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Thee Tale of Smogonne -- It's back!
- Thread starter Alchemator
- Start date
GEORGE ORWELL MOVE OVER. WE HAVE A NEW KING.
This is seriously amazing... I agree with what has been said above: You definately remind me of Douglas Adams....
Hello, I'm here to celebrate my 3.234k! Really, though, I had this idea and I'm bored so I don't think I'm going to wait another 800 posts. So, I gladly introduce to you
TToS II: The Quest for the Rainbow Trophy!
Yes, Smogon's very own quasi-decent quasi-satire is back! I also added a title to the first story too. This is pretty much a direct continuation of that, so go read it first I guess.
E: Also a good time to declare that I don't hate anyone. That might become more relevant later!
The caverns rumbled and writhed, squirming and pulsing; mountains and valleys roared and sighed in a deafening cacophony; seas twisted and imploded, each instance accompanied by a great pounding noise. And all there was to illuminate this scene was a tiny candle, battling against the fluttering and diving of the darkness.
Two figures were running -- that word having individualised definitions, of course -- through the sentient maelstrom, tripping and fumbling too often to cover any great distance. The taller, slimmer one of the two stopped and looked around, as if trying to ascertain his direction. His counterpart caught up and rested his hands on his knees for a while to catch his breath, before standing up and roaring above the clamour.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean with it being paper and all..."
"Oh shut up, Rodan."
"Sorry."
"I can't believe it's happening!" shouted the taller one, grinning, "I thought we were going to be trapped in here forever."
"What are you talking about?"
"Never you mind; we need to find shelter first. If we stay out here much longer we'll drown. That or just get shredded. Let's go."
As if on cue, a nearby mountain erupted into a whirlpool of papers, becoming thinner and more potent as it tried to reach a crack of light at the top of the cavern. Eventually the amount of paper spinning in the opposite direction began to slow the tornado, but instead of cancelling out it did something else. It exploded.
MoP found himself with a mouthful of Badge Nominations and a hand placed firmly on the back of his head. After a little moment of contemplation he threw off the hand and sat up, delivering a disgusted cough.
"Good reactions, Rodan."
The other man murmured something affirmative from another mass of paper before getting to his feet and half-heartedly dusting himself down. He then spoke those always-condemning words.
"Hopefully that's the worst of it."
A backdrop similar to the Himalayas burst into a throng of individual vortexs, screeching and screaming with voices amassed over eight years, all intent on their escape; on their resolution; on their vengeance.
Needless to say, the two candlelit figures legged it.
Two figures were running -- that word having individualised definitions, of course -- through the sentient maelstrom, tripping and fumbling too often to cover any great distance. The taller, slimmer one of the two stopped and looked around, as if trying to ascertain his direction. His counterpart caught up and rested his hands on his knees for a while to catch his breath, before standing up and roaring above the clamour.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean with it being paper and all..."
"Oh shut up, Rodan."
"Sorry."
"I can't believe it's happening!" shouted the taller one, grinning, "I thought we were going to be trapped in here forever."
"What are you talking about?"
"Never you mind; we need to find shelter first. If we stay out here much longer we'll drown. That or just get shredded. Let's go."
As if on cue, a nearby mountain erupted into a whirlpool of papers, becoming thinner and more potent as it tried to reach a crack of light at the top of the cavern. Eventually the amount of paper spinning in the opposite direction began to slow the tornado, but instead of cancelling out it did something else. It exploded.
MoP found himself with a mouthful of Badge Nominations and a hand placed firmly on the back of his head. After a little moment of contemplation he threw off the hand and sat up, delivering a disgusted cough.
"Good reactions, Rodan."
The other man murmured something affirmative from another mass of paper before getting to his feet and half-heartedly dusting himself down. He then spoke those always-condemning words.
"Hopefully that's the worst of it."
A backdrop similar to the Himalayas burst into a throng of individual vortexs, screeching and screaming with voices amassed over eight years, all intent on their escape; on their resolution; on their vengeance.
Needless to say, the two candlelit figures legged it.
***
"I'm stepping down."
It would have been nice to say that everyone rose to their feet at the very same moment, but that sort of perfect timing only ever happens in films and other works of fiction. Instead, this quiet statement was followed by a din of screeching chair-moving. Some managed to find time to slam their fists on the table, others so klutzy that their seats were overturned. Some even remained sitting down. The bastards.
"What? Why?"
"My views disagree with many people; I've just lost my passion for this place. Goodbye."
And with that, the man collected his papers and placed them neatly inside a folder. Turning to one side, a filing cabinet seemed to appear out of thin air -- the most perceptive noted that it actually had done so -- and he nonchalantly filed away his notes with a look of contemplation on his face. Eventually he patted the top of the cabinet and turned back to the crowd.
"I think I'll leave this here; you people probably have more use for it than I. Farewell."
As the man left, the cabinet seemed to give a discontented creak and settled into its position. Silence befell the room, save for a few of the more wizened folk who drummed their fingers on their table irritatedly. Then there were whispers. Some took out a pipe and lit it; others a less-elegant roll of something or other. A smattering began to speak more loudly, so they could hear themselves above the whispering, and soon the room was occupied by a noise which I suppose can be described as the word 'anaphora' being said very loudly over and over.
"Silence!"
A group of people at the head of the table had stood, their badges gleaming in the noonlight (get that in your dictionaries). The crowd paused in their ranting, more out of shock than of obedience.
"We," the man continued, "will take over from here. We, the Party, will make the right choices, while avoiding the inevitable bottleneck caused by having only one visionary leader."
There was an almost involuntary clatter of applause from the assembled persons, though accompanied by a notable number of sighs. The bastards.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, we will have our inaugural meeting in the room across the hall. Please do not disturb us."
The 'Party' strode out of the room in better harmony than anyone else there could have managed, once again leaving a vacuum of silence.
Oh, of course, the filing cabinet. It had been sitting in its designated spot for this whole while, pondering. Why was it being left behind? Why was it so unloved? These thoughts were bouncing around in its lonely mind and gaining momentum. Then there were these people who had forced its master to go away in the first place. They were taking charge!
The cabinet began to creak slightly, and shook in its place. The crowd turned to it, a few hands instinctively going to badges, others already eyeing up the exits. It rumbled and writhed; squirming and pulsing.
The Outstanding Policy Decisions were unhappy.
It would have been nice to say that everyone rose to their feet at the very same moment, but that sort of perfect timing only ever happens in films and other works of fiction. Instead, this quiet statement was followed by a din of screeching chair-moving. Some managed to find time to slam their fists on the table, others so klutzy that their seats were overturned. Some even remained sitting down. The bastards.
"What? Why?"
"My views disagree with many people; I've just lost my passion for this place. Goodbye."
And with that, the man collected his papers and placed them neatly inside a folder. Turning to one side, a filing cabinet seemed to appear out of thin air -- the most perceptive noted that it actually had done so -- and he nonchalantly filed away his notes with a look of contemplation on his face. Eventually he patted the top of the cabinet and turned back to the crowd.
"I think I'll leave this here; you people probably have more use for it than I. Farewell."
As the man left, the cabinet seemed to give a discontented creak and settled into its position. Silence befell the room, save for a few of the more wizened folk who drummed their fingers on their table irritatedly. Then there were whispers. Some took out a pipe and lit it; others a less-elegant roll of something or other. A smattering began to speak more loudly, so they could hear themselves above the whispering, and soon the room was occupied by a noise which I suppose can be described as the word 'anaphora' being said very loudly over and over.
"Silence!"
A group of people at the head of the table had stood, their badges gleaming in the noonlight (get that in your dictionaries). The crowd paused in their ranting, more out of shock than of obedience.
"We," the man continued, "will take over from here. We, the Party, will make the right choices, while avoiding the inevitable bottleneck caused by having only one visionary leader."
There was an almost involuntary clatter of applause from the assembled persons, though accompanied by a notable number of sighs. The bastards.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, we will have our inaugural meeting in the room across the hall. Please do not disturb us."
The 'Party' strode out of the room in better harmony than anyone else there could have managed, once again leaving a vacuum of silence.
Oh, of course, the filing cabinet. It had been sitting in its designated spot for this whole while, pondering. Why was it being left behind? Why was it so unloved? These thoughts were bouncing around in its lonely mind and gaining momentum. Then there were these people who had forced its master to go away in the first place. They were taking charge!
The cabinet began to creak slightly, and shook in its place. The crowd turned to it, a few hands instinctively going to badges, others already eyeing up the exits. It rumbled and writhed; squirming and pulsing.
The Outstanding Policy Decisions were unhappy.
E: Also a good time to declare that I don't hate anyone. That might become more relevant later!
"Look, over there!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Between the mounds of paper."
"The mounds of paper which are everywhere?"
"Oh shut up, Rodan."
MoP shoved his companion away before dashing towards an opening in a nearby paper tower. Kicking away some of the debris on the ground, he carefully placed the candle down before examining the walls.
"Why, Rodan," he said quietly, prodding experimentally, "should this stay upright when everything else is simply heaped?"
"This is a collection of suspect nominations; the arguments for banning Manaphy had a lot of holes in them I guess."
"Back in my day you'd just grit your teeth and get on with it; you'd adapt! Using Ice Beam instead of Blizzard on Chansey, for example, and making sure--"
These tirades weren't uncommon. In fact, they were appearing to be growing more and more common, the longer the two of them spent time in here. They were surrounded by relics of the past, each of them eager to be valued. Rodan let his thoughts wander and started reading the walls. Pictures of banished Pokémon, past and present, seemed to be their main content, though things like Excadrill were referred to in an ancient language. 'Doryuuzu', apparently. Shitty name.
"Hey, MoP, look at this."
"What are you talking about?"
"Between the mounds of paper."
"The mounds of paper which are everywhere?"
"Oh shut up, Rodan."
MoP shoved his companion away before dashing towards an opening in a nearby paper tower. Kicking away some of the debris on the ground, he carefully placed the candle down before examining the walls.
"Why, Rodan," he said quietly, prodding experimentally, "should this stay upright when everything else is simply heaped?"
"This is a collection of suspect nominations; the arguments for banning Manaphy had a lot of holes in them I guess."
"Back in my day you'd just grit your teeth and get on with it; you'd adapt! Using Ice Beam instead of Blizzard on Chansey, for example, and making sure--"
These tirades weren't uncommon. In fact, they were appearing to be growing more and more common, the longer the two of them spent time in here. They were surrounded by relics of the past, each of them eager to be valued. Rodan let his thoughts wander and started reading the walls. Pictures of banished Pokémon, past and present, seemed to be their main content, though things like Excadrill were referred to in an ancient language. 'Doryuuzu', apparently. Shitty name.
"Hey, MoP, look at this."
