Slowly his eyes crept open, staring up at an infinite expanse of shimmering randomness. It was like melting watercolors, dancing on all sides. The formless effluvia of uncountable alternate realities.
It really looses its charm after you're there for almost a week, it really, really does. Also it tends to have very odd effects on the functionality of the brain.
But on the plus side, he wasn't there alone.
"You certainly are not!" Said the shape which loomed up into his vision on the left side.
"Why, good morning Mister Shirt," Lance said cheerfully.
"Top o' the mornin' to you too, Lance m'boy!" Mister Shirt said in his thick Irish accent that often wandered into a Scottish accent. "You're looking well today. Not insane at all!"
"Nope! Perfectly sane."
"Perfectly!"
"Running on an even keel."
"As sound as cottage cheese lying on the sandwalk in August."
"Abso-yessie-posi-lutely!"
"Wait, which one of us is which, again? I lost track."
This happened far more often than it probably should.
"That last one was you, Lance." Pantsie said as he loomed in from the right, his zipper-lined mouth working as he spoke. "You can tell, because, you know. No accent. Also, there's the lack of buttons. And I don't think you're a 50/50 Cotton/Nylon blend. At least, not yet."
"You're right! I'm no more than 25% cotton, if I remember my biology correctly. And the only button I have, I got after that drinking contest, and- well, nevermind that. What is it we were planning to do today?"
"What do we always do, Pantsie?" Mister Shirt said, his buttons forming a grin.
Pantsie danced about. "Try to take over the worl-"
Mister Shirt and Lance took turns bitchslapping him.
"Sorry, I lost my head. Hm... I say we look at the clouds of nothingness and see what beautiful shapes we can make out."
This was, in fact, what he did every day. Every damn day. Every goddamn, stinking, worthless day. Partly because not long ago he'd lost the energy to stand, and was reduced to lying on his back. This didn't do much to reduce the view, it was the same in the other directions, too... so he didn't mind it any.
It was Lance's turn to start. "Well, let's see, that up there? That looks like t.ogre being bent over by a hydraulic press until his spine caves, forcing his face into his own sphincter, and as he dies, he can feel his ass-muscles twitching and clenching feebly around his own nose from the agony."
"Hey yeah, I can see that, laddie! That little thing off to the side being the bloodspurt, right?"
"Right in one, Mister Shirt," Lance said with a friendly smile. "And that, that there, that's Brandt being thrown into a men's maximum security prison due to some bureaucratic error, where he comes to understand the meaning of suffering at the hands of dozens if not hundreds of large, lonely prisoners, none of whom have so much as a liquid ounce of lube, not one of which wants to just cuddle, until the very sight of his body makes the guards puke and blood oozes from every orifice, and-"
"Not that we have anything against gay people," Pantsie hurriedly put in.
"Oh, no! Not at all," Lance agreed.
"Except that little asshole Brandt," Pantsie added. Pantsie was a good egg. Helped remind him of his hatreds. And God knows, there's not much else that'll keep you alive for almost a week despite a lack of food or water. Except maybe a long marathon of Babylon 5.
"Now, what about THAT cloud?" Mister Shirt querried.
"THAT one is a large dark menacing Latino man in evil-looking armor carved with cabalistic symbols and adorned with handcrafted fetishes undoubtedly gleaned from the butchered remains of the many foes he has felled in battle."
"Hola, Lance," the man said.
"Oooh, and this cloud TALKS!" Pantsie called cheerfully.
The man drew a sizable handgun, pointing it at Pantsie.
"It talks AND it has a gun! That's so cool!" Pantsie crowed. Then Pantsie added, "Ouch!" as he was blasted into a shredded cloud of fabric. Lance blinked down at his now-bared arm where it still hung in midair, fingers still cupped as if using the pants-puppet's zipper for a mouth.
"You son of a bitch! Get him, Mister Shirt!" Lance snapped, and hurled his shirt at the man.
Mister Shirt grabbed ahold of the intruder in their little rainbow world, violently wrestling back and forth with him, trying to get his sleeves up and around the man's murderous neck. All the while he shouted, "Suck my shilegleah, ye bloody gaffertoad!" And then something about, "Ye gonna ready yerself to be kissin' me blarney stones now, laddie!?" And then finally, as he reared up, about to triumphantly break his foe's neck, he screamed out, "ERIN GO BRALESS, MOTHERFUCKA-"
Except that it was about then that the man annoyedly tore Mister Shirt in half.
"AAAAGHH! YOU MURDEROUS BASTARD! HE'S GOT TWO LITTLE VESTS AND AN UNDERSHIRT AT HOME WHO DEPEND ON HIM!" Lance roared.
Mister Undies made as if to enter the fray, but the man pointed his gun at Lance's crotch, snapping, "Your Fruit of the Looms better stand down, boy!" Then transferred his aim to Lance's face.
Mister Undies decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He always HAD been a bit of a coward. Lance, however, was still pissed... waving his arms. "Yeah, big man, threatening a guy wasted away by hunger and thirst. Just come into reach! I'll teach you not to kill helpless pants in the prime of their lives-"
The man interrupted, saying sharply, "Shut up! I'm here to get you OUT of here!"
That stopped him short. After a moment, Lance asked slowly, "...You are? Just who ARE you?"
"My name is Willias Muerte IV... they call me the Great Death."
"Well Bob, let's get the fuck out of here."
Muerte gave Lance a hard look, before activating his hands-free mic and murmuring, "Going to need a planar bridge for two." He paused, as Lance waved Mister Undies wildly. Muerte sighed and added, "Make that three."
To Lance, he snapped, "Now put those back on!" Another pause, before he said into the radio, "No, no! Not you, sir! Not at all. Him." Muerte sighed, and said defeatedly, "Yes, sir."
Turning the radio off, Muerte scowled at Lance. "Are you happy now? I have to shoot myself as punishment for snapping at the boss." With that, he put his gun to his head, and blew everything from his neck up into a fine pink mist. His headless body stayed balanced and upright a moment more, before slumping to the side.
Lance blinked for a moment at the corpse, before grinning broadly, and saying, "Yes, I am. Thank you." Then a great wrenching force took hold of him and he blacked out.
"It's the return of gravity that did it for you, Lance m'boy. Couldn't be avoided. But you'll be fine, now." A deep, cultured voice murmured.
"Nnnnng...?" Lance queried.
"Yes, really. You've had a dunk in our Saiyan Rejuvenation Chamber. We've got nutrients and such being pumped into you as we speak, and there's aromatherapy candles; Margerie, my acupuncturist, has all of your chi points properly stimulated; Terrance has given you a deeply clensing high colonic; Bobby's given that matted fur of yours a restorative shampooing and styling; Hadji has flensed your chakras with his ritual knives; and Akiko, my personal masseuse, is now giving you an extremely, extremely thorough massage with my favorite hand-mixed brand of warming cinnamon oils."
"Mmmmmm..." Lance groaned again, this time for entirely different reasons.
"She does have quite a nice touch, doesn't she?"
"Ooooohhh." Lance nodded in agreement. This was helping his mood, a lot.
"Okay, now that you're feeling better, I have a few words to say to you."
"Hnnnnn...?" Lance asked drowsily.
"t.ogre. Brandt Delacroix. Puns."
Lance shot up to a seated position instantly, jangling the IV bags hooked into his veins and the hundreds of slender steel needles sticking out of his skin, cinnamon massage oil dripping off his fur. His voice was a rumbling growl. "What?"
Though he was instantly aware, his eyes were more reluctant to work, after untold time staring into a shimmering rainbow hell. Where the other speaker stood, Lance could only make out a tall, slender shadow. At head level, he could make out a pair of reflections of himself... mirrored sunglasses, he realized after a moment. The man said, mildly, "I have an offer for you. If you come to work for me, help in my experiments, then you'll get those two. In chains, humiliated, heads on a platter, however you like. And I'll see to it that you're paid for your time, a mercenary of your caliber should hardly leave here penniless, correct?" There was a slight pause, before he added cheerfully, "If you don't agree, I toss you back into the void and shut the door forever. What do you say?"
For a short moment, Lance blinked at the other man, before asking, simply, "Well fuck, what do you think I'm going to say?"
Not too long later, the the shadowy man and Lance were both riding through the corridors of the huge base Lance had woken in. As to where the base was, or its purpose, Lance could not even guess. Often they would pass by unbreakable one-way windows looking into isolated labs, and in each a different and odd activity was taking place. It wasn't easy to glimpse their contents, given the pace of the exquisitely endowed centaurs they were riding. The shadowy man had the female and availed himself of the useful handholds, Lance found himself clinging as best he could to the male without getting too grossed out. At least Lance himself wasn't naked for the ride... he'd been supplied with replacements for Mister Shirt and Pantsie, may their souls rest in peace.
"Uh, so... what about these things we're riding, here?" Lance finally had to ask.
"Oh, these? The last two centaurs in existance," his new patron said casually.
"The last?"
"Oh yes. I had all of the others annihilated. That makes this mated pair that much more valuable."
"...right," Lance found himself muttering, directing his attention to the lab they were passing. Inside, it was filled with water, and half a dozen dolphins therein swam about. They seemed to be encapsulated in streamlined body armor, with strapped-on torpedo launchers and laser guns, and were at the moment murdering largely helpless elderly swimmers.
Lance started to ask, but the shadowy man seemed to have detected the direction of Lance's gaze and smirked, saying, "Hey, a species can only tolerate being petted and squeaked at by pink bipedal freaks for so long. I'm just helping them get revenge."
"For a small fee." Lance said astutely.
"For certain services, actually," He said brightly. "You'd be astonished how much money can be made when I'm the biggest supplier of cute dolphins to the beastiality community. Care for one yourself? You look like you could still stand to unwind."
"Uh, put me down for 'none'. In fact, less than none, if that's at all possible."
"Oh, sure it's possible." He flipped open his cellphone and murmured into it, "Willias, have several dolphins killed for Lance, would you?"
A deep male voice answered promptly, "Will do, Mister R!" In the background there was the sound of a chainsaw and pained squeaks.
When Lance gave the man a horrified look, he seemed to misinterpret. "Oh, don't worry, I can feed the carcasses into my vegetarian chili. No real loss. But we'd best get rid of the witness. Willias? Kill yourself." From over the phone, there was a muffled sigh and a single gunshot.
"...right." Lance suspected he'd be saying that a lot. "So just where are we goi- what the hell's going on in there?"
Following the direction of Lance's pointed finger, the other man said innocently, "Why, that's our infant research center."
"Infant research!? But that's a barbeque! And those are real baby-back ribs! With what appears to be a delicious smokey barbeque sauce being applied to them!"
"Food companies have to research into undiscovered taste sensations all the time. Besides, you didn't say a thing about what you had at breakfast." Seeming to sense a little unease (not to mention nausea) growing in his companion, the man went on grandly, "Look, Lance. The thing is that I have obligations. An obligation to my stockholders, to the universal economy, and to myself. Perhaps a few people get hurt in the process, but somebody has to do it. Somebody has to train the next generation of serial killers via intensive sensory deprivation and virtual reality; somebody has to teach cats how to steal the breath of small children; somebody has to distribute the 'Go Crazy' pills to postal workers, Republicans, and scientists; somebody had to tip Falwell off about those damn gay Teletubbies; somebody had to cancel Star Trek; somebody had to co-ordinate rifle fire from the grassy knoll; somebody had to be there to sell those xenomorph eggs to that kindergarten; and damnit, somebody had to be there to craft and orchestrate that whole religious movement about two thousand years ago-"
"Hey, look, as long as I come out of here with the memories of Brandt and t.ogre's hideous deaths, I can overlook a whole lot of things." Lance paused, glancing into the next window, and shuddered. "A whole lot of big things, even when they're humping each other."
"This is the portal room. Here, my technicians will project you to t.ogre's location. Go ahead and jump in." He gestured with a flourish.
"Uh, it looks like a giant industrial blender."
"Those are just the trans-universal tachyon emitting rotors. Oh, and nevermind the blood smeared along the walls."
Lance growled. "Fucksake. Fine. I don't care. Let's get this thing started."
Anonymous techs began to push buttons, levers were pulled, and the rotors at the far end of the tunnel began to spin into blurred discs. The motor gave off a high, whining howl, and breeze coming from the rotors to play across Lance's fur.
Lance started forward, but the man caught his arm, saying mildly, "Hold on, one last thing you're going to need sooner or later, Lance m'boy. Here." He held out a rather fancy wristwatch, "You're going to want to guard this very carefully."
"Why?" Lance asked, taking the watch. "Does it have a stopwatch function?"
The man frowned, faintly. "No, it do- okay, actually, it does, now that I think about it. But the main function is to switch your soul-toggle to Evil Self-Insertion Mode."
Lance blinked, twisting to look over at the other. "What?"
"Well, at the moment, you're in Heel-Turn Villian Mode, which isn't an infrequent upgrade for many Anti-Heroes. This means that you're going to inevitably either be defeated, because all villians get theirs in the end, or you're going to be converted back to good through some contrived method. Usually this entails a blow to the head to 'fix' your brain, a'la just about every cartoon in the 80's. Or possibly it will involve a few hackneyed, cliche-laiden speeches to remind you of the honor and glory you used to be party to. Or God forbid, a fucking intervention. In other words, no matter what, you're screwed."
Lance stared blankly, so the man went on.
"This, however, will turn you into an Evil Self-Insertion. This means that the author clearly favors you and thus you'll win out in virtually any situation. Hell, it would take god-like power to even cause you mild humiliation, and this will always be quickly retified. You'll be simply unbeatable... and we won't have to worry about a repeat of those last.... incidents."
Lance considered the watch, before asking in a dazed tone, "Are there any side-effects?"
"Mainly there's the problem that you'll come up with a really shitty catchphrase and you'll spout it at least once or twice an episode just before facing off with somebody. You'll want to watch out for that."
"Huh." Lance strapped the watch securely around his wrist. "I don't feel any different. Except there's this sudden odd rush of confidance and feelings of omnipotence."
"Yeah, you'll get that. Now, get along in there and kick t.ogre's ass."
At that moment, the furthest thing from t.ogre's mind was Lance, or bad movies, or even wrestling.
"Go, Frodo! RUUUN!" t.ogre bellowed as he brought Whack, the ancient elven runic steel chair, up over his head, threatening the horrid thing advancing from the cave mouth towards them on its many legs. The chair glowed with a cold blue light.
"But t, you're sure to be killed!" Frodo protested where he stood at t.ogre's side with his sword Sting, the blade glowing like t.ogre's.
"This? This is nothing after a hardcore Dusty Rhodes match! Go!"
Frodo hesitated a moment more, before nodding and darting off behind t.ogre. t.ogre gave a grin and murmured, "Okay, you son of a bitch, now that we're alone. Let's finish this so I can stop feeling like such a goddamn nerd for being here."
As if understanding him, the horror rose up on its hind hairs, displaying its glue-sticky underbelly and waving tangled tendrils of hair. A thick growl came out of it, that almost sounded like words, given in a strange, stacatto pattern. "You... DO NOT... understand, how badly... I will kick your... ass... you... wrestling pussy..."
t.ogre growled low. "You damn evil hairpiece, I don't even know how you got away from William Shatner, but he'll have to go to hell to get you back!" And with that, he charged, his chair coming around... only to see the hairpiece get suddenly pierced from behind by the slim blade of a katana. "What? ...LANCE!?"
The mercenary fox-man stepped from the shadows, slinging the hairpiece from the tip of his katana into the darkness. t.ogre's eyes involentarily followed its flightpath... how had Lance killed this unkillable beast with such supernatural ease? His gaze shot back to Lance, as the mercenary took up an offensive stance, whispering coldly, "Finally, my revenge be upon ye, t.ogre. Justice's blade shall not be merciful!" With this, he leapt at t.ogre, his katana slashing out.
t.ogre does not remember the fight well, only in pictures. Memories of being helplessly slapped around with the flat of Lance's sword, of having his flesh being playfully slashed in a dozen places, his clothes cut away. In the end, he lay dazed and nearly dead on the floor of the cave. A contemptuous flick of Lance's sword caught Whack and tossed it aside. The katana leapt up with supernatural agility to press gently beneath t.ogre's chin. The wrestler instinctively lifted his head back from the lethal edge, but the sword moved with, touching lightly on his skin.
"Now... you die." Lance murmured softly, starting to very, very slowly push his sword forward. He wanted this to last.
"Excellent job, Lance! Now step away so we can secure the prisoner."
Under normal circumstances, Lance would have ignored the voice, or simply thrust home in order to ensure that he got his kill before he was restrained. Except that this voice reduced him to gasping, his eyes bugging out as he stammered, "Muerte!?"
"Willias Muerte VI. At your service. Now put the pointy down so we can torture him inhumanely, okay?"
Lance's eyes narrowed coldly. "We can't take that risk. I have to destroy him now!"
"Do I get a say in this?" t.ogre slurred out weakly.
"Are you fucking kidding? Somebody portal him outta here." Muerte said drily, before a portal sprung open and swallowed up t.ogre just as Lance was pushing his sword home. The swordblade thrust through the glow impotently, drawing no blood.
Lance rounded on Muerte, hissing through gritted teeth, "My revenge be upon ye, Muerte! Justice's blade shall not be merciful!" And proceeded to slit Muerte from his buttocks to his neck and rip his spine out. Blinking down at the bloody spine, he muttered, "Okay, maybe that was going too far." Then a portal took hold of him and stole him away.
"What the hell was that!?" Lance demanded as he popped back into the shadowed man's base.
"I told you, Lance. You can have him AFTER I'm done with him, not before." He held up a hand, grinning broadly. "I can assure you, Lance... we will not be doing anything to him that he will enjoy. Consider it some small compensation for his sins before you deliver the coup de grace."
"Koo day grah?"
"It's a French thing. You're too manly to get it. Nevermind. Why not have a drink in the Employee Lounge, I'll call you when we need you again."
With a frustrated sigh, Lance nodded his agreement and started down the stairs he was directed towards.
The lounge turned out to be somewhat like Lance envisioned, having spent some time in the interdimensional nexus that was Dream City. Creatures of all manner and description ranged throughout the immense chamber. The walls were drab green concrete, the floor was tiled in an unrecoverably stained white, and the ceiling was coated in accoustic panels and banks of flourescent lights even MORE stained. There was only one feature in the room (apart from the long cafeteria counter, cash registers, tables, and their occupants, and some doors to get in and out of room, and all the litter, and... look, you get the goddamn idea), and this was a huge digital display high up on one wall. It worked much like a stadium scoreboard, using backlit red dots. At the moment it was displaying a counter that currently read at 27 seconds. A little board next to the counter read, "Time Since Last World Consumed".
At 29 seconds, the timer restarted at 00:00:00. Before it got to 00:00:13, it restarted again. Each time it did, a ear-shatteringly loud buzzer would sound and balloons and party streamers would flood down from the ceiling, and all of the occupants of the room would absently pick up a nearby horn or rattle or noisemaker or kazoo and use it passionlessly. Then they would set it down, flick the streamers and balloons off their food (or not, depending on how picky they were) and go on eating.
After a moment of staring, Lance shrugged inwardly and went to the counter. He steered a wide birth around the baby back ribs and vegetarian chilli, considered the haggis before deciding that the odds of it being from an actual sheep were miniscule. And besides, he wasn't nearly crazy enough to eat it if it were real. In the end, he settled for a slice of cheesecake drizzled with cherry sauce. As he got to the register, they waved him through without a charge, though one person shoved a rattle in his free hand before he could avoid it.
Turning resignedly, he looked out over the cafeteria for a place to sit down.
Off to one side, Muerte waved, smiling. Lance studiously, even meticulously ignored him and headed for one of a pair of empty seats. As he started that way, a small winged creature took one of them. It seemed to be some kind of reptile judging from its scaley nature. And it could have, if Lance were less of a wuss, been described as 'cute'. He/she/it was having what looked like a slice of pizza, holding the slice with its tail as it greeted friends. Set on the plate still was a noisemaker with a colorful paper roll.
Lance sat beside it, setting down his rattle and plate, and was just about to take a bite from his cheesecake when the buzzer went off. He winced, glaring up at the counter.
"Oh hell. Oh bloody hell. Oh bloody hell!" The creature beside him muttered with growing panic. His thick British accent was apparent despite the fear lacing his tone. He had set the noisemaker to his lips and was blowing it with greater and greater desperation. His snout, however, refused to form a tight enough seal, and all he got were hissing noises. Lance blinked over at him, wondering what the fuss was.
That's when the shadow fell over them. "PLEASE MAKE USE OF YOUR NOISEMAKER. YOU HAVE 20 SECONDS TO COMPLY." Lance whipped around and found himself staring down the barrel of a 7.62mm machine gun, mounted on the side of an immense bipedal robot.
He snorted, asking sardonically, "Don't you know the boss says I'm immortal?" Beside him, the scaled thing counterpointed Lance's bravado with quick blowing hisses.
"YOUR CIVIL RIGHTS ARE CURRENTLY REVOKED. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN SECONDS TO COMPLY."
"Fuck... you better do what he says, man!" The scaled creature blurted, before going back to blowing into his noisemaker.
"IF YOU CANNOT AFFORD A COFFIN, A MASS GRAVE WILL BE APPOINTED FOR YOU. YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO COMPLY."
Lance eyed his rattle, eyed the scaled creature's noisemaker, before casually swapping the two.
"AMMUNITION SELECTION COMPLETED - CYANIDE-TIPPED MEGA-EXPLOSIVE NITROGLYCERINE HYPERVELOCITY SHELLS SELECTED. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY."
Setting the noisemaker to his more flexible snout, he blew out a flat, unenthusiastic note towards the camera pickup of the robot, as the scaled creature frantically swung the rattle about. With that, the robot turned, and marched off towards another person who was having trouble with his kazoo.
"Man, thanks a lot!" The scaled creature said, reaching out to shake Lance's hand. When Lance gave his hand up, the scaled creature shook it rapidly, saying, "But, uh, if you were immortal, why did you bother to blow it yourself?"
"And get my clothes chewed up? Hell with that. What is it with all the noise and the counter, anyways?"
"Well, the boss thinks it's good for employee moral if they share in the sense of triumph he recieves every time he continues in his quest to stomp out all that's good in the universe. Again though, I gotta thank you."
"Uh, I was also wondering why you had a noisemaker, when you should know by now you can't use it." Lance asked with a frown.
'That's not my fault. You have to use whatever noise device you're given. To maintain the harmony, you understand. And nearly nobody is brave enough to trade 'em... if the boss catches you, well, that's it, you'll snuff it. Just like that."
"Huh. Anyways, what's your name? And, uh, what are you?"
The scaled creature grinned. "My name's Darkhorse, I'm what's referred to as a Pterid. You can call me DHP, if you want. Or Darkhorse. Or Darkie, but some people might think that's racist, and nobody wants that. Or Horsie, I guess, but then people will think I'm giving you piggy-back rides all the time like some little kid. Or maybe Pterie? Sort of like a petri dish, but, uh, completely different. Except that I guess I do hold some bacteria, I mean, who doesn't? And-"
Lance swiftly broke in, "Okay, okay! I get it, Dark. My name's Lance." He paused, considering the Pterid. "So tell me, what're you doing here?"
Dark started to speak when the buzzer sounded again. The rattle was picked up and shook. When Dark gave him a look, Lance rolled his eyes and gave a bland toot on his noisemaker. Even as he did, Dark went on, "Well, I, uh, can't exactly tell you. Partly I'm working to get enough money for... for something. The thing I can't tell you about. Once I have the money, I can hire some people here, to, er. Y'know."
"Yeah, the thing you can't tell me."
"Bingo."
"Look, Dark... You know, I could use somebody to watch my back around here. I have a feeling that I might get skunked one of these days... and I don't really have a lot more to use my paycheck towards. What do you say?"
"It's the least I can do." Dark said with a smile. "Now, when do I start watching your back?"
"Uh, right now." Lance said, taking a generous bite of his cheesecake.
"Oh, well then, my first duty will be to tell you that that's not cheesecake."
Across the room, Muerte VII was still eating his babyback ribs, watching idly as Lance spat out a mouthful of cake and frantically wiped at his tongue with his napkin, at least until the Pterid said something about 'that napkin's not made out of cloth'.
Slowly, the shadow behead Muerte grew thicker, until it was the size of a man. From it issued a quiet murmur, "Now, look at how he's already abusing the gifts I've given him, hiring that little gimp on! You'll have to watch him close for me, Muerte. Very close indeed."
Muerte nodded without looking up, a hand casually sliding down to his hip to check on the safety strap on his pistol. Yeah, this was a duty he could come to like.
At that very moment, t.ogre was waking up on the table to which he'd been strapped. Most of his wounds were partly healed by advanced technology, but the powerful anesthetics which still swirled through his system left him heavily dazed. Slowly his eyes blinked open, only barely able to make out the smeared blur of a accoustic-tiled ceiling, and a face.
"How are you doing today, Mister t.ogre?" Asked the Rock.
t.ogre blinked.
"Well, he's awake, I just saw him blink." Said another Rock.
"Indeed, he did. Phil can see the blink, even from where Phil diligently mops the corner of this chamber." Said a third Rock.
t.ogre blinked again.
"There's another one. If he keeps this up we could get a rhythm going." Said a fourth Rock.
t.ogre muttered thickly, "Holy shit... I'm... I'm in hell! Lance killed me, and I'm in hell!"
"Now, now. Relax, Mister Wrestler Man. We'll put you back under so you can finish healing up." Said one of the Rocks. He gave a nod to another Rock, saying, "Go ahead and inject him, Muerte."
That Rock nodded, and stepped forward. He branished a syringe with a needle the length of a pool cue.
"Gah! Get away from me with that thing!" t.ogre blurted, recoiling.
"Don't worry, t.ogre." His voice blurred then through the ringing in his ears, but t.ogre could've sworn the man said, "The Rock says, this won't sting a bit."
t.ogre's vision turned red, and that's about all he remembers about THAT.
"Right this way, Lance, you'll see your experimentees. We've got both Brandt and t.ogre in their number, as well as a few others you might recognize. We were going to bring in this being, Nnirk, who is some form of demon. He's far too dangerous, however... we're keeping him in isolation for now."
"That's fine. Only demon I've got a beef with is Krinn anyways, not this Nnirk guy." Lance said as they jogged down the stairs into the experimentation wing, followed closely by Darkhorse.
"Alright. Annnnd... here we are." With a flourish, he pushed open the double doors, to reveal a scene of carnage. Doctors, nurses, and guards groaned and clutched at themselves. Many were bent into pretzels or twisted into knots of various complex types, from sheepshanks to Fruedian slipknots. One man had been Senton-bombed through his own face. This man, Lance realized, was Muerte. Or... what was left of him, anyways.
Lance rounded on his employer, asking coldly, "What the hell happened?"
The shadowy figure scowled. "The bastard must have escaped." Keying his cellphone, he snapped, "Muerte! Mobilize the security team to find t.ogre! And shoot yourself for incompetance!" Lance heard a gunshot from the cellphone as the shadow flipped it shut.
"I don't mind telling you, this really does very little to inspire me about the quality of your word." Lance said with deceptive softness.
"Yeah! Ye great sod!" Darkhorse snapped in support.
His employer made placating gestures. "Now, now, Lance. Look here, on the other restraint tables. For whatever reason, perhaps in a delirium, t.ogre failed to notice and free his compatriots. See, Brandt Delacroix, and Oniko... old friends of yours, I trust?"
Lance, about to say something else, paused. His glare shifted away from his employer, to the tables.
The man went on. "These are Max and Viper, new compatriots to these fools... other sinners, for you to punish, hm?"
Lance began to nod reluctantly. There was still some good to be done here.
"And here, on the end, two new... 'friends'. Fools whom you will teach never to follow down the path of corruption which these others have followed. This is Alair," he said, gesturing at one of the tables near the end. This one held a pretty girl that stood perhaps 5'10" (when standing upright and not drugged to the gills), with brown hair and green eyes. "A psychic visitor from the future, I've, er, borrowed her from her parent corporation for this experiment. Don't worry, Self-Inserts are largely immune to psychic powers."
Moving past her, the shadow gestured at the last table. "This is Sherlock." Sherlock proved to be an anthromorph, like Lance... except his yiffytype was that of a feline rather than vulpine. It would have stood a little above average, with thick fur and a long tail. "This one's an alien, a martial artist, able to use ESP and ice magic- kind of a furry grab-bag."
Darkhorse said, sharply, "Now, sir, it's sexual harassment to refer to this person's scrotum as a 'furry grab-bag'."
For a long moment, the shadowy man stared at Darkhorse, before saying, perhaps more sharply, "These will be your experiments for now, until t.ogre is recaptured and can be forcably introduced to pain once more. Now, head for the portal room, they will send you to the site of your experiment. By the time you get there, your experimentees will already be in their place."
Only a few minutes later, Lance and Darkhorse walked out of the portal and came out just outside of their new home for the next few hours.
About them was a low hill coated thickly with wild grass, whispering and rustling dramatically as the cold wind whisked through it. Behind them stood a huge mansion, a beautiful and ancient structure which loomed over the landscape. Somehow it was vaguely forboding, its gothic windows staring out balefully at a human world too cowardly to intrude on this forsaken place. Beside the entrance, a bronze plaque was set in stone, and it read in high, arching letters: WINDSWEPT MANOR.
"Well, isn't this overdramatic?" Darkhorse commented.
"Yeah, no shit. Let's get inside before we catch cold." Lance said, rubbing his hands together as he stepped up towards the door.
At that moment, in the theater, Brandt was struggling to wake up. "Ugh... what hit me? This time, I mean."
He didn't really expect an answer, so it made him jolt with surprise when Oniko said, idly, "I think a 20cc dose of sodium runningjokitol. I could be wrong though. Maybe it was 30ccs of hackneyed contrividen. I really gotta catch up on my ER before I can be sure."
"Oniko?" Brandt croaked, lifting his head and prying open his eyes, seeing Oniko seated on the back of a seat not far in front of him. He was facing towards the back, idly watching the projection booth to see who had ahold of them.
Oniko smirked sardonically. "Yep. Not just me, either. Check it out, we've got company."
Next to him sat a young man with a bar clamp, staring at Oniko with fascination, and beside HIM was a crimson hedgehog that stood on two feet. Odd. On Brandt's left, a brown-haired, green-eyed woman sat. There was a tingle of psionic interferance from her, the way two radios will squeal when the antennae are flicked together. He blinked, before glancing over the other way. There was another source of psionic interferance, though the type of signature was different. It came from that catman seated near the middle aisle, surely.
Brandt muttered, "What're you doing here, Oniko...?"
"Captured at the end of the last feature. The theater of the grassy knoll was a decent change, but... look at this, man. Swanky." Oniko pointed up towards the seats. Obediently, Brandt followed his pointed finger, taking in the details of the theater as his mind started to come back together. Almost endless ranks of seats extended behind them in ascending rows. The seats were genuine wood, well-padded, apolstered with rich crimson velvety fabric. Beyond the seats, he could see the walls were covered in thick red curtains strung from the ceiling. Peeking down at them was an old-fashioned projection window, with leaded glass styled to look like an immense eye peering down at them. Brandt shuddered and looked away, back towards the front. The screen differed from what he was used to, too... much larger, with an actual stage and stage lights before it, an orchestra pit, and an old-style asbestos curtain. Above, chandeliers the size of vans hung over their heads, making him a little uneasy considering the experience of the past few hours. All in all it represented unthinkable luxury in the time most of them had been born.
"Oh my. Think about watching the 'Sound of Music', here!" Brandt breathed out, forgetting his discomfort.
"Oh something good, like Wild N Willing Wetnurses 4, the Lactinator!" Viper shouted gleefully.
"Not that you could enjoy that properly, seeing how you're not anatomically correct," Max said casually.
"Goddamnit, don't you start!" Viper snapped.
Oniko gave Brandt a look, before saying, "Anyways, say hi to our old friends, yet again. Max. Poor dumb fucker. And Viper. Remember them?" Those two waved as Oniko mentioned their names. The latter still had a pair of tank shell protruding from the back of his skull. He didn't seem to take much notice, absorbed as he was in drinking from his Mega-Ultra-Large cup of Bloaty Cola and taking long sips from the straw.
Viper grinned around his straw. "Course the boy remembers us! How can you forget me? I'm just plain unforgettable, I tell y-"
"I'm sorry, I don't remember you." Brandt interrupted gently, his brow furrowing. "Why should I?"
Max rolled his eyes, while Viper whimpered in dismay.
Oniko sighed, muttering, "Man, I envy your coping skills. Anyways, everybody, this is Brandt "Bishie" Delacroix. I know he looks all cute an' innocent an' kitten-like, but you'll want to stay the fuck out of reach, anyways. Trust me."
"Hi, Brandt. I envy your coping skills too." Alair said sourly. "I wouldn't mind forgetting being kidnapped and held in what looks like a Victorian era theater. Do you know what they did to women in Victorian times? I read all about it in history class!" Alair said.
"No. Please. Tell us all about it." Sherlock muttered tiredly. He lay back in his seat, clutching his head. Apparently, sodium runningjokitol caused migraines in his species.
"Oh, well, see, they'd take women, and grind them up into pate, and-"
The intercom crackled to life. "That'll be quite enough of this chatter!" A familiar voice growled.
Brandt blinked, shooting up straight. "Lance...?" He whispered under his breath. Oniko shot him a confused look.
There was a smile in Lance's voice as he continued, "That's right, you evil little bastard! I'm baaaack!" A dramatic chord played.
Brandt blurted, "You can't be... I annihilated you!" When the others in the theater gave him an odd look, he added hurriedly, "It was an accident, I swear."
"Jesus, you're just a regular psychic Typhoid Mary, aren't you?" Max asked irritably.
"Accident my ass... now everybody park it! I'm about to show you a god-awful fic and you dipshits are going to get to watch every single second of it. You try to squeeze your eyes shut to stop the pain, you get killed. You piss me off, you get killed. You spill your popcorn, you get killed. In fact, come to think of it, practically anything you do can and will get you killed." Lance paused, before crooning, "Especially you, Brandt. Go ahead, boy. Make a pun for me. Make my fuckin' day."
Brandt shuddered, muttering, "Yeah, uh... thanks for the offer, but I think I'll just sit here. Quietly."
"Oh? What about the rest of you?" Lance purred.
Everyone called back hurriedly, "Oh, that's okay- that's fine, we're good- yeah, what the pussy said- you mean me?- no, Sherlock, I mean Brandt, he's a pussy- Oh, I see, he DOES look kind of limpwristed-"
"Okay! Shut up! It's show time!" Lance called out, before looking over at Darkhorse. "Hit the switch, my lackey."
"Can do, Mister L." Darkhorse said with a toothy grin, hitting the On switch that was well within Lance's reach.
The riffers took their seats as the screen began to scroll the classic countdown: ...10...9...8...
Viper muttered, "I just hope he didn't try to do to Lance what he almost did to me during one of the bathroom breaks."
Oniko blinked and glanced over. "You too?"
Viper blinked, his eyes widening and starting to well up. "But... but he said that I was the only one for him..."
Brandt, Sherlock, and Alair winced as one. Alair muttered sharply, "Somebody make those images stop coming out of his head..."
Sherlock winced and reached over, slapping the tankshell protruding from Viper's head.
Viper's eyes trained in different directions as he went on, "Glah boo zeen hans gruber zo lou keanu reeves is the devil..."
"I guess gibberish IS a step up," Alair said, sighing with relief.
...7...6..5...4...
"Just to warn you guys, you may want to secure some suicide methods," Max said casually.
"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Oh, come on, it can't be THAT bad..."
"That's what everybody thinks their first time," Brandt muttered defeatedly, before reaching out to telekinetically pop the tankshell back an inch.
"Thanks!" Viper said intelligably. "Just in time for me to watch this- wait, push it back in! Push it back in! ...damnit."