(no subject)
Title: Game Over-- Restart Game?
Pairing: G3rard/Party Poison
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 2057
Summary: G3rard doesn't mean to pull another version of himself into his world. But he does, which means he has to deal with the consequences.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Working at Grab Bag is the best job the top continent has to offer. G3rard doesn’t know if it’s the best job in the world, he’s not one of the few elite allowed to travel. But it’s definitely the best he can get.
Most jobs that reach through the multiverse are about the economy. G3rard’s is about entertainment. And he’s got a following, because he’s good at what he does. Sixty three wins, four losses. Of course, most grabbaggers do have a following. But that’s because most of them are good. If they weren’t they’d be fired. Everyone wants to be a grabbagger, there’s no room on the roster for dead weight.
The Mecha job is over. The Mecha job is ancient history, and so is G3rard’s time off. It always seems to go so fast. There’s the week of training; figuring out how the weapon you pulled works and how to use it in the flashiest of ways. All the while marketing is selling the future, combining mystery with reasons to watch, like the public needs more encouragement to turn on UFC. Then it’s the battle week; seven days of the same thing, hopefully with varied outcomes so the audience doesn’t get bored. It’s a best of seven for the ultimate win or lose mark on your record. Then he’s got a week off, he and his opponent and whomever else has battled in the time slots of the twelve hour tv day. And then it’s back to work again.
“So you’re picking today,” Mik3y says over a cup of coffee.
G3rard pouts. Mik3y knows he’s picking. The loser of the last battle always picks. Even before the android cat sabotaged him G3rard knew he was going to lose. Especially considering it was a Mecha battle against Deadmau5. Deadmau5 fistpumps with glee the instant a robot comes through, much the same way G3rard feels when he pulls a person. He knows how to make a person win. Robots aren’t his style.
“Get me something interesting.”
G3rard picks up the thermos of Mik3y’s expensive flavoured coffee and takes a swig, ignoring Mik3y’s sudden scowl. Fuck his little brother’s property, if he’s gonna be asking bratty rhetorical questions. “How come marketing always thinks it’s about them?”
“Because if your battles don’t get enough viewers you’re fucked?”
“True enough.”
R4y T0ro and Bo8 8ryar are already sitting when G3rard finally leaves the Grab Bag building and gets out onto the field. G3rard’s only ten minutes late, so he doesn’t feel too guilty. He’s been later before. The moment they see him coming they start typing on their machines. By the time he’s next to R4y, saying his good mornings, they’ve got the multiverse set up. G3rard’s not really sure how that works. Not his department. It just does, and so he uses it.
G3rard steps into the dome of light that’s flashing from one colour to the next. It’s nearly hypnotic, and it’s definitely beautiful. If you stared long enough you could see every colour that’s ever existed. And there’s no rule about not standing and enjoying it for awhile. There are no rules about Pulling method at all. G3rard will just stick his arms through and pull whenever he wants. A weapon will come out in his clenched hands, and Bo8 will stabilize it for this world. And then it’s a week of training, so he can battle with it for best of seven, and then it’s another week off relaxing with his brother. And again and again until his ratings go down and he gets fired, or he retires, or he dies.
It’s not the first time G3rard’s pulled a group. He’s never pulled more than five before though, and this is eight. Still, there have been violent mobscenes in the history of Grab Bag, so the number can’t be why R4y’s swearing as an alarm goes off.
“G3rard! Get out of the dome!”
G3rard startles. And among others, so does the man with the yellow gun and the candy apple red hair, who looks up to see who’s shouting. G3rard gets a look at his face, and that’s when it all makes sense. G3rard bolts back up the stairs to the console as Bo8 sets up the emergency controls.
Every world has the same population. It’s a well known fact, one of the first things the scientists learned when they started scouting multiverses. There’s nowhere to go to escape the population crunch. Another well known fact; all worlds have exactly the same population. There are a billion G3rards throughout the multiverse, even if they aren’t named that. Some people watch Grab Bag’s productions just to see if a human weapon pulled is them. A very little known fact is all the copies across the multiverse die at the same instant. It was one piece of information the pioneer scientists decided not to share, and nor has anyone else with controlling interest and proper technology. It’s the general consensus that the public will freak out.
G3rard’s in a tough place. An old friend of his, B3rt, had to send a plague vector back once. It was the right thing to do, the only moral thing to do. Unfortunately, Grab Bag policy is returning a weapon without using it calls for immediate firing. More than that, firing is followed with a memory wipe so you don’t spout off Grab Bag secrets. B3rt doesn’t remember him. But the alternative to sending these weapons back is letting the other G3rard fight. And that means they both might die on national tv on the seventh night.
“It’s your choice, G3rard,” R4y says, his words accompanied by a pat on the shoulder.
G3rard knows it is. That’s the problem. It would be easier if there was a protocol. “Keep ‘em,” he mutters just loud enough for Bo8 and R4y to hear. Mik3y’s not going to like this.
Mik3y doesn’t like it. Mik3y is distinctly upset about it, to the point that G3rard half expects to be punched in the face. Mom didn’t raise them to be physical like that, but there’s no disputing that Mik3y looks like he wants to take a swing, right in the middle of the cubicle farm.
“You kept them? Where you have to fight them seven days in a row? Are you insane? The Grab Bag magic that brings them back to life after each battle to the death will not work on you! The instant the other you-”
“His name is Party Poison,” G3rard interjects. He’s had all morning to talk to the four weapons he was assigned, he knows how different his life has been from Party Poison’s. They don’t even number their citizens on his world. The least G3rard can do is acknowledge him as a real, individual person.
Mik3y doesn’t seem to care about that. “Whatever! The instant he dies for real you die. And you stay dead.”
“Mik3y, I would have died in the next ten minutes if I hadn’t pulled them out.”
“Fuck you, no you wouldn’t.”
“I found the men I pulled were two different factions. They were already fighting when R4y locked onto them, and Party Poison’s side was going to lose. If the Killjoys can win the seventh battle, even if they lose the first six their enemy stays dead and they’re free.”
“Well how fucking nice for them.” Mik3y grabs his briefcase and very nearly stomps to the elevator. G3rard follows, at a loss for how to fix this. He’s already made his choice, the only thing left is to follow through as best as he can.
G3rard knows what he’s told his brother is true. Every night he goes into the field and battles them he knows the only real fight is the seventh night. He’s still proud with each successive win. You don’t last long as a grabbagger -hell, you probably don’t even hand in a resume- if you don’t care about winning.
The reason is for the streak obvious. It’s not so much that the Killjoys are better fighters. While they’re all good flashgun handlers, they each have flaws. Kobra Kid has a near inability to land a blow in hand to hand combat, Jetstar has lack of agility. Fun Ghoul seems to be recovering from an illness -Bo8 had to be called to check the contagion level-, and Party Poison insists on wearing a mouse head manufactured to his specifications that reduces his visibility. The bottom line though is they’re basically friendly and willing to take advice over the comms. The four Ad4m L3vine got stuck with don’t listen to a word he says. Not that G3rard is surprised, hearing the stories the Killjoys have to tell about the regime of Battery City. When you control that much without even thinking about it, being asked to follow orders must seem crazy.
In the hours before the last battle, G3e visits Party. He’s brushing his hair when G3rard comes in. Apparently it’s the beauty products Party misses the most, living in the desert where the spy flies don’t always find you. G3rard would have guessed air conditioning, but each to their own.
“Is this the part where you tell us to retire so I don’t get all the me’s killed?”
“As far as I know, there’s a G3rard out there who’s a lion tamer or a king’s food taster. Or an unlucky third world relief worker who’s just caught something hemorrhagic. People die.”
Not to mention they can’t just stop now. It’s unthinkable. Battle week is seven battles, that’s just how it is. Party Poison would never be allowed to leave, through the dome or through the door. Weapons don’t leave, they die or get sent back.
“So then why are you here?”
G3rard shrugs. “To wish you good luck, I guess.” Which of course he could have done at the dome, but it sounds stupid to say he wanted one last look at the red hair. One last look at Party’s face before he puts the mouse head on and fights to the death.
“On my world they have good luck kisses. What about yours?”
Instead of explaining that no one really kisses anymore -not since Chr7s Br0wn pulled nanobots that weaponize with contact to saliva and refused to put them back and get fired- that kisses went out of style after the first ten thousand mouth bombs, G3rard leans in. Either way tonight’s battle turns out, this is his last opportunity. He can give Party Poison this. He can give himself this.
An hour later the last shot rings out as Korse falls. There are some burns on G3rard’s side, but no fatalities. He’s got an obvious win. Ad4m can suck it. And in the dome Party and Jet and Kobra and Ghoul are celebrating, the three faces G3rard can see smiling before R4y cuts off the feed and Bo8 shuts down the regeneration protocols. A few seconds more of typing and the multiverse opens on the exact shade G3rard pulled these weapons from. The colour sucks the Killjoys and the corpses back in, just like the universe packing up a board game it had been playing with.
Any second now a camera is going to swarm into G3rard’s face. Marketing requires a Champion’s Soundbite. G3rard will say what he always does; he did his best, but most of the win is due to the might of the weapon he used. Mik3y complains that the statement gets boring, but Marketing can suck it. Marketing doesn’t know what it’s like, killing over and over again for entertainment. Marketing doesn’t have to compartmentalise, they strive to sell the whole messy package. Even Mik3y does it. G3rard can’t hold a grudge, because what he does is worse, but he can withhold all his innermost thoughts.
It’s the truth, anyway. He couldn’t do his job if the weapons he pulled weren’t mighty. The Killjoys were mighty. Party Poison said in his own soundbite at the beginning of the week that the never ending battles on his world weren’t about skill, but about being outnumbered by Dracs and Scarecrows. If nothing else, G3rard can be happy he was able to provide them an even playing field. And he can be happy he gets a week off before he has to restart the cycle.
Pairing: G3rard/Party Poison
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 2057
Summary: G3rard doesn't mean to pull another version of himself into his world. But he does, which means he has to deal with the consequences.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Working at Grab Bag is the best job the top continent has to offer. G3rard doesn’t know if it’s the best job in the world, he’s not one of the few elite allowed to travel. But it’s definitely the best he can get.
Most jobs that reach through the multiverse are about the economy. G3rard’s is about entertainment. And he’s got a following, because he’s good at what he does. Sixty three wins, four losses. Of course, most grabbaggers do have a following. But that’s because most of them are good. If they weren’t they’d be fired. Everyone wants to be a grabbagger, there’s no room on the roster for dead weight.
The Mecha job is over. The Mecha job is ancient history, and so is G3rard’s time off. It always seems to go so fast. There’s the week of training; figuring out how the weapon you pulled works and how to use it in the flashiest of ways. All the while marketing is selling the future, combining mystery with reasons to watch, like the public needs more encouragement to turn on UFC. Then it’s the battle week; seven days of the same thing, hopefully with varied outcomes so the audience doesn’t get bored. It’s a best of seven for the ultimate win or lose mark on your record. Then he’s got a week off, he and his opponent and whomever else has battled in the time slots of the twelve hour tv day. And then it’s back to work again.
“So you’re picking today,” Mik3y says over a cup of coffee.
G3rard pouts. Mik3y knows he’s picking. The loser of the last battle always picks. Even before the android cat sabotaged him G3rard knew he was going to lose. Especially considering it was a Mecha battle against Deadmau5. Deadmau5 fistpumps with glee the instant a robot comes through, much the same way G3rard feels when he pulls a person. He knows how to make a person win. Robots aren’t his style.
“Get me something interesting.”
G3rard picks up the thermos of Mik3y’s expensive flavoured coffee and takes a swig, ignoring Mik3y’s sudden scowl. Fuck his little brother’s property, if he’s gonna be asking bratty rhetorical questions. “How come marketing always thinks it’s about them?”
“Because if your battles don’t get enough viewers you’re fucked?”
“True enough.”
R4y T0ro and Bo8 8ryar are already sitting when G3rard finally leaves the Grab Bag building and gets out onto the field. G3rard’s only ten minutes late, so he doesn’t feel too guilty. He’s been later before. The moment they see him coming they start typing on their machines. By the time he’s next to R4y, saying his good mornings, they’ve got the multiverse set up. G3rard’s not really sure how that works. Not his department. It just does, and so he uses it.
G3rard steps into the dome of light that’s flashing from one colour to the next. It’s nearly hypnotic, and it’s definitely beautiful. If you stared long enough you could see every colour that’s ever existed. And there’s no rule about not standing and enjoying it for awhile. There are no rules about Pulling method at all. G3rard will just stick his arms through and pull whenever he wants. A weapon will come out in his clenched hands, and Bo8 will stabilize it for this world. And then it’s a week of training, so he can battle with it for best of seven, and then it’s another week off relaxing with his brother. And again and again until his ratings go down and he gets fired, or he retires, or he dies.
It’s not the first time G3rard’s pulled a group. He’s never pulled more than five before though, and this is eight. Still, there have been violent mobscenes in the history of Grab Bag, so the number can’t be why R4y’s swearing as an alarm goes off.
“G3rard! Get out of the dome!”
G3rard startles. And among others, so does the man with the yellow gun and the candy apple red hair, who looks up to see who’s shouting. G3rard gets a look at his face, and that’s when it all makes sense. G3rard bolts back up the stairs to the console as Bo8 sets up the emergency controls.
Every world has the same population. It’s a well known fact, one of the first things the scientists learned when they started scouting multiverses. There’s nowhere to go to escape the population crunch. Another well known fact; all worlds have exactly the same population. There are a billion G3rards throughout the multiverse, even if they aren’t named that. Some people watch Grab Bag’s productions just to see if a human weapon pulled is them. A very little known fact is all the copies across the multiverse die at the same instant. It was one piece of information the pioneer scientists decided not to share, and nor has anyone else with controlling interest and proper technology. It’s the general consensus that the public will freak out.
G3rard’s in a tough place. An old friend of his, B3rt, had to send a plague vector back once. It was the right thing to do, the only moral thing to do. Unfortunately, Grab Bag policy is returning a weapon without using it calls for immediate firing. More than that, firing is followed with a memory wipe so you don’t spout off Grab Bag secrets. B3rt doesn’t remember him. But the alternative to sending these weapons back is letting the other G3rard fight. And that means they both might die on national tv on the seventh night.
“It’s your choice, G3rard,” R4y says, his words accompanied by a pat on the shoulder.
G3rard knows it is. That’s the problem. It would be easier if there was a protocol. “Keep ‘em,” he mutters just loud enough for Bo8 and R4y to hear. Mik3y’s not going to like this.
Mik3y doesn’t like it. Mik3y is distinctly upset about it, to the point that G3rard half expects to be punched in the face. Mom didn’t raise them to be physical like that, but there’s no disputing that Mik3y looks like he wants to take a swing, right in the middle of the cubicle farm.
“You kept them? Where you have to fight them seven days in a row? Are you insane? The Grab Bag magic that brings them back to life after each battle to the death will not work on you! The instant the other you-”
“His name is Party Poison,” G3rard interjects. He’s had all morning to talk to the four weapons he was assigned, he knows how different his life has been from Party Poison’s. They don’t even number their citizens on his world. The least G3rard can do is acknowledge him as a real, individual person.
Mik3y doesn’t seem to care about that. “Whatever! The instant he dies for real you die. And you stay dead.”
“Mik3y, I would have died in the next ten minutes if I hadn’t pulled them out.”
“Fuck you, no you wouldn’t.”
“I found the men I pulled were two different factions. They were already fighting when R4y locked onto them, and Party Poison’s side was going to lose. If the Killjoys can win the seventh battle, even if they lose the first six their enemy stays dead and they’re free.”
“Well how fucking nice for them.” Mik3y grabs his briefcase and very nearly stomps to the elevator. G3rard follows, at a loss for how to fix this. He’s already made his choice, the only thing left is to follow through as best as he can.
G3rard knows what he’s told his brother is true. Every night he goes into the field and battles them he knows the only real fight is the seventh night. He’s still proud with each successive win. You don’t last long as a grabbagger -hell, you probably don’t even hand in a resume- if you don’t care about winning.
The reason is for the streak obvious. It’s not so much that the Killjoys are better fighters. While they’re all good flashgun handlers, they each have flaws. Kobra Kid has a near inability to land a blow in hand to hand combat, Jetstar has lack of agility. Fun Ghoul seems to be recovering from an illness -Bo8 had to be called to check the contagion level-, and Party Poison insists on wearing a mouse head manufactured to his specifications that reduces his visibility. The bottom line though is they’re basically friendly and willing to take advice over the comms. The four Ad4m L3vine got stuck with don’t listen to a word he says. Not that G3rard is surprised, hearing the stories the Killjoys have to tell about the regime of Battery City. When you control that much without even thinking about it, being asked to follow orders must seem crazy.
In the hours before the last battle, G3e visits Party. He’s brushing his hair when G3rard comes in. Apparently it’s the beauty products Party misses the most, living in the desert where the spy flies don’t always find you. G3rard would have guessed air conditioning, but each to their own.
“Is this the part where you tell us to retire so I don’t get all the me’s killed?”
“As far as I know, there’s a G3rard out there who’s a lion tamer or a king’s food taster. Or an unlucky third world relief worker who’s just caught something hemorrhagic. People die.”
Not to mention they can’t just stop now. It’s unthinkable. Battle week is seven battles, that’s just how it is. Party Poison would never be allowed to leave, through the dome or through the door. Weapons don’t leave, they die or get sent back.
“So then why are you here?”
G3rard shrugs. “To wish you good luck, I guess.” Which of course he could have done at the dome, but it sounds stupid to say he wanted one last look at the red hair. One last look at Party’s face before he puts the mouse head on and fights to the death.
“On my world they have good luck kisses. What about yours?”
Instead of explaining that no one really kisses anymore -not since Chr7s Br0wn pulled nanobots that weaponize with contact to saliva and refused to put them back and get fired- that kisses went out of style after the first ten thousand mouth bombs, G3rard leans in. Either way tonight’s battle turns out, this is his last opportunity. He can give Party Poison this. He can give himself this.
An hour later the last shot rings out as Korse falls. There are some burns on G3rard’s side, but no fatalities. He’s got an obvious win. Ad4m can suck it. And in the dome Party and Jet and Kobra and Ghoul are celebrating, the three faces G3rard can see smiling before R4y cuts off the feed and Bo8 shuts down the regeneration protocols. A few seconds more of typing and the multiverse opens on the exact shade G3rard pulled these weapons from. The colour sucks the Killjoys and the corpses back in, just like the universe packing up a board game it had been playing with.
Any second now a camera is going to swarm into G3rard’s face. Marketing requires a Champion’s Soundbite. G3rard will say what he always does; he did his best, but most of the win is due to the might of the weapon he used. Mik3y complains that the statement gets boring, but Marketing can suck it. Marketing doesn’t know what it’s like, killing over and over again for entertainment. Marketing doesn’t have to compartmentalise, they strive to sell the whole messy package. Even Mik3y does it. G3rard can’t hold a grudge, because what he does is worse, but he can withhold all his innermost thoughts.
It’s the truth, anyway. He couldn’t do his job if the weapons he pulled weren’t mighty. The Killjoys were mighty. Party Poison said in his own soundbite at the beginning of the week that the never ending battles on his world weren’t about skill, but about being outnumbered by Dracs and Scarecrows. If nothing else, G3rard can be happy he was able to provide them an even playing field. And he can be happy he gets a week off before he has to restart the cycle.