06-13-2017, 02:02 PM
As I touched down in the Station 17 pre-show hall in a brilliant blaze of light, I could only catch the briefest of glimpses of the staging area before I felt the world tugged out from beneath me. Tossing my hands out in front of me, I stumbling forward as I lurched off the receiving platform and fell unceremoniously onto my hands and knees. Sweat began to bead on my brow as my legs quaked beneath me, my elbows buckling as my stomach emptied its contents upon the heretofore spotless linoleum. “Teleportation,” I muttered, continuing to dry heave between words. “Not...as awesome...as I originally thought.”
A few moments of discomfort later, I finally found the strength to stagger to my feet. Thankfully, the only thing I had consumed thus far since arrival in the Omniverse was the large decanter of whiskey, the strong smell of the aged spirit covering up the reek of bile. A tear nearly formed in the corner of my eye as I stared down sadly at the amber puddle at my feet, careful to keep my still somewhat damp shoes out of its path. Ultimately I supposed it didn’t really matter; I could always summon more. “Someone should probably clean that up,” I suggested, catching the eye of a younger female Syntech employee nearby. She fixed me with a scowl, sulking off to retrieve cleaning supplies. It was good to be Omniverse Royalty.
As the crowded hall continued to bustle, entrants and staff commingled, crossing through various thresholds into the rooms Syntech had provided. The signs over the doorways informed me that there were such luxuries as a library, park, and even a restaurant and bar. I took a mental note of the location of the last of these. “So,” I muttered to myself. “Do I just start shooting people? Probably should have asked before I got here.” It didn’t occur to me that maybe the rules of the game had been within that booklet I blindly covered in my initials. “I don’t see anyone dead yet, so maybe we’re all waiting.” While I had had my fair share of underground bar fights and bloody melees to the death, it wasn’t often that I saw the fighters snacking and lounging like old friends beforehand.
“Excuse me, sir!”
My head swiveled at the call, my baby blues catching sight of a petite blonde woman striding toward me, flanked by a crew carrying film equipment. She wore an enormous smile, her face framed by thick curls that spilled past her shoulders. She produced a microphone as she neared, thrusting the instrument in front of my face expectantly.
“Uh...hi,” I muttered, taken slightly aback by her nerve.
“Could you spare some words for your adoring public?” the newscaster charmed, continuing to smile brightly. “We’d love to have a quick interview with one of our handsome contestants.”
“Sterling Archer,” I asserted, a confident smile on my face. “I’m here to kick ass and chew bubblegum. And I didn’t bring a single piece of bubblegum.”
“We’re seeing confidence in this one!” the anchor tittered, the cameraman panning quickly back to her. She oozed charisma as she poured on the questioning. “What makes you unique? What do you think gives you that edge you’ll need?”
“Oh, just years of training as a badass super spy, that’s all.” I could feel her eyes sizing me up. “Trust me, if the people at home are placing bets, put it all on Archer.”
“Would you say you owe your odds to your Sterling efforts?” she inquired, layering on the charm as she stepped closer.
“As bad as that pun is,” I returned, rolling my eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly correct.”
“Mag-nificent!” the broadcaster proclaimed, undeterred by my snark. “And are you so far worried about your competition at all? Some pretty tough customers have shown up this year.”
“Pft,” I countered, “That doesn’t even merit a response. It’s me we’re talking about.”
“Well well, glad to hear it,” the anchor said, dripping with faux interest. “I know who I’ll have my eye on. Before we go, do you have any other words you’d like to share with the Omniverse?”
“Yes,” I smirked, taking a breath and squaring my face before the camera. “Suck it, Cyril.”
“Well, we...don’t want to keep you any longer,” the blonde newscaster replied, face turning bright red. She quickly turned her back to me and began stepping away, continuing to rattle off her script as the cameraman followed suit. “We know you need to start getting ready for the big event! We hope you have what it takes to survive the Abyss!” Before I could add another word, they disappeared into the crowd.
Content that my presence had been made clear to my soon-to-be-adoring fans, I set out toward the bar. My shoes squeaked upon the tiles as I walked the short distance, the soles still smeared with muck. I paused before entering the tavern, catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror mounted across the hall in what must have been a workout facility. My perfectly tailored and pressed bespoke suit now hung limp upon my muscled frame, a few small tears noticeable at the seams, likely from pushing through the crowd back in Darkshire. Something would have to be done about that. I took a seat on a bench against the wall and began to focus, the vision of the necessary accouterments fresh in my head.
Moments later I strode casually across the barroom floor, a vision of combat excellence. My sullied loafers were swapped out for steel-toed black combat boots, emphasizing the perfect balance between form and function. Charcoal gray slacks had been replaced by sturdy and functional black canvas cargo pants, various pockets lined with a plethora of ammunition to fit any occasion. My prized suit coat had been discarded in favor of a dark black tactical turtleneck, a mainstay of mine during excursions in the field. Across my chest I had strapped my Walther service firearm, tucked into a brown leather shoulder holster. My right front pants pocket was stuffed with a 12-gauge sawn-off shotgun, the deep and ample storage space allowing it to rest comfortable against my tight without hampering movement. I smirked for a moment at the thought of Woodhouse waking up to find his prized boomstick missing; the old dope fiend wouldn’t likely be needing it anytime soon anyway. Lastly, an MP 40 submachine gun hung against my lower back on a carrying strap.
“What can I get you?” the barkeep inquired as I approached. The boy was younger, looking to be not a day over eighteen with sandy blonde hair. His name tag read ‘BJ’.
“Vodka martini,” I replied, ignoring the opportunity to make a crass comment at the boy’s expense.
“Shaken?” BJ asked, grabbing a bottle of vermouth and a shaker.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” I snapped, cocking an eyebrow. “Do I look like I want my drink watered down?”
A few moments of discomfort later, I finally found the strength to stagger to my feet. Thankfully, the only thing I had consumed thus far since arrival in the Omniverse was the large decanter of whiskey, the strong smell of the aged spirit covering up the reek of bile. A tear nearly formed in the corner of my eye as I stared down sadly at the amber puddle at my feet, careful to keep my still somewhat damp shoes out of its path. Ultimately I supposed it didn’t really matter; I could always summon more. “Someone should probably clean that up,” I suggested, catching the eye of a younger female Syntech employee nearby. She fixed me with a scowl, sulking off to retrieve cleaning supplies. It was good to be Omniverse Royalty.
As the crowded hall continued to bustle, entrants and staff commingled, crossing through various thresholds into the rooms Syntech had provided. The signs over the doorways informed me that there were such luxuries as a library, park, and even a restaurant and bar. I took a mental note of the location of the last of these. “So,” I muttered to myself. “Do I just start shooting people? Probably should have asked before I got here.” It didn’t occur to me that maybe the rules of the game had been within that booklet I blindly covered in my initials. “I don’t see anyone dead yet, so maybe we’re all waiting.” While I had had my fair share of underground bar fights and bloody melees to the death, it wasn’t often that I saw the fighters snacking and lounging like old friends beforehand.
“Excuse me, sir!”
My head swiveled at the call, my baby blues catching sight of a petite blonde woman striding toward me, flanked by a crew carrying film equipment. She wore an enormous smile, her face framed by thick curls that spilled past her shoulders. She produced a microphone as she neared, thrusting the instrument in front of my face expectantly.
“Uh...hi,” I muttered, taken slightly aback by her nerve.
“Could you spare some words for your adoring public?” the newscaster charmed, continuing to smile brightly. “We’d love to have a quick interview with one of our handsome contestants.”
“Sterling Archer,” I asserted, a confident smile on my face. “I’m here to kick ass and chew bubblegum. And I didn’t bring a single piece of bubblegum.”
“We’re seeing confidence in this one!” the anchor tittered, the cameraman panning quickly back to her. She oozed charisma as she poured on the questioning. “What makes you unique? What do you think gives you that edge you’ll need?”
“Oh, just years of training as a badass super spy, that’s all.” I could feel her eyes sizing me up. “Trust me, if the people at home are placing bets, put it all on Archer.”
“Would you say you owe your odds to your Sterling efforts?” she inquired, layering on the charm as she stepped closer.
“As bad as that pun is,” I returned, rolling my eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly correct.”
“Mag-nificent!” the broadcaster proclaimed, undeterred by my snark. “And are you so far worried about your competition at all? Some pretty tough customers have shown up this year.”
“Pft,” I countered, “That doesn’t even merit a response. It’s me we’re talking about.”
“Well well, glad to hear it,” the anchor said, dripping with faux interest. “I know who I’ll have my eye on. Before we go, do you have any other words you’d like to share with the Omniverse?”
“Yes,” I smirked, taking a breath and squaring my face before the camera. “Suck it, Cyril.”
“Well, we...don’t want to keep you any longer,” the blonde newscaster replied, face turning bright red. She quickly turned her back to me and began stepping away, continuing to rattle off her script as the cameraman followed suit. “We know you need to start getting ready for the big event! We hope you have what it takes to survive the Abyss!” Before I could add another word, they disappeared into the crowd.
Content that my presence had been made clear to my soon-to-be-adoring fans, I set out toward the bar. My shoes squeaked upon the tiles as I walked the short distance, the soles still smeared with muck. I paused before entering the tavern, catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror mounted across the hall in what must have been a workout facility. My perfectly tailored and pressed bespoke suit now hung limp upon my muscled frame, a few small tears noticeable at the seams, likely from pushing through the crowd back in Darkshire. Something would have to be done about that. I took a seat on a bench against the wall and began to focus, the vision of the necessary accouterments fresh in my head.
Moments later I strode casually across the barroom floor, a vision of combat excellence. My sullied loafers were swapped out for steel-toed black combat boots, emphasizing the perfect balance between form and function. Charcoal gray slacks had been replaced by sturdy and functional black canvas cargo pants, various pockets lined with a plethora of ammunition to fit any occasion. My prized suit coat had been discarded in favor of a dark black tactical turtleneck, a mainstay of mine during excursions in the field. Across my chest I had strapped my Walther service firearm, tucked into a brown leather shoulder holster. My right front pants pocket was stuffed with a 12-gauge sawn-off shotgun, the deep and ample storage space allowing it to rest comfortable against my tight without hampering movement. I smirked for a moment at the thought of Woodhouse waking up to find his prized boomstick missing; the old dope fiend wouldn’t likely be needing it anytime soon anyway. Lastly, an MP 40 submachine gun hung against my lower back on a carrying strap.
“What can I get you?” the barkeep inquired as I approached. The boy was younger, looking to be not a day over eighteen with sandy blonde hair. His name tag read ‘BJ’.
“Vodka martini,” I replied, ignoring the opportunity to make a crass comment at the boy’s expense.
“Shaken?” BJ asked, grabbing a bottle of vermouth and a shaker.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” I snapped, cocking an eyebrow. “Do I look like I want my drink watered down?”
Quote:From Main Hall to Bar
![[Image: sterling-archer.jpg]](https://hollywoodhatesme.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/sterling-archer.jpg)