Post by anna on Dec 13, 2019 11:25:30 GMT -5
So I’m sitting here in front of an empty ass Google doc thinking about what exactly would work for this Guerrilla Warfare match. And I can’t lie. This is difficult. Difficult because while this isn’t the first time she has been in Union Battleground, this is the first promo being sent outside the blood stained confines of the murderous megaship known as Death Trip Wrestling (whose archives you can watch on the Battleground Network!) for--let’s be kind--a while. And anybody that worth their weight in unfinished manuscript knows that trying to nail down a proper character introduction for an unknowing audience is quite tricky. It’s that old saying: “You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression.”
...well, not unless we erase your minds anyway. Let’s start this over again.
The drops of water beat along her body like a fine tuned rain from the cosmos, her mane getting first dibs above all else. Is this after a match? The morning after? They all merged after a while, the path of experience telling her to not be concerned with such things. It is, for the moment, a brief moment of peace. They haven’t awoken yet.
In explaining the Multitudes to human sensibilities, we must take care not to call them "multiple personalities". First of all, that gimmick is quite dial-a-cliche to the point of being an undead horse trope. And secondly...well, the description doesn't fit very well. Multiple personalities is a person disassociating from themselves over and again as a result of trauma. The Multitudes, by comparison, is a bunch of yourself fighting over becoming a whole.
Consider the mindset of a Time Lord like a rubix cube. At first, it's very simple to maintain given the limited colors. But the longer one lives, the more the colors vary. It ends up where no matter how much one twists and turns, you won't be able to get a single face of the cube in a monochrome state. There will always be an errant color block that will wreck your otherwise perfect creation. And considering the biodata--the timey wimey DNA within regular DNA--of such a creature contains what they were, what they are, what they can be, what they should've been, and etcetera, chances are great that the color that is causing you strife is a particular shade of octamarine made in 17th century Portugal by a genitalia brute and his penguin friend named Skippy.
Oh, and by the way, you can’t just peel off the stickers and put them whereever you want because you’ll just end up a phantogram and nobody wants that. Unless you like their songs.
For now, however, she breathes in and tries to gather a clear assessment of the why she is the way she is. It’s a question that haunts her. How can one be so fluid? How can one hate it so? One of them had typed into the ether “What do you know about war, anyway?” and perhaps it would be best to start there. She let her mind float a little back to the very crux of a memory.
On feasting days during the start the War, groups went out into the woods to try and capture the almighty tassleshrew. The leaves reflected the red of the grass and the orange of the skies, making every tree look like it was on fire. This was usually a job for the Shobogans, the outsiders that lived away from glass domes and knew such things incredibly well. But the House Military--those of the experimented type--also took part in the proceedings. To them, it was considered part of the training. To the higher ups, it was just a way to get those half-breed scum away from them, if only for a moment.
“Open up, girlie.”
And so it was on this day that Annaperennaepsilionomncrex vol-Xianthelipse sat on the dirt and opened her yapper in order to digest the best damn beer in the whole planet. She can’t recall the faces of her compadres, but she knows the circumstances. To hunt the tassleshrew, you need bait and while food would be a proper bait, the best kind was pure unadulterated nookie especially during mating season. The good news is that the giant mammal rats were dumb. They couldn’t tell the difference between a female of their own kind and a Gallifreyan in terms of mass. The bad news...
“Alright, let’s help her with the belt.”
...was the tail belt. Heavy, vulgar, and it stunk amongst the heat of the dueling suns. But it was a necessity. This hula skirt of massive tails mimicked the female shrews cluster. Pulled up for this task, it was clamped on and she was shoved out.
Anna shielded her eyes from the brightness a bit before letting her eyes reconcile with the sight of others wearing very much the same thing. All of them half buzzed out of their skulls. Some from the woods, some from other waves in the Military. And the goal was so simple. To dance, to attract, and to (hopefully) get a rodent towards the slaughterers without being snapped in two by their teeth or whapped braindead by the tail.
And dance they did amongst the dirt in a circle of staggered rhythm. The Shobogans had their ceremonial steps and things in their proper place with the rest of them trying to follow along until the whole thing deteriorated into random bouts of two stepping, swaying belly dancing, ballerina steps, and a moonwalk much to the cackling of her faceless compatriots. She looks at the dancers. Males and females and nones and eithers and boths, students and rustics and dropouts, the half-human and the fully Gallifreyan.
She looks and sees and in the “modern day” of 21st Century Earth, her brain leans. Because she knows what happens to them all. Not individually but in the grander scale. For most of the members of the House Military, this would be one of the final days where they look homid and have any control of their bodies whatsoever. The final time where the minds are their own. Each round of steps equals out to the battle repeating over and again watching as they die and come back over and again. But their skin’s a bit more metal and brackish and their movements are becoming more stilted and their eyes no longer have any feeling to them.
She looks back to her wave, older now, high off a gelatin drug, lost, conflicted soul scarred, watching them disappear and disintegrate a little more until things get even more dire and they all hear the screeching of the tassleshews coming to collect their bounty and all the dancers run but she doesn’t see the shrews she sees THEM the multiform of them of different kinds and this is not a conflict where you just kill them until they surrender and hopefully go back to your wife and five kids nonoNO this is the fate of everything timelines are being erased and universes and spinoff of universes and spinoffs of spinoffs are being created and destroyed and of the orphans slipping through the cracks and of things existing that are under threat of not existing and that not existing threatening to exist and how do you win in a situation like that in a war that has just begun is still going on and has ended all at once
She is laying on the dirt now, pinned down by a particularly rotund creature, its three heads hissing with its fangs dripping. There is a gun shot--
The weight is eased and just for a moment, she wonders what it would be like to be crushed under that weight for good as she’s pulled away from the dirt and back into the hut.
“I think we gave her too much to drink.”
“Or those mud wearing bastards drugged the fuck out of it.”
“She seems to be coming around again. Let’s prop her against the wall for now.”
Her back is against the tile wall of the shower while the back of her head throbs in pain. They’re awake now and mumbling to each other in a corner of her skull. Her eyes begin to work again as she looks up at the water still running from the shower head now a shimmering cold.
“I’m Anna Daniels.”
She says this out loud to no one at all. And they agree.
_________
There is a black screen at first. Then a television is turned on.
Then another.
Then another.
Soon you, the viewer, are nearly blinded by thousands of TV screens turning on at once. Maybe we should’ve put some sort of warning on this video’s description or something. Whoops. But when your eyes adjust, you’ll see her. A five-foot-seven-inch stunner of a monster. You’re not sure what to feel about the look in her eyes as she stares at you. And even though this is through the screen of whatever device you watch such things on, you’re certain she is legitimately staring at you the person. The screens behind her are visions of pain, sorrow, loss, anger, and yes, warfare. But seeing as how we’re learning from the Lisa Seldon School of Promos as of late, these visions are not given the slightest notice the moment you two link eyes. Cinematography may get the attention, but it’s the message that’s means something. In this case, it comes out singing.
And the singing may bother you some because when it floats through the air, it doesn’t do it in one voice. It sings in many. Female and male and in tune and out of tune and soprano and bass and alto and tenor and baritone and that other one that nobody ever remembers the name of. Editing trick? Maybe. She could launch into a promo right now. About why that part of that song is sung. It is Christmasy like Die Hard is a Christmas movie and naturally, you can’t go into a thing called Guerrilla Warfare without making the reference. She could do the normal introduction of who she is and what being in this match means to her.
She could easily scoff at the fact that she has to be introduced at all. I mean, if you are actually watching this through the proper app instead of being a pirate, you’ve most likely have seen her image on this service. Even if you haven’t noticed her there, you still might’ve seen her at some point under her "maiden" name or married name because she’s been through a lot of promotions. Even if you somehow live under a rock under the sea, you would know the banner she flies in all the manners: cats and pentacles and evil.
Hellcat. Spangled. Death Squad.
She could tell you all about her accomplishments past and present and trust me, folks, there’s a metric fuckton of belts. She could even show you the Glorious-Belt-Throne-That’s-Not-Really-A-Throne-At-The-Moment to demonstrate this. She can tell that she can win or she will win or she might win depending on how she feels like humbling herself today. Sometimes, she does say these things.
And some days, she doesn’t. Because humans are stupid and they don’t fucking listen and while the message is greater than the setting, actions tend to speak much louder than words ever could. Which is why you only get one more.
“Hooroo.”
Snap to black.
...well, not unless we erase your minds anyway. Let’s start this over again.
The drops of water beat along her body like a fine tuned rain from the cosmos, her mane getting first dibs above all else. Is this after a match? The morning after? They all merged after a while, the path of experience telling her to not be concerned with such things. It is, for the moment, a brief moment of peace. They haven’t awoken yet.
In explaining the Multitudes to human sensibilities, we must take care not to call them "multiple personalities". First of all, that gimmick is quite dial-a-cliche to the point of being an undead horse trope. And secondly...well, the description doesn't fit very well. Multiple personalities is a person disassociating from themselves over and again as a result of trauma. The Multitudes, by comparison, is a bunch of yourself fighting over becoming a whole.
Consider the mindset of a Time Lord like a rubix cube. At first, it's very simple to maintain given the limited colors. But the longer one lives, the more the colors vary. It ends up where no matter how much one twists and turns, you won't be able to get a single face of the cube in a monochrome state. There will always be an errant color block that will wreck your otherwise perfect creation. And considering the biodata--the timey wimey DNA within regular DNA--of such a creature contains what they were, what they are, what they can be, what they should've been, and etcetera, chances are great that the color that is causing you strife is a particular shade of octamarine made in 17th century Portugal by a genitalia brute and his penguin friend named Skippy.
Oh, and by the way, you can’t just peel off the stickers and put them whereever you want because you’ll just end up a phantogram and nobody wants that. Unless you like their songs.
For now, however, she breathes in and tries to gather a clear assessment of the why she is the way she is. It’s a question that haunts her. How can one be so fluid? How can one hate it so? One of them had typed into the ether “What do you know about war, anyway?” and perhaps it would be best to start there. She let her mind float a little back to the very crux of a memory.
On feasting days during the start the War, groups went out into the woods to try and capture the almighty tassleshrew. The leaves reflected the red of the grass and the orange of the skies, making every tree look like it was on fire. This was usually a job for the Shobogans, the outsiders that lived away from glass domes and knew such things incredibly well. But the House Military--those of the experimented type--also took part in the proceedings. To them, it was considered part of the training. To the higher ups, it was just a way to get those half-breed scum away from them, if only for a moment.
“Open up, girlie.”
And so it was on this day that Annaperennaepsilionomncrex vol-Xianthelipse sat on the dirt and opened her yapper in order to digest the best damn beer in the whole planet. She can’t recall the faces of her compadres, but she knows the circumstances. To hunt the tassleshrew, you need bait and while food would be a proper bait, the best kind was pure unadulterated nookie especially during mating season. The good news is that the giant mammal rats were dumb. They couldn’t tell the difference between a female of their own kind and a Gallifreyan in terms of mass. The bad news...
“Alright, let’s help her with the belt.”
...was the tail belt. Heavy, vulgar, and it stunk amongst the heat of the dueling suns. But it was a necessity. This hula skirt of massive tails mimicked the female shrews cluster. Pulled up for this task, it was clamped on and she was shoved out.
Anna shielded her eyes from the brightness a bit before letting her eyes reconcile with the sight of others wearing very much the same thing. All of them half buzzed out of their skulls. Some from the woods, some from other waves in the Military. And the goal was so simple. To dance, to attract, and to (hopefully) get a rodent towards the slaughterers without being snapped in two by their teeth or whapped braindead by the tail.
And dance they did amongst the dirt in a circle of staggered rhythm. The Shobogans had their ceremonial steps and things in their proper place with the rest of them trying to follow along until the whole thing deteriorated into random bouts of two stepping, swaying belly dancing, ballerina steps, and a moonwalk much to the cackling of her faceless compatriots. She looks at the dancers. Males and females and nones and eithers and boths, students and rustics and dropouts, the half-human and the fully Gallifreyan.
She looks and sees and in the “modern day” of 21st Century Earth, her brain leans. Because she knows what happens to them all. Not individually but in the grander scale. For most of the members of the House Military, this would be one of the final days where they look homid and have any control of their bodies whatsoever. The final time where the minds are their own. Each round of steps equals out to the battle repeating over and again watching as they die and come back over and again. But their skin’s a bit more metal and brackish and their movements are becoming more stilted and their eyes no longer have any feeling to them.
Live die repeat
Live die repeat
Live die repeat
Live die repeat
Live die repeat
She looks back to her wave, older now, high off a gelatin drug, lost, conflicted soul scarred, watching them disappear and disintegrate a little more until things get even more dire and they all hear the screeching of the tassleshews coming to collect their bounty and all the dancers run but she doesn’t see the shrews she sees THEM the multiform of them of different kinds and this is not a conflict where you just kill them until they surrender and hopefully go back to your wife and five kids nonoNO this is the fate of everything timelines are being erased and universes and spinoff of universes and spinoffs of spinoffs are being created and destroyed and of the orphans slipping through the cracks and of things existing that are under threat of not existing and that not existing threatening to exist and how do you win in a situation like that in a war that has just begun is still going on and has ended all at once
She is laying on the dirt now, pinned down by a particularly rotund creature, its three heads hissing with its fangs dripping. There is a gun shot--
Back and to the left just like Kennedy
I didn’t know Josh Kennedy was dead
Of course he is, why else would he be a skeleton
Somebody should tell Fallon
KILLTHEHUMANSKILLTHEHUMANS
jacky? jacky? JACKYJACKY
I didn’t know Josh Kennedy was dead
Of course he is, why else would he be a skeleton
Somebody should tell Fallon
KILLTHEHUMANSKILLTHEHUMANS
jacky? jacky? JACKYJACKY
The weight is eased and just for a moment, she wonders what it would be like to be crushed under that weight for good as she’s pulled away from the dirt and back into the hut.
“I think we gave her too much to drink.”
“Or those mud wearing bastards drugged the fuck out of it.”
“She seems to be coming around again. Let’s prop her against the wall for now.”
Her back is against the tile wall of the shower while the back of her head throbs in pain. They’re awake now and mumbling to each other in a corner of her skull. Her eyes begin to work again as she looks up at the water still running from the shower head now a shimmering cold.
“I’m Anna Daniels.”
She says this out loud to no one at all. And they agree.
_________
There is a black screen at first. Then a television is turned on.
Then another.
Then another.
Soon you, the viewer, are nearly blinded by thousands of TV screens turning on at once. Maybe we should’ve put some sort of warning on this video’s description or something. Whoops. But when your eyes adjust, you’ll see her. A five-foot-seven-inch stunner of a monster. You’re not sure what to feel about the look in her eyes as she stares at you. And even though this is through the screen of whatever device you watch such things on, you’re certain she is legitimately staring at you the person. The screens behind her are visions of pain, sorrow, loss, anger, and yes, warfare. But seeing as how we’re learning from the Lisa Seldon School of Promos as of late, these visions are not given the slightest notice the moment you two link eyes. Cinematography may get the attention, but it’s the message that’s means something. In this case, it comes out singing.
“War is over
If you want it
War is over
Now”
And the singing may bother you some because when it floats through the air, it doesn’t do it in one voice. It sings in many. Female and male and in tune and out of tune and soprano and bass and alto and tenor and baritone and that other one that nobody ever remembers the name of. Editing trick? Maybe. She could launch into a promo right now. About why that part of that song is sung. It is Christmasy like Die Hard is a Christmas movie and naturally, you can’t go into a thing called Guerrilla Warfare without making the reference. She could do the normal introduction of who she is and what being in this match means to her.
She could easily scoff at the fact that she has to be introduced at all. I mean, if you are actually watching this through the proper app instead of being a pirate, you’ve most likely have seen her image on this service. Even if you haven’t noticed her there, you still might’ve seen her at some point under her "maiden" name or married name because she’s been through a lot of promotions. Even if you somehow live under a rock under the sea, you would know the banner she flies in all the manners: cats and pentacles and evil.
Hellcat. Spangled. Death Squad.
She could tell you all about her accomplishments past and present and trust me, folks, there’s a metric fuckton of belts. She could even show you the Glorious-Belt-Throne-That’s-Not-Really-A-Throne-At-The-Moment to demonstrate this. She can tell that she can win or she will win or she might win depending on how she feels like humbling herself today. Sometimes, she does say these things.
And some days, she doesn’t. Because humans are stupid and they don’t fucking listen and while the message is greater than the setting, actions tend to speak much louder than words ever could. Which is why you only get one more.
“Hooroo.”
Snap to black.