DON'T know! Are you happy?" You snap.
The studio seizes up with silence. Once or twice, Zorak hunches up, as if to tell a joke or give a jab, but he reads the room and silences himself. From the side stage, a pink Gem appears, popping her head around as if waiting for a cue to liven things up.
Instead you and Moltar just sit there.
Quietly.
It made for terrible television. But it was a lot nicer than being roasted.
".... You really don't know?" Moltar echoes, after a while. He flopped back into his seat, mushing into his seat like a dummy filled with volcanic mash-potatoes.
Moltar doesn't seem sure what to say. Though it's impossible to tell, you figure the molten man's face (if he has one behind that mask), is transfixed for a moment. Whether outraged, annoyed, or frustrated at your answer, you can't say.
You have no idea how long you've really sat there. Clearly Moltar thinks it's been long enough to come up with something better. You try again---racking your brains for a new answer, an explanation, a witty comeback, anything.
"I don't." you agree, hoping to disguise the defeat in your voice with earnesty.
…
"… I think I might get what you mean, sir."
Hank. You forgot him for a second. But his voice drags you back into the real world. Though the steel between his usually easy Texas drawl gives you cause for worry.
"Oh, REALLY?" You snap defensively. "You get what it's like to HATE something your entire life then come up as blank as a paste eater's homework on NATIONAL Telly-vision?"
Hank furrows his brow, and you instinctively stare down at your feet. Something about the way he looks at you fills your gut with lead-heavy shame.
What was it you always told your Delightful Children when you REALLY had to lay it on? 'I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.'
"Yessir. I reckon I do." Hank says plainly.
You look up, sullenly, the fires whimpering in your eyes.
"Now, I can't pretend I understand why you hate kids the way you do, sir. I've got a boy of my own. Sometimes he worries me, but dang it, I love that weird little kid. And sir, I won't lie: I find the thought of a grown man pickin' on children downright repulsive."
Oh. Here it comes.
"But I know you're better than that."
"What?"
"When I came to work for you with no experience outside of sellin' propane, you offered me a job. A darn good job. I won't flatter myself. I know there were probably better people for the position. I got turned down by just about everybody else I applied to when they found out I was supportin' a single income household. You're just about the only boss who's bothered to take the time to get to know me. Does that sound like an evil man to you?"
"But I AM Evil!" You insist.
"No denyin' you've done some pretty… morally reprehensible things." Hank agrees with you. "But I don't think the man I saw in that clip show woulda admitted to me what he was doing didn't make a lick of sense. I don't think you really wanna be that person. Hold on a minute---"
Hank ducks out of frame. You hear the sound of shuffling papers and he returns holding a copy of one of your government propaganda comics.
"---look here." Hank holds it up to the camera. The cover shows your fist clashing mightily against Jasper's helmeted headbutt. "You get back, and first thing you do is find a bigger bully to take down. My boy thinks you're a hero."
"But I'm---"
"No sir! Save it mister. I think, deep down inside, through all the fire and shoutin' and dad gummed 'super-villainy' whatsit you're tryin' to do good."
He can't be right. You're two billion percent positive. Everything you do is evil through and through. Even if the only person you can seem to convince of that is yourself. Even if you can't fully convince yourself, either.
Hank takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Now, I don't like talking about this. Let alone on live TV. But I knew a guy who hated kids just about as much as you do. Heck, I figure twice as much."
That much? You blink, impressed.
"A sooper-villain?"
"Not by reputation. Actually, by all accounts, the man was a hero. The government sure thought so, what with all the old medals I still haven'tt cleared out of the attic." Hank grumbles. "But he sure didn't act like it to people. Least of all to…" Hank's voice wavers. "Well, he wasn't a nice man, I'll tell you what."
"Sounds like a big fat jerk." You empathize.
Hank bristles for a moment. "Yeah. Probably. Only thing is, it's hard to think of him just that way. Sometimes I feel like maybe he didn't know why he acted the way he did either. Maybe if I'd tried harder, I could've at least understood him. Then again, maybe he was just too damn bitter and lonely to let me. But you're not him, Father. And I know when a man needs someone to be in his corner."
You look up, drifting your sight towards the stage lights.
"What?"
"I've had friends go through rough patches, and I know that the best thing I can do is stick by them. For better or worse, I've stayed with them through all sorts of crazy adventures I tell you what, Sir."
"...So… You'll stay?"
"If I didn't, I'd make a pretty sorry CEO, wouldn't I?"
You nearly dropped the phone. But you hang on, grasping it firmly with all the weak strength in your hands.
"Uh, I don't want to take up too much of your time on your show, Mr. Father sir. So I'll give it to you straight: I don't like the man you used to be. If you get to actin' like him again, I can't in good conscience be a part of that. But I reckon I can try to walk a little in your shoes too. Then maybe we can figure out what's behind this whole super-villainy thing together."
A moment passes. Hank was never the best at this emotional stuff. He himself had told you that. But this was enough.
"You're… You're right...Thanks Hank."
"You're welcome sir. I'll uh… Talk to you later."
With that, you let the receiver click, and feel the smallest flicker of hope fill you.
"Well. That was sappy." Moltar drolled. "Hey, cameras off for a moment." He flagged down his stage assistants, snapping his fingers to gain their attention. "Cut to commercial. We'll do the Pepe's Burgers spot, that plays well."
Molter turns back to you. He leans in conspiratorially, hands on his knees as though you two are sharing a secret.
"So. Now the cameras are off and your guy's gone, you wanna admit what it's really all about? Off the record, I mean. No disclosure."
"I ALREADY told you, I don't know!" You simmer. It's getting pretty tiring having to repeat yourself so often.
"Still sticking with that, eh?" Moltar chuckles. ".... I can't blame you."
"What?"
"Not knowing why."
You don't respond to that. Instead, you stand there, arms limp at your side.
"Not a lot of people do. It's really easy to hate, you know?" Moltar continues, still slumping over in his seat. "Hate can come freely. Hate can be natural. Some of us live to hate. But it's so hard to actually know why we do it."
You look up now, away from the floor.
"AND why's that."
"Because that'd ruin the fun, wouldn't it?"
Moltar sat up right now, grunting slightly as his suit shifting to meet the movement.
"I used to have somebody I hated. I hated his guts. His stupid face. His ego. I always knew I'd be a better show host than him. That I ought to be the one calling the shots. Manipulating the manual."
There is a small sudden pause; you can't see it, but you almost get the impression that Moltar is remembering something. He chuckles.
"He's gone. And here I am."
"THEN why did you hate HIM?"
"Because he ruined my plans and shoved me in an AV closet, duh."
The crass return makes you face away and begin to look for an exit. But he chuckles once more, turning to look outside into the void beyond.
"Okay, okay. I didn't hate him for that… Truth is, I hated him because he was a jackass. He insulted me. He made fun of me. But most of all… Well, for a long time I was like you. Hating for the sake of hate."
Moltar leans back, slowly reaching for a lever. You watch, quietly, unsure of what to say or do.
"But after I turned the tables, it dawned on me. I hated him because I always thought I ought to be there. I ought to be the one in the seat. I ought to be the host. That I deserved it more. That I was better."
Fire returns to you, embers of confusion sparking enough to make you stand once more.
"And what now?"
Moltar continues to ponder out into space, looking across the stars.
"What now?"
"Yeah. Now you're the HOST. So what now?"
For a moment, Moltar doesn't respond. He doesn't say anything. You wonder, for just a moment, what he was thinking.
"Now?" Moltar begins. "Now? I have to prove I've got what it takes."
Alarms disrupt the scene and you have scant seconds to react as a massive glass tube slams down from the ceiling to trap you like a firefly in a jar. Moltar looks on, his body language indecipherable and his face, as ever, impossible to read. Muffled klaxons blare,just loud enough to penetrate the thick walls.
Instincts kick in as you try to set yourself ablaze and melt away your prison. Your mind races at a mile a minute---you have no idea what's going on.
Though it's pretty clear 362 is a big fat liar.
And as the ceiling slides open above you, you see the big blue sphere of planet Earth loom like a swimming pool under a high dive.
You look to Moltar one last time, who is now trying to do something with his console; whether to stop it or proceed, you aren't quite sure. Regardless, the chamber makes a clunk. You feel the telltale sproing of a KND C.A.T.U.H.P.L.U.N.K. under your feet.,and with all the ceremony of a trash bag chucked into a dumpster, you are flung out into space.
You're tossed around the jar, bouncing and jumbling in zero-g,.There's way to right yourself or get your bearings, because in space, there IS no right way up. Instead you simply slam, again and again, into the glass wall, your flames sputtering and dying with every impact before you can get a good blaze going. The planet comes closer and closer, and the high dive analogue suddenly becomes a lot more apt as Earth's gravity takes hold.
You wonder idly if this time, you'll actually die. After all, you were a heckuva lot angrier when they dropped the moonbase on you.
Now?
Not so much.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It wasn't everyday that Izzy got the chance to skydive off the surface of the moon.
In fact, considering how she was banned from passenger, private and military flights, Izzy technically wasn't supposed to be skydiving at all, let alone flying. But space shuttles weren't legally airplanes so the TSA could go suck an egg.
As she soared through an incandescent halo of orbital laser fire, carefully dancing between streaks of searing hot death, Izzy felt like anything was possible.
So when she had just about reached the edge of the Molar Array's earthside range, it really didn't surprise her to see her boss trapped in an enormous glass jar hurtling towards re-entry.
For a moment, she ponders if saving Father is really a good idea. After all, he'd probably be pretty mad that she stowed away on his flight up here. But what the heck, Izzy liked danger. More importantly, would it make a better livestream if she recorded herself rescuing him or caught his splat live on camera.
She taps her lip, looks at stream chat, and then back up the hurtling pod. She resists a snort as she sees Father faceplant against the glass before its lopsided tumble tosses him about once again.
She decides that yes, it would be a good idea to save you. Would you probably survive either way? Prooooobably? But since you sign her paychecks, she figured she ought to at least try. Even if it would screw up her own stunt. Ooh, but then again, that might make it even more fun.
Taking a deep gulp, Izzy vents the rest of her air supply like a miniature jetpack, sending her careening ahead just far enough to intercept the pod. Even still, she has to strain her arms to reach it. She scrambles for purchase on the smooth glass, knowing well that one wrong move could send her slipping off into the empty void.
Her hands find purchase around a near-invisible welding seam. Latching on, she swings up to the roof? Floor? Eh, gravity hasn't kicked in yet. Doesn't matter.
She gets a solid handhold on the metal hatch and braces. She barely has the time to do so---once she hits the atmosphere, air resistance will fling her off if she doesn't stabilize its fall.
So many factors to consider. Angle. Mass. Surface area. She's just a hair away from catastrophe in every direction.
Catastrophe is Izzy's middle name.
Her second middle name.
Izzy Explosivo Catastrophe Kaleidoscope.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You're a little more focussed on trying not to puke than what's going on outside your pod, but you can tell that somebody is now hanging off of it wearing a green spacesuit suspiciously similar to the one Izzy had asked you to order "for no particular reason."
As the Earth swells larger and larger, Izzy hooks her legs around the handle of a hatch in the ceiling of the pod. Removing her own parachute, she carefully fastens its straps around the handle and waits.
It starts to get toasty inside, and you're pretty sure it isn't you. The flames of reentry lick around the edges of the pod. Still, Izzy holds tight, her suit keeping her safe enough to stand the heat. Meanwhile, your tumbling begins to slow.
You realise what Izzy is about to do.
It would be close.
But Izzy was a trained professional, minus the professional.
After all, that season of Total Drama In Space had to be worth something.
Right?
At just the right second, she takes a chance.
She pulls the cord.
Within a moment, a massive parachute deploys, ballooning out, slowing your descent. For a moment, Izzy thinks she's done it. Her celebratory 'Woo hoo!' is cut a little short.
She hears the tear.
"Uh oh."
The material connecting the pod to the parachutes comes undone. She doesn't even realize she's moving to grab it, but by the time she does, she already has it in her hands, straining with every rabid muscle she had to hold on to it.
The pod's flight slows just enough, and most importantly, stabilizes. But there's not a snowflake's chance in hell she can do this for too long.
Thankfully, it's just long enough for you to do two things.
The first is for you to finally, finally to stop pinballing around the containment pod.
The second is to panic.
And from panic comes fear and from fear comes rage. Your body acts on its own, and with a harrowing shriek of fury, you raise your hands up above your head, before throw your fists down at your sides in a violent tantrum.
A veritable afterburner propels you up to the top of the pod, but you are fast this time, adrenaline sharpening your instincts as you kick your feet up above you and land flat footed on the roof. Memories of minutes ago, of those so-called villains mocking you, return and give you the fuel you need to melt a dripping hole through what is from your perspective the ceiling.
Time seems to vanish, as you slow your careening descent to a controlled landing. Your concentrated blast counteracting your fall as Izzy shelters from the heat on the other side of the pod's roof.
Mile by mile, yard by yard, foot by foot, you return to the planet's surface. By the time the ground rises up to greet you, you're falling slow enough not to splat like a pancake but it's not gonna be a pretty landing.
Molten glass shatters around you, and you feel the roof of the pod smush you face-first into the dirt. You lay there for a while, totally pooped. Eventually, the weight of the pod's wreckage lifts off your back and you feel somebody drag you out into glaring daylight.
"First off, you're welcome! Second off, not my fault! Third off, uh, again, not my fault. Fourth off---are you allowed to do a fourth off haha---uh, I don't think this is your fault either. Or Spooky's."
Tossing her crash helmet aside, Izzy helps you to your feet. Another pair of hands helps you up as well. Hex shoots you a worried look.
"If by 'Spooky' you mean me, then… no. Not entirely."
"Ugh… DID I drop in at a bad time?"
You mutter, rubbing your aching head.
"Unfortunately, yes." Hex says. "Now hold still. Healing magic isn't my forte."
His staff flares with light as he attends to your injuries.
As soon as your percussion induced headache has cleared up, you take another look around.
Most of the neighbourhood is gone. In its place is an enormous crater full of scorched rubble and fire. Girly pink fire. Definitely not your fire. But probably about as hot. You think you can make out the McGarfields' new hybrid melting into a chrome puddle in what's left of their driveway. Serves them right for always bragging about it.
Oh, and your house. Your house is here too. It looks pretty much fine. Chalk one up for magical wards, you guess.
Hex stands in the middle of it all. As you look from the carnage back to him, he winces almost sheepishly. At least as close to sheepish as you can get when you're a skull-faced evil wizard.
"Whuh Happen?"
Hex and Izzy share a look with each other, before helping walk you back to your home.
"I'll tell you about my familial visit after you get some rest."
And that's just about the last thing you have ears for before you crash on the couch.
daedalus725
Kell of Kells, godking of Planet X
- Location
- Daedalus crater, The moon
Uh oh I am now worried about this
Asmodemus
Subversive Element
The gem is just Spinel, she hangs out with Moltar now it was stated at some place or other IIRC.
As for the update itself.. eh, I don't agree with the take fully but it's acceptable. I still think going red hot rage and honesty woulda been the way to go, I can live with this.
I think we might wanna recruit the old gang though, with that talk about sticking with friends through rough patches.
So anyone knows who is Hank talking about? Don't know much about king of the hill.
daedalus725
Kell of Kells, godking of Planet X
- Location
- Daedalus crater, The moon
I know Spinel that's why she worries me
Hanks talking about his dad cotton hill
Asmodemus
Subversive Element
His father, Cotton Hill. An ornery old veteran that apparently had his feet attached to his knees after his shins were blown off. A major asshole most of the time, showed some better traits now and then.
Ohmaigah
Man be Vibin
- Location
- Ask Carmen Sandiego or Waldo
- Pronouns
- He/Him
He killed Fitty Men!
Also we have One More Interlude to go, before we get Rival Reports & Turn, along with Character Sheets being updated/added.
- Location
- The Golden State
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Welp at least we get to keep Hank, and managed to survive the fall from the freaking Moon!
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Ah, at last. Introspection. Not a lot of it, but it's a start. The first step on the road to character growth. Honestly I think this is the best result we could have gotten. Maybe we lost a little face with international villains but it's not like we cared much about their opinions anyway.
- Location
- going at sufficient velocity
Damn Hanks proving once again he best bro and like what he said seeing good in Father and Bobby thinking he is a Hero.
I think it went pretty well but I want to know how the be honest would of gone could only imagine the impact of Hank telling father he would stick around after his reveal.
Also seems like we back to when Hex first met Charmcaster so tied up nicely.
We should create a construction division if we haven't already to repair the neighborhood and build defenses/upgrade existing areas.
I think it went pretty well but I want to know how the be honest would of gone could only imagine the impact of Hank telling father he would stick around after his reveal.
Also seems like we back to when Hex first met Charmcaster so tied up nicely.
We should create a construction division if we haven't already to repair the neighborhood and build defenses/upgrade existing areas.
- Location
- the Netherworld Dood
on the plus side he's less evil now
on the minus side we have lost a lot of credability and by by becoming more stable we're less powerful
on the minus side we have lost a lot of credability and by by becoming more stable we're less powerful
Eh, losing Rage is super important; since while we get big Martial Buffs at high rage, everything else gets a penalty.
- Location
- USA
Awww yiss. First step on the path of a Heel Face Turn.
I wonder what 362 is feeling right now.
I wonder what 362 is feeling right now.
Travler66
Let her name echo in song!
- Location
- Beyond
Thank you for the update @HellaCooltricks!
I'm wondering the same. She wanted a small measure of revenge so maybe she's somewhat satisfied that Father revealed that he's not sure why he hates children in the first place. I don't know much of her character to tell.
362 is... how do I say this.
Tired? No one wants to be Soopreme Leader of the KND since it's a well known fact that the job is very, very unfun. Most Moonbase jobs are pretty time consuming; since they're in charge of running an entire international paramilitary organization. Moreover, as 362 implied in this interlude; Kids actually need to grow up some in order to do it.
You spend basically all your freetime working, you have to deal with the fact the KND agents naturally don't like authority, and have an international bureaucracy and intelligence network you need to manage. For someone else in High Command, 86 was shown to be in charge of decommissions, the highest ranking field leader for assaults on Adult compounds (Rachel doesn't have the time to do that) and managing the reports of the Sectors near her hometown (If you ever wanted to know why 86 seems to have a particular dislike to Sector V; it's because she is the person who gets reports about how they FAILED TO BUY PIZZA!).
Basically 362 has to be very mature because of her job. She is probably feeling satisfaction from Father's humiliation; but also is probably one of the only KND members who would be able to say "Ok, yeah you changed" if we ever do fully reform.
- Location
- United Kigdom
Well, I wasn't sure what to expect from this chapter but I really liked what it ended up as; Moltar sympathising was interesting too
So the nat1 resulted in Charmcaster paying a visit? Hopefully this just a one off bit of stress releif and not the start of ongoing enemy action
So the nat1 resulted in Charmcaster paying a visit? Hopefully this just a one off bit of stress releif and not the start of ongoing enemy action
- Location
- going at sufficient velocity
If it is ongoing enemy action we can raid her for magic stuff and hopefully a charm or Wu.
- Location
- going at sufficient velocity
Ah thought she was closer to us than that yea best we could do now is just beat her when she shows up and take what she has equipped.
Modus_Tollens
SCREAMING AT THE APOCALYPSE
- Location
- ALSO SCREAMING.
I kind of have to think that this might be a step towards eventually martialing a deeper rage. Oh, he can get angry alright... but how much is behind it? The man is a facade of humanity: Bitter about his own lost chances and empty life, indignant and frustrated when said facade is challenged or blemished, but much of his fury is little more than a momentary temper tantrum. It makes him powerful for a fleeting instant but imagine what he would be like if he hated for something soul deep.
If he actually believed he deserved to stand at the top rather than just going through the motions, if he became invested in things enough that their ruination hurt more than he can describe, if he can look at someone and have a thousand reasons why they should be damned beyond even the devil's reach pound against the inside of his skull and ribcage. The ultimate capacity of a human being for hate and fury is beyond what so far he has shown capable of.
Well, maybe that is changing. Imagine his fire burning bright and burning without end.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Damn, that was a really good update, glad I caught back up.
I think this really plays into the whole he doesn't actually hate kids, he just hates he never got to be one thing. His distaste for them was never motivated by any directed rage, it was just him lashing out at a relevant target due to his childhood.
Heck, given how much he tried to emulate grandfather, he may have conditioned himself to hate kids just to try and please him, meaning he was just mimicking his shit dad and the hate was shallow and performative because of it.
It would be neat to see him find his own, personal and meaningful source of hatred to power him forward. It may even make him stronger than he was when he just hates kids generally.
Also, another thought. Monty, Nigel and sector zero are absolutely going to see that interview if they are keeping any tabs on what father is doing. I really wonder how they'll react.
Monty I could see viewing that interview as a sign that he could save father from the pit grandfather put him in, and sector 0 were always some of the more mature seeming KND operatives, so their reaction may be interesting.
That's not even considering what the other kings will think of it. Monarch is intimately familiar with hatred, Mandy is just a bubbling cauldron of general hate towards most things, etc. Some of the kings may even view us more favorably depending on their backstories. Lots of cool possibilities
I think this really plays into the whole he doesn't actually hate kids, he just hates he never got to be one thing. His distaste for them was never motivated by any directed rage, it was just him lashing out at a relevant target due to his childhood.
Heck, given how much he tried to emulate grandfather, he may have conditioned himself to hate kids just to try and please him, meaning he was just mimicking his shit dad and the hate was shallow and performative because of it.
It would be neat to see him find his own, personal and meaningful source of hatred to power him forward. It may even make him stronger than he was when he just hates kids generally.
Also, another thought. Monty, Nigel and sector zero are absolutely going to see that interview if they are keeping any tabs on what father is doing. I really wonder how they'll react.
Monty I could see viewing that interview as a sign that he could save father from the pit grandfather put him in, and sector 0 were always some of the more mature seeming KND operatives, so their reaction may be interesting.
That's not even considering what the other kings will think of it. Monarch is intimately familiar with hatred, Mandy is just a bubbling cauldron of general hate towards most things, etc. Some of the kings may even view us more favorably depending on their backstories. Lots of cool possibilities
The Map is being redrawn right now do to being highly outdated; but I don't think anyone is kicking her out of the middle east even as she loses her African and Indian holdings.
Also fighting the settings Archmage might not be the best idea to do super early.