Post by CanisDirus on Mar 6, 2022 16:46:40 GMT
A shrill shriek filled the air, as a small child was punted in front of a wolf. It landed with a thud, some protective gear giving it temporary relief from anything less than a bruise, and it looked up in a daze.
Kick number 123. It came and went, as the child was picked up and punted by the wolf, landing in front of a rat.
Kick number 124. Back to the wolf, harder than the rat had punted.
125. It was a strange game. And to the wolf, it seemed a touch mindless.
The Isoterran pondered to himself, as he watched the child sail through the air, back and forth between him and the Zetyan who he elected to play this ‘game’ with. He had originally come to this planet-somewhere in the Zettish ‘core worlds’-to see what sort of sports they had, and had ended up in this city with this Zetyan as his ‘liason’; perhaps they had something like tackleball, or engaged in combat sports on a much wider scale. This, however, was unexpected. A bit too overt for his liking-for him, such displays of cruelty were best suited for private occasions, rather than shown out in the streets.
The Zetyan seemed to sense this, and began conversation with him as she tried pulling off ball tricks with the small child.
“Whaddaya think of it?”
“It’s… odd, to say the least.” he replied. “Perhaps I expected something more… sportlike?
“Eh, fair. This isn’t much of a ‘sport’, honestly, but it’s the most popular one around.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s more of a backwater sport than anything. Those folks ain’t real bright when it comes to most stuff, but apparently fun time-waster sports are their forte.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘fun’. Or a sport. More just something to do when bored.”
“Hey, you’d be surprised with what backwater folks do with it. They have whole competitions around punting runts, like ‘how far or hard can you punt it’, or ‘can you kill a guy by punting a runt into it’, or some shit. That’s where most of the entertainment comes from.”
“Mm.” At minimum, this wasn’t all there was to it. Still, one could only laugh at a joke so many times, and the runt’s harried screams were starting to get stale.
“What other sports do you have?” He asked in turn, putting the runt’s misery to an end by kicking him nonchalantly to the side.
“Uhh, well…” She took a moment to think. He pondered if it was a he; from what he had seen of these newfound ‘allies’, there was little difference between the two genders even in voice.
“We got some fighting sports, the CFC and BYSI competitions are pretty popular.” A common sport, easy to rally around. “We also got volley-ball competitions about four times a year, those are pretty fun to watch. Shoot, I think one might be going on right now-”
“V-volleyball? The one with the net?” He couldn’t help but ask with an incredulous tone. Volleyball didn’t seem like their type of sport, far from it.
“Nets? What do you-” She stopped for a moment, realizing. “Ohhh, that volleyball. No, it’s not that kind. That shit’s for pussies. You wanna see it?”
“Sure.” His interest was now roused; evidently they had heard of Volleyball, but apparently there was a definite distinction to be made.
“Alright, cool. Hey, you, c’mere one moment.” She went up to the battered runt, and paid it with some currency as she asked it some questions.
And then, off they went, to some joint deeper in the city…
---
“OOOON YOUR MARKS! READY!.... SET!..... GOOOOOOOOO!”
The sound of a klaxon blaring accentuated the announcer’s booming voice, as a host of people began running into an obstacle course. Men, women, children of all ages alike began to file into a maze, loudly screaming at each other as they competed to be the fastest runner.
But opposite their side, three orbish machines stuffed to the brim with guns began to float above the arena, bouncing off the ground and accentuating their ascents with rocket boosters. A shot rang out, then several, and then a host of freely-fired bullets were now raining down on the contestants like a warzone had just erupted.
And the Isoterran wondered to himself how anyone was supposed to win this game at all.
They had viewed some fighting competitions earlier, and they were quite interesting with who could fight what; he had seen a ‘runt’ go toe to toe with a trained kickboxer with nothing but a fork and a prison shank and win, and he’d seen a team of three get floored by a barely-contained bioweapon.
This so-called ‘volley-ball’ certainly lived up to it’s name, as a few of the fastest were ironically mowed down with impudence by an unlucky burst in their direction by the machines. But what could drive them to run through a hell like this?
The Zetyan, on the other hand, seemed to be very into the show, shouting directions and commands fruitlessly into a camera display like many others in the crowd around them as she chewed on some dino nuggies. He found that odd as well; they were ‘zetyan-brand’, and last he checked they weren’t exactly affiliated with those… midgets. He resolved to check up on what economic relations they had with them when he got back to his room.
“Why are they even doing this?! They hardly have a chance!” he shouted at her, having to project his voice to get above the crowd’s screams.
“Big cash prize! Like 3 SIGEC’s worth of strikes or some shit!”
That explained it. It also explained why the remaining 25% were still pushing on, even as most of them had obviously taken a bullet or two to the crowd’s delight. As they began jumping over and dodging past increasingly hostile obstacles, like a spike pit or a swinging mace, the machines now began to actively aim in their direction, albeit still very poorly. Perhaps to give some sporting chance.
Their numbers reduced, until it was just two. And one proved themselves faster than the other, jumping over a fire pit and landing on a finishing pad with glee, celebrating as the crowd went wild and the other began punching a wall in indignation.
“AAAAAAND THE WINNER IS CONTESTANT THIRTY-TWOOO, H’GANLA VOL’TU! CONGRATULA-”
Both were rather rudely interrupted by one of the machines seemingly misfiring a cannon, a ball of fire replacing the ‘lucky’ winner’s lower half. The crowd oohed and aahed, treating the rather macabre scene as if it was just an SNL skit.
“OOOOH, ISN’T THAT UNFORTUNATE! NO WORRIES, H’GANLA, WE’LL GET YOU FIXED UP IN NO TIME WITH THAT NEWFOUND MONEY OF YOURS! I HEAR QUALITY RECONSTRUCTION TREATMENTS ARE ONLY 2 POINT FIVE SIGEC ON THE MARKET!”
The crowd erupted in laughter. The Isoterran now presumed it wasn’t really a misfire at all.
“AS FOR YOU, CONTESTANT TWENTY-FIVE, YOU’VE DONE WELL ENOUGH! WE’LL WIRE YOU A SIGEC FREE OF CHARGE! LOOKS LIKE YOU’LL NEED IT, AFTER ALL!”
The announcer was right; blood stained their clothes on their shoulders and legs, and they seemed to have trouble standing even as they breathed a sigh of relief.
He could now see why the show existed, at least partially. It was their equivalent of a ‘game show’, in their own delightfully twisted way, and for their ‘innovation’ he could atleast give them some credit. But it could use refinement, like many of their things…
…and now ideas were floating into his head, rent free. A slight grin came on his face, as his genetically-modified brain began to ponder just how much their little ideas could be refined, improved, perfected…
---
Ka'lib'an System, Zetyan Clanholds Territory
Near the Ka’lib’an orbitals, the long grey hull of an Isoterran dreadnought arrived. From one of its trio of hangers, a small shuttle departed, flanked by five strikefighters. Once free of the hanger, the group of small craft accelerated away from the massive ship, towards the smoke-choked skies of the Zetyan capital planet. Guided by the local air traffic control, the shuttle and its escort were steered to a small landing pad nearby the government building they would be meeting in, at which point the shuttle began its landing descent, while the strikefighters peeled off, beginning their return to the dreadnought.
The shuttle set down on the landing pad, deploying a set of landing gear that gave it a crouching insectoid look, before shutting off its engines. Presently, the door opened and ramp extended, down which came an entourage of beings. First were two MCU combot robots, brown saurian creatures of metal with glowing orange eyes, marching in a perfect lockstep. Second was a pair of Isoterran marines in dark grey and black powerarmor, with rifles held at a low ready. Finally, Lord Fisk himself strode down the ramp, clad in a dark blue service-style uniform, complete with double gold aiguillette on his right side, and a single gold stripe on each forearm. More importantly however, although perhaps unnoticed to the untrained eye, was the somewhat bulky belt he wore, in reality a magitech personal shield, which presented a subtle symbol of his high status along with its practicality. Trailing him was a handful of aides dressed in business wear, followed by two more MCUs.
Almost immediately, many of the aides were affected by the smog-choked air, carefully trying to contain themselves while coughing into their elbows. Strangely though, Fisk himself seemed unphased and above such loss of composure, as a slight blue shimmering appeared around him from his shield. Thankfully for the aides however, their time outside didn't last long, as the group was ushered inside towards the meeting room by the Zetyan welcome committee. While his guards waited outside, Fisk and the aides were shown into a small conference room, where Voriarch Vol'nisa waited.
Fisk took his seat across from Vol'nisa, separated from the towering Zetyan and his quivering aides by a moderately-sized table made of dark wood and metal. Surrounding them were a variety of holographic displays, showing important bits of information about Project Dreamweaver. Introductions were made, and once everyone was settled, the Voriarch began speaking about his proposed deal for their two nations.
"...so as you can see, if we work together on the megastructure, both of us will benefit." said Vol'nisa, finishing his short monologue, before going silent and looking at the Isoterran leader, waiting to hear his thoughts on the matter.
Fisk considered the information he had been given. The Empire had already been planning their own, similar megastructure within the galaxy, a large-resource intensive project even on the best of days. If they agreed to jointly work with the Zetyans, it would mean an easing on their economy, and taking advantage of the progress they had already made. But it would also mean sharing some of their magitech. From what he had seen, the Zetyans currently only saw magic as a powerful energy source, which while correct, was only the tip of the iceberg. He wondered how long it would take for them to realize what more it could do...But then again, they had already made progress themselves, so why not take advantage of the situation while he still could...
"Your proposal is certainly intriguing, Mr Vol'nisa." he replied. "I think we can make this a joint project. We can contribute scientists, engineers, construction robotics, and even some software for Dreamweaver. In exchange, any monetary profit, as well as the arcane benefits, will be split between our nations."
"Splendid" smiled the Voriarch, showing his pointed teeth, before turning aside to one of his aides and hissing for refreshments to be brought in. A few moments later, a runt entered the room, carrying a tray which seemed slightly too big for it, holding cookies and water. First approaching the guests, the runt carefully walked over to them, before tripping on the carpet and sending the tray flying. One of the Isoterran aides jumped up in anger, the lower legs of her pants soaked.
Vol'nisa growled in irritation, before standing and picking the runt up by the collar, tossing it and its tray out the door and closing it with some force. "My sincerest apologies" he said, addressing the Isoterrans.
Fisk, slightly surprised at the Voriarch's brazen way of dealing with the situation, was nevertheless impressed. "Not to worry, I think we are more than capable of overlooking such a small misstep" he said, with a slight chuckle, while the affected aide promptly regained her composure and simply nodded in agreement. Making a subtle motion of his hand to one of the aides who was still dry, he was handed a datapad, outlining more in detail what he had in mind regarding each nation's contributions, which was handed to the Zetyan leader.
Vol'nissa's six eyes darted through the document, a smile returning to his face. "This will be perfect" he said, before taking a clawed finger and signing at the bottom of the digital agreement.
Kick number 123. It came and went, as the child was picked up and punted by the wolf, landing in front of a rat.
Kick number 124. Back to the wolf, harder than the rat had punted.
125. It was a strange game. And to the wolf, it seemed a touch mindless.
The Isoterran pondered to himself, as he watched the child sail through the air, back and forth between him and the Zetyan who he elected to play this ‘game’ with. He had originally come to this planet-somewhere in the Zettish ‘core worlds’-to see what sort of sports they had, and had ended up in this city with this Zetyan as his ‘liason’; perhaps they had something like tackleball, or engaged in combat sports on a much wider scale. This, however, was unexpected. A bit too overt for his liking-for him, such displays of cruelty were best suited for private occasions, rather than shown out in the streets.
The Zetyan seemed to sense this, and began conversation with him as she tried pulling off ball tricks with the small child.
“Whaddaya think of it?”
“It’s… odd, to say the least.” he replied. “Perhaps I expected something more… sportlike?
“Eh, fair. This isn’t much of a ‘sport’, honestly, but it’s the most popular one around.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s more of a backwater sport than anything. Those folks ain’t real bright when it comes to most stuff, but apparently fun time-waster sports are their forte.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘fun’. Or a sport. More just something to do when bored.”
“Hey, you’d be surprised with what backwater folks do with it. They have whole competitions around punting runts, like ‘how far or hard can you punt it’, or ‘can you kill a guy by punting a runt into it’, or some shit. That’s where most of the entertainment comes from.”
“Mm.” At minimum, this wasn’t all there was to it. Still, one could only laugh at a joke so many times, and the runt’s harried screams were starting to get stale.
“What other sports do you have?” He asked in turn, putting the runt’s misery to an end by kicking him nonchalantly to the side.
“Uhh, well…” She took a moment to think. He pondered if it was a he; from what he had seen of these newfound ‘allies’, there was little difference between the two genders even in voice.
“We got some fighting sports, the CFC and BYSI competitions are pretty popular.” A common sport, easy to rally around. “We also got volley-ball competitions about four times a year, those are pretty fun to watch. Shoot, I think one might be going on right now-”
“V-volleyball? The one with the net?” He couldn’t help but ask with an incredulous tone. Volleyball didn’t seem like their type of sport, far from it.
“Nets? What do you-” She stopped for a moment, realizing. “Ohhh, that volleyball. No, it’s not that kind. That shit’s for pussies. You wanna see it?”
“Sure.” His interest was now roused; evidently they had heard of Volleyball, but apparently there was a definite distinction to be made.
“Alright, cool. Hey, you, c’mere one moment.” She went up to the battered runt, and paid it with some currency as she asked it some questions.
And then, off they went, to some joint deeper in the city…
---
“OOOON YOUR MARKS! READY!.... SET!..... GOOOOOOOOO!”
The sound of a klaxon blaring accentuated the announcer’s booming voice, as a host of people began running into an obstacle course. Men, women, children of all ages alike began to file into a maze, loudly screaming at each other as they competed to be the fastest runner.
But opposite their side, three orbish machines stuffed to the brim with guns began to float above the arena, bouncing off the ground and accentuating their ascents with rocket boosters. A shot rang out, then several, and then a host of freely-fired bullets were now raining down on the contestants like a warzone had just erupted.
And the Isoterran wondered to himself how anyone was supposed to win this game at all.
They had viewed some fighting competitions earlier, and they were quite interesting with who could fight what; he had seen a ‘runt’ go toe to toe with a trained kickboxer with nothing but a fork and a prison shank and win, and he’d seen a team of three get floored by a barely-contained bioweapon.
This so-called ‘volley-ball’ certainly lived up to it’s name, as a few of the fastest were ironically mowed down with impudence by an unlucky burst in their direction by the machines. But what could drive them to run through a hell like this?
The Zetyan, on the other hand, seemed to be very into the show, shouting directions and commands fruitlessly into a camera display like many others in the crowd around them as she chewed on some dino nuggies. He found that odd as well; they were ‘zetyan-brand’, and last he checked they weren’t exactly affiliated with those… midgets. He resolved to check up on what economic relations they had with them when he got back to his room.
“Why are they even doing this?! They hardly have a chance!” he shouted at her, having to project his voice to get above the crowd’s screams.
“Big cash prize! Like 3 SIGEC’s worth of strikes or some shit!”
That explained it. It also explained why the remaining 25% were still pushing on, even as most of them had obviously taken a bullet or two to the crowd’s delight. As they began jumping over and dodging past increasingly hostile obstacles, like a spike pit or a swinging mace, the machines now began to actively aim in their direction, albeit still very poorly. Perhaps to give some sporting chance.
Their numbers reduced, until it was just two. And one proved themselves faster than the other, jumping over a fire pit and landing on a finishing pad with glee, celebrating as the crowd went wild and the other began punching a wall in indignation.
“AAAAAAND THE WINNER IS CONTESTANT THIRTY-TWOOO, H’GANLA VOL’TU! CONGRATULA-”
Both were rather rudely interrupted by one of the machines seemingly misfiring a cannon, a ball of fire replacing the ‘lucky’ winner’s lower half. The crowd oohed and aahed, treating the rather macabre scene as if it was just an SNL skit.
“OOOOH, ISN’T THAT UNFORTUNATE! NO WORRIES, H’GANLA, WE’LL GET YOU FIXED UP IN NO TIME WITH THAT NEWFOUND MONEY OF YOURS! I HEAR QUALITY RECONSTRUCTION TREATMENTS ARE ONLY 2 POINT FIVE SIGEC ON THE MARKET!”
The crowd erupted in laughter. The Isoterran now presumed it wasn’t really a misfire at all.
“AS FOR YOU, CONTESTANT TWENTY-FIVE, YOU’VE DONE WELL ENOUGH! WE’LL WIRE YOU A SIGEC FREE OF CHARGE! LOOKS LIKE YOU’LL NEED IT, AFTER ALL!”
The announcer was right; blood stained their clothes on their shoulders and legs, and they seemed to have trouble standing even as they breathed a sigh of relief.
He could now see why the show existed, at least partially. It was their equivalent of a ‘game show’, in their own delightfully twisted way, and for their ‘innovation’ he could atleast give them some credit. But it could use refinement, like many of their things…
…and now ideas were floating into his head, rent free. A slight grin came on his face, as his genetically-modified brain began to ponder just how much their little ideas could be refined, improved, perfected…
---
Ka'lib'an System, Zetyan Clanholds Territory
Near the Ka’lib’an orbitals, the long grey hull of an Isoterran dreadnought arrived. From one of its trio of hangers, a small shuttle departed, flanked by five strikefighters. Once free of the hanger, the group of small craft accelerated away from the massive ship, towards the smoke-choked skies of the Zetyan capital planet. Guided by the local air traffic control, the shuttle and its escort were steered to a small landing pad nearby the government building they would be meeting in, at which point the shuttle began its landing descent, while the strikefighters peeled off, beginning their return to the dreadnought.
The shuttle set down on the landing pad, deploying a set of landing gear that gave it a crouching insectoid look, before shutting off its engines. Presently, the door opened and ramp extended, down which came an entourage of beings. First were two MCU combot robots, brown saurian creatures of metal with glowing orange eyes, marching in a perfect lockstep. Second was a pair of Isoterran marines in dark grey and black powerarmor, with rifles held at a low ready. Finally, Lord Fisk himself strode down the ramp, clad in a dark blue service-style uniform, complete with double gold aiguillette on his right side, and a single gold stripe on each forearm. More importantly however, although perhaps unnoticed to the untrained eye, was the somewhat bulky belt he wore, in reality a magitech personal shield, which presented a subtle symbol of his high status along with its practicality. Trailing him was a handful of aides dressed in business wear, followed by two more MCUs.
Almost immediately, many of the aides were affected by the smog-choked air, carefully trying to contain themselves while coughing into their elbows. Strangely though, Fisk himself seemed unphased and above such loss of composure, as a slight blue shimmering appeared around him from his shield. Thankfully for the aides however, their time outside didn't last long, as the group was ushered inside towards the meeting room by the Zetyan welcome committee. While his guards waited outside, Fisk and the aides were shown into a small conference room, where Voriarch Vol'nisa waited.
Fisk took his seat across from Vol'nisa, separated from the towering Zetyan and his quivering aides by a moderately-sized table made of dark wood and metal. Surrounding them were a variety of holographic displays, showing important bits of information about Project Dreamweaver. Introductions were made, and once everyone was settled, the Voriarch began speaking about his proposed deal for their two nations.
"...so as you can see, if we work together on the megastructure, both of us will benefit." said Vol'nisa, finishing his short monologue, before going silent and looking at the Isoterran leader, waiting to hear his thoughts on the matter.
Fisk considered the information he had been given. The Empire had already been planning their own, similar megastructure within the galaxy, a large-resource intensive project even on the best of days. If they agreed to jointly work with the Zetyans, it would mean an easing on their economy, and taking advantage of the progress they had already made. But it would also mean sharing some of their magitech. From what he had seen, the Zetyans currently only saw magic as a powerful energy source, which while correct, was only the tip of the iceberg. He wondered how long it would take for them to realize what more it could do...But then again, they had already made progress themselves, so why not take advantage of the situation while he still could...
"Your proposal is certainly intriguing, Mr Vol'nisa." he replied. "I think we can make this a joint project. We can contribute scientists, engineers, construction robotics, and even some software for Dreamweaver. In exchange, any monetary profit, as well as the arcane benefits, will be split between our nations."
"Splendid" smiled the Voriarch, showing his pointed teeth, before turning aside to one of his aides and hissing for refreshments to be brought in. A few moments later, a runt entered the room, carrying a tray which seemed slightly too big for it, holding cookies and water. First approaching the guests, the runt carefully walked over to them, before tripping on the carpet and sending the tray flying. One of the Isoterran aides jumped up in anger, the lower legs of her pants soaked.
Vol'nisa growled in irritation, before standing and picking the runt up by the collar, tossing it and its tray out the door and closing it with some force. "My sincerest apologies" he said, addressing the Isoterrans.
Fisk, slightly surprised at the Voriarch's brazen way of dealing with the situation, was nevertheless impressed. "Not to worry, I think we are more than capable of overlooking such a small misstep" he said, with a slight chuckle, while the affected aide promptly regained her composure and simply nodded in agreement. Making a subtle motion of his hand to one of the aides who was still dry, he was handed a datapad, outlining more in detail what he had in mind regarding each nation's contributions, which was handed to the Zetyan leader.
Vol'nissa's six eyes darted through the document, a smile returning to his face. "This will be perfect" he said, before taking a clawed finger and signing at the bottom of the digital agreement.