Mystery Science Theater 3000
Feb. 25th, 2006 12:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
naomikritzerRemember MST3K? They watched reeeeeeeally bad movies and mocked them relentlessly all through. I once saw a really bad piece of fan-fic (Dragonriders of Pern / Star Trek Next Gen crossover, yes, really) that had been MST-ified. It was hysterical.
And you know, reaidng through that ancient piece of juvenalia (college-student-alia?) that I posted on the dare, I kept coming up with snarky comments. So here goes.
LJ-cut for length.
Guild Oath
Because gods forbid anyone become a contract killer without signing an oath in blood over it first. Assassination: it's not just a job, it's a lifestyle!
Assassins don't wear black.
Most people who've played way, way too much D&D and who haven't taken the time to read the List of 100 Things I Will (Not) Do If I Am Ever An Evil Overlord picture the Assassin as a tall, dark-eyed man, garbed in black from head to foot, aiming a crossbow with a single black-gloved hand. Assassins don't wear black because it's conspicuous. And easily dirtied. Black clothing is both impressive, which attracts attention, and sinister, which invites distrust. And it makes you look like a goth, especially in the early 1990s when this story was written, but never mind that. Also, no night is truly black; a man in true black can't hide in the shadows.
Maire wore grey.
Almost everyone knows that Assassins are dealers of death. Note the Random Capitals Of Doom. I still use those, actually, but my copy editors usually Fix The Problem. Just as few people picture Assassins wearing grey, however, few people think of Assassins as dealers of life. Imagine that. Maire certainly hadn't, although a four-year-old street child was unlikely to think of much beyond its next meal. Gyan, a Guild apprentice, had spotted her quickness and ruthlessness, and had lifted her from the gutter and taken her to the Guild.
At four, Maire could steal undetected, and had the quickness and grace of an alley cat. The Guild taught her how to move silently, how to roll dice accurately on her Move Silently checks, how to pick a lock and lift a window and all the other thief-class skills, of course; then they taught her how to kill as quickly and silently as she walked. She learned what poisons would kill instantly, and which would kill undetected; she learned which poisons would kill if slipped into food, and which would kill if scratched into the skin with a dagger. She learned to shoot a crossbow with deadly accuracy, and where to slash with a knife so that the target would not have time to cry out. And she learned to walk the streets unnoticed.
At seventeen, Maire hid her muscular build under a loose-fitting tunic and trousers. Her hair was cut as short as it could be without being unusual. Her only exceptional feature was her eyes, which were the color of winter twilight. Because there's ALWAYS got to be something about the eyes. She kept her eyes averted, and no one looked at her twice. Of course, she tripped over things on a regular basis, but what can you do?
At eighteen, Maire took the Guild Oath, and sealed it with her blood and with the blood of her first assignment. Blood called to blood; any Assassin who failed had to choose between death by their own hand or death at the hands of a fellow Guildmember. Maire knew this with cold certainty; her first assignment had been Gyan, the man who had lifted her out of the gutter when she was a child. You know these guys are really ruthless when they KILL YOU for screwing up. Even the Yakuza only demands a finger. Well, unless you really, really screw up.
Maire never counted the number of people she killed. There were Assassins who cut knotches into a black leather belt, keeping careful track; there were also Assassins who would show themselves to their targets deliberately, for the thrill of the risk or for the fear in the targets' eyes. Most of them had come to the Guild late, had chosen the life for the risk or the adventure. Maire used poison and shot people in the back from the shadows. And she never counted. And just how many murderers for hire does an average-sized city really need, anyway? It's one of the many economic issues that D&D mostly just kind of ignores.
She would have guessed that she had completed twenty or thirty assignments by the time she was twenty-two. She was close; the assignment to kill Rachaen, High Priestess in the Order of the Goddess of Mercy, was her thirty-fifth assignment.
It looked like an easy enough assignment. Why anyone would take out a contract on a pacifistic priestess, Maire wasn't sure, nor was the author, really, but being curious was not her job and unfortunately we can't say that about the author, alas. It looked like the only hard part would be getting the Priestess alone, and even that looked simple enough once she found out that that the Priestesses held weekly services of mercy, open to all petitioners.
***
Maire knelt on the stone slab before the altar. I'm pretty sure that if you read the Tough Guide to Fantasyland, "stone slab" and "altar" may both have the little (tm) after them. The crowd pressed in around her made her nervous, and she kept one eye on her back. She had slipped into the convent with a mass of petitioners; she could hear the sound of weeping from elsewhere in the mob.
The stone door to the convent proper swung open; six Priestesses came out. The crowd stayed remarkably subdued, somewhat to Maire's relief; confusion would be helpful when it came time for the actual assassination, but until then, she wanted things quiet.
One Priestess had the group form a line. Maire slipped to the back of the line. The petitioners each stepped forward and had a brief conversation with one of the Priestesses. The conversation usually seemed to end with hands clasping in benediction. Maire caught the occasional phrase--"child is sick...husband dying..."--but mostly just the weeping she had heard before.
Finally, she found herself kneeling before a white-haired woman with gentle brown eyes. "What have you need of, my child?"
Maire's mind went suddenly blank. Why hadn't she prepared for this? The woman has murdered 35 people and is supposedly really competant, but hasn't the first clue what to say once she gets to the front of the line? Even though she's been waiting for twenty minutes? Wasn't "how to make random small talk" covered in Assassin Training 101? The Assassin Guild clearly needs to brush up on their Social Engineering training. You'd think that might actually be the most important skill for a real assassin, talking their way in places. "Your blessing, and...the blessing of your Goddess, Mother," she whispered.
The Priestess laid a hand on her head and murmered softly. Maire raised her head and, with a shock because Assassin Training (tm) also didn't include Paying Attention To Your Surroundings 101, realized that she was the last petitioner in the Chapel, but that she could still hear the sound of weeping. "Who is crying?" she whispered.
"The Goddess of Mercy weeps over the pain in the world," the Priestess said. "I give you my blessing; for the Blessing of the Goddess you must go to another." The Priestess gestured to another. Hi, Another. "Sister...this one desires the Blessings of the Goddess." And can I just say, these folks take blessings way more seriously than any real religion I've encountered. I've been blessed by Rabbis, by Buddhist reincarnate lamas, by Hindu priests and Hindu laypeople, by Catholic priests, including one who was speaking Latin, and by Neo-Pagans, and not one has hesitated to call down the blessings of their god or goddess on my head even though in most of these cases they knew perfectly well that I was not a follower of their particular god or goddess. Blessings are usually pretty damn informal; they're like the religious equivalent of a handshake. Admittedly, if I knew someone was an assassin I might not shake their hand. No, scratch that, if I knew someone were an assassin I would ABSOLUTELY shake their hand; I sure as hell wouldn't want to piss them off.
The woman approached. Maire averted her eyes; her instincts were suddenly screaming at her to be careful. So naturally, she looks away from the person who's making her nervous; that's definitely what I'd teach people to do in Following Your Instincts 101 in Assassin School. "Put your hands between mine," she heard the woman's voice say. She raised her clasped hands.
Maire heard footsteps; she knew that the room was empty except for her and the Priestess
"I am sorry, my child," said the Priestess when the room was empty. "The Goddess has no blessings for one such as you."
One such as you... It seemed to Maire that the sound of weeping grew louder for a moment. "Who are you?"
"I am Rachaen."
In a single quick gesture, Maire was on her feet, a knife at the throat of the woman. "I have come to kill you."
Rachaen turned her head and looked straight into Maire's eyes. "Then why am I not dead yet?" Yeah, a very good question, since I made a big, big deal out of how cold and efficient Maire was, half a page ago.
Maire flinched. Every moment wasted increased the risk. She should cut the woman's throat and run. Well, yeah. And WHY DOESN'T SHE, oh all-knowing authoress? Hey, look! A yak! Instead she spoke. "I want to know why someone wants you dead."
"Because I speak for the Goddess, and she knows the hearts of all who come to her. She knew yours, did she not?" Because here in fantasyland, apostrophes and contractions are tabboo to those of us in the upper castes of society.
"Luck." Maire looked away. There was something strange about Rachaen's eyes. Again with the strange eyes! God forbid a character ever have a funny-looking nose!
"Do you think of yourself as evil?" This is such a ridiculous question, but then again, if I were making small talk with an assassin who'd come to kill me and was now hesitating, I might also ask stupid questions, hoping to keep them occupied long enough that someone else would come in and save me.
"I deal death. Is death evil?" Not much excuse for the ridiculous answer, though.
"In proper time and season, no."
"Perhaps it is given to those such as I to make that decision." Paying Attention 101 we skipped, but Using Flowery Language was clearly covered in detail. Maire brought the knife in abruptly, enough to feel Rachaen's body tense against her. Wait, I thought she had her more or less at arm's length? She wondered why the late-trained Assassins so loved showing themselves to their targets; what people's fear gave them. Uh, yeah, and yet she's doing it and doesn't know why. HEY, AUTHORESS... oh, forget it. She spoke the words she had heard them boast in stories; "You are afraid then. You have the unusual privilege of speaking with an assassin before she kills you. Aren't you going to beg me not to kill you?" Her voice felt cool, flat. Kind of like the narrative voice here.
"Don't kill me, please. For your sake."
"For my sake? If I do not kill you, I will be killed by my Guild, unless I kill myself first. Assassins do not fail. Ever." Maybe the lack of contractions and apostrophes was a cultural thing?
"Then kill me now, and quickly, because perhaps if you live you will learn mercy. My life has not been long, but I have at least felt joy."
"I have felt joy." I felt her up, and then I CUT OUT HER LIVER AND ATE IT. See, that would have at least been a moderately amusing line. Or at least it would have been a better line than the one that's there.
"You have felt pleasure, and even happiness. Never joy. Not even in killing." Rachaen twisted her head around again. "I will show you." Maire tightened her hold on Rachaen. "I will not try to escape." She closed her eyes--what was it about her eyes?--and whispered a brief word.
Light bursting through a smashed wall the scent of chamomile growing heavy in the air of a meadow the bird freed, soaring into the air on the wind
Maire's knife clattered to the floor. Rachaen stepped out of Maire's grasp. AND RAN! No, because Basic Principles of Self Defense, like Running Away When You Have The Chance, aren't covered in Priestess of Mercy training. "That is joy."
"How did you do that?" Maire whispered.
"I asked the Goddess, if she could not give you her blessing, to give you at least a moment of joy."
Now Maire knew why someone wanted this woman dead. Because we HATES joy, Precious! She stared into Rachaen's eyes and with a cold ice shock realized why they looked familiar. She had seen them, daily, in her own mirror. YES! THEY ARE LONG-LOST TWIN SISTERS! OHHHHHHH, THE HUMANITY!
"Who are you?"
"I am Rachaen." She tipped her head to one side and half-smiled. "And I think I might be your sister." She ducked briefly to pick up Maire's dropped knife, and handed it back to her. Apparently instead of Self Defense, they cover How To Be A Complete Motherfucking Moron.
"How?" Maire didn't need to ask. The Assassins were not the only Guild which took in lost children. She raised her hand ...those eyes...she could not bring the knife down.
Maire threw her knife to the ground and sobbing in sudden fear, turned and ran out of the Chapel.
Rachaen watched her go, weeping. Slowly, she turned away and knelt before the altar to pray.
She heard the steps behind her, but did not turn. "Have mercy on her soul," she whispered, an instant before she felt the arrow stab into her back and the poison filling her blood. Apparently Priestesses of the Goddess of Mercy are required to present themselves as lambs for the slaughter for no readily apparent reason. They are not provided with any options like, "Come over to the good guys, and we'll help you relocate to another city," or "Come over to the good guys, and we'll help you fake a new identity," or even "Spare my life, and we'll arrange to fake my death and I'LL relocate to another city and no one in your guild will know you screwed up." Apparently also according to the Goddess of Mercy it's better to let the assassin keep on living and killing people rather than dying herself. It's not enough to be pacifists; we have to be COMPLETE IDIOTS as well.
Maire picked up her knife. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I had an Oath to keep."
As she left the Chapel, she could hear the sound of the Goddess weeping...
Dah-dah-DUM. Lights go out.
You know, what might also be interesting would be to post what I would say to a workshopper who turned in a story like this, because I wouldn't be snarky. My early mentors were very never snarky to me; Nancy Vedder-Shults, in particular, was wonderfully encouraging and lovely and kind. So I think I will come back in yet another post and imagine what I would say to my 21-year-old self, if I had her in a workshop.
And you know, reaidng through that ancient piece of juvenalia (college-student-alia?) that I posted on the dare, I kept coming up with snarky comments. So here goes.
LJ-cut for length.
Guild Oath
Because gods forbid anyone become a contract killer without signing an oath in blood over it first. Assassination: it's not just a job, it's a lifestyle!
Assassins don't wear black.
Most people who've played way, way too much D&D and who haven't taken the time to read the List of 100 Things I Will (Not) Do If I Am Ever An Evil Overlord picture the Assassin as a tall, dark-eyed man, garbed in black from head to foot, aiming a crossbow with a single black-gloved hand. Assassins don't wear black because it's conspicuous. And easily dirtied. Black clothing is both impressive, which attracts attention, and sinister, which invites distrust. And it makes you look like a goth, especially in the early 1990s when this story was written, but never mind that. Also, no night is truly black; a man in true black can't hide in the shadows.
Maire wore grey.
Almost everyone knows that Assassins are dealers of death. Note the Random Capitals Of Doom. I still use those, actually, but my copy editors usually Fix The Problem. Just as few people picture Assassins wearing grey, however, few people think of Assassins as dealers of life. Imagine that. Maire certainly hadn't, although a four-year-old street child was unlikely to think of much beyond its next meal. Gyan, a Guild apprentice, had spotted her quickness and ruthlessness, and had lifted her from the gutter and taken her to the Guild.
At four, Maire could steal undetected, and had the quickness and grace of an alley cat. The Guild taught her how to move silently, how to roll dice accurately on her Move Silently checks, how to pick a lock and lift a window and all the other thief-class skills, of course; then they taught her how to kill as quickly and silently as she walked. She learned what poisons would kill instantly, and which would kill undetected; she learned which poisons would kill if slipped into food, and which would kill if scratched into the skin with a dagger. She learned to shoot a crossbow with deadly accuracy, and where to slash with a knife so that the target would not have time to cry out. And she learned to walk the streets unnoticed.
At seventeen, Maire hid her muscular build under a loose-fitting tunic and trousers. Her hair was cut as short as it could be without being unusual. Her only exceptional feature was her eyes, which were the color of winter twilight. Because there's ALWAYS got to be something about the eyes. She kept her eyes averted, and no one looked at her twice. Of course, she tripped over things on a regular basis, but what can you do?
At eighteen, Maire took the Guild Oath, and sealed it with her blood and with the blood of her first assignment. Blood called to blood; any Assassin who failed had to choose between death by their own hand or death at the hands of a fellow Guildmember. Maire knew this with cold certainty; her first assignment had been Gyan, the man who had lifted her out of the gutter when she was a child. You know these guys are really ruthless when they KILL YOU for screwing up. Even the Yakuza only demands a finger. Well, unless you really, really screw up.
Maire never counted the number of people she killed. There were Assassins who cut knotches into a black leather belt, keeping careful track; there were also Assassins who would show themselves to their targets deliberately, for the thrill of the risk or for the fear in the targets' eyes. Most of them had come to the Guild late, had chosen the life for the risk or the adventure. Maire used poison and shot people in the back from the shadows. And she never counted. And just how many murderers for hire does an average-sized city really need, anyway? It's one of the many economic issues that D&D mostly just kind of ignores.
She would have guessed that she had completed twenty or thirty assignments by the time she was twenty-two. She was close; the assignment to kill Rachaen, High Priestess in the Order of the Goddess of Mercy, was her thirty-fifth assignment.
It looked like an easy enough assignment. Why anyone would take out a contract on a pacifistic priestess, Maire wasn't sure, nor was the author, really, but being curious was not her job and unfortunately we can't say that about the author, alas. It looked like the only hard part would be getting the Priestess alone, and even that looked simple enough once she found out that that the Priestesses held weekly services of mercy, open to all petitioners.
***
Maire knelt on the stone slab before the altar. I'm pretty sure that if you read the Tough Guide to Fantasyland, "stone slab" and "altar" may both have the little (tm) after them. The crowd pressed in around her made her nervous, and she kept one eye on her back. She had slipped into the convent with a mass of petitioners; she could hear the sound of weeping from elsewhere in the mob.
The stone door to the convent proper swung open; six Priestesses came out. The crowd stayed remarkably subdued, somewhat to Maire's relief; confusion would be helpful when it came time for the actual assassination, but until then, she wanted things quiet.
One Priestess had the group form a line. Maire slipped to the back of the line. The petitioners each stepped forward and had a brief conversation with one of the Priestesses. The conversation usually seemed to end with hands clasping in benediction. Maire caught the occasional phrase--"child is sick...husband dying..."--but mostly just the weeping she had heard before.
Finally, she found herself kneeling before a white-haired woman with gentle brown eyes. "What have you need of, my child?"
Maire's mind went suddenly blank. Why hadn't she prepared for this? The woman has murdered 35 people and is supposedly really competant, but hasn't the first clue what to say once she gets to the front of the line? Even though she's been waiting for twenty minutes? Wasn't "how to make random small talk" covered in Assassin Training 101? The Assassin Guild clearly needs to brush up on their Social Engineering training. You'd think that might actually be the most important skill for a real assassin, talking their way in places. "Your blessing, and...the blessing of your Goddess, Mother," she whispered.
The Priestess laid a hand on her head and murmered softly. Maire raised her head and, with a shock because Assassin Training (tm) also didn't include Paying Attention To Your Surroundings 101, realized that she was the last petitioner in the Chapel, but that she could still hear the sound of weeping. "Who is crying?" she whispered.
"The Goddess of Mercy weeps over the pain in the world," the Priestess said. "I give you my blessing; for the Blessing of the Goddess you must go to another." The Priestess gestured to another. Hi, Another. "Sister...this one desires the Blessings of the Goddess." And can I just say, these folks take blessings way more seriously than any real religion I've encountered. I've been blessed by Rabbis, by Buddhist reincarnate lamas, by Hindu priests and Hindu laypeople, by Catholic priests, including one who was speaking Latin, and by Neo-Pagans, and not one has hesitated to call down the blessings of their god or goddess on my head even though in most of these cases they knew perfectly well that I was not a follower of their particular god or goddess. Blessings are usually pretty damn informal; they're like the religious equivalent of a handshake. Admittedly, if I knew someone was an assassin I might not shake their hand. No, scratch that, if I knew someone were an assassin I would ABSOLUTELY shake their hand; I sure as hell wouldn't want to piss them off.
The woman approached. Maire averted her eyes; her instincts were suddenly screaming at her to be careful. So naturally, she looks away from the person who's making her nervous; that's definitely what I'd teach people to do in Following Your Instincts 101 in Assassin School. "Put your hands between mine," she heard the woman's voice say. She raised her clasped hands.
Maire heard footsteps; she knew that the room was empty except for her and the Priestess
"I am sorry, my child," said the Priestess when the room was empty. "The Goddess has no blessings for one such as you."
One such as you... It seemed to Maire that the sound of weeping grew louder for a moment. "Who are you?"
"I am Rachaen."
In a single quick gesture, Maire was on her feet, a knife at the throat of the woman. "I have come to kill you."
Rachaen turned her head and looked straight into Maire's eyes. "Then why am I not dead yet?" Yeah, a very good question, since I made a big, big deal out of how cold and efficient Maire was, half a page ago.
Maire flinched. Every moment wasted increased the risk. She should cut the woman's throat and run. Well, yeah. And WHY DOESN'T SHE, oh all-knowing authoress? Hey, look! A yak! Instead she spoke. "I want to know why someone wants you dead."
"Because I speak for the Goddess, and she knows the hearts of all who come to her. She knew yours, did she not?" Because here in fantasyland, apostrophes and contractions are tabboo to those of us in the upper castes of society.
"Luck." Maire looked away. There was something strange about Rachaen's eyes. Again with the strange eyes! God forbid a character ever have a funny-looking nose!
"Do you think of yourself as evil?" This is such a ridiculous question, but then again, if I were making small talk with an assassin who'd come to kill me and was now hesitating, I might also ask stupid questions, hoping to keep them occupied long enough that someone else would come in and save me.
"I deal death. Is death evil?" Not much excuse for the ridiculous answer, though.
"In proper time and season, no."
"Perhaps it is given to those such as I to make that decision." Paying Attention 101 we skipped, but Using Flowery Language was clearly covered in detail. Maire brought the knife in abruptly, enough to feel Rachaen's body tense against her. Wait, I thought she had her more or less at arm's length? She wondered why the late-trained Assassins so loved showing themselves to their targets; what people's fear gave them. Uh, yeah, and yet she's doing it and doesn't know why. HEY, AUTHORESS... oh, forget it. She spoke the words she had heard them boast in stories; "You are afraid then. You have the unusual privilege of speaking with an assassin before she kills you. Aren't you going to beg me not to kill you?" Her voice felt cool, flat. Kind of like the narrative voice here.
"Don't kill me, please. For your sake."
"For my sake? If I do not kill you, I will be killed by my Guild, unless I kill myself first. Assassins do not fail. Ever." Maybe the lack of contractions and apostrophes was a cultural thing?
"Then kill me now, and quickly, because perhaps if you live you will learn mercy. My life has not been long, but I have at least felt joy."
"I have felt joy." I felt her up, and then I CUT OUT HER LIVER AND ATE IT. See, that would have at least been a moderately amusing line. Or at least it would have been a better line than the one that's there.
"You have felt pleasure, and even happiness. Never joy. Not even in killing." Rachaen twisted her head around again. "I will show you." Maire tightened her hold on Rachaen. "I will not try to escape." She closed her eyes--what was it about her eyes?--and whispered a brief word.
Light bursting through a smashed wall the scent of chamomile growing heavy in the air of a meadow the bird freed, soaring into the air on the wind
Maire's knife clattered to the floor. Rachaen stepped out of Maire's grasp. AND RAN! No, because Basic Principles of Self Defense, like Running Away When You Have The Chance, aren't covered in Priestess of Mercy training. "That is joy."
"How did you do that?" Maire whispered.
"I asked the Goddess, if she could not give you her blessing, to give you at least a moment of joy."
Now Maire knew why someone wanted this woman dead. Because we HATES joy, Precious! She stared into Rachaen's eyes and with a cold ice shock realized why they looked familiar. She had seen them, daily, in her own mirror. YES! THEY ARE LONG-LOST TWIN SISTERS! OHHHHHHH, THE HUMANITY!
"Who are you?"
"I am Rachaen." She tipped her head to one side and half-smiled. "And I think I might be your sister." She ducked briefly to pick up Maire's dropped knife, and handed it back to her. Apparently instead of Self Defense, they cover How To Be A Complete Motherfucking Moron.
"How?" Maire didn't need to ask. The Assassins were not the only Guild which took in lost children. She raised her hand ...those eyes...she could not bring the knife down.
Maire threw her knife to the ground and sobbing in sudden fear, turned and ran out of the Chapel.
Rachaen watched her go, weeping. Slowly, she turned away and knelt before the altar to pray.
She heard the steps behind her, but did not turn. "Have mercy on her soul," she whispered, an instant before she felt the arrow stab into her back and the poison filling her blood. Apparently Priestesses of the Goddess of Mercy are required to present themselves as lambs for the slaughter for no readily apparent reason. They are not provided with any options like, "Come over to the good guys, and we'll help you relocate to another city," or "Come over to the good guys, and we'll help you fake a new identity," or even "Spare my life, and we'll arrange to fake my death and I'LL relocate to another city and no one in your guild will know you screwed up." Apparently also according to the Goddess of Mercy it's better to let the assassin keep on living and killing people rather than dying herself. It's not enough to be pacifists; we have to be COMPLETE IDIOTS as well.
Maire picked up her knife. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I had an Oath to keep."
As she left the Chapel, she could hear the sound of the Goddess weeping...
Dah-dah-DUM. Lights go out.
You know, what might also be interesting would be to post what I would say to a workshopper who turned in a story like this, because I wouldn't be snarky. My early mentors were very never snarky to me; Nancy Vedder-Shults, in particular, was wonderfully encouraging and lovely and kind. So I think I will come back in yet another post and imagine what I would say to my 21-year-old self, if I had her in a workshop.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-02-25 07:46 pm (UTC)I think you have a future in Satire, my child ...
Date: 2006-02-27 01:59 am (UTC)SylviaH
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Date: 2006-02-28 03:35 am (UTC)