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Post
khv is is dire danger!

Fine. I will be myself. I will be the king of all the sentient beings.

Post by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
khv is is dire danger!

IT WORKED?

Post by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Thread
khv is is dire danger!

I MUST USE THE HALEY SUMMON!

haley save me from my spelling errors!

Thread by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010, 4 replies, in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
KHV...i has a problem...

I'm going to be frozen just so I could eff her baby.

Post by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
Nononononononononononono

Trixter said: ↑

You know, speaking of Daft Punk, I believe I saw them in Tron.
Click to expand...

Yeah, they show up at the End of the Line club.

Post by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Thread
Nononononononononononono

THIS CANNOT BE REAL

nvrmind its a prank
i hope. yeah it is fake.

Thread by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010, 4 replies, in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
Hullo khv

Oerba Yun Fang said: ↑

You living in a tent? O:

NIIIIIIIIIICE! I approve. Anything Zelda is good.

HOW DARE YOU! FIX THEM! >|
Click to expand...

Boobs are easy to mess up, but they are hard to fix.

Post by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
Hullo khv

Oerba Yun Fang said: ↑

How did you manage to mess up your booties?
Click to expand...

I MESSED THEM UP

Post by: reptar, Dec 29, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
I just remembered why 8th grade was the best year ever for me.

Post by: reptar, Dec 28, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Thread
sasafrass

Thread by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010, 0 replies, in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
Here's a topic.

But that was a terrible game. Even Olivia Wilde and Bruce Boxleitner could not save it.

Post by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
I got a snuggie.

Shizzy said: ↑

I got the KH one from HT.

/thread
Click to expand...

Post by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
The "What Song Are You Listening to Now?" Thread

Wanderlust // Bjork

Post by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010 in forum: The Playground
Post
The "What Song Are You Listening to Now?" Thread

Radio GaGa // Queen

Post by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010 in forum: The Playground
Post
How fast do you type, KHV?

50 words per minute.

Post by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Thread
lolhi boredom

Thread by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010, 0 replies, in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
Shalom, KHV

Shalom is my Dentists name.

Post by: reptar, Dec 27, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
Graphic Shop RvR's Gif Shop

Thank you so much c:

Post by: reptar, Dec 26, 2010 in forum: Art Shop
Thread
so

I got The Iron Giant: Special Edition

[and a toy helicopter]
awwwwwww yiss

Thread by: reptar, Dec 26, 2010, 0 replies, in forum: The Spam Zone
Post
KHV Secret Santa gift thread

What? said: ↑

A (slightly oddly-written and horridly formatted due to the forum) lengthy story pour Reptar - A Merry, Merry Christmas indeed.

TO CONSUME A TURKEY

I. Meeting

His name was Wrecks Shepard. He knew not how he had received the name, why he had received the name, nor whom "Wrecks" or "Shepard" were individually, but what he knew was that he was Wrecks Shepard, and Wrecks Shepard alone.

If one were to notice this Wrecks Shepard, the first thing they may note of his presence was his extreme similarity to that of the simplistic world around him - his face shone a pallor of dull gray, a stark lack of contrast with the world about his being, from the uncluttered old desk behind which he sat solemnly and silently, typing in a mechanical fashion without a thought in mind but to
complete such laborious work. The great walls of the cubicle that surrounded his being were unadorned and empty - lacking in thought, dream, and personality, a reflection upon the saddening lack of such humane substance in Mr. Shepard himself. But such simplicity
was not unique to such a man alone, for this stunning sense of solidarity and minimalism, this unthoughtful, mean, and perturbed brutalism with an emphasized brutality, extended beyond this dismal office; beyond the great monumental monoliths of concrete and glass
that Mr. Shepard found himself in; beyond the streets and lights and cars and thoughts and emotions - lack of emotions, that flooded by, rushing, rushing like a river of distilled water - containing nothing but the presence of thought and emotion itself. Such was the world of Mr. Wrecks Shepard, such was his reality, and such was, perhaps, a proper reason why - even in worlds lacking in thought and emotion, change is perceptible; palatable.

But not at this moment, for you see, Mr. Shepard, in all of the polyphonic emotion his face may have held at the moment - which was indeed quite little at the time - held an excitement in his work, an excitement indicative in his rapid, almost mindless keystrokes. The pattering of the keys fired themselves throughout the office, bouncing and ricocheting off of the walls of other cubicles unobstructed; off of the lights and the air and the tinted windows, that provided the only sense of beleaguering personality throughout the great room. The room itself stood decrepit of any and all souls with the exception of Mr. Shepard, much too busy stranded in his world of a present future, if only he were to type faster, faster, even faster. Indeed, it was only his cubicle that shined with the light of kinetic movement - an island among the dead and those passed on. Of course, Mr. Shepard himself wished to
pass on, for he required his nourishment just as well.

Mr. Shepard's eyes shone a hollow light at the words he typed upon the aging computer screen. He was, indeed, to complete a letter to Agency 89B of the North-West 2 Department, a direct branch of the Grand Sectorial Cluster B, itself representative of the lower branch of the FERELDEN party. Of course, Mr. Shepard, in all of his simple-minded naivete, knew not of the meaning of this
generic bureaucratic jargon, knowing only that he must complete his work to receive his nourishment.

And with a conclusive stroke of the key; the last key, Mr. Shepard had completed the letter, to be forwarded to what the other peons, slaves of such a corporate party, knew only as the mysterious puppeteers of this entire operation. Of course, that was not to say Mr. Shepard and his colleagues would be able to potently understand the rather ridiculous outlines of such a master plan. Mr. Shepard, feeling such stringent excitement, though indeed controlled like all of his other simplistic and vague emotional tendencies, pushed the large, silver button on the side of the computer screen, its gentle white glow immediately replaced by a stark black nothing - and thus did Mr. Shepard's island of life and movement lose itself immediately. Brushing off his worn grey jump suit, he picked up the large silver suitcase by his side - the only other article on the desk - and with it, stepped gently and gracefully out of the cubicle, as graceful as a neurotic and simple peon of a distraught and dystopian government work force could have. Thus did Mr. Wrecks Shepard, Associate Peon #43 of Data Stream Directorate 28, in correspondence with Agency 89B, North-West 2 Department, Grand Sectorial Cluster B, Lower FERELDEN, continue, continue onwards, for he would indeed achieve his Nourishment of the day.

Shepard, suitcase in hand, stepped onto the pristine streets, slathered with a most recent rain. He did not look in wonder at the graceful skyscrapers amongst his minuscule being - the great minarets of dark crystal and white light that created a wondrous metropolis of chiaroscuro among themselves; he did not look in wonder at the radical designs of the vehicles gracefully winding throughout the smooth, mirror-like roads - those evoking a dynamic perfection, an organic quality only usually achieved by the graceful nature herself; he did not look in wonder at the others around him - the dull, grey, jumpsuit-clad, suitcase-carrying, mindless peons simply like himself; he did not look, did not care, of such an imperfect cyber dream among him - no, he cared only for his nourishment. And there it was, almost in front of poor Mr. Shepard - simply a block away. Rising out of the glass-like streets crowded with smudges and shades of despair proudly stood Mr. Shepard's salvation; his life, his death, his reason, true reason, for such a miserable existence.

Perhaps it must be said that this world of grey was not the irrevocable truth - for amongst this sea of silent misery shone the great light of health that drew all towards it - the all-encompassing beacon known only as the "MCP". Such buildings were quite distinct from those of the sharp plastic around them - though they themselves were quite grey, they held the intrinsic quality of being crafted out of a pure metal, most usually unbeknownst to the eyes of the plebeian population. But such a peculiarity was not the most defining feature of the structures, no. It may be argued that it was those signs - the enormous signs, audacious and dashing in quality, that drew all towards them in a horrid lust for the contents within. And Mr. Shepard loved the signs. They stood out amongst the grey, for they were bright red, a red that most peons would never expect in such a world, and like bees to honey they would be attracted to such mystery. Perhaps, it must be said, that this attraction towards this oddity in the system was the only instance of permitting mysteries be solved in this feral FERELDEN state.

Mr. Shepard rushed towards the great structure, the luminous sign of a bright, neon red lovingly, caringly, allowing such words as "MCP" to engrave themselves into his already caustic brain even further, this colour red, this light, truly serving as the only narcotic of such plebeians. And indeed, even Mr. Shepard, not the most intelligent in mind, knew of the great many things to be had within this "MCP", and he would finally receive Nourishment after all of those terribly tedious, tedious days.

And Mr. Shepard entered the store. What he found, however, startled him. There was but no Nourishment - no smell of delicious slop, no bustle of simple folk as he - no life, no kinesis, nothing at all but a growing depression at such an instance, and a man - a single, silent man, ruffled and grey in hair, melancholic and wizened, jumpsuit-clad, sitting upon a single stool whilst his startling blue eyes bore directly into the hollow shell of Mr. Shepard.

"You're not Lupus. Sit down, Mr. Wrecks Shepard."

II. House

Poor, poor Wrecks Shepard did not know what to do. Here he had appeared wandering foolishly towards the great red lights, expecting delicious Nourishment, and what he receives instead is but the antithesis of such. Mr. Shepard began to back away towards the door, but immediately did a harsh cracking sound upon the ground paralyse him in fear.

"I said sit down, Mr. Wrecks Shepard. I don't think you would enjoy a lack of your precious, uh, Nourishment, would you?" And as the gruff-voiced man held up a plastic bag of an unidentifiable purple liquid, Shepard's eyes lit up in joy. Nourishment! He has the Nourishment!

The gruff-voiced man continued his coaxing. "That's right, Mr. Wrecks. If you want this thing, you have to sit down - it's not really even a hard task, is it?"

"Nourishment!" Shepard cried out.

"I have your Nourishment, and I would think you would want it?"

Poor Mr. Shepard, desperate in need, slowly begin to step towards the empty stool across from the gruff-faced man. As he placed himself upon the old iron contraption, he was keen to notice the odd stick-like object the gruff-voiced man held beneath the table. Upon noticing Mr. Shepard's attention towards the object, the the gruff-voiced man sharply banged the end on the floor yet again, and the sharp noise reverberated throughout the decrepit room, sending poor Shepard into a stark agony.

"Yeah, that. That's my cane. Some injuries can't heal themselves completely, you know. Banging it works to keep you all in control, I'd say. Glad to see you're sitting, though. Can you speak?"

Mr. Shepard sat in silence, simply staring directly at the gruff-voiced man.

"Nothing? There must be something in that head of yours, unless they are right in saying you are all a handful of voiceless shells."

Mr. Shepard began to stare downwards at the old metal table. It must indeed be said that, despite the numerous accusations of simplicity over such a world as his, such a factor may not be attributed to his capacity for thought but his capacity for understanding the world. His eyes began to fill with a sordid sadness, fighting with himself over such interior decisions.

"What's that? I see you're coming to your senses - thinking about whether you should reply to me or not, I see." The man began to stare upwards at the dimly-lit ceiling. "I'd hope you'd understand, if you can even get it through that brain of yours-", He continued, "That if you don't speak to me, I wouldn't think such a man as yourself would receive your precious slop, wouldn't you?"

"No," Mr. Shepard began, in a rather shaky, disjointed voice. "No, want Nourishment."

"'No want Nourishment'? So you wouldn't want this stuff, then?" The gruff-voice man began to throw the bag of sludge into the air, catching and once again throwing in a rather repetitive, almost monotonous motion.

"No!" Shepard called out, raising his head. "Nourishment! Nourishment! Want Nourishment! I want Nourishment!"

Immediately upon the inclusion of such a pronoun, the gruff-voiced man caught the bag of liquid and once again began to stare directly at poor Mr. Shepard. "There we are," He said. "Now you're speaking proper. I would guess the I was quite right when I said you folk would still be able to form at least marginally coherent sentences. Looks like we're going to have this event after all." He stretched out his cloth-clad arms upon the table, clapping them once, as he thus stated: "Mr. Wrecks Shepard, I am Gregory House, and I meet you here in this particular Mass Collectivized Product to require your help."

"Help." Mr. Shepard bluntly repeated in his nervous tone, as he began to stare at the table yet again. "What about Nourishment? I need Nourishment."

"Let's say," The man named House began, "That after this entire ordeal is over, you'll be able to eat more than this putrid waste you all call "nourishment". Have you ever heard of turkey?"

"Turkey?" Mr. Shepard asked, his eyes truly in quite the inquistive state. "What is 'turkey'?"

"Something you'll enjoy. Think of that liquid in the bag but even more delicious. And solid."

Mr. Shepard's eyes rather delightfully lit up at such a prospect.

"I'll get you turkey. I'll get you any other Nourishment you'd require - that is, if you help Normally, I wouldn't even need to call upon you people for assistance, but there's some pretty reasoning behind this entire puzzle, you see. That's the way FERELDEN's decided to run Encom."

Though Mr. Shepard had indeed understood much of the odd House's statements, the word "Encom" appeared to alight an already-growing curiosity. "Encom?" He asked. "What is 'Encom?'"

House's solid face did not change in expression over such a question. "I would think FERELDEN would reduce you guys down to not even knowing the name of your own country. FERELDEN isn't the name of this country, contrary to what all of the lack of information may have allowed to develop in your head - it's named Encom; FERELDEN, or the "Fanatically Enraged Revanchists Erratically Loving to Deny Excessive Nationalism" party, is simply the governing body of this nation Encom." His lines of stark melancholy deepened with such words. "They are not necessarily the most truthful of people, I'd say. Which is why I require your help."

And thus was poor Mr. Wrecks Shepard faced with quite the challenge. He was to help such a mysterious man in exchange for wondrous Nourishment, but only upon his trust of it being wondrous? He was but a humble, simple man - he knew nothing of this "turkey" or "Encom", and wished only to live his live in monotonous peace. Yet here he faced a radical new man - one he had never seen before, with the odd object he named a "cane" and his aloof blue eyes, the blue eyes that persuaded him into such nefarious acts. Yet it must be noted once again, even in such times of disparate despair, of dystopian darkness does mystery and curiosity exist - and indeed did the gears of a consolatory truth begin to turn, rather slowly but surely - within the mind of Mr. Wrecks Shepard. As the capricious lights above the two men flickered again and yet again, Mr. Shepard thought and thought and thought and continued to think; think; think.

Finally, did the man reach a conclusion.

"I will help." Mr. Shepard said, with a rather uncharacteristic courage in his voice.

"Someone's getting a dinner tonight," House replied. However, it was here Mr. Shepard began to notice the rapid movements of House's eyes to the wall directly right of both of them.

"What's wrong?" Shepard asked. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

"There's something," House said. "It's somewhere. It started only a few minutes ago. I can hear it."

Mr. Shepard was quite confused. He did not hear anything but the buzzing hum of the lamp above.

Suddenly House's eyes widened ever so slowly as his rather sharp mind began to indeed connect such pieces together. The gaps of stark melancholy lining his weary face deepened significantly as he rather raucously stood up with his cane, the stool falling to a sharp crash behind him.

"Out! Get out! I think they've found us!"

"What?" Mr. Shepard queried, for in his naivete he truly was not perceptive to what was occurring amongst them.

"Dammit, get out! Get out of this place now!They've got a bomb!" And House tackled poor Wrecks Shepard, pushing both of their old bodies out of the door.

It is in the life of everyone that such an event begins to change their perceptions of the world, and perhaps it must be noted that it may be this event that began to open up Mr. Shepard's simple mind to the world about him - its truths, its fallacies, its horrors and tender exclaims - for with such an event, it truly held an impact upon his supple mind. House carried a dazed Mr. Shepard
towards one of the organic two-wheeled vehicles parked outside the MCP, placing the single-minded man on the side of the vehicle opposite to the great structure. And suddenly did the MCP explode in a violent inferno rivalling the wrath of a vengeful god. Mr. Shepard could not see the explosion, but he felt it - its horrid expulsion of the air around him - he smelled it - the smells of such substances he had never smelled before, of sulphur and saltpetre and ash - he heard it - the great thundering crash that rocked the poor brains of the man. It is indeed here that Mr. Shepard awoke - not simply physically, but to the world about him, for such an experience of these odd, mysterious qualities began to retrieve him from the quiet, stoic embrace of a monotonous lie, and into a stark reality. But the man did not expect the metal debris.

"Move, you fool!" Called House's voice as he began running towards the side of his cycle. Mr. Shepard peered upwards, only to note a great plate of hot red metal descending upon him in an angry fury. His dazed state knew little acknowledgement of it, however, it was indeed House who was to the rescue. House jumped upon the soft-curved vehicle, and conducted an action that would forever imprint itself upon the mind of poor Shepard.

House jumped from the motorcycle. He began the process of spinning in the air, to eventually directly face the red plate itself, whilst hovering over poor Shepard. In such a process, he drew from his cane a great metal object, adorned with a strip of sharp blue cloth around the bottom, sharp and like Mr. Shepard had most certainly not seen before, and with a forward, upward, thrust,
House defied all such conventional physics - all such conventional logic and rationality of any sort - and, with a single stroke, completely sliced the plate of hot metal in half, the two sides clattering to the ground beside Mr. Shepard on each of his sides as House crashed to the floor, face-first.

Mr. Shepard, clear of his senses, began to wander towards the man slumped upon the ground. "House! House!" He quite desperately called. House lifted his face from the ground, miraculously unmarked with the exception of an even greater melancholic pallor, and immediately called upon Shepard. "You! Get me to the light cycle! Now!"

Mr. Shepard, assuming "light cycle" meant the odd vehicle behind him, picked up the rather rickety House and his cane-sword, holding him upon his shoulders with a rather interesting strength, as he placed House inside the vehicle. House immediately sprung to life once again and directly instructed poor Shepard to enter the light cycle as well. Mr. Shepard followed such commands, and but an
instant later, House, upon pressing a button, started the light cycle, and immediately were the two off upon the streets, followed by an excruciatingly intense wall of golden light behind them.

Mr. Shepard was quite amazed at all that was about him and all that had occurred - from the meeting of this odd man to the explosion and the wall of light that trailed behind them in this vehicle, he was indeed quite ignorant of it, quite ignorant of it until this very moment.

"This is my light cycle, I call it Agro." House stated once again in that stark, gruff deadpan, despite the recent events. "I'd trust you saw my sword there too, right. I got that off of some man named Emon and his pet turtle with a blue headband, apparently that insane man believed it to be magic. Hah, those fools. The only quaint magic it holds is the saving of our lives."

Mr. Wrecks Shepard barely heard the words of the man named House in his monologue as he viewed the world around him, but a stark blur in the light cycle.

And thus did the two men, within the cycle, continue onward, onward, towards a goal brought up by rather odd means. It was to note, however, that upon reaching the great path of serene road named Highway 22, did the old, melancholic House state "To save the moths from their entrapment by the beacon of light, one must rid of it."

III. Highway 22

It is to the south of the Great City of Encom does the land turn sallow and the buildings reduce themselves - the proverbial slums and decrepit backwaters of the Great City eventually devolve into moor and veldt stark and lacking of any human existence, with the sheer exception of the great highway that connects the Great City with other cities of such a nation of Encom. This highway, named only Highway 22 by the previous governmental authority of Encom, is perhaps the least busiest, for it floods directly into the areas of Encom less treaden by plebeian or perturbed foot alike. The highway and the lands around it may be considered wild, uncivilized in themselves, and thus prone to wild creatures and wild men, quite especially in belief. It was upon this organized, orderly wilderness that is named "Highway 22" that the two men in the golden light cycle named Agro continued their trek through the hinterlands of the nation Encom, ready and willing to graciously slay the colossus that Mr. Shepard still knew little of.

"You have to be careful here," House explained, "Highway 22 is notorious for patrols.

"Patrols?" Shepard asked rather curiously. "Why would patrols be on such an empty highway?"

"'Cause," House answered, "They're hiding something here, I'm sure of it."

"They would have made notice of hiding something here, wouldn't they?"

"Everybody lies. Including FERELDEN."

Mr. Shepard squinted at the world outside Agro, now not simply a blur of stark black and dim white but of various dulled, grey-tinted colours blurred and mixed together. He attempted to identify the monstrous, inhuman creatures House informed him were "trees" outside, but could not make out such distinct, sharply sprouting shapes in the mess of dismal colour.

"Even the land outside of the city is gray." Shepard claimed quite saddeningly.

"Consider the explosion a good thing, in that case."

"It almost killed me!"

"Yeah, it almost killed me too. You should be lucky I still had my sword with me," House cunningly replied.

Mr. Shepard frowned. "You stole that from someone else."

"What's that?" House asked mockingly, turning to Shepard. "I see you didn't wished to be saved by that sword there. I could have let you die, you know. I could have found another one of you guys somewhere, maybe that colleague of yours named Sark or whatnot. I do not even like any of you, anyway." House turned his head back towards the smooth road. "And besides, the truth requires sacrifice."

Poor Shepard, unknowing, ignorant, and still quite naive, knew nothing of this "truth" that House spoke of. "What is this 'truth'?" He asked.

But House said nothing.

As the two continued the land grew wilder and more uncivilized – though indeed, Mr. Shepard knew little of its change due to the grand mix of colour amongst the canvas of the world around the small vehicle named Agro. However, Highway 22 was indeed the road quite heavily defended by such guards as told by the man named House, and it was not quite long until a series of four distinct blue vehicles, similar in aesthetic to Agro, slowly drifted towards the two men, bright tales of argon blue light a lighter contrast within the canvas of dismally barbaric colour.

“It appears we have a few of them here already,” House noted as he immediately increased the speed of Agro.

“What? Are those who you were talking about?” Shepard asked.

“Yes. FERELDEN Road Police. I do believe they name themselves the Valus.”

Mr. Shepard viewed the streaks of light blue outside his window, but it was a tight second later that House unpredictably swerved to the left; towards two of the Valus. Shepard watched intently and slightly shaken as the trail of golden light followed their path, slowly, slowly obstructing two of the Valus vehicles.

It was the first one that crashed immediately, ramming into the wall of golden light. Mr. Shepard recoiled in horror in the ensuing explosion of radiant, unnatural blue, as he viewed rather frightening remnants of that poor Valus' vehicle fly towards them unobstructed. He knew not that the wall of golden light behind them was quite solid, and was horrified at such a fact – for this game was not simply a chase, but that of a death match upon wild, untamed roads. The second Valus was able to quite successfully leap over the golden wall, landing in front of Agro and rushing away leaving a grand obstruction of such pure blue light in front of them. House swerved to the left, barely dodging the wall, and Shepard's eyes dazzled at the beautiful colour as they followed it towards its origin. For much of his time, poor Mr. Shepard knew such bright, vibrant colour as danger and death, though such an association was but a simple sprout within his supple mind. A third Valus immediately rushed across Agro's immediate path, creating another horrid wall of beautiful, enchanting blue. House lifted the handlebars of the vehicle to the best of his strength, and slowly, slowly, did Agro gain in height until the vehicle jumped, rather successfully, over the wall of blue light, landing directly perpendicular to the previous Valus. The Valus attempted to swerve in horror, but a sharp and rather cunning turn from House sent the Valus into Agro's great golden wall, most barbarically annihilating the poor vehicle. Mr. Shepard gasped a rather stark gasp, as it was here that, for the first moment as such, he witnessed the driver of such a vehicle. The Valus guard drifted through the air, olive-brown and vague – but indeed, it was, as Mr. Shepard noticed, the eyes of the Valus guard that were most noticeable – the bright, clear-blue eyes that shone helplessly through the great horned mask of a T-shape that covered the face of the guard. Poor, poor Shepard was most astounded, for – in his immediate association of such colour – that he noticed a similarity between the eyes of such a Valus guard and that of House.

“Mr. House! There's a guard there! Did you see?” Shepard called out.

House himself held quite a brooding atmosphere around his being, and, without even acknowledging the direct physical presence of the poor Mr. Shepard, bluntly stated “No. No, I didn't see.”

This horrid conflict upon the roads continued for a good while, until the destruction of the third Valus guard resulted in an attempt of escape by the final survivor. House decreased the speed to a rather gentle level as he gave up in chase.

But Shepard objected. “Mr. House! This is foolish! He is going to gather reinforcements!”

House did not reply.

“Mr House!”

“No!” He snapped. “You idiot plebeian, we've seen enough carnage today!”

And Shepard and House did not speak with each other for much of the trip among the Highway numbered 22.

Among the fields of nihilistic emptiness and the grey trees that dotted them – among the bleak skies and dusty, dew-less grass, House and Shepard did not speak with each other. It was, indeed, only until they reached an old, deserted shack on a side road of the Highway did they begin to hold a short period of rest and conversation.

IV. Mass Effect

“Ah, Mr. House,” Mr. Shepard asked, one rather grey day within the road-side shack. “You never did inform me what exactly the plan was to be. I shall enjoy what you call turkey but I am still curious, you should know.”

House sat upon a stool, carving various sorts of words and figures into the ground before him with his cane-sword. It was indeed quite a while before House immediately dropped the object and gruffly replied: “Mass Effect.”

“Mass Effect?” Mr. Shepard asked quite curiously.

House picked up his cane-sword, re-attaching the wooden sheath, and, utilising it as a rather useful support, began to lean on the object as his bright blue eyes peered upwards toward the great expanse of nimbic grey before them. “Mass Effect. I'd known you wouldn't known what that would be.”

“Well, clearly!” Shepard exclaimed, attempting to defend himself. “As you keep calling me a 'plee-ban' or whatever is it.”

“It's not that, plebeian. It's because 'Mass Effect' is a term used by the revolutionaries against FERELDEN.”

Poor Mr. Shepard, though more versed in the world, still knew quite little of the radical subjects the man named House would occasionally speak of. He began to ponder the meaning of the words “Mass Effect”, looking upwards to the great sky and downwards to the dried grass. But indeed, through his significant rattling of the various subjects he had received instruction upon, he felt no proper nor logical definition for such words as “Mass Effect” used in the context.

Upon noting Shepard's lack of understanding, House began quite solemnly: “Mass Effect. It's a name used by the revolutionaries. What for, exactly?” He turned directly to Shepard. “The people. The mass – the mass, in this context, is the people. So you'd think, what would be the effect of these people?” House once again unsheathed his cane-sword, and quite quickly scratched five vague stick figures into the dry earth. Mr. Shepard watched in amusement.

“These are the people,” House began. He scratched a square by the first stick figure. “Say this one man has an idea, a revolutionary idea. What happens?” - House drew a line from the square to the next stick figure - “He informs another person of his idea.” - House eventually scratched lines from figure to figure, until all five such figures were connected through lines. “Eventually, all of these people receive and support the idea.” - Finally did House draw a circle around all five stick figures, and place down his cane-sword quite gently. “That, you see, is Mass Effect – the people – the mass – transferring revolutionary ideas amongst each other to topple down governments – the associated effect. Got it?”

Mr. Shepard was quite amazed at such a significant sociological quality. “Mass Effect,” He stated to himself, tasting the word as if a rather delicate and quaint wine. “Mr. House, are you part of such a Mass Effect that is going on?”

“I'd think you'd know, Mr. Shepard,” House picked up the cane-sword and pointed towards the first stick figure; the stick figure with the square; the one who thought. “This is my role in the current Mass Effect.” House, however, retained his characteristic melancholy and misanthropic attitude.

“You!” Mr. Shepard exclaimed. “You, the founder of the Revolution-”

“Quiet, you idiot!” House threateningly replied. “Just because we are in the wild does not mean we are out of Encom!”

“Apologies, I am just excited to be in the presence of a man as yourself!”

House, despite such compliment, continued to harbour a face as squalid as a lemon.

However, poor Mr. Shepard did indeed feel quite excitement – for it was within the presence of the man named House and all of his actions – all of his informative statements and facts towards Shepard upon his queries, that Mr. Shepard began to feel such pandering, increasing emotion – though unlike his sprouted dislike of bright colour in association with such danger, emotion had yet to bloom itself quite fully. Though it must be said it was indeed quite present.

It was by the end of the day, upon the sunless darkening of the skies, that House did indeed decide to leave. As Shepard entered Agro upon the silence of night, he noticed House gleefully devouring a handful of pills, quite rapidly.

“Mr. House, what are you doing?”

House consumed the pills, finishing with a drink of water from the canteen at the back end of Agro, simply stating “Injury medication.”

Shepard, naively understanding, did not object, even despite the rather uncharacteristically reckless driving of House on such a night. For Shepard, indeed, found much greater glee viewing the bright lights lighting the highway. House turned off the bright gold radiance of Agro as the two men, staunchly, continued onward upon the derelict Highway 22, without such blue pursuers in direct sight.

But it was in the dim of night that Mr. Shephard asked House. “Mr. House, do you truly believe in Mass Effect?”

Perhaps it was the medication, perhaps it was simply fatigue, but House once again stood stoically silent upon the question.

V. Citadel

Indeed was the man named House correct, for there was quite the structure at the end of the road, amidst the wild veldt and moor among the surrounding lands. House named it simply the “Citadel” - a large Gothic mansion, a wonderful oasis of true paradise in the middle of such a hellish wilderness. The spires of the aging home thrust upwards, touching the sky itself, and the worn buildings of stone were most certainly unlike anything poor Shepard had witnessed in his previously simple life.

House parked Agro by the worn fence behind the great structure. The two men immediately began their trek towards the great mansion named the Citadel. Indeed, it was quite easy to enter – for the back door had been left open.

Shepard entered to witness a great Romanticist's home – that of adorned tapestries upon the walls, a myriad of colours reflecting off of the pristine marble floors with busts and statuettes of such figures Shepard knew not of everywhere. He was encumbered and enthralled by such mystery that surrounded him – and indeed, one may say that mystery and curiosity had become his narcotic as much as House's injury pills had been. But House thought nothing of it, ignoring the naive Shepard's quaint whispers in amazement, continuing onwards throughout the home, nearing the conclusion – the final confrontation of this revolution – what House named a “duel”.

It is quite interesting to note the solemn silence House held whilst in such a beauteous mansion – he spoke not a word to Mr. Shepard nor to himself in tedious monologue, simply and quite surreptitiously moving himself and Shepard onwards throughout the structure.

As the two men continued onward, onward through the home, they began to hear an interesting sort of noise; noise with rhythm and systematic order – civilized, perhaps, as Mr. Shepard thought, quite unlike the garish aural messes in explosions and crashes. It was this noise, this music, that began to soothe poor Mr. Shepard, enchanting and drifting him among a world populated by his surroundings – the great heads of the busts and such enchanting lords and ladies that were strewn upon the walls in canvas form. And as the time passed, this music, growing stronger and stronger, greatly lapsed the time for poor Shepard, until it was a sharp blow to the head by House's wooden cane that immediately brought him back to reality – back to the great, wooden door that stood before the two men, the source of such beautiful, beautiful noise. It was but a siren song to poor Shepard – he was but a moth to its light, and it is a sad state to be seen pulling out of monotonous addiction simply to be found within another.

But regardless, House slowly and quite carefully opened the grand wooden door, and thus did the music stop. There, leaning over a great machine of tubes and keys, sitting upon a simple stool amidst a warm room of glowing orange, sat a man; a man of black cape, of white glove, and of half face and sanity. And thus would such an adventure within this revolution truly end soon, for Shepard believed the assassination of this man, this man alone, would allow his fellow FERELDEN colleagues a true freedom; of truth; of beauty; of hope.

The man turned, revealing a great white mask upon his pale face.

“I see you've found me,” He said, in a rather calm manner.

House stepped forward towards the man, quite fearlessly stepping in a confident matter, despite the enemy standing directly to the front of the man's melancholic face. And indeed, did House soon meet face to direct face with the masked man, only true centimetres apart.

“What do you want?” The masked man asked rather harshly.

“Your life, Mr. Dexter.” And upon this rather horrid and generic line that made even poor Shepard cringe, House fluidly drew his old cane-sword and began his attack upon the masked man named Dexter – this final duel within the conclusive stages of such a rebellion. Dexter drew himself backward, dodging the swift strikes and jabs of the vicious House and his vengeful blade.

“Haha,” Taunted Dexter, “You are a fool, attacking a man within his own home. I'd think you would have more sense, House!”
Dexter once again ducked beneath a quick swipe of House's blade, as the man stated “Especially considering how tactically-minded you should be!”

Shepard ran towards House in an attempt of assistance, but House roared at poor Shepard to stay behind.

“But, Mr. House!”

“Ahah,” Dexter cried as the two edged ever closer to the grand mechanism of tubes and keys that produced such enchanting, wonderful noise, “I see we have an audience here-”
But, indeed was the man Dexter immediately cut off as the rough House jabbed the poor man in the chest, ruining the soft white fabric of his shirt, and relinquishing a cry of horrid pain. Dexter fell to the floor in horrid convulsions whilst Shepard fell to the floor in simple horror. Here he had witnessed the true, proper death of a fellow man! It had indeed never occurred to him previously, most especially with the massacre upon Highway 22, that he would feel such beleaguering emotion, such a torrent of sadness and negative feeling over a simple witnessing of such factors. And yet he saw House stand, silent and without remorse, blade stained with both the colour of crimson and the curse of murder. And he did not care, for indeed, he did not enjoy such pitiful human beings in the first place.

Yet the assassination – not a duel, as previously expected, but an assassination, had indeed been completed, and thus would the revolution, the revolution of beauty, of hope, of thought and emotion, succeed! Upon this thought did Mr. Wrecks Shepard spring to a hopeful joy, for he felt more kin towards the great qualities of the world than to the simple death of a man.

“It is true! The Revolution! The Revolution is a success!”

House once again stood silent, as Shepard had expected at the moment, but it was here a rather unique event occurred. One Shepard would never, indeed, expect.

Dexter laughed. And though Shepard was horrified over this recent re-animation, or perhaps lack of death, he hear a clear, quiet “No.”
And indeed, did poor Mr. Shepard begin to realize something – a fact that had bothered him quite subconsciously since the entrance into the wondrous Citadel.

It was the Citadel, the supposed centre of anti-Revolution, that was representative of all of the Revolution's rather positive qualities.

VI. Conclusion

House slowly began to step away from the bloodied corpse of the man named Dexter, despite Dexter's continued statements.
“You killed the Revolution when you killed me,” He called out, to a slightly shaken Shepard. “Of course, I don't think I'm dead yet, so why not a chance for the truth, right, Mr. House?”

“Kill him!” Poor, poor Shepard cried out in agony, now uncaring of such a man's life. “Kill him! He lies!”
House sat his tired self on the stool, immediately sheathing his cane-sword, placing it rather harshly on a nondescript location behind the body of Dexter.

“It's true!” Dexter called out. “Won't you tell him? Tell him!”

House set upon poor Mr. Shepard his cold blue gaze, and stated the simple, ever-striking word of “Yes.”

Indeed, when one receives a taste of paradise when not native to it – whether it not be simply paradise in a whole itself, but something one may consider akin to paradise – a physical substance, an action, some other such instance – they begin to note signs of desperation over want of such paradise – perhaps, it must be seen, that such was evident in poor Mr. Wrecks Shepard, for it was with that word “Yes” that began his degradation; his descent, once again, into the vapid man he was once before experiencing such a lovely world; such a lovely paradise.

“I'd expect this to occur some time eventually,” House began, relaxing his tired back upon the edge of the great noise-making contraption. “The Revolution is dead, Mr. Shepard – and it has been a true pleasure working with you, from beginning to end – I'll be certain you get that Nourishment of yours.”

Shepard fell to his knees in a resurfaced depression. “But Mr. House! Mr. House! You, you said – Revolution! Mass Effect!”

“I was the leader of the Revolution!” Dexter called out. “Your Mr. House here was nothing but a high-end peon working for FERELDEN! Your future lied with me! Your hope lied with me!”

House once again unsheathed his cane-sword, bringing the weapon towards the unprotected neck of Dexter.

“You always said,” House stated, “That you should never leave traces of your crime, Dexter. Yet your beginnings of Mass Effect were perhaps the greatest blood stains upon this nation. Inciting revolution is a crime in itself, you know.”

“This is ridiculous! Ridiculous! No! ridiculous!” Shepard began his wild gesticulations, slowly inching towards House and the body of Dexter.

“So,” Dexter asked. “I take it you never found that man named Lupus?”

“It's never Lupus,” House replied. “It's always one of these peons,” - House pointed towards the scared Shepard - “Face it, Dexter, your Lupus is dead, just like yourself, just like your little Revolution”.

“But!” Shepard exclaimed wildly, moving ever closer. “But! But you said Mass Effect! You said Mass Effect happens not with one man but with everyone!”

“I see you have yet to tell the poor man of what the Mass Effect Field is!” Dexter exclaimed wildly.

“The- the what?” Shepard asked?

“Mass Effect, you know, is transfer of revolutionary information among the masses,” House explained, staring coldly at the slowly disfiguring shell of a former peon before him. “The Mass Effect Field is the FERELDEN answer to that silly social time bomb. We've got to use an interesting chemical called Element Zero to reduce the mass, if you'd, uh, understand what I mean, Mr. Shepard.”

And upon completion of such a dire explanation, two such instances occurred – the first was the death of poor Dexter. House immediately brought the cane-sword down, point first, towards the man's cranium, immediately ending his poor life. It was thus that the second was tied – Shepard, in his true understanding – perhaps final, ultimate understanding, broke into a horridly hollow rage, a rage of a peon with hollow being and hollow emotion, so to say, and thus did Shepard cry in anger at losing such beautiful paradise, losing such beautiful thought and emotion, only to be a sacrificed pawn.

“There was a reason you are in this game, Mr. Wrecks Shepard,” House stated, for the penultimate moment. “Mass Effect. You can spread the word that the Revolution is over. It'd work both ways too.”

“No! No! No!” Shepard launched himself towards House in an effort of attack, but instead fell directly to the floor in a broken, sobbing mass. The sound of pattering legions of mechanical footsteps thus replaced the previously beautiful noise of the great machine – the noise of the Revolution – as FERELDEN soldiers entered the room. And thus was the Revolution, thus was Shepard's hope for beauty and thought and emotion, indeed quite over.

His name was Wrecks Shepard. He knew not how he had received the name, why he had received the name, nor whom "Wrecks" or "Shepard" were individually, but what he knew was that he was Wrecks Shepard, and Wrecks Shepard alone. And he would never, sadly, be anything else.

This is horribly, horribly amusing, sir - though I must say Nagini Soy Sauce sounds quite useful. Thank you dearly for such a wonderful parody, sir, and a Merry, Merry Christmas to you as well.
Click to expand...

HOLY MOTHER OF WHAT?

I love this. It was very entertaining. Sorry for the late response. I was at my grandmothers since yesterday.

<3

Post by: reptar, Dec 26, 2010 in forum: The Spam Zone

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