This one’s short, and it’s not a fitting conclusion to the
prequel campaign, but there you go. AF1 and 2 are hopefully going to continue
the story, since they played through it. I didn’t past this point, and here’s
why.
Shortly after the session in which last post’s mission came
to a generally successful conclusion, our GM taps me on the shoulder and asks
if I can hang around.
Now, I’ve done this as a GM, and I never like doing it,
because I can never make it about anything good, but at least I try to make it
fast – and if at all possible I do it in a private addendum to the post-session
IM, since at least then they can get to it at their convenience. The GM, on the
other hand, has never said anything of any consequence by IM (or at all), but
he usually finds them insufficiently personal. He sits down behind his
formidable DM screen, steeples his fingers, and looks at me in what he’s always
thought of as an intimidating way. The
neckbeard rather spoils the effect, though.
I start, actually, with “Okay, clearly something’s happened
here to piss you off. What do I need to change to make the game fun for you to
GM again?”
After about a full minute of staring at me, he opens with “[your
character] is dragged out of his room in the middle of the night and thrown
into psychiatric prison.” Insert self-satisfied smirk.
Well. That escalated quickly. I ask if I get, say, a trial
or something similar, and this is met with derisive laughter. Yeah, sure I get
a trial. I’m dragged in chains before a “military court-martial”( as opposed to the vastly more common civilian types), and they’re
very efficient: they open by finding me guilty. Apparently I’m guilty of high
treason as well as criminal insanity and “countless lesser crimes”.
Me: “Oh, okay, so I’m overqualified. Jeez, guys, if you want
me to take over just say so.”
This gets his blood up with impressive speed, and causes
him, in the guise of whatever official is heading this thing, to launch into a
tirade that took several minutes. Apparently I went badly off-mission, I have
no respect for proper operating procedures, and I “made excessive use of
excessive force”. My brain hurts. Now, quite which part is the treason and
which part is the insanity, I was not at all sure, and the DM was happy to
clarify.
Apparently, doing more than your mission brief is going off
mission, and it shows a lack of respect for the M.I.C. hierarchy not to make
use of your backup. I didn’t even know we had Blackhawk for backup, but
apparently wasting that much of a senior agent’s time is bad; he was supposed
to come in once we’d engaged all of our adversaries at once in a fair fight.
The GM hadn’t even thought of the shield generators, but apparently he was
going to take care of them too. “Moreover, it has a detrimental effect on morale
to have such junior agents subvert the organizational hierarchy.” I love the
logic here: how dare we do things! Our rank isn’t cleared for anything but
massively sucking!
He goes on and on about this, with this weird mix of
sanctimony and rage; the phrase “how dare you” shows up a lot. This was around
the point where I lost the capacity to do anything but listen and be amused.
In the end, he wound down, and I asked what he intended to
have happen now, exactly, since he’s gone to so much effort to educate me on
what, exactly, I did wrong by inventively succeeding beyond our mission
parameters and making everyone have fun.
Apparently my character is gone permanently; he’s in “crazy
jail” for the rest of his life. “And you aren’t making another one like him. I
can tell you that right now.” If I’m
to come back into the campaign, I had to promise to quit the shenanigans and apologize
for messing up his plot.
His face as I walked out was priceless.
It would be a year
until I’d join another campaign of his, and only after I’d heard great things
about it – mostly from people with rather different standards than mine. In the
intervening time, I leave you in the capable storytelling hands of AF1 and AF2,
whenever they may see fit to post ; I’ve got a short backlog of things to get
out before we get to the CT-like campaign that spawned this site.
And that’s the end of the Prologue.
I know it's way too late to ask this git what he's raving about, but I do have to ask, what is he raving about? You managed to finish that mission WITHOUT 'excessive force'!
ReplyDeleteOf course, what he's really mad about is that you denied his "N"PC his big scene. Can't have any of you filthy peasants being competent without Big Brother around to bail them out, after all...
Obviously the "excessive force" was shooting that one guy. Because that was totally ZeRoller's idea. -_-
DeleteWasn't his plan to have the players go in guns blazing and call in Blackhawk to kill EVERYONE though? Of the two I think what he did was pretty damn gentle.
DeleteWhy am I instantly reminded of the scene in Terry Gilliam's 'The Adventures of Baron Munchausen' where the officer who just single handedly captured enemy canon is ordered to be executed by his obnoxious, petty superior. In fact that's how I now imagine the GM as that petty, self satisifed tyrant as ably portrayed by Jonathan Pryce
ReplyDeleteWasn't your Briefing pretty much just, "These guys are selling shield generators for gold, go out and try to put a stop to it, but if you fail, it really doesn't matter"? I don't remember reading anything about "saving some bad guys for Blackhawk to kill." Although I suppose "If you fail, it doesn't really matter" *could* be code for "don't kill everyone so my awesome-but-broody NPC can jump in and show you how it's done."
ReplyDeleteAhhh, I get it now. The treason wasn't being criminally insane.
ReplyDeleteIt was being criminally sane.
The really disturbing thing here, is that the only thing it looks like he could have avoided multiple repetitions of "how dare you" in and out of character by doing differently...
ReplyDelete...is not rolling two 20s.
"How dare you be competent" is a major problem if the GM bothers to hide it from himself. This one apparently doesn't.
Apparently my character is gone permanently; he’s in “crazy jail” for the rest of his life. “And you aren’t making another one like him. I can tell you that right now.”
ReplyDeleteWait. I thought your character was just a psyker who couldn't manage to actually use his psychic powers without stunning himself into next week. You couldn't use your equipment, you couldn't track worth a darn. What aspects of your character did he feel you'd abused?
The ability to roll 20s while not doing exactly what the GM had planned on the characters doing.
DeleteClearly his character used his psionic powers to rig the dice rolls.
DeleteThe GM has a point. How DARE you approach the problem logically, not need the backup you didn't know you had, kill only a single guy (and that due to someone far smarter than you handing you a fully loaded weapon that you didn't have the faintest clue on how to use, because gun safety is not cool enough for this campaign), and in general act like you were supposed to do things?!?
ReplyDeleteHOW DARE YOU!!! [/sarcasm]
What I really want to know is the answer to ZeRoller's question. What did the GM intend? Seriously, what? I'm baffled at how this could have gone "right".
ReplyDeleteBest guess: the players were supposed to go in, guns blazing, but get their butts kicked (even if the GM needed to fudge a few rules to make that happen) so that Blackhawk could show up and kill all the enemies, showing off how "cool" he is.
DeleteI´m really confused as to why someone would want to play a game with this manchild other than masochistic challenge or morbid curiosity, I´m guessing the people who said "amazing" thing about him were just as puerile as him and easily amused
ReplyDeleteHonestly, I myself am guilty of rockfalling my players a few times, but at least those rocks were totally justified (well, in the sense of plot consistency).
ReplyDeleteBut this... this is just shit.
Ancient history now, but I gotta say something, after coming to this from giant. I've read most of the first thread, and I know this guy is batshit insane, but damn. You critically succeeded in a system if I remember right is not one where you can critically succeed, meaning you just rolled two 30s plus mod. But they believe random bullshit from people in an unknown uniform and can't not believe it? Has he never played DnD or read the skills section? A massive lie can either instantly fail, or get a plus 20 mod to the check. Now, he could have rolled ass for his NPCs, so even with the modifier they failed, but if he is that upset because of dice rolls why is is playing a game? Remove all random elements, and just write a story where you toss a bit a dialogue in he can edit to his content. I know that seems to be his plan regardless but damn.
ReplyDeleteBarring the totally divorced from reality stuff like actually having and/or moving the gold that many times in a random cart, I can get behind details like that as unimportant crunch. Fluff it out cause reasons and its a minor thing in a story how you move goods, be it by hand, camel, horse, car, ship, uber portal of instant awesome or magical magicalness. I can forgive that. I can't forgive killing you off for doing exactly what yer told to do in a efficient manner.
I get it why he screwed you, from what I know of Chief Circle, but still...fuck man.
Alternate ending because why not.
ReplyDelete'"So... Wait." Ferre, MIC junior and retired Altean soldier, furrowed his eyebrows. "You mean to say that, if we do BETTER than usual, these bloviating mongrels throw us in a madhouse?"
"Yep." Halfling Scout Ina 'Neogi-robber' Byne replied, a look of indignation plastered on her face. "Pretty much."
Ferre's whole team started grumbling, feeling betrayed by the knowledge that excellence was punished. Excellence was what got them their jobs at the MIC! Ferre held a village against twenty of Medeus's Mage-dragons! Ina singlehandedly downed a Neogi Spelljammer over Palanthas! Sherwood dismantled at least four separate cults of Nyarlathotep with nothing but a pistol and his wits! And the MIC would punish this? Ferre fumed at the injustice of it all.
"Right, then," Sherwood said. "It's clear they don't deserve one sodding moment of our time. Should we just head on home?"
Ferre was about to agree, the thought of his home in Altea fresh on his mind, when their healer- one Asuna, from Gensokyo, whatever that was, showed up looking a bit, nervous.
"Guys, our next mission was to make some humans go back to their world to get captured by Dark Eldar." Asuna asked, "Was it wrong to kill our boss with danmaku?"
Ina grinned and knocked an arrow. "Hell no. It was the best idea I've heard all day."
Ferre picked up his Brave Lance. "Well said. These dastards only ever cared about their precious 'Canon'- they're no better than our old nemeses. And they'll die, just the same!"'
The idea of heroes big and small from every canon banding up to tear down the "We regulate everything about multiverse unless a delusional unintelligent slob from Earth Prime decides to make himself god of everything" organization is so awesome and refreshing it's almost enough to contrast the utter pile of shit that every paragraph of the Sue story is.
DeleteI'm gonna contribute to it.
DeleteBlackhawk was pinned by enemy fire. Few scant hours earlier, his top notch senses picked up the brewing riot, and as he ran down the corridors he assumed he was going to intercept a small band of rogue agents, or rather pick their remains off the floor after security staff had beaten them half to death. The first surprise came as he was moving through the lower management office: a portal, no doubt created by hijacking the system, tore open and disgorged Ateor, a bulky Nord warrior, and the Bolivian Bomber, a musclebound wrestler in garish spandex. The two flung themselves at the agent in a heartbeat, Ateor swelling in size as he went from running to sprinting on all fours, turning into a nightmarish hulk of fangs and fur twice his original size who went for Blackhawk's throat with his claws, while the Bomber went for his waist for a spear. The Bomber didn't last long against his katana, as a single strike decapitated him cleanly, but Ateor's flesh proved way less yielding, and the monstrous man proved cunning enough to retreat to lick his wounds when the scales tipped against him.
Deciding the man wasn't worth his time, Blackhawk immediately retreated to an empty office to monitor the situation. He punched open a wall mounted medical station and let the arcane technology do its work, sealing wounds, knitting flesh and transfusing him with synthetic blood, while he connected the office's computer to the camera system to monitor the riot.
It was spreading like wildfire. Half of the MIC personnel the seditionists encountered either joined them in the revolt or stepped aside, going for cover wherever they could find it or leaving the base altogether. He took control of the ceiling turrets in the lobby to assist the receptionists, who were taking cover behind their desk from the 10-foot tall humanoid mecha piloted by one Tatsuke Fujiwara, which was strafing the room with flak as a band of dwarves took potshots with muskets at them whenever they popped out of their cover. The turret fire took the dwarves by surprise, mangling one's legs and puncturing the torso of another, before Tatsuke's mech reacted by firing a head-mounted missile at the turrets. The explosion also knocked the camera off of its emplacement, completely cutting off the feed. And then, Blackhawk felt the nerves of his arm getting fried.
He snapped to look at the medical station that was now glitching out, sending thousands of volts into his arm through the diagnostics tools. Tearing his arm away, wincing at the feeling of newly repaired flesh being ripped off, he noticed Milee, the white and chestnut-furred mouse who had joined MIC just three weeks earlier, perched upon the nearby file cabinet, still holding the compact 1.000.000-volt taser she had shorted the medical station with in her paws. Blackhawk's reflexes went for his revolver immediately. Milee put up a defiant face, even as the high caliber round turned her into a red smear on the wall.
"Shit. This won't be easy." he muttered with his teeth clenched, as he surveyed the branching red and black electrocution scar on his right forearm. It was going numb and bending the elbow felt stiff.
DeleteResigned to only having one arm to fight with, he kicked down the door, sprinting past a group of security droids who were trying to gain ground on a trio of girls with pastel-colored hair and matching frilly clothes, who held them back by shooting multicolored sparks from their elaborately shaped rods, ducking under a burst of razor-sharp table trays thrown by a maid-and-butler pair from behind a desk barricade, and jumping into an elevator heading for Upper Management.
If there was a floor where the riot hadn't spread yet, that had to be upper management. The heaviest armed combat droids, their most loyal élite agents, the most lethal weapons in the base that required non-black clearance were there. With Blackhawk on their side, they would purge the rioters and ensure such a thing would never happen anymore.
As the elevator made its ascent, Blackhawk suddenly felt a bump in the ceiling. As fast as he could, he activated his heat vision, and spotted a person covered head to toe in a black bodysuit, taking a vibrating knife to the elevator's cables. He was quick to draw his gun and fire, pumping three rounds into the black ops, but it was too late. The cable was cut by the absurdly sharp blade, sending Blackhawk plummeting down the shaft.
The crash was devastating. Even with the nanotube mesh reinforcing his bones and tendons, Blackhawk's legs and hips strained painfully to not twist out of alignment. He collapsed on the elevator floor, showered with glass from the broken lights.
Struggling to get back up, he wedged the doors open with his katana. He half-limped, half-crawledinto the hangar, now mostly devoid of vehicles no thanks to the deserters stealing most of them.
Blackhawk knew everything was lost. There was only one way out: get to his secret stash, and set off the most destructive warhead he possessed, one that would turn the entire HQ and everything inside it to micron-sized specks of dust. He just had to make his way there...somehow.
The Warthog he commandeered from the hangar shrugged off small arms fire and low level spells just fine. As long as the anti-psionic field held, he could hold out indefinitely. He was racing through the desert, under the setting sun. Behind him, a small fleet of X-wing, aircraft, flying mechas and more than one dragon was blindly firing in his direction, with plumes of sand rising where the bullets and fireballs hit. Come dark, he would shrug them off soon enough. The dragons were the first to lose sight of him, soon followed by the aircrafts, which started circling in the sky launching flares in a futile attempt to breach his camouflage.
DeleteAnd then the vampires came. No longer repelled by sunlight, they crept around his hideaway, following the scent of his battered body through the sands. Two figures accompanied the bloodsuckers: a large, muscle bound mutant handily wielding a mini nuke launcher in his tree trunk-heavy arms, and a frail-looking old man who was floating in midair. The group seemed to cluster around him as he entwined odd chanting and hand gestures.
"THERE!"
Only a hasty sprint saved Blackhawk from being at ground-zero of the blast, which had glassed the sand in a 100 feet radius around him. The Warthog was melted ,into slag by the power of the atom.
The mutie was quickly upon him, suppressing him with bursts of his machine gun. The vampires, uncaring of radiation, circled around him, bearing down like a pack of predators. They were shooting him with all kinds of small arms fire and swiping at him with machetes, and it was all Blackhawk could do to parry the barrage of blows coming his way. Even with all his augmentations and skills, he was chipped and bruised from the ordeals of the day. One bullet hit its mark, then another one. A sloppy parry let a knife slip through his guard and slash his wrist. And all the while, the old man kept gesturing and chanting, translucent barriers shielding him from the radiation and stray fire.
Finally, it happened. A half dozen rounds tore through his left leg, sending him sprawling to the ground. The vampires were quick to tear into him, stripping away his weapon and armor, perforating him like a sieve.
Suddenly, the attacks ceased. Blackhawk gathered the last of his strength and forced himself to raise his head. He saw the mutie step aside, and the vampires take a few steps away. The old man seemingly finished his odd chanting, and took a single deep breath, his white beard and long robe flowing with the chilly desert breeze.
"I wish." he said, and his voice boomed and echoed through the desert. The very space seemed to warp around them, as if getting ready to alter reality in a spectacular and permanent fashion. When the echo died down, and everything felt silent again, the old man finished his sentence.
"I wish...for this Blackhawk motherfucker to rot in hell for all eternity."
So is the GM mentally ill or something, or does he have like the intelligence of a child?
ReplyDelete