Log: When Mirage Met Chumley
AKA, 'the incident Mirage shall not speak of ever again.' At least no brainwashing is involved this time...
Mirage: *After leaving Moonracer, hopefully in a better state than when she was at first, Mirage heads out into the desert. He doesn't bother making himself invisible; his generators could use the rest. He goes on wheels, not on foot, but he's not trying to set any speed records today.*
Lord Chumley: *Lord Chumley prides himself on being prepared for anything that might happen, when it comes to hunting. And right now, he's congratulating himself for this, binoculars focused on the racecar heading out over the desert. Dinsmoore stands behind him, holding an umbrella up to keep the heat off of him, but refrains from speaking.* Why, hello there, my fine vehicular friend... Just a bit more to the left... *He even gestures a little with his hand, binoculars swinging from Mirage's form to a patch of sand that doesn't look particularly unique.*
Mirage: *In such a large, featureless desert, the odds of Mirage actually encountering any sort of trap are infinitisemally small. Hundreds of square miles is quite a lot of haystack for the comparatively tiny needle that is one blue and white racecar. There are no commonly-used tracks when any direction is as good as any other. Really, it should be statistically impossible for Mirage to make that leftward veer.
Lies, damned lies, and statistics. Mirage makes that leftward veer and goes tumbling into the trap.*
Lord Chumley: *It's only by sheer force of will and dignity that Chumley doesn't pump his fist in the air. His pitfall traps are miraculous! They work every time! He gloats silently to himself as he turns to Dinsmoore.* Quickly, Dinsmoore! Before he tries to get away! *His butler rushes down to the wheel of the double-decker safari bus, even as Chumley decides that Mirage couldn't possibly get away. Sand is so hard to dig up - and even harder to climb up. They careen over the dunes and to the pit, braking at the edge and spilling a bit of sand into the pit. Oh well.*
Mirage: *Mirage is currently attempting to prove Chumley wrong as rapidly as possible. He doesn't seem to notice the additional sand: he's rather busy trying to deal with the /rest/ of it.*
Lord Chumley: *Chumley happily steps down from his perch atop the bus, coming down to step out onto the sand. He paces to the edge of the pit, looking down at the race car he's ensnared. He's so cheery, with smiles and tones to portray it.* Well, hello down there! I daresay you haven't hurt yourself too badly?
Mirage: I am /quite/ fine, thank you. *Mirage enunciates each word very carefully. He can get handholds, certainly: they just dissolve under his hands.* May I ask what in the name of the Pit you're doing?
Lord Chumley: *Chumley puts a hand to his chin, his smile breaking the look of indignation on his face.* Why, whatever do you mean? What makes you think that I'm doing much of anything at all? *A chuckle-* Perhaps I simply stopped to help you out of this dastardly pit.
Mirage: Dastardly? *Mirage manages 'acidic' quite well.* I'm not sure I would go so far as /that./ Inconvenient, perhaps. Possibly ill-advised.
Lord Chumley: Oh-ho. I suppose then, you wouldn't need any help. *Smiles make everything more convincing. Or not.* I have to say, you're quite a bit more appealing than the last batch. Lovely - what do you call it? Alternative vehicle?
Mirage: I /beg/ your pardon? *Perhaps Mirage is not quite up for being called 'appealing' by the likes of Chumley. Or perhaps he noticed the usage of the phrase 'last batch.'*
Lord Chumley: And much more capable of making proper use of the English language. Wonderful. *Chumley crouches down at the edge, looking down at Mirage with a merry twinkle in his eye! Kind of like Santa only worse.* What might be a good name to call you by?
Mirage: *Mirage attempts to get a foothold in the sand, to little avail.* I might ask the same of you, as well as an apology for this indignity. *The racecar believes that his snippiness is entirely justified.*
Lord Chumley: Oh, of course. How rude of me! Asking another's name before giving my own - you may call me Lord Chumley. I would apologize for the trap, but it seems to have done its job rather well, wouldn't you agree? *Dinsmoore may or may not be fumbling about the trunk, looking for the taser that can render machines offline.*
Mirage: I suppose, aside from the atrocious placement. *Mirage attempts to scramble quickly up the side of the pit, in hopes of getting enough momentum to counteract the way his handholds disappear. That works better than the alternative, but not good enough.*
Lord Chumley: Oh, no. The placement was rather brilliant, I think. I imagined that digging a few of these holes would bag me some delightful creatures, and I was right. Please, don't strain yourself to get out of that hole. It looks rather... unbecoming.
Mirage: I quite agree. *This doesn't stop Mirage in the slightest. Or perhaps he could brace himself against the sides --? No, he's not anywhere near that tall. Attempting to climb it is.* Forgive me if I am entirely uninclined to take your advice, though.
Lord Chumley: I suppose I can overlook it. It is a rather unseemly place to be caught in. No matter - when you wake up, you'll be in a much nicer place, I can assure you.
Mirage: /Is that so./
Lord Chumley: Indeed, it is. *Chumley casts a casual glance over towards his butler.* Dinsmoore, have you found the prod, yet? *An exaggerated sigh, and he turns back to look at Mirage.* He's been with me for decades, and yet he still misplaces even the most important items. Good help is so hard to find.
Mirage: Ah, but a few decades is such a short time that you really must forgive him. *Mirage drops back to the floor, such as it is, of the pit and backs away to the opposite end. Chumley is /not/ going to be in touch range of him. Oh no.*
Lord Chumley: *Oh, he doesn't need to touch you. The pit is certainly close enough range.* Ah, yes. A short time for you - a rather long time for us.
Mirage: *But maybe Mirage can, perhaps, get the kind of angle he needs to unsubspace his rifle: might you have thought of that?* Indeed. What are you attempting to -- collect us for?
Lord Chumley: For the thrill of the hunt, mostly. You see - I've bagged nearly every sort of animal on the face of this planet. You, however, are quite a different breed. I'm sporting enough, however, to not simply shoot you here. Oh, no. I'll give you all a good chance to outrun me until I finally nab you and have you... well, I suppose I won't need to stuff any of you. *Smile~.*
Mirage: *Mirage goes still a moment, expression freezing.* Interesting. *All right, that's enough. He unsubspaces his rifle and moves to bring it up.*
Lord Chumley: *When facing a hunter, Mirage, it's probably wise to not bring a rifle to a taser fight. Speaking of - Chumley deftly grabs the taser that Dinsmoore holds out to him, turning and aiming on Mirage.* Dreadfully sorry, wish we could keep chatting, but you seem to be a bit preoccupied. Enjoy your nap, see you on the island. *Mirage, how do you feel about a large cattle prod shooting purple light at you? Sleepy, hopefully.*
Mirage: *The rifle /serves him well/ in normal circumstances, thank you. And he does not feel terribly good at the cattle prod emitting purple light. For 'not very good,' see 'sleepy.' Mirage fights it, of course, but not to much avail. He hopes it's /incredibly/ difficult to get him out of the pit.*
Lord Chumley: *Alas, Mirage won't even get that satisfaction, as it seems that the safari bus actualy seems to have a crane - and no seats on the bottom level. If it's any consolation, Chumley will make sure to not scratch any of his paint?*
Mirage: *Curses. But Mirage will take that as a distant, /distant/ second.*
Mirage: *After leaving Moonracer, hopefully in a better state than when she was at first, Mirage heads out into the desert. He doesn't bother making himself invisible; his generators could use the rest. He goes on wheels, not on foot, but he's not trying to set any speed records today.*
Lord Chumley: *Lord Chumley prides himself on being prepared for anything that might happen, when it comes to hunting. And right now, he's congratulating himself for this, binoculars focused on the racecar heading out over the desert. Dinsmoore stands behind him, holding an umbrella up to keep the heat off of him, but refrains from speaking.* Why, hello there, my fine vehicular friend... Just a bit more to the left... *He even gestures a little with his hand, binoculars swinging from Mirage's form to a patch of sand that doesn't look particularly unique.*
Mirage: *In such a large, featureless desert, the odds of Mirage actually encountering any sort of trap are infinitisemally small. Hundreds of square miles is quite a lot of haystack for the comparatively tiny needle that is one blue and white racecar. There are no commonly-used tracks when any direction is as good as any other. Really, it should be statistically impossible for Mirage to make that leftward veer.
Lies, damned lies, and statistics. Mirage makes that leftward veer and goes tumbling into the trap.*
Lord Chumley: *It's only by sheer force of will and dignity that Chumley doesn't pump his fist in the air. His pitfall traps are miraculous! They work every time! He gloats silently to himself as he turns to Dinsmoore.* Quickly, Dinsmoore! Before he tries to get away! *His butler rushes down to the wheel of the double-decker safari bus, even as Chumley decides that Mirage couldn't possibly get away. Sand is so hard to dig up - and even harder to climb up. They careen over the dunes and to the pit, braking at the edge and spilling a bit of sand into the pit. Oh well.*
Mirage: *Mirage is currently attempting to prove Chumley wrong as rapidly as possible. He doesn't seem to notice the additional sand: he's rather busy trying to deal with the /rest/ of it.*
Lord Chumley: *Chumley happily steps down from his perch atop the bus, coming down to step out onto the sand. He paces to the edge of the pit, looking down at the race car he's ensnared. He's so cheery, with smiles and tones to portray it.* Well, hello down there! I daresay you haven't hurt yourself too badly?
Mirage: I am /quite/ fine, thank you. *Mirage enunciates each word very carefully. He can get handholds, certainly: they just dissolve under his hands.* May I ask what in the name of the Pit you're doing?
Lord Chumley: *Chumley puts a hand to his chin, his smile breaking the look of indignation on his face.* Why, whatever do you mean? What makes you think that I'm doing much of anything at all? *A chuckle-* Perhaps I simply stopped to help you out of this dastardly pit.
Mirage: Dastardly? *Mirage manages 'acidic' quite well.* I'm not sure I would go so far as /that./ Inconvenient, perhaps. Possibly ill-advised.
Lord Chumley: Oh-ho. I suppose then, you wouldn't need any help. *Smiles make everything more convincing. Or not.* I have to say, you're quite a bit more appealing than the last batch. Lovely - what do you call it? Alternative vehicle?
Mirage: I /beg/ your pardon? *Perhaps Mirage is not quite up for being called 'appealing' by the likes of Chumley. Or perhaps he noticed the usage of the phrase 'last batch.'*
Lord Chumley: And much more capable of making proper use of the English language. Wonderful. *Chumley crouches down at the edge, looking down at Mirage with a merry twinkle in his eye! Kind of like Santa only worse.* What might be a good name to call you by?
Mirage: *Mirage attempts to get a foothold in the sand, to little avail.* I might ask the same of you, as well as an apology for this indignity. *The racecar believes that his snippiness is entirely justified.*
Lord Chumley: Oh, of course. How rude of me! Asking another's name before giving my own - you may call me Lord Chumley. I would apologize for the trap, but it seems to have done its job rather well, wouldn't you agree? *Dinsmoore may or may not be fumbling about the trunk, looking for the taser that can render machines offline.*
Mirage: I suppose, aside from the atrocious placement. *Mirage attempts to scramble quickly up the side of the pit, in hopes of getting enough momentum to counteract the way his handholds disappear. That works better than the alternative, but not good enough.*
Lord Chumley: Oh, no. The placement was rather brilliant, I think. I imagined that digging a few of these holes would bag me some delightful creatures, and I was right. Please, don't strain yourself to get out of that hole. It looks rather... unbecoming.
Mirage: I quite agree. *This doesn't stop Mirage in the slightest. Or perhaps he could brace himself against the sides --? No, he's not anywhere near that tall. Attempting to climb it is.* Forgive me if I am entirely uninclined to take your advice, though.
Lord Chumley: I suppose I can overlook it. It is a rather unseemly place to be caught in. No matter - when you wake up, you'll be in a much nicer place, I can assure you.
Mirage: /Is that so./
Lord Chumley: Indeed, it is. *Chumley casts a casual glance over towards his butler.* Dinsmoore, have you found the prod, yet? *An exaggerated sigh, and he turns back to look at Mirage.* He's been with me for decades, and yet he still misplaces even the most important items. Good help is so hard to find.
Mirage: Ah, but a few decades is such a short time that you really must forgive him. *Mirage drops back to the floor, such as it is, of the pit and backs away to the opposite end. Chumley is /not/ going to be in touch range of him. Oh no.*
Lord Chumley: *Oh, he doesn't need to touch you. The pit is certainly close enough range.* Ah, yes. A short time for you - a rather long time for us.
Mirage: *But maybe Mirage can, perhaps, get the kind of angle he needs to unsubspace his rifle: might you have thought of that?* Indeed. What are you attempting to -- collect us for?
Lord Chumley: For the thrill of the hunt, mostly. You see - I've bagged nearly every sort of animal on the face of this planet. You, however, are quite a different breed. I'm sporting enough, however, to not simply shoot you here. Oh, no. I'll give you all a good chance to outrun me until I finally nab you and have you... well, I suppose I won't need to stuff any of you. *Smile~.*
Mirage: *Mirage goes still a moment, expression freezing.* Interesting. *All right, that's enough. He unsubspaces his rifle and moves to bring it up.*
Lord Chumley: *When facing a hunter, Mirage, it's probably wise to not bring a rifle to a taser fight. Speaking of - Chumley deftly grabs the taser that Dinsmoore holds out to him, turning and aiming on Mirage.* Dreadfully sorry, wish we could keep chatting, but you seem to be a bit preoccupied. Enjoy your nap, see you on the island. *Mirage, how do you feel about a large cattle prod shooting purple light at you? Sleepy, hopefully.*
Mirage: *The rifle /serves him well/ in normal circumstances, thank you. And he does not feel terribly good at the cattle prod emitting purple light. For 'not very good,' see 'sleepy.' Mirage fights it, of course, but not to much avail. He hopes it's /incredibly/ difficult to get him out of the pit.*
Lord Chumley: *Alas, Mirage won't even get that satisfaction, as it seems that the safari bus actualy seems to have a crane - and no seats on the bottom level. If it's any consolation, Chumley will make sure to not scratch any of his paint?*
Mirage: *Curses. But Mirage will take that as a distant, /distant/ second.*