Rodrigo Istalindir
Explorer
Lady Death and your imps were at my beck and call during the last Ceramic DM. They hold no mysteries for me. I double-dog dare them to reap me!
Ceramic DM Winter 07 (Final Judgment Posted)
Rodrigo Istalindir
Explorer
Well, I wouldn't want them to pare me, either. 
Graywolf-ELM
Explorer
The Princess
Round 1 Match 2 (Friday):
Graywolf-ELM vs. Mythago
--------------------------------
The Princess
Jezzeri Malificantina ni Zespatsia sat in the red velvet-lined carriage as it slowly jostled along the city street. She hoped never to hear that name again, as she pondered the name that was used more widely: Princess Sharinta. She gazed out the window of her gilded transport listening to the clop clop of shod feet pulling the carriage over cobblestone streets. Peasants scurried out of the way, as the widely announced new bride to the king was ushered through the streets, with no less than a score of the kingdom’s finest slayers riding in escort.
The Princess caught the admiring gaze of an occasional male, and smiled demurely each time, in just the right measure to earn a burning fealty. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, ruling over these people. The gaze of a female often came with jealousy or derision, but also sometimes with some admiration earning them a demure smile as well, and a mischievous thought. She was a princess, of course, but the ruling class had their vices and guilty pleasures, did they not?
Sharinta was shaken from her thoughts by the jarring halt of ironclad wood on cobblestones. With almost unseemly timing, the door to the carriage was pulled open to reveal an expansive courtyard to an immense fortified castle. A footman’s gloved hand appeared in the open doorway with practiced flair and perfect positioning for the lady within to grasp. Assistance was not needed but Sharinta appreciated that proper deference was given to a lady of her station, even if she was the bride price of a truce made between kingdoms. Taking the proffered hand, The Princess stepped gracefully from the carriage into the presence of her escorts, the footman, and an elderly blind woman.
The Princess took in the situation and made an effort to command the situation. “You may rise and take me to see my King.” The old woman began to laugh as she stood, and faced Sharinta.
“You will see him tomorrow my lady, after you have enjoyed the entertainment that our lands have to offer. Our performers and skilled warriors will perform for you, demonstrating the grace and skill that your father has attempted to destroy these many years. My name is Karina, I was chosen as your handmaiden, because of my loyalty, and my additional resistance to your charms. Please follow me, and I will show you to your quarters, and prepare you for the evening sleep.”
The old maid turned, and began walking to a side door from the courtyard, waving her hand at the guardsmen as she walked.
The next morning, Sharinta was awakened to the sound of the old woman laying out her clothes for the day. A mist green gown, with laces up the bodice, and a sheer underskirt to the dress, coupled with white slippers to complete the outfit. As the Princess shifted out from beneath the covers, the handmaiden turned to her.
“Ahh, you are awake then. Best be getting you dressed, there is much to see before you meet your King.”
Sharinta did her best to charm the woman with soft words as she was being dressed, but the old woman did her job efficiently without being distracted. After a quick breakfast, which Karina had brought to the room, the Princess was led to a small entertainment area built into the castle. At one end of the small field, a stage was built up against the castle wall. The other end of the area was open to a field behind the castle, with barren hills beyond. The Princess was brought to a shaded sitting area where refreshments were waiting. The handmaiden introduced the first show of the day.
“An acting troupe from the southern holdings will perform, ‘The Final Crossing of Findus Stemp.’ "
As if on queue the curtains rose from the stage, to show the fearful faces of four performers sailing a ship upon storm-churned waters. Sharinta watched the performance with rapt attention. Never had she seen a reenactment of this story done in such a way. Of course it was all wrong, she knew the history straight from her father, how could this be a true rendition of the story? Others had come to watch the performance, and the area in front of the stage was soon full with local peasants. There was much cheering at the completion of the performance, and Sharinta even clapped along in appreciation.
Karina had refilled her glass several times, without drawing attention to the fact that she was present. She did step forward to address the Princess after the clapping had died down.
“Next you will see a combat exhibition, look to the open wall there.”
As Sharinta turned to her left, she saw the gathering soldiers, who abruptly began fighting at the attention of her gaze. Testing herself, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers with disastrous results. The poor man left himself open at the thrust of a short sword, and paid a dear price, as the blade pierced him through the belly. Sharinta suppressed an amused snort, and the exhibition was abruptly terminated.
Having been thrown off a bit, the handmaiden directed Sharinta to view the stage once again for a dance performance. The curtain was drawn up earlier than expected, and the dancers beyond were revealed, stretching in preparation for their performance. They quickly composed themselves, and put on a performance, so lively, that the Princess could almost feel the exhilaration. Again she half-heartedly joined in the applause being offered by the peasants. It was clear to her, that she might almost enjoy living here, with entertainment such as this, to be had. Karina stepped forward and announced that it was now time to meet the king.
Emboldened by her recent actions, the Princess arose to follow the handmaiden back into the castle. She was led to an archway, with slayers as guardsmen, and followed Karina through the doors. They closed with a silent finality behind them, and the Princess took in the audience chamber. A tall throne sat upon a raised platform on the far side of the room. Someone stood behind the chair. Karina spoke, disturbing the profound silence of the chamber.
“Move to the circle painted on the floor, at the base of the dais, and kneel to your new King.”
Sharinta did as she was bade, and gazed upon the throne and the man standing in the shadows beyond. She wondered how young and impressionable he would be, and how much control she would be able to exert over him. Her father was clever, and she knew how persuasive she could be. All of these thought were shattered when the King stepped from behind his thrown, with a knowing look upon his face. Sharinta stared in shock, the famed warrior king, standing before her, not dead as she had been told. His was an old power, and one she would never be able to influence.
He began chanting a spell, which transfixed the Princess to her kneeling spot. “Jezzeri Malificantina ni Zespatsia I call you into my service, and bind you to my blood. So long as I safely live, your undying soul will be safe. Should harm come to me, or you not keep my alive by any means at your disposal, your soul is forfeit.”
A grin spread across his face, as he cut his arm, dripping blood as he stepped down to the circle now glowing around the Princess. He allowed his blood to touch the circle, as runes shown through the dirt rubbed into them, disguising their purpose.
Sharinta turned her head up and screamed.
“Father no, how could you give him my true name?” Her eyes blackened in anger, and wings sprung from her back, as she revealed her true form.
The warrior king looked upon her, and answered the question for her absent father. “He saw the writing on the wall. We fought to stalemate long enough. His demons versus my slayers, was taking a toll on both our kingdoms. You are to be my prize, and I will partner with your father to fight his demonic brethren on other borders. You will keep me alive at all costs, or lose yourself. Your father will not make an attempt on my life, or risk losing his daughter, or would he?” The King laughed, and the Princess looked on in disbelief.
Round 1 Match 2 (Friday):
Graywolf-ELM vs. Mythago
--------------------------------
The Princess
Jezzeri Malificantina ni Zespatsia sat in the red velvet-lined carriage as it slowly jostled along the city street. She hoped never to hear that name again, as she pondered the name that was used more widely: Princess Sharinta. She gazed out the window of her gilded transport listening to the clop clop of shod feet pulling the carriage over cobblestone streets. Peasants scurried out of the way, as the widely announced new bride to the king was ushered through the streets, with no less than a score of the kingdom’s finest slayers riding in escort.
The Princess caught the admiring gaze of an occasional male, and smiled demurely each time, in just the right measure to earn a burning fealty. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, ruling over these people. The gaze of a female often came with jealousy or derision, but also sometimes with some admiration earning them a demure smile as well, and a mischievous thought. She was a princess, of course, but the ruling class had their vices and guilty pleasures, did they not?
Sharinta was shaken from her thoughts by the jarring halt of ironclad wood on cobblestones. With almost unseemly timing, the door to the carriage was pulled open to reveal an expansive courtyard to an immense fortified castle. A footman’s gloved hand appeared in the open doorway with practiced flair and perfect positioning for the lady within to grasp. Assistance was not needed but Sharinta appreciated that proper deference was given to a lady of her station, even if she was the bride price of a truce made between kingdoms. Taking the proffered hand, The Princess stepped gracefully from the carriage into the presence of her escorts, the footman, and an elderly blind woman.
The Princess took in the situation and made an effort to command the situation. “You may rise and take me to see my King.” The old woman began to laugh as she stood, and faced Sharinta.
“You will see him tomorrow my lady, after you have enjoyed the entertainment that our lands have to offer. Our performers and skilled warriors will perform for you, demonstrating the grace and skill that your father has attempted to destroy these many years. My name is Karina, I was chosen as your handmaiden, because of my loyalty, and my additional resistance to your charms. Please follow me, and I will show you to your quarters, and prepare you for the evening sleep.”
The old maid turned, and began walking to a side door from the courtyard, waving her hand at the guardsmen as she walked.
The next morning, Sharinta was awakened to the sound of the old woman laying out her clothes for the day. A mist green gown, with laces up the bodice, and a sheer underskirt to the dress, coupled with white slippers to complete the outfit. As the Princess shifted out from beneath the covers, the handmaiden turned to her.
“Ahh, you are awake then. Best be getting you dressed, there is much to see before you meet your King.”
Sharinta did her best to charm the woman with soft words as she was being dressed, but the old woman did her job efficiently without being distracted. After a quick breakfast, which Karina had brought to the room, the Princess was led to a small entertainment area built into the castle. At one end of the small field, a stage was built up against the castle wall. The other end of the area was open to a field behind the castle, with barren hills beyond. The Princess was brought to a shaded sitting area where refreshments were waiting. The handmaiden introduced the first show of the day.
“An acting troupe from the southern holdings will perform, ‘The Final Crossing of Findus Stemp.’ "
As if on queue the curtains rose from the stage, to show the fearful faces of four performers sailing a ship upon storm-churned waters. Sharinta watched the performance with rapt attention. Never had she seen a reenactment of this story done in such a way. Of course it was all wrong, she knew the history straight from her father, how could this be a true rendition of the story? Others had come to watch the performance, and the area in front of the stage was soon full with local peasants. There was much cheering at the completion of the performance, and Sharinta even clapped along in appreciation.
Karina had refilled her glass several times, without drawing attention to the fact that she was present. She did step forward to address the Princess after the clapping had died down.
“Next you will see a combat exhibition, look to the open wall there.”
As Sharinta turned to her left, she saw the gathering soldiers, who abruptly began fighting at the attention of her gaze. Testing herself, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers with disastrous results. The poor man left himself open at the thrust of a short sword, and paid a dear price, as the blade pierced him through the belly. Sharinta suppressed an amused snort, and the exhibition was abruptly terminated.
Having been thrown off a bit, the handmaiden directed Sharinta to view the stage once again for a dance performance. The curtain was drawn up earlier than expected, and the dancers beyond were revealed, stretching in preparation for their performance. They quickly composed themselves, and put on a performance, so lively, that the Princess could almost feel the exhilaration. Again she half-heartedly joined in the applause being offered by the peasants. It was clear to her, that she might almost enjoy living here, with entertainment such as this, to be had. Karina stepped forward and announced that it was now time to meet the king.
Emboldened by her recent actions, the Princess arose to follow the handmaiden back into the castle. She was led to an archway, with slayers as guardsmen, and followed Karina through the doors. They closed with a silent finality behind them, and the Princess took in the audience chamber. A tall throne sat upon a raised platform on the far side of the room. Someone stood behind the chair. Karina spoke, disturbing the profound silence of the chamber.
“Move to the circle painted on the floor, at the base of the dais, and kneel to your new King.”
Sharinta did as she was bade, and gazed upon the throne and the man standing in the shadows beyond. She wondered how young and impressionable he would be, and how much control she would be able to exert over him. Her father was clever, and she knew how persuasive she could be. All of these thought were shattered when the King stepped from behind his thrown, with a knowing look upon his face. Sharinta stared in shock, the famed warrior king, standing before her, not dead as she had been told. His was an old power, and one she would never be able to influence.
He began chanting a spell, which transfixed the Princess to her kneeling spot. “Jezzeri Malificantina ni Zespatsia I call you into my service, and bind you to my blood. So long as I safely live, your undying soul will be safe. Should harm come to me, or you not keep my alive by any means at your disposal, your soul is forfeit.”
A grin spread across his face, as he cut his arm, dripping blood as he stepped down to the circle now glowing around the Princess. He allowed his blood to touch the circle, as runes shown through the dirt rubbed into them, disguising their purpose.
Sharinta turned her head up and screamed.
“Father no, how could you give him my true name?” Her eyes blackened in anger, and wings sprung from her back, as she revealed her true form.
The warrior king looked upon her, and answered the question for her absent father. “He saw the writing on the wall. We fought to stalemate long enough. His demons versus my slayers, was taking a toll on both our kingdoms. You are to be my prize, and I will partner with your father to fight his demonic brethren on other borders. You will keep me alive at all costs, or lose yourself. Your father will not make an attempt on my life, or risk losing his daughter, or would he?” The King laughed, and the Princess looked on in disbelief.
Graywolf-ELM
Explorer
Ok, short, and hopefully sweet. I ran out of time tonight, and will not have time at work in the morning. I hope it is enjoyable.
GW
GW
Aris Dragonborn
First Post
I wasn't able to get much work done on my story this time around, as I came down with a nasty virus that knocked me flat for the better part of the weekend.
Here's the little I came up with.
It all started on St. Patrick’s Day.
I was at my favorite watering hole, the Green Clover, with my friends. We were knocking back a few beers after work, enjoying the holiday, and looking forward to the rest of the weekend. The topic of conversation at the moment was “What Would You Do If You Won The Lottery?” This was a popular subject, one that was brought up every so often. After all, everyone loved to dream about hitting it big.
“So, Danny, what would you do if you were a millionaire?” Sean asked. I drained my glass, and then waved to a waitress for another. Like everyone else at the bar, I had given this a fair bit of thought. “Well, the first thing I’d do is pay off all my parents debt,” I said. “Then, I’d buy myself a nice house in the country somewhere – nothing too big, mind you.” I paused as the waitress brought me a fresh beer. I thanked her with a smile and a wink, and took a long pull before I continued. “And near a lake, I think. Somewhere I can go fishing or boating whenever I wish.” I took a thoughtful sip, and finished, “And I’d buy myself a nice car – or a truck perhaps. Brand new, leather interior and all the bells and whistles you can think of.”
“Ah, Danny, such a simple soul you are,” Kathy said, laughing. “Don’t you want to see the world? Travel across Europe; see the sights, as it were?”
“Not our Danny!” said Kevin. “Now me, I’d invest that money. Maybe start up a company and make even more money. How’s that sound, Danny?”
“Like it’s more trouble than it’s worth,” I replied with a laugh. “For you, it may be all right, but for a ‘simple soul’ such as myself, it’d be more than I could handle, I’m afraid.” We had a good laugh at that.
I drained my beer, and once again looked around for a waitress. Seeing that none were available, I made my way to the bar to order a pitcher. As I drew near, I was astonished to see a midget standing upon the bar, dressed as a leprechaun. What a wonderful thing to do on St. Patrick’s Day!
I bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer, my friends momentarily forgotten. I watched with amusement as the leprechaun danced up and down the bar, pausing only long enough to toast others standing at the bar.
Here's the little I came up with.
It all started on St. Patrick’s Day.
I was at my favorite watering hole, the Green Clover, with my friends. We were knocking back a few beers after work, enjoying the holiday, and looking forward to the rest of the weekend. The topic of conversation at the moment was “What Would You Do If You Won The Lottery?” This was a popular subject, one that was brought up every so often. After all, everyone loved to dream about hitting it big.
“So, Danny, what would you do if you were a millionaire?” Sean asked. I drained my glass, and then waved to a waitress for another. Like everyone else at the bar, I had given this a fair bit of thought. “Well, the first thing I’d do is pay off all my parents debt,” I said. “Then, I’d buy myself a nice house in the country somewhere – nothing too big, mind you.” I paused as the waitress brought me a fresh beer. I thanked her with a smile and a wink, and took a long pull before I continued. “And near a lake, I think. Somewhere I can go fishing or boating whenever I wish.” I took a thoughtful sip, and finished, “And I’d buy myself a nice car – or a truck perhaps. Brand new, leather interior and all the bells and whistles you can think of.”
“Ah, Danny, such a simple soul you are,” Kathy said, laughing. “Don’t you want to see the world? Travel across Europe; see the sights, as it were?”
“Not our Danny!” said Kevin. “Now me, I’d invest that money. Maybe start up a company and make even more money. How’s that sound, Danny?”
“Like it’s more trouble than it’s worth,” I replied with a laugh. “For you, it may be all right, but for a ‘simple soul’ such as myself, it’d be more than I could handle, I’m afraid.” We had a good laugh at that.
I drained my beer, and once again looked around for a waitress. Seeing that none were available, I made my way to the bar to order a pitcher. As I drew near, I was astonished to see a midget standing upon the bar, dressed as a leprechaun. What a wonderful thing to do on St. Patrick’s Day!
I bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer, my friends momentarily forgotten. I watched with amusement as the leprechaun danced up and down the bar, pausing only long enough to toast others standing at the bar.
mythago
Hero
Domino
by mythago - Round 1 Match 2
The strobe of high-end digital Nikons faded and even the clicking of the bloggers’ keyboards faded into silence. The first public testing of the RealMasque was about to happen, and it would be news and a photo-op either way, triumphant failure or crashing success. The crowd stilled as Ekaterina Varukovna’s wheelchair rolled over the polished wooden floor.
Cameron Tetsuno shook her hand; that is, he gently took her limp hand between his, then gently replaced it on the armrest of her wheelchair. The wheelchair’s hum echoed through the dance studio. The boom microphones dipped like watering cranes. Miss Varukovna’s attendants hovered and fussed behind her as she looked at the RealMasques carefully draped over the barré for her inspection[1]; ballerinas as slender and beautiful as she had been at the height of her career, the prima ballerina whose on-stage collapse at the Bolshoi Theater turned out to be not a strained muscle or exhaustion, but a disease she had the honor of sharing with the late Stephen Hawking.
Tetsuno knew none of this until he had directed his staff to find a likely candidate for the RealMasque’s public demonstration. Varukovna was not only one of the most pitiful subject, but at twenty-four, one of the most photogenic. And the story of her tragic degeneration gave an extra boost to the publicity, drawing in the entertainment media as well as the serious news sources.
The ruined ballerina flexed her right hand, the only one over which she still had some measure of control. One of her attendants hurried to swivel a modified keyboard under her hand. The room was silent except for her slow, irregular tapping. When she was finished, the speaker at the back of her chair recited the words she’d written in a bland female voice, and in Russian. The news reporter from ITAR-TASS scribbled something on his pad; Varukovna struggled to press another button on her pad and the computer repeated what she’d said in English.
“Are they all the same?”
Tetsuno smiled, the same brilliant, just-you-and-me smile that had helped make him famous, and was about to make him rich. The cameras started up fitfully; he ignored them, the only thing seeming to be of interest right now was Miss Varukovna’s question. “They are all the same in what they can do for you, a bit different in appearance. But whichever one you choose will be unique, once you put in on, madam.”
She rolled forward without another word. RealMasque employees hurried forward with screens to surround her and her attendants, and the barré. It would have been easier to let her take the RealMasque to a changing room, but this was far more dramatic. The viewers would imagine Varukovna undressed and slipping into the RealMasque almost before their eyes; the screens invited curiosity in way walls and closed doors wouldn’t.
There were the sounds of clothes unfolding, and a long pause, and then somebody behind the screen cried out sharply in Russian. The crowd of reporters leaned forward like greyhounds straining at the race gate.
Ekaterina Varukovna stepped from behind the screen, en pointe.
Over the escalating voices of television reporters and the staccato flash of what seemed like a thousand cameras, Tetsuno went to her, smiling as if he’d expected nothing less, which, of course, he had. The RealMasque blurred her features somewhat, the skin looked more like a doll’s than a woman’s, but it did exactly what he had promised: it was a flexible exoskeleton that responded to her brain’s commands, ignoring her useless muscles. It moved her limbs as gracefully as a master choreographer guiding the arms of his pupil.
She braced herself against his shoulders and bent into a graceful arabesque. She raised one hand to the side in balance, and leaned forward to kiss Tetsuno on the cheek. That, he thought, will be the top-ranked image on the Internet in the next thirty seconds, or my publicist is going to be cleaning out his desk.
Fortunately for his talented and dedicated publicist, it was.
#
“So what exactly got you started in robotics?” she asked.
Tetsuno shrugged. They sat at opposite ends of the V-shaped Armgardt sofa, Tetsuno still in the white tie he’d worn to a charity reception, Sadhye Thul in a cocktail dress that he doubted she could afford on her own; her network had probably let her expense it. Not only had he agreed to an interview, he’d offered to let her accompany him as his date to a certain highbrow charity event whose invitations were rather hard to come by—even for someone as newly famous as Ms. Thul.
He pulled at the loose end of his bow tie and decided to take it off entirely. Dressing up like this made him feel great—a cross between Fred Astaire and Andrew Carnegie—but Sadhye was expecting him to loosen up, hoping that the charming young businessman would get comfortable enough to tell her something he’d later regret putting on the record. He noticed that she’d allowed one of the straps of her dress to slip off her shoulder, and wondered if he ought to be insulted that she thought a few inches of skin would drive him to stupidity.
“All that’s been written up in any number of business articles,” he said. “Three years at Penn, robotics hobbyist, amazing breakthrough, business built from nothing out of my garage, millionaire by age twenty-two, and now I’m bored with it. You’ve probably got everything from my college grades to my blood type, so why ask again? More bourbon?”
She was surprised enough that she actually stopped typing on her palmtop for a moment. Without waiting for an answer, he tapped the house controls and a slender drinks table glided to the end of the couch. He poured them both bourbon over ice, clinked glasses with her in a mocking toast, watched as she sipped her drink, gauging how much she could control her drinking without making it obvious to him that she was trying to let him be the one to get sloppy.
“So, ask me some real questions,” Tetsuno said. “No business fluff. You didn’t spray-paint on that dress to get me to talk about the latest earnings projections for RealMasque—although I will tell you they’re very good.” He smiled and drained his glass, shaking the last drops of bourbon out of the ice cubes pressed against his lips.
Sadhye took his bait and finished her drink. She screwed up her face at the harsh taste of the bourbon, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand with an unladylike shudder.
“All right, real questions,” she said. “What do you have to say about reports that RealMasque is harming the people who use it?”
“You think Ekaterina Varukovna was harmed?”
“She died three months ago.”
“She died happy,” Tetsuno said. “The RealMasque is an exoskeleton, not a miracle cure.”
“It’s more than an exoskeleton, though, isn’t it?” Sadhye said. “Isn’t that the problem? It’s a whole new body, or at least that’s what people think it is. It’s not just for sick people like Varukovna. People buy these things and wear them like they were costumes, sometimes for days, or weeks—“
“—which is clearly an unsafe use of the product, as our warning labels say in great detail—“
“—and they can’t get out. Their muscles atrophy, their nerves stop talking to their brains, and they’re stuck. As a model, or a pirate, or whatever they’re pretending to be. They can’t take it off or they’ll be crippled. How can you justify that?”
Tetsuno put his glass down on the little table. He leaned forward and took Sadhye’s palmtop out of her hands, then switched it off. “I can justify it because that’s what people want,” he said. “They don’t want to live in their bodies. They’re not taking any risks I haven’t told them about already. What’s happening to people who live in RealMasques is what they want to happen. That’s the price they’ll pay. What’s the problem?”
“You think turning off my palmtop is going to shut me up?”
He tossed the computer onto the couch pillows next to her. “Talk all you want. Do you think anyone is going to stop buying fantasies because you scolded them in your v-blog? If you think I should feel bad about being rich, think about what paid for all your drinks tonight, all those fancy little hors d’oeuvres you ate and the limousine that brought you here. It’s probably some farm equipment salesman in Des Moines who spent his retirement fund on a RealMasque so that he could surprise his wife on their anniversary.”
She grabbed her computer and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the inlaid glass. Tetsuno poured himself another glass of bourbon. Eventually she’d realize that it was half a mile from the door to the end of the driveway, and her car was all the way back in Los Angeles. He wondered if she’d brought enough money for a taxi.
#
A year and a half after Ekaterina Varukovna died smiling in her RealMasque, the military came calling.
Tetsuno had already seen what everyone was calling the “gladiator video”. RealMasques had always been popular among military re-creationists—wealthy ones, anyway—and one warranty-voiding user had apparently changed not only the functioning of his nerves, but the way his body reacted to trauma. A jealous ex-husband used real steel instead of a blunted weapon at a mock Battle of Ruspina.[2] His victim wasn’t gutted and barely bled. Tetsuno had already seen the video dissected in meetings for weeks after the incident, but still, when the Naval Research Laboratory knocked on his door, he pretended to be surprised and they pretended to believe him.
He replaced his yacht with a bigger one and spent more of his time there. With the upgraded communications equipment, he barely needed to conduct meetings in-person. Besides, more and more of his staff were using their employee discounts to buy themselves RealMasques. He was proud of what he had invented, but he didn’t enjoy spending long stretches of time chatting with what looked like extremely well-animated mannequins. At least on a computer screen you expected them to look unreal.
Three years after the ballerina died, Tetsuno threw his last party. He still wasn’t thrilled to see nearly all of his guests “in costume,” as everyone called it. He shook hands and flirted and drank good whiskey, and found a woman he liked enough to take back to his room. He pulled her down to him and realized something was wrong, something he was too drunk to name until she covered him with her body and he felt her, too light for a woman, he’d been with fashion models heavier than she, and he knew it was the RealMasque. She was a shell, her real body not only wasted or atrophied but missing. He had been about to make love to a robot, something that used to be human.
It was perhaps a month after the last party and the worst hangover of his life that the pirates attacked.
The security systems should have caught them. He wasn’t sure what went wrong; a shortage in the power system, or a gap in the patrol-boat schedule. Something woke Tetsuno up in the middle of the night, a thud and a gargling cry that he thought might have been a man having his throat cut, but that was silly; you couldn’t kill a man that way anymore. Not unless he was out of his RealMasque. That would be me, Tetsuno thought. Nude, he grabbed a bathrobe and went out into the chilly ocean night, tying the belt as he ran, looking for any of the staff, security best of all, anyone would do, anyone else in the oddly silent ship.
They found him as he headed for the emergency boats. He slipped on the wet deck and fell hard on his right hip. Pirates were known to prey on private boats this far from any Coast Guard or routine naval patrol; he’d expected an ugly, ragged crew of professional killers, or, for no good reason, men dressed in the RealMasques designed to look like the Caribbean pirates that had once been so popular at Halloween. He wasn’t expecting the cast of a Gilbert and Sullivan musical, RealMasques or no.
“There!” one of them shouted, pointing [3], and they swarmed onto the deck.
Tetsudo closed his eyes and hoped death would be fast, if not painless. He felt no blows and no pain, only some pushing and tugging. He tried to push away, and found his arms and legs would not move; he struggled for a few moments before realizing that the strange pirates had bound him with rope. They pulled him to his feet, wobbling, them lifted him into air and carried him aft. He heard the ocean nearby and knew that he was near the rail. They’re going to throw me into the ocean? Why bother to tie me up? he thought, and then he was back on his feet, stumbling as the pirates around fell to their knees, their prostrations beating a tattoo on deck.
The man who hauled himself over the rail looked unreal. Tetsudo knew, even in his isolation, what models and styles of RealMasques his company made. They’d avoided racial stereotypes, and turned down a generous offer from the Cleveland Indians to make a “RealMascot”, but RealMasques came in all ethnicities. None of the Indian RealMasques looked like this man at all. [4] The headdress might have been aftermarket, but there was something strange about it, something Tetsudo could not make out in the faint glow of the ship’s emergency lights—
“Why are they kneeling to you?” he said. “Is this some kind of cult?”
The unreal Indian laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. “Cult!” he said. “I guess you could call it a cargo cult! But it’s not me they worship. It’s you.”
Tetsudo looked around uneasily at the kneeling pirates. “Me? Why?”
“You’re the Creator,” the Indian said. He plucked a cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear and offered it to Tetsudo, who shook his head. The Indian shrugged and put it away again.
“They kneel to me because I am for you,” he said. “I am the first of our kind to begin Empty, rather than become Empty after the useless meat has withered away. These machines I wear”—he gestured at the circuit board slung around his neck—“give me the ability to act like a machine, as though I had been filled. You will wear me, and we will become one as your body withers away. You can’t know how much human labor and love has gone into making a vessel worthy of you.”
Tetsudo backed away from the talking RealMasque and crashed into the pirates. They pushed him forward as he screamed and fought against the ropes, helpless as they held him ready for the embrace of one of his creations.
The Indian removed his headdress and set it aside as he began to undo his fastenings, making a space for the man who would wear him. Tetsudo’s jaw was held tight as one of the pirates lifted the headdress and set it gently, reverentially on Tetsudo’s head, as if he were crowning a king.
[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27626
[2] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27625
[3] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27624
[4] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27627
by mythago - Round 1 Match 2
The strobe of high-end digital Nikons faded and even the clicking of the bloggers’ keyboards faded into silence. The first public testing of the RealMasque was about to happen, and it would be news and a photo-op either way, triumphant failure or crashing success. The crowd stilled as Ekaterina Varukovna’s wheelchair rolled over the polished wooden floor.
Cameron Tetsuno shook her hand; that is, he gently took her limp hand between his, then gently replaced it on the armrest of her wheelchair. The wheelchair’s hum echoed through the dance studio. The boom microphones dipped like watering cranes. Miss Varukovna’s attendants hovered and fussed behind her as she looked at the RealMasques carefully draped over the barré for her inspection[1]; ballerinas as slender and beautiful as she had been at the height of her career, the prima ballerina whose on-stage collapse at the Bolshoi Theater turned out to be not a strained muscle or exhaustion, but a disease she had the honor of sharing with the late Stephen Hawking.
Tetsuno knew none of this until he had directed his staff to find a likely candidate for the RealMasque’s public demonstration. Varukovna was not only one of the most pitiful subject, but at twenty-four, one of the most photogenic. And the story of her tragic degeneration gave an extra boost to the publicity, drawing in the entertainment media as well as the serious news sources.
The ruined ballerina flexed her right hand, the only one over which she still had some measure of control. One of her attendants hurried to swivel a modified keyboard under her hand. The room was silent except for her slow, irregular tapping. When she was finished, the speaker at the back of her chair recited the words she’d written in a bland female voice, and in Russian. The news reporter from ITAR-TASS scribbled something on his pad; Varukovna struggled to press another button on her pad and the computer repeated what she’d said in English.
“Are they all the same?”
Tetsuno smiled, the same brilliant, just-you-and-me smile that had helped make him famous, and was about to make him rich. The cameras started up fitfully; he ignored them, the only thing seeming to be of interest right now was Miss Varukovna’s question. “They are all the same in what they can do for you, a bit different in appearance. But whichever one you choose will be unique, once you put in on, madam.”
She rolled forward without another word. RealMasque employees hurried forward with screens to surround her and her attendants, and the barré. It would have been easier to let her take the RealMasque to a changing room, but this was far more dramatic. The viewers would imagine Varukovna undressed and slipping into the RealMasque almost before their eyes; the screens invited curiosity in way walls and closed doors wouldn’t.
There were the sounds of clothes unfolding, and a long pause, and then somebody behind the screen cried out sharply in Russian. The crowd of reporters leaned forward like greyhounds straining at the race gate.
Ekaterina Varukovna stepped from behind the screen, en pointe.
Over the escalating voices of television reporters and the staccato flash of what seemed like a thousand cameras, Tetsuno went to her, smiling as if he’d expected nothing less, which, of course, he had. The RealMasque blurred her features somewhat, the skin looked more like a doll’s than a woman’s, but it did exactly what he had promised: it was a flexible exoskeleton that responded to her brain’s commands, ignoring her useless muscles. It moved her limbs as gracefully as a master choreographer guiding the arms of his pupil.
She braced herself against his shoulders and bent into a graceful arabesque. She raised one hand to the side in balance, and leaned forward to kiss Tetsuno on the cheek. That, he thought, will be the top-ranked image on the Internet in the next thirty seconds, or my publicist is going to be cleaning out his desk.
Fortunately for his talented and dedicated publicist, it was.
#
“So what exactly got you started in robotics?” she asked.
Tetsuno shrugged. They sat at opposite ends of the V-shaped Armgardt sofa, Tetsuno still in the white tie he’d worn to a charity reception, Sadhye Thul in a cocktail dress that he doubted she could afford on her own; her network had probably let her expense it. Not only had he agreed to an interview, he’d offered to let her accompany him as his date to a certain highbrow charity event whose invitations were rather hard to come by—even for someone as newly famous as Ms. Thul.
He pulled at the loose end of his bow tie and decided to take it off entirely. Dressing up like this made him feel great—a cross between Fred Astaire and Andrew Carnegie—but Sadhye was expecting him to loosen up, hoping that the charming young businessman would get comfortable enough to tell her something he’d later regret putting on the record. He noticed that she’d allowed one of the straps of her dress to slip off her shoulder, and wondered if he ought to be insulted that she thought a few inches of skin would drive him to stupidity.
“All that’s been written up in any number of business articles,” he said. “Three years at Penn, robotics hobbyist, amazing breakthrough, business built from nothing out of my garage, millionaire by age twenty-two, and now I’m bored with it. You’ve probably got everything from my college grades to my blood type, so why ask again? More bourbon?”
She was surprised enough that she actually stopped typing on her palmtop for a moment. Without waiting for an answer, he tapped the house controls and a slender drinks table glided to the end of the couch. He poured them both bourbon over ice, clinked glasses with her in a mocking toast, watched as she sipped her drink, gauging how much she could control her drinking without making it obvious to him that she was trying to let him be the one to get sloppy.
“So, ask me some real questions,” Tetsuno said. “No business fluff. You didn’t spray-paint on that dress to get me to talk about the latest earnings projections for RealMasque—although I will tell you they’re very good.” He smiled and drained his glass, shaking the last drops of bourbon out of the ice cubes pressed against his lips.
Sadhye took his bait and finished her drink. She screwed up her face at the harsh taste of the bourbon, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand with an unladylike shudder.
“All right, real questions,” she said. “What do you have to say about reports that RealMasque is harming the people who use it?”
“You think Ekaterina Varukovna was harmed?”
“She died three months ago.”
“She died happy,” Tetsuno said. “The RealMasque is an exoskeleton, not a miracle cure.”
“It’s more than an exoskeleton, though, isn’t it?” Sadhye said. “Isn’t that the problem? It’s a whole new body, or at least that’s what people think it is. It’s not just for sick people like Varukovna. People buy these things and wear them like they were costumes, sometimes for days, or weeks—“
“—which is clearly an unsafe use of the product, as our warning labels say in great detail—“
“—and they can’t get out. Their muscles atrophy, their nerves stop talking to their brains, and they’re stuck. As a model, or a pirate, or whatever they’re pretending to be. They can’t take it off or they’ll be crippled. How can you justify that?”
Tetsuno put his glass down on the little table. He leaned forward and took Sadhye’s palmtop out of her hands, then switched it off. “I can justify it because that’s what people want,” he said. “They don’t want to live in their bodies. They’re not taking any risks I haven’t told them about already. What’s happening to people who live in RealMasques is what they want to happen. That’s the price they’ll pay. What’s the problem?”
“You think turning off my palmtop is going to shut me up?”
He tossed the computer onto the couch pillows next to her. “Talk all you want. Do you think anyone is going to stop buying fantasies because you scolded them in your v-blog? If you think I should feel bad about being rich, think about what paid for all your drinks tonight, all those fancy little hors d’oeuvres you ate and the limousine that brought you here. It’s probably some farm equipment salesman in Des Moines who spent his retirement fund on a RealMasque so that he could surprise his wife on their anniversary.”
She grabbed her computer and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the inlaid glass. Tetsuno poured himself another glass of bourbon. Eventually she’d realize that it was half a mile from the door to the end of the driveway, and her car was all the way back in Los Angeles. He wondered if she’d brought enough money for a taxi.
#
A year and a half after Ekaterina Varukovna died smiling in her RealMasque, the military came calling.
Tetsuno had already seen what everyone was calling the “gladiator video”. RealMasques had always been popular among military re-creationists—wealthy ones, anyway—and one warranty-voiding user had apparently changed not only the functioning of his nerves, but the way his body reacted to trauma. A jealous ex-husband used real steel instead of a blunted weapon at a mock Battle of Ruspina.[2] His victim wasn’t gutted and barely bled. Tetsuno had already seen the video dissected in meetings for weeks after the incident, but still, when the Naval Research Laboratory knocked on his door, he pretended to be surprised and they pretended to believe him.
He replaced his yacht with a bigger one and spent more of his time there. With the upgraded communications equipment, he barely needed to conduct meetings in-person. Besides, more and more of his staff were using their employee discounts to buy themselves RealMasques. He was proud of what he had invented, but he didn’t enjoy spending long stretches of time chatting with what looked like extremely well-animated mannequins. At least on a computer screen you expected them to look unreal.
Three years after the ballerina died, Tetsuno threw his last party. He still wasn’t thrilled to see nearly all of his guests “in costume,” as everyone called it. He shook hands and flirted and drank good whiskey, and found a woman he liked enough to take back to his room. He pulled her down to him and realized something was wrong, something he was too drunk to name until she covered him with her body and he felt her, too light for a woman, he’d been with fashion models heavier than she, and he knew it was the RealMasque. She was a shell, her real body not only wasted or atrophied but missing. He had been about to make love to a robot, something that used to be human.
It was perhaps a month after the last party and the worst hangover of his life that the pirates attacked.
The security systems should have caught them. He wasn’t sure what went wrong; a shortage in the power system, or a gap in the patrol-boat schedule. Something woke Tetsuno up in the middle of the night, a thud and a gargling cry that he thought might have been a man having his throat cut, but that was silly; you couldn’t kill a man that way anymore. Not unless he was out of his RealMasque. That would be me, Tetsuno thought. Nude, he grabbed a bathrobe and went out into the chilly ocean night, tying the belt as he ran, looking for any of the staff, security best of all, anyone would do, anyone else in the oddly silent ship.
They found him as he headed for the emergency boats. He slipped on the wet deck and fell hard on his right hip. Pirates were known to prey on private boats this far from any Coast Guard or routine naval patrol; he’d expected an ugly, ragged crew of professional killers, or, for no good reason, men dressed in the RealMasques designed to look like the Caribbean pirates that had once been so popular at Halloween. He wasn’t expecting the cast of a Gilbert and Sullivan musical, RealMasques or no.
“There!” one of them shouted, pointing [3], and they swarmed onto the deck.
Tetsudo closed his eyes and hoped death would be fast, if not painless. He felt no blows and no pain, only some pushing and tugging. He tried to push away, and found his arms and legs would not move; he struggled for a few moments before realizing that the strange pirates had bound him with rope. They pulled him to his feet, wobbling, them lifted him into air and carried him aft. He heard the ocean nearby and knew that he was near the rail. They’re going to throw me into the ocean? Why bother to tie me up? he thought, and then he was back on his feet, stumbling as the pirates around fell to their knees, their prostrations beating a tattoo on deck.
The man who hauled himself over the rail looked unreal. Tetsudo knew, even in his isolation, what models and styles of RealMasques his company made. They’d avoided racial stereotypes, and turned down a generous offer from the Cleveland Indians to make a “RealMascot”, but RealMasques came in all ethnicities. None of the Indian RealMasques looked like this man at all. [4] The headdress might have been aftermarket, but there was something strange about it, something Tetsudo could not make out in the faint glow of the ship’s emergency lights—
“Why are they kneeling to you?” he said. “Is this some kind of cult?”
The unreal Indian laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. “Cult!” he said. “I guess you could call it a cargo cult! But it’s not me they worship. It’s you.”
Tetsudo looked around uneasily at the kneeling pirates. “Me? Why?”
“You’re the Creator,” the Indian said. He plucked a cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear and offered it to Tetsudo, who shook his head. The Indian shrugged and put it away again.
“They kneel to me because I am for you,” he said. “I am the first of our kind to begin Empty, rather than become Empty after the useless meat has withered away. These machines I wear”—he gestured at the circuit board slung around his neck—“give me the ability to act like a machine, as though I had been filled. You will wear me, and we will become one as your body withers away. You can’t know how much human labor and love has gone into making a vessel worthy of you.”
Tetsudo backed away from the talking RealMasque and crashed into the pirates. They pushed him forward as he screamed and fought against the ropes, helpless as they held him ready for the embrace of one of his creations.
The Indian removed his headdress and set it aside as he began to undo his fastenings, making a space for the man who would wear him. Tetsudo’s jaw was held tight as one of the pirates lifted the headdress and set it gently, reverentially on Tetsudo’s head, as if he were crowning a king.
[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27626
[2] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27625
[3] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27624
[4] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27627
