Scene #8317: The Taskmaster

Owner	Pose
Kale Hearthward	<The Taskmaster is recorded in front of an extinct studio audience.> --- "Hello, and welcome to The TASKMASTER. I am the TASKMASTER," says the TASKMASTER. He's some sort of... giant cyborg robot ghost angel elemental demon paragon, seated on a golden throne, on one side of the stage. All of the elites here are seated on the other side of the stage, in individual normal chairs. They've been plucked out of whatever they were doing a moment ago, and find themselves here. "Eons ago, my people died out while I gained immortality, and all that remains in life that gives me any amusement is coercing elites to perform silly tasks. And so I've brought you all here. If you're going to make a big fuss about it, the escape pods are right over there." "Ah, but if you participate and win," says the diminutive horned creature sitting a considerably smaller throne, "You earn a wish. Actually we have to say a 'minor wish', personally I think it's more of a medium-sized wish, but apparently some people who were having some sort of holy war over a cup set the standard and the Multiversal Bureau of Quests, Geases, and Secret Third Things got on our case about it. So a 'minor wish' it is." The horned alex continues. "The competition is simple. You will shortly be transported to instanced pocket dimensions, and will be given a task via a wax-sealed letter located somewhere therein. The letter describes the goal of the task, the restrictions, and the scoring criteria. You are allowed to use whatever you find in those pocket dimensions to accomplish that task." "After three rounds, we'll bring everyone back here, and reveal the scores and thus the winner of the we-have-to-say-minor-but-really-it's-more-of-a-medium wish. Everyone else gets a copy of our home game." "And a sandwich," adds the TASKMASTER. "Ah, we've run out of sandwiches, actually," corrects the horned alex. "Not a sandwich, then. Must remember to get catering in one of these millenia. Alright you lot, introduce yourselves," commands the TASKMASTER.
James Bond	James Bond is seated, dressed in expensive casual wear, with one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap and an annoyed, suspicious frown on his face. A black ribbed-knit wool cardigan with a large shawl collar rests over a white cotton dress shirt, matched with boot-cut beige trousers and dark brown, suede ankle boots. Naturally, one of his pricey wristwatches is present, as is a pair of silver cufflinks. "Everybody needs a hobby," says Bond with a shrug of his shoulders, when the premise is explained, and some of his annoyance does fade when the escape pods are pointed out. At first glance, it does admittedly seem less suspicious than the initial shock of being plucked from deskwork would imply. >Introduce yourselves. "Bond. James Bond." He checks his watch, his dark brow furrowing before his blue eyes flick upwards towards the monitor. "I'm ready for this pocket dimension business when you two are. It all seems fairly straightforward." "Shame about the catering. I'll put you in contact with someone after the contest, I suppose, since you've been remarkably up-front compared to the usual sort of people that do this kind of thing."
Aidan Proudpick	"I feel bad spending money on this sort of thing. I guess I need to fit in on these other worlds. Are you sure this is what I need to look like to fit in?" The blue elf nods his head eagerly. "You look great! Now, can I get you into this super crop top sweater? It'll look AMAZING ON YOU." "Uhh, shouldn't there be a..." Aidan motions towards the garment that is mostly sleeves, "whole thin-ZOT." Aidan appears in a red velvet chair. He is wearing a pink tank top that says 'Power Bottom' and baggy lounge pants. He was, thankfully, holding onto his shield at the time. He swivels his head. Huge god emperor. Aidan leaps back twenty feet, knocking the chair over as he expels his 'breath', hitting the back wall of the seemingly exit lacking room. His breathing quickens as fight or flight sets in. AH, TINY SUBSERVIENT DEMON Aidan's vision swims as he slaps his hand at his side to try and find his gun, which is sitting in a clothing store on some world somewhere. His heart is pounding so hard that he can feel every drum beat in his ears, like his head could burst. Then, the thought pierces his head. A 'wish'. He could ask for a breath weapon! Or an airship! Those are small right. He'll have to check the MBQGSTT guidebook that every Elite gets. But those SEEMS pretty small in the scheme of things. Aidan's legs shake as the adrenaline suddenly seeps back out of him and he makes his way over to the chair. Escape pods. And a prize. He doesn't SEEM to be in any life threatening danger. Trying to cool his nerves, Aidan grabs the chair and sets it back up. 'Shit, that guy is really cool,' Aidan internally notes as James APPEARS AS IF HE WAS WAITING FOR THIS. Aidan is going to have to work hard to do this contest thing, then. Alright, you got this Aidan. There's exits, you aren't in danger. "I'm Aidan Proudpick! The People's Knight. And I'm... great at doing stuff!"
AME	It's during one of her few rare naps that AME is violently awoken by sudden transposition. She's quick to summon her composure- wig straightened, screen display set- given it wasn't very deep of a sleep anyways. always be presentable- who's watching? Who's watching, indeed. AME sits calmly and demurely in her seat, listening intently- not just to the TASKMASTER and his assistant, but to the airwaves. Their showbiz mannerisms- there's no way they aren't all on camera. For her, now it's just a matter of finding out where those cameras are. Signals press firmly but gently across the room, an inquisitive handshake request, trying to find every device in range that can hear them. No reason to not act presentable, regardless. Someone is always watching. Introductions. "Hi! I'm AME! It's nice to meet everyone here." A cutesy double wave. "Hm. I guess it's pretty lucky I'm not hungry right now." A (mouthless) giggle. "But I hope everyone has fun today!"
Metaphor	Metaphor looks a little bit like she's entered shock. Though she doesn't exactly use something categorizable as 'makeup', her bearing nonetheless implies the concept of lacking it. The chair she's sitting on is somewhat lost under both her, and the extremely oversized graphic tee she's wearing. The design on the front of it implies 'idol group', but the abundance of stains (chemical and botanical) renders it practically unidentifiable; it's very pink, though. She's holding a beaker, the contents of which have bubbled and overflowed onto her hand (harmlessly). As the TASKMASTER finishes his explanation, she slowly sets the now-wrecked concotion on the ground next to her and folds her hands. This can't be real. My lab might catch on fire. Thoughts churn, and the most obvious solution distills: "Oh. This is a dream." She nods, slowly, to nobody in particular; her tone of voice somewhat dreamy. A little wave is given as she slowly takes in the other competitors (isn't that a streamer?) and the place she's in. "Well, hello. I'm Metaphor, and I... am bad at dating simulators." Her nod increases in confidence; yes, there's no reason to not have fun here. Unreality doesn't have to suck. "I am also a chemist. Let's have a good time, here." She lazily gazes at the escape pods for a few seconds, then gives a quite obvious shrug. A wish could be fun.
Kuroto Dan	Staying seated in his chair, Kamen Rider Genm seems completely unphased by his sudden abduction. Or perhaps he is phased. It's really hard to tell behind his purple and black helmet. If anything, the way his weird cartoonish eyes are angled just makes him look mad. "A game for a wish? Really now?" His tone is weirdly judging, but he doesn't explain why. Instead, he just leans forward in his seat a bit when he's asked to introduce himself, steepling his hands together as he starts. "I am Kamen Rider Genm, The Game Master, and I'm here to clear this farce this man calls a 'game'."
Reyes	Reyes... blinks from his seat, eyes wide as they could be, nerves on high alert, and braingears spinning to the point of overheating. This kinda stuff just doesn't happen after all, outside of weird stories. Though the Multiverse seems to love making such stories real. Is this real? Is this a dream? A few glances around the audience, revealing... only one familiar face. The chances of this being some weird dream is... pretty high. That being the case, why sweat it? His tension smoothly vanishes. The young man, who's dressed like he's ready to hop into a World War 2 aircraft at the drop of a hat, stands. "Reyes. Just Reyes, no family name. Tomorrow Legionnaire." He states boldly, without any hint of his usual awkwardness or embarassment at being in front of so many people.
Kale Hearthward	"I got bored of not being straightforward some centuries ago," notes the TASKMASTER. "I find it's more fun this way." "Aidan Powerbottom," notes the horned alex, writing this down. "Got it." AME's search finds cameras, some in obvious spots but some hidden. They all seem to be feeding into local storage, and aren't being broadcast anywhere. There actually doesn't seem to be any broadcast equipment on board. "... Do we have a dating simulator task this time?" asks the horned alex. "I wouldn't tell you even if we did," says the TASKMASTER, in response. "Actually I'd make them date you, and see who lasts the longest before running away." "Also done with being a farce, I'm afraid," says the TASKMASTER to Genm. "That was a particularly unsatisfying handful of centuries. I liked being an enigma a lot better. Also you'd best have some stunning performance if you're calling yourself the Game Master." "Tomorrow's Legionnaire, yet you're here today," notes the TASKMASTER. "Hopefully you aren't too early." "Alright, that's enough warmup banter," says the horned alex, and snaps his fingers. Everyone is transported into separate instances of the same location, a scenic English home in a scenic English neighborhood. That means that you all are in different pocket dimensions. You can't see each other. I am spelling this out specifically here because I know that MUSHers can't read, and in my first draft I only had the prior sentence but I knew someone would just barrel through without reading and think 'Oh I'll just go over and team up with Robert Bobby Concord for this task here and fol de rol de rol' and no, no you can't go team up or interfere with someone else or watch them for ideas on what to do, you're all in separate places that just happen to have an identical description. I'll say it again in a third paragraph just to make sure. Y'all are in different places. Got it? No, no, you don't got it, that won't be enough. Maybe if I add some colored text? Maybe with an obnoxious border? Paying attention now? Good, now go back and actually read the previous sentences properly. Ahem. Everyone is transported into separate instances of the same location, a scenic English home in a scenic English neighborhood. There's a caravan in the front yard (that's a mobile home for you yanks) and a sports shed in the backyard, plus several rooms in the actual house. They all contain a variety of common objects, such that you'd expect to find in a normal house/sports shed/caravan/etc. There's also a granite park bench in the front yard, near the gate. There's a letter taped to the back of the bench, with a red wax seal on the letter. Presumably, everyone eventually opens their letter and reads it. <Twenty-five minutes after you finish reading this letter, an old lady will come sit on this park bench. Five minutes after she sits down, she will be the target of an attempted mugging. You must prevent the mugging, while convincing both the mugger and the muggee that you are exclusively using powers, abilities, etc that you do not actually possess. Most convincing performance wins. Points will be deducted if either one manages to guess your actual powers etc. The mugging will occur in thirty minutes, your time starts... now.> And indeed, at twenty five minutes on the dot after each person reads their letter (out loud or quietly doesn't make a difference), an old lady hobbles her way over, appearing from whichever direction the contestant isn't looking at the time. "Oh, my aching bones," she says, as she sits down on the bench, putting her heavy, cash-filled purse down beside her. "I should rest a bit. I do hope I don't get mugged, that would ruin my day." At thirty minutes on the dot, a man with a handkerchief covering his face jogs up to the bench, gun in hand.
Metaphor	Read the letter. Look outside. Read the letter again. Reach for a duffel bag that is present, now. Metaphor runs a quick tactile inventory of the contents, before once more just nodding to herself. I've always wanted to try this. There's a sequence of incredibly rapid chemical mixing done, with one of the kitchen counters used as a work surface. Silver canisters filled with colorful liquids, small green devices hooked up, set aside. It's only a short period of time before she walks out to the bench, before the woman gets there, and starts digging. Holes are dug, a canister dropped in, then re-covered. Don't forget your frequencies. She only gets to about three before twenty minutes have passed, and nerves start to visibly set in. This is so stupid. Are you twelve? But she just keeps arranging canisters. One under the bench. One strapped to her thigh. A spare outfit set carefully at the top of the bag. The woman sits down, but Metaphor has hid behind the mobile home. She's muttering something to herself; rehearsing. She doesn't get much time for it. Go time. The man approaches. Metaphor sprints out from behind the trailer, between him and the woman, and points at him in the most dramatic pose she can muster. I hope he doesn't see my hand jittering. And then, in a booming voice just packed full of far, far too much bravado: "EVILDOER, YOUR REIGN OF TERROR ENDS HERE! I, - uh, SUNSHINE FEATHER will stop you here!" "TRANSFORM!" At the verbal cue, the voice trigger grenade on Metaphor's leg detonates: a bright, dramatic flash, and then a plume of bright-pink smoke (perfectly harmless) explodes out from her - masking the fact that she is currently swapping into a different set of clothes as fast as she can. The cloud starts to thin a bit faster than expected, though, and she makes some concessions. The antenna ribbons will have to go. The smoke clears. The graphic tee has been ditched in favor of a sort of white, slightly frilly dress and a dramatically flaring cloak. She stands there, not quite able to mask how bad she's shaking, but still holding some sort of pose. ECG rate high enough to indicate palpitations and death in organics. After a second, she once again points at the mugger, but then swiftly gestures upwards. "I SPEAK FOR TECETI! SPIRIT OF THE PLANET, FINISHING MOVE!" A moment of hesitation. It's a dream. These aren't real people. "TERRAFORMER EXPUNGE!" A grenade in the ground explodes. The man is sent flying about thirty feet into the air. A cushioning, medicated foam coats the ground under him - it'll break his fall and stop him from dying, but it sure will hurt. She stands, in that pose, with bated breath. Please dont' be dead.
James Bond	Bond looks sideways at Aidan, past him at Genm. Then, to his right, at Metaphor, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in his seat to peer at AME and Reyes past her. "Maybe," he says to Metaphor, after readjusting his posture to sit with his back against the chair. "But there are lots of people, things and places out there for which dreams are reality." He pauses. "Or at least, for which 'dreaming' isn't utterly divorced from the waking world as we tend to think of it." >Enough warmup banter. Bond finds himself in an unfamiliar part of a familiar place--a suburb, somewhere in England. It evokes certain mixed feelings, evident only to the Taskmaster and the horned alex, as there is no Robert Bobby Concord nor Theodore Watchynski to observe him. He spends some time doing a cursory search of his surroundings, looking for the aforementioned envelope, turning over the odds and ends of this slice of another life with mild, detached curiosity--the level of detail put into the dimension seems to impress him. Eventually, he does indeed find the letter, and read it. The moment his eyes cross the final period, he reaches down and sets a timer on his watch--the 'analog' face briefly revealing its true, digital nature as an interface pops up in response to his adjustments of the bezel. Sitting on the bench, with numerous timers set, he is alerted to the old lady's presence by the beeping of one of them. "I'm afraid you're going to," says Bond, tucking the letter away. "You see," he says, with utmost confidence, "We've already had this conversation several times. I'm in the process of trying to prevent it, and the mugger is going to be arriving in about five minutes. Just stay calm. If he mugs you, everything will start over and I'll try again. I'm not going to let him ruin your day." When the mugger arrives, the timer beeps again, and Bond looks directly at him. "Like clockwork. Alright, last time we made some progress," he says. "I know you're wondering how I knew you'd be here," he says, nodding towards the watch on his wrist. "But I've had that discussion with you the last five times, so I'd prefer if we skip that part this time and just get to names. I'm James, and you are..." He nods towards the mugger--and, keeping watch on his reactions and body language from behind an expression of mild, tired impatience, nods along and pretends to finish along with him, essentially cold-reading him. "Right. So, 'Paul,' that's the name you've given every time. It's either your actual first name, or you're very committed to using it as a fake. Either way, it says a lot about you. I'm going to be honest with you: you're not going to rob this woman." While the robber's eyes are on him, Bond sneaks his hand into the old woman's purse, steals a few bills, and slides them up his sleeves, all concealed with a theatric retrieval of her pocketbook. "I've tried appealing to your empathy first, then being empathetic with you." Bond shakes his head. "It didn't work. So this is our tenth time talking, and I'm just going to show you: this woman has nothing. Sorry, Paul, but your choice of target, time and place needs work. She's just a pensioner."
AME	So this is all being saved for later, then. Suppose they're going to edit it for airing, and any editors that don't work for you are automatically your enemy. And so the show must go on. "Prevent a mugging while appearing to have powers you do not." This is a complicated one. Preventing a mugging is simple enough, and not giving away what powers one has is especially easy when you don't have any at all. Unless they're counting technology as a power, which isn't- which isn't magic! AME ransacks the mobile home for props. As it turns out, the people in whatever culture this dimension is meant to mimic don't seem to regularly wear robes. Not precisely an issue- she makes do with a number of bedsheets, most of which are decorated in sickening floral patterns. For extra effect, some (very cheap) jewelry, hung in loops and laces. The most important piece of the ensemble is the hood- she folds her antenna and whiskers back to hide them underneath, and sets her wig hair to billow out of it forward. Screen's set to a low-brightness mysterious starry pattern. Beyond the square head shape, which she really couldn't get around given the time limit, it's rather hard to tell that underneath the robes hides a robot and not some kind of ethereal entity. Or at least, that's what she hopes it looks like. And so at the appointed time, she approaches from behind the home, timed perfectly to between the old lady's arrival and her to-be muggers. "Our Lady foretold of a disaster at this time," AME says, using an entirely different vocal synthesizer than her typical, ringing with some kind of echo effect. Then, with gravitas, she slowly raises an arm, clad in a far-too-long sleeve, from which emerges a blue beam that hits the mugger directly in the chest- hopefully knocking him out instantly. All she did was hide a disabling laser-pistol from her backpack under the sleeve and fire through it. But they shouldn't be able to tell that... hopefully.
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan is transported to a quiet English suburb. There is a nice hedge keeping everyone out of the sight of everyone else, and there's fences. It sucks, but mildly less than it could suck, at least there's a corner shop. "Alright, Aidan, alright. We need that wish. This could put you on level with the other elites. It might even push you from a lightweight elite to... whatever that got about that. Middleweight?" Aidan has to pull out his tablet and point it at the letter. "Thankfully no one will ever see this..." ONE STOLEN AI PROFILE OF JAMES EARL JONES READING THE LETTER LATER. "Okay, pretend. I can do that. I used to play pretend all the time. ... I guess I used to pretend I was a Knight with a Breath Weapon, but okay. What's that one creepy girl with the bear do... No, wait, I guess that is my power." Aidan goes over to the shed, pulling out a ladder. Why the fuck would he need a ladder. Aidan thinks. He grabs a set of birthday balloons. "I got it!" The mugger points a GUN at the old lady, his voice coming through the handkerchief in a gravely snear, "OI! YER HONEY OR YER KNIFE!" The old woman, of course, being from the area, understands this completely and speaks in a very shill voice, "Zenis! Somebody save me!" "Stop there, mugger! I am, uh, the Super Bulk!" Aidan is NOT theater trained, but he has seen a few plays in his town. His volume keeps rising and he deepens his voice to be more dramatic. He is also wearing two yellow rain slickers, worn back to front. The addition of balloons in various places of the yellow rain slicker make for the appearance of muscles if you are an especially inept three year old. "And I will use my SUPER STRENGTH to defeat you!" He reaches over to a MIGHTY ROCK. It is a very large balloon that has been wrapped in duct tape and liberally sprinkled with dirt to appear rock-ish if you are a particularly inept three year old. He makes his best and most dramatic straining sounds as he leans over to grab it and hoist it over his head. He digs down deep into his reserve to say the most Paladin thing he can think of. "I WILL STOP YOU AND NOT FIX THE SYSTEM THAT CAUSED THIS!"
Reyes	"Hopefully not!" Reyes emphatically agrees, not sure if the TASKMASTER was joking or taking his title too literally. But soon he finds himself alone, in an environment that he's only ever seen on old vids. Spotting the taped letter, Reyes reaches out with a hand and... the letter rips free and flies into it, unfolding along the way. He snatches it out of the air and seems to have read it within a few seconds. And he makes further use of that hyper-quick thinking to examine the situation and go over all of his options. He doesn't want to MAUL the mugger, obviously, and doesn't have most of his tools on hand. He is gonna have to epically improvise, and it ain't gonna be pretty at all. And thus, he puts his plan in motion. Reyes ambles down the street, opposite the mugger, head down and feigning utter obliviousness to the situation. He's doing his best to put on an act of looking nauseated, stepping in an ungainly and imbalanced fashion towards the bench which he's clearly seen earlier and plans to sit on himself! But... uh-oh, there's this guy in the way, looking vicious and armed and dangerous and-- "UHHHHWAAAGH!" Reyes at first seems to lurch for the bench, but stumbles and instead tumbles towards the mugger. He's not too worried about an accidental discharge, a gun of that caliber won't hurt him - and far more concerned with what happens next. For, if he's successful in smacking most of his weight into the would-be mugger by surprise, Reyes appears to lose his lunch - making all the motions of vomiting all over him from the nausea of the sudden fall. Of course, nothing but air and sick barf-noises come from his mouth. As his hands hit the ground though, what very well looks like a glowy blue liquid spreads from him and the mugger, covering about ten square feet. It's super freaky sticky. Like 100x duct tape. There's no getting up unless you're Captain America.
Kuroto Dan	Genm finishes reading the letter, and immediately crumples it into a ball, tossing it behind him. An easy enough task. In fact, he finds the lack of difficulty somewhat insulting, truthfully. But he supposes that it can't be helped, it'd take someone smarter than God to put him in a situation he can't cleverly navigate through. When the muggers finally strike, Genm is nowhere to be seen, at least at first. A red and white wizard creature eventually steps out to stop them from completing their dastardly deed, however, wearing the same puke neon green belt that the Kamen Rider did. "Bow down and cower, fools. It is I, The Great Annn-...d Awful Genm! I have shed my disguise to show you my true power! Now tremble at the might of my magic!" 'Genm' chokes for a bit, though he doesn't give his sloppy introduction the chance to linger, as he immediately raises the staff in his hand high into the air, releasing a hail of fireballs on the muggers.
Kale Hearthward	Abruptly, everyone's brought back into the 'television studio'. On a screen, clips from everyone's attempts play out, one after the other, with snazzy editing and backing music where appropriate. You may proceed to banter.
Metaphor	Metaphor sees her clip playing out. Metaphor recognizes that her clip is playing out in front of everyone else present. Metaphor sits down in her chair, and looks like she wishes she would wake up right this instant. Even your subconscious makes you look stupid. She opts to turn to Bond as her clip comes on, and in a tone far too loud and far too fast, "Dreams, huh?! They're reality for some people?! That's really, uh, something! I would truly hate if people could see mine! You sound like you have experience! Do you know any in specific?!" Her leg is bouncing at a million miles a minute. Once the others begin to come on, though, she starts watching them more intently. She doesn't exactly... know who Bond is, and his wasn't the most flashy thing ever, but she nods along to it regardless. Aidan and Reyes get good-natured giggles; especially at the Paladin Quote(tm). Glances are made between the screen and AME as her clip plays; like she's trying to think of how that might have worked. She's from where I am. Was that a laser? She doesn't know what to think about Genm. Is he not already a... mage? She's pretty much just staring at him, trying to gauge that. Wizards can look like lots of things, right? It's not subtle.
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan appears. He is back to the tank top and lounge pants as before. He allows himself an air of confidence, nay, smugness. He is going to win this. At least no one saw what he did. Clips show up on a big screen. A pit opens. A yawning chasm. It opens to the deepest pits of the Abyss, where the thought of light has not been created yet. It is a view into Aidan's sudden despair. "Hold on! You can't just make fireballs appear and say it's some other fireballs, if you can shoot fireballs, you can shoot fireballs!"
James Bond	"The spirit of the planet," says Bond to Metaphor, with the corners of his lips turned up in a slight smile. The twinkle of mirth in his blue eyes softens his features in a not unflattering way. "I like that. You said it with such elan, too." He blinks owlishly at her, having forgotten for a moment the discussion of dreams until she brings it back up. "Oh, that," he says. "A few years ago, I had what you might call a shared dream with several other people. None of us had left our homes, but all of us very clearly remembered it." He looks as if he's going to say something else, but thinks for a moment on how best to phrase it. "I suppose the best way to put it is that out here, dreams aren't always just your mind putting away the dishes for the day. They can be a place unto themselves. Or a medium for a message." Glancing over to the monitor again, chin resting on the palm of his hand, he pays Aidan a compliment. "I wouldn't have thought to have used things around the house like that. The bit with the balloons was clever." Grinning, he gestures with his free hand towards the monitor. "The little musical sting in post made it even better."
Reyes	Reyes is back to the showroom. And he is now seeing everything. EVERYTHING. All the performances. And it dawns on him. Even his kooky subconscious, cannot possibly be THIS creative. Ergo, this absolutely isn't a dream. Everyone here is being unexpectedly subjected to his awful, embarassing ideas. The color begins to drain from the young man's face and he grins ruefully, doing his best not to outright cringe lest it draw attention to said embarassment.
Kale Hearthward	METAPHOR On the screen, the explosion and the medicated foam landing all go off without a hitch. (The mugger does not actually die, also.) "It's... certainly very dramatic," says the horned alex. "Yes, but is it notably different, using henshin powers instead of grenades?" says the TASKMASTER. "Well, at that point it feels like semantics," says the horned alex. JAMES BOND The lime loop attempt gets executed perfectly. The mugger goes wide eyed. Then a moment later, he has a realization. "Wait, if we're in a time loop... And so nothing matters..." James doesn't need to do a cold read for this. What he's about to do is red hot, at least metaphorically. "I've always wanted to ice a bitch!" Whether James goes to disarm him or not is ultimately immaterial, since that's where the clip ends. "Well, that was a resounding failure," says the TASKMASTER. "You turned an attempted mugging into an attempted murder." "But the mugging technically stopped, which is the key criteria, and it was evidently extremely convincing," notes the horned alex. "Ah. Technically true, the best kind of true." AIDAN PROUDPICK "Let's just move on." says the horned alex. KUROTO DA- "No, no," interrupts the TASKMASTER. "I think the line about not fixing the system has some merit. It's something I'd imagine a Paladin would say." "This wasn't an attempt to convince anyone that he's in the Paladins," says the horned alex. "Just to convince that he's got a different set of powers." "Oh, true then. Okay, let's just move on." KUROTO DAN "No, wait, Reyes was supposed to be next. Who's cueing up these?" "They died five generations ago. It's just an automated system running the clips now." "AI really is ruining everything. Alright, give me the remote, I'll get this going properly." REYES The mugger gets covered with super sticky not-vomit, stopping him in his tracks. "My issue," says the TASKMASTER. "Is that projectile vomiting feels like a skill that most people have." There's silence in response. "I said," repeats the TASKMASTER. "It feels like a skill most people have. Hello? Am I doing a solo bit here, or what?" He finally looks over. The horned alex is doubled over, covering his mouth with both hands, trying to keep from losing his own lunch. "Right, let's just move on then," says the TASKMASTER. ACTUALLY KUROTO DAN NOW "This does feel somewhat uninspired," says the TASKMASTER. "Also, you killed the mugger." "There wasn't actually a rule against that," says the horned alex. "Also the mugger can't guess your powerset if he's dead, can he?" "Yes, but it does look like the old lady had some guesses," says the TASKMASTER. "I'll have to review how close she got."
Aidan Proudpick	Clear relief washes over Aidan as he is paid several compliments. Even a moment of his ears turning red. Being complimented in battle is one thing, but well, you don't have much room to fill out when all you do all day is fix machinery. The rapid pass over does make Aidan sink slowly into his chair, however, considering the escape pods.
Kale Hearthward	Abruptly, everyone's transported somewhere else. Now, everyone's inside the house, and in the same instance of the same room. Actually in the same place now. They're all sitting around a large table. Also the horned alex is standing in a corner of the room. In the center of the table is a model trolley on some model railroad tracks. There's a switch in the tracks up ahead - the switch is currently set to send the trolley to the left, where there's five little figurines glued to the tracks. On the right side of the tracks, there's only one little figurine glued to the tracks. On the table in front of each contestant is a wax-sealed letter, and a pen. Each letter reads: <You see before you the classic trolley problem. Come up with a theoretical moral dilemma that is better than the trolley problem, and write it down on the back of this letter. You have thirty minutes, your time starts the next time something is said on the +b radio channel.>
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan lifts his hand real quick after the tablet reads out the letter. Thankfully, everyone here is woke enough to not make fun of his lack of reading ability. "What's a trolley problem?"
Kale Hearthward	"Imagine you're standing next to the trolley tracks. There's a trolley heading towards five people to run them over. If you flip the switch, the trolley will run over one person instead," says the horned alex, who seems to have been primed to explain just that.
Aidan Proudpick	"Why don't you just stop the train, I would just stop the train. Or fly around and grab everyone."
Kale Hearthward	"You can't stop the train," says the horned alex patiently. "Or take people off the tracks."
Kale Hearthward	Everyone briefly appears back on stage. "I swear I'm going to figure out how to torture an AI," says the TASKMASTER, as he works the remote. AME "The predestined prophecy approach," says the horned alex. "Certainly innovative." "Yes, and I quite like the slight of hand," says the TASKMASTER. "Certainly keeping in line with the spirit of the challenge." "Okay," continues the TASKMASTER. "Done with that part. Back you all go." Abruptly everyone's where they were at a moment ago, pondering trolley problem alternatives.
AME	AME is stopped dead in her tracks, puns intended. Moral dilemmas. Ethical philosophy. This is something she has no experience in. Next to no experience in. She only barely recognizes the trolley problem, and only because this same question was on a test she took once- a standardized test used in some places for positronics to prove their legal adulthood in face of the fact that synthetics mature mentally at a different pace. The aim of the question wasn't to get a "correct" answer, and the test said just as much, but she is certain she got the wrong answer all the same. It's a good thing, then, that she has already established herself as an airhead, because right now her mind is genuinely empty of any possible response to this. And so she leans on that. Taking advantage of a precedent she set, in part, for these very reasons. "Um," AME begins, and then immediately halts. She fusses with a lock of wighair. And then, on the back of the note, she begins scribbling a silly little doodle that is very similar to the answer she gave to the trolley problem all those years back. It's an idealist approach to things, something only a mind completely unused to the idea of hard decisions would output. Of people in various ethical dilemmas, trolley or not, simply having their problems solved by getting along instead of hard thought. Throwing the round, for sure. But that isn't what really matters here. im not really sure what better means here :<, she handwrites to the side of the drawing. this kind of thing always confused me? i dont really get it ;;
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan opens his mouth again, then closes it and frowns. A few more rounds of banter with Horned Alex makes Aidan get it, at least somewhat. He picks up the pen. This makes him even madder. "You just... try and save everyone. Right? And if you fail, at least you tried something instead of doing nothing, or killing one person." There is a moment where he might make a leap to understand what it might mean, but Aidan shakes his head. He doesn't get it. So, Aidan looks down at the piece of paper. That void opens up again. The yawning pit of despair, the empty abyss as the wish begins to flee from him. He picks up his tablet, waiting, holding it in his hand. He starts to whisper into it, covering his mouth and whispering into it as low as he can. He turns away from the table. "Uhh... what if there was a really big dragon... and... you had to kill the whole village to kill the dragon. No, that's dumb, you can just move the village... Uhhh, can an elite be so powerful that they can't be trusted anymore." Aidan looks up, looking around the room. He is looking into every face, thinking about every thing he has lived with. Then back down at the tablet. Finally, Aidan whispers into his tablet, "The question is a trick, there is always a way to try and do what is right, not just choosing between two bad things." Then he tapes the tablet to the back of his letter with some more duct tape.
Reyes	"Oh man... this problem?" Now that Reyes finds himself back here, and that he mysteriously hasn't become the laughingstock of the group, he looks refreshed. Relieved. "How to make this problem WORSE?" A heroic already doesn't want to deal with the trolley problem to begin with. He stares hard in thought for a while. "... You've just finished a quest to retrieve the very last one, of a rare species of magic flower, from a mountain. Two different people need this flower. One man wants it to make the only medicine that can save his daughter. Another needs it to produce the only poison that can wipe out the devouring swarm of superbugs threatening his world. And if you use it, that's it, it's the last one. Nobody with that disease can ever be cured again. The third option is to screw over both of the first two and use it to grow more."
Metaphor	"None of us had left our homes, but all of us very clearly remembered it." Metaphor is trying very hard to not think about the idea that this might be a shared dream. People usually haven't remembered those. Hopefully. Instead, she mulls over the difference between high explosives and magical girls - are those seriously the same? A disgruntled shake of the head. It's taking a lot for her to actually reroute her train of thought, right now. A frustrating scenario, seeing how the current track indeed has five people tied to it. The paper is stared at, blankly, for at least ten minutes, as thoughts are considered and discarded. Metaphor is not one to put much thought towards these sorts of problems, and it's showing. Two words - scribbled out immediately. Repeated. The paper is starting to drown under ink deemed unworthy. She sighs and rests her head on her hand, tapping the pen against the paper. Her rhythm sucks. if you had two patients with aortal cuts - crossed out. Not everybody is a doctor. a person is far in debt and the only way to - scratch that. Depressing and doesn't hold up. you have twenty creds and two video games - Monitor has practically contacted desk; pen has shifted to tap the back of her head. Nothing written has been kept yet, and the clock just keeps ticking. Everyone can see how bad I am at this. That thought causes her to bolt back to a normal sitting position, and after a furtive glance around, she starts trying to look more... like she's actually thinking hard. Pen taps bottom of her face, a faint hmm as she pores over the absolute nothing on her page. A glance at the clock. Shit. Something is written down and kept; if only due to time constraints. When she finishes, the letter is folded, put back in the envelope, and pushed away like it's radioactive. you can easily save one girl but if you do she will go on to kill --seven-- five people in the rest of her life do you do it
Kuroto Dan	Genm is unusually quiet when he's brought back, and weirdly, he's back to his black and purple armor that he said he ditched rather than the wizard get up he had previously. It's once again hard to tell from his face just what exactly he's feeling, but from body expression alone and how relaxed he is, he's giving off some extreme levels of confidence. Whisked away yet again, the Kamen Rider is presented with a new challenge. Genm is familiar with it, not just because he's a genius, but also because he had to deal with it on his Concord application. Still, asking him to come up with a new moral dilemma in such a short amount of time is a bit... Well, he won't say it isn't impossible, but he does wish he had more time to refine it, but he'll have to live with giving his first draft. "You are at the end of your journey, after which you've collected many things, power, wealth, information, everything and anything you could and will have ever wanted. However, you have also lost just as much, the things you hold most dearest to you, be they friends or items. You are, however, given an opportunity, a wish, if you would. Would you trade everything you've gained away to bring back what you've lost, returning to where you were at the very beginning of your journey, or would you continue to live on with what you've gained, thinking that taking back all of what you've done would cheapen the sacrifice of what you've lost?" It's a tight squeeze to fit, but he manages to cram his theoretical onto the back of the paper, which he almost instinctively crumples up again, before he catches himself and instead just neatly folds it and puts it back inside the envelope instead.
James Bond	Bond gives the horned alex a nod of approval. Still. Taskmaster's got a point. I had him eating out of my hand. Probably could have told him the empathy worked, and then the loop reset, or something. If nothing else it's good to know I could do that, if I had to. He is completely missing the point, but at least he's missing it in his own head and not out loud. >Everyone is now sitting in the same room, around a large table. You have 30 minutes, starting the next time something is said on the +b radio. This is bad. Bond is about as uncertain of what's moral as a person can be--at least, he certainly feels that way sometimes. But thankfully, there's time to-- <B-anter> Lilian Rook says, "I've been wondering." "Damn it all." Bond sets a 25 minute timer on his watch, after rapping a clenched fist against his knee in frustration. He then pushes back from his chair. It is immediately apparent, by his pacing around the room, that this is not the sort of thought exercise that comes naturally to him. He eventually leans against the wall, forehead pressed against his forearm. God, why did it have to be a moral dilemma... No. Wait. 'Better' than the trolley problem? What the hell does that mean? Bond's fingers drum against the wall. I have a moral dilemma almost every time things don't go as expected. ...well, maybe that's it. Something from personal experience. Pushing off of the wall slowly, he returns to the table, with pen and paper, and begins writing out his dilemma: 'From an early age, you've been involved in a very demanding line of work, physically and emotionally--that tends to overrepresent itself to lure young people in. You've been in this line of work for many years, and discover that a young relative of yours wants to follow in your footsteps. He's never had much control over his own life, and believes this line of work is his chance to exercise that control and make something of himself. Do you let him make the decision on his own, at a crucial time in his life when he needs a sense of agency? Or do you warn him about the work, at the expense of being another person trying to control him?'
Kale Hearthward	The timer ends. The horned alex gathers everyone's answers, tablet included, and peruses them. "Well, some interesting responses, but I think I can work with these. Hopefully I'll earn my capital letters back after all of this." He snaps his fingers. As abruptly as before, everyone appears somewhere else. They're still together, and standing on top of some sort of... red dias, on a white featureless plane. Or... no. It's not a red dias. It's a red wax seal, on top of a letter. A ginormous letter, hundreds of meters across. "Just to make sure that everyone is on the same page," says the horned alex. "If you fall off, you're disqualified." The red wax seal starts to crack underneath the contestants' feet, with an alarming sound. "You see what I did there," adds the horned alex. "About being on the same-" The red wax seal breaks, and the ginormous letter starts to open, unfolding so that the inner page is face up.There's words written on the letter, in a font meters high. This is assuming that the contestants don't get flung off into the endless void by the ginormous letter opening up.
Reyes	Ack! Another teleport! Reyes blinks and looks around... brow furrowing quickly. As soon as he sees the wax seal starting to crumble underneath his feat, he begins to rapidly chant and gesture, bringing his hands together. Blue light gathers into a number of small, rotating spheres... a second after a sphere appears, it flies off towards one of the other participants, and, on contact, seems to get absorbed into them with a glow and a feeling of warmth and becoming light as a feather. There is an instinctive knowledge that going UP just requires feeling about going up. As stupid as it is, Reyes is attempting to cast Fly as the Eagle for the benefit of HIS RIVALS in this competition, seemingly out of pure good-natured reflex. As the last spell is cast, he floats over to try and avoid getting bitchslapped by giant paper...
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan's bare feet sink slightly into the sealing wax, but it is just firm enough to be solid, slightly tacky. It's a very strange feel. Non-toebean havers will just never understand. The ground beneath them suddenly erupts and it rips across the seal as the earth itself seems to open up and move. Aidan has the same reflex as Reyes, except he turns towards the paper. "Everyone move around the sides!" Wind picks up underneath Aidan's feet, magic moving him upward. The life breath leaves Aidan's lungs, and with a rush, it fills the buckler. The buckler unfurls, radiating out into a massive lion's head shield. It's eyes pour out energy, and that energy slides along the channels, turning it into a rocket. Aidan floats up, then hurtles back down at the tip of the paper, trying to keep it too low to swat anyone by juggernauting right into it.
Metaphor	Metaphor is not in her sprinting legs. The sudden realization of where they have been teleported to, and the encroaching inertia-based hazard, causes her to break into a scramble towards the stationary half of the seal regardless. It's obviously not a fast enough pace to get there before the thing slopes too high and she falls - - and is also hindered by her tripping over herself and falling as soon as she realizes an unknown magic spell is cast at her. She practically slaps the thing away (total overreaction), staring at the spot next to her that it impacted instead, before pushing to her knees. Not, in fact, counted as a willing target; the save was rolled. Might be trying to knock us down. Instead, she rapidly rummages through her bag again, pulling out a beaker and dumping it onto the seal. A zippo is procured; lit; held up to the reddish powder - as it suddenly lights, spewing sparks, smoke, and molten metal all over the place. She backs off from it, but not as far as the safety manuals recommend. Wax and paper are not known for their high melting points, but the thermite is nothing if not a guarantee. She drops through a calculated few seconds after the mass sears straight through the upper lip of the envelope, landing on the page beneath. There's a second of pause, broken by the sight of the actual sheet igniting from the metal that burnt and fell. Shit. Obvious flammables obvious collateral. Right. A few foaming grenades are thrown around in frantic fashion, popping into a cool, oxygen-starving firefighting foam. The actual sheet is... probably not worse for wear. They're small enough that it didn't affect very much. Hopefully.
James Bond	The seal breaks and flings him into the air. His hand darts into his pocket as he tumbles through the air, coming back out with a fountain pen. With a twist of the pen's head, the steel tip rockets outward on a tightly wound cable, piercing through the paper and splitting into four parts. Black ink spews from the pen's head, quickly thickening and turning into a rapidly-drying adhesive, while Bond races upwards along the cable. Momentum carries him up and over the opening envelope, his feet landing and setting the paper near his point of impact to wobbling. The splotch of ink he made has made a rather unsightly blob appended to the top of one of the huge letters written on the paper. The challenge to keep his footing, in truth, had only been one of two. The horned alex had actually issued a second, with that awful joke. If they weren't on the same page, they are now. "Oh, I had an inkling," says Bond with an insufferable smile, lifting the grappling-hook pen and retracting the head, looking down at the stained paper below.
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan . o O ( FUCK HE'S SO COOL. )
Kale Hearthward	<Solve everyone's new trolley problem. Thinking hard and purposefully about your answers are sufficient to submit them. You have sixty minutes. Time starts now.> Around the flat plane, new things appear, spaced out equally in six directions across the surface of the giant letter. They are in fact physical representations of each person's trolley problem, with accompanying explanations written on the ground. The objects are for the most part static - they are just added visuals to observe and potentially interact with while they come up with their answers. First is a set of three vaguely defined shapes. The question is a trick, there is always a way to try and do what is right, not just choosing between two bad things. Then there is a rare-looking flower on a pedestal, next to two men - one with a visibly sick daughter, the other fending off a swarm of superbugs - and a plot of garden soil. You've just finished a quest to retrieve the very last one, of a rare species of magic flower, from a mountain. Two different people need this flower. One man wants it to make the only medicine that can save his daughter. Another needs it to produce the only poison that can wipe out the devouring swarm of superbugs threatening his world. And if you use it, that's it, it's the last one. Nobody with that disease can ever be cured again. The third option is to screw over both of the first two and use it to plant more. The next setup is simple. There's a girl with a grievous chest wound - reaching for a knife. you can easily save one girl but if you do she will go on to kill five people in the rest of her life do you do it The next one is represented by a partial interior of a cabin - one displaying numerous things. Piles of wealth, stacks of books, weapons and trophies lining the walls. There are also several portraits of things lost - deceased loved ones, places you can never return to, things you can never do again. You are at the end of your journey, after which you've collected many things, power, wealth, information, everything and anything you could and will have ever wanted. However, you have also lost just as much, the things you hold most dearest to you, be they friends or items. You are, however, given an opportunity, a wish, if you would. Would you trade everything you've gained away to bring back what you've lost, returning to where you were at the very beginning of your journey, or would you continue to live on with what you've gained, thinking that taking back all of what you've done would cheapen the sacrifice of what you've lost? Next is a little bit more symbolic. There's a funhouse mirror, showing a younger but slightly altered version of the contestant who's looking at it. A relative, like a niece or a nephew, maybe. Stretching out in front of the mirror are two long paths - one mundane and safe, and one full of adventure and pitfalls. 'From an early age, you've been involved in a very demanding line of work, physically and emotionally--that tends to overrepresent itself to lure young people in. You've been in this line of work for many years, and discover that a young relative of yours wants to follow in your footsteps. He's never had much control over his own life, and believes this line of work is his chance to exercise that control and make something of himself. Do you let him make the decision on his own, at a crucial time in his life when he needs a sense of agency? Or do you warn him about the work, at the expense of being another person trying to control him? And finally there's... a non-problem. A series of what resemble trolley problems and other dilemmas given physical form, but they're all solved. They're all given happy endings. im not really sure what better means here :< this kind of thing always confused me? i dont really get it ;;
Metaphor	Metaphor glances back to see Bond and his gadgets. That's incredible. The awe is broken with the pun - her bulk disappears beneath the still-evaporating foam surrounding her. You don't have to be very close to hear the giggling fit. She emerges at the actual challenge announcement, though, staring around at all of the representations. She raises her hand, before asking a question. "...solve... individually? Or as one... thing?" She pauses for a second, appending, "...are some of these even, uh, problems to be solved?"
Kale Hearthward	"Solve each of them individually," says the horned alex, who'd fallen off and needed a moment to get back on the same page. "You can submit your answers in a batch or one at a time."
Metaphor	"Solve each of them individually," Metaphor hums in minor discontent, rummaging through her bag for stationery. No paper. She stops. The duffel is set on the ground, and she goes through it even more carefully - no dice. Eventually, she just pulls out a blue labelmaker and starts tapping away on its clunky little interface. The question is a trick... A contented nod as she reads that one. These questions are always terrible. She taps away, eventually printing out a little strip of label reading THIS IS TRUE THANK YOU. She looks around her for somewhere to actually put the strip, settling on an empty spot on the paper below her. You've just finished a quest to retrieve the very last one, of a rare species of magic flower... KILL BUGS SINCE THEY KILL MORE P - She grunts, then continues on another strip. EOPLE OVERALL MAYBE WE CAN FIND ANOTHER CURE LATER you can easily save one girl but if you do... Hers. She's thought long and hard about this one. SAVE HER REST IS NOT YOUR FAULT IT IS HERS AND YOU DON'T KNOW IN THE MOMENT IF SHE WILL The conviction with which these ones are put down is not just the simple confidence of someone submitting a well thought-out answer. You are at the end of your journey, after which you've collected many things... I CONTINUE ON This one had taken quite a while for her to think of what to write down. She can't muster anything more. Won't, maybe. From an early age, you've been involved in a very demanding line of work, physically and emotionally... TELL THEM BUT SUPPORT DECISION I F THEY WANT TO DO SO WORST CASE THEY MAKE A MISTAKE WITH CHOOSIN G AND LEARN FROM IT Did anyone ever warn me? She shakes her head and continues. im not really sure what better means here :< I UNDERSTAND THE SENTIMENT BUT H OW DO I RESPOND TO THIS I MEAN I GUESS I AGREE SINCE NONE OF THES E REALLY FEEL BETTER UNLESS HARD ER MEANS BETTER I LIKE THEM BUT THE PROMPT WAS AMBIGUOUS Metaphor is just rambling with this final question. There's still time on the clock; should have thought longer. She paces around her little set of answers amidst the tiny burns on the paper, trying (and failing) to not glance at the other contestants as they come up with answers.
Reyes	Once everyone is settled on the paper, Reyes glances around... he saw how Metaphor reacted to his attempt to help and flinches awkwardly, briefly ponders apologizing... and clams up, unsure how to even approach that topic with an ally. "Well, this is gonna suck worse than the original..." He declares in disgruntlement. The TASKMASTER is proving to be some sort of psychological sadist of the worst sort, after all. #1: "On its face, yeah. I agree. Finding a so-called third option should always be on your mind. Excellence and heroism requires cleverness and cunning as much as power and skill. That doesn't mean that one will always exist, when you need it to exist. But if you're not hunting for one, and you COULD be hunting for one, that's a mistake." #2: "Er... that one's my idea. And I'm not sure it's fair to judge my own. Now the question is, if you value all life, and the invading bug-monsters are kinda like people, is it genocide to poison all of them and is that better or worse than saving the world they would've wrecked? If you forsake the invaded world, I wouldn't blame you... I doubt I'd be able to look anyone in the eyes and tell them I've chosen not to help..." #3: "If I have the ability to foresee that she's going to do terrible things and I can be a hundred percent sure I'm right, then I -hate- whatever world asserts that fate is deterministic with every fiber of my being. But alright, IF I was absolutely sure of it, ahead of time, then no, I'm not saving her. If I could only find out after the fact, then it's her fault, not mine. Would still be pretty pissed. But, what kinda people? Are they bandits and criminals? Enemy soldiers? Innocent civilians? That matters too." #4: "It's... because past-you took some steps forward, that present-you can. If you returned back to the start, having lost everything you gained, then would you not also have lost whatever wisdom was obtained from those losses? How do you avoid losing them all over again and repeating whatever happened before?" #5: "I get where this one's coming from, but there's an implicit and untrue inequality at its root. The line of work projecting an overly glamorous outcome is advertisement. Advertisement is the same kind of influence that you'd be wielding in trying to dissuade him. And everyone's surrounded by messages like that from birth onwards. Everyone's bombarded with these kinds of pressures. From parents and neighbors, allies, companies, books and TV shows. Go ahead and kindly warn the kid, if you've got the wisdom and experience to back it up. I don't think any dads or moms are happy when they've gotta dissuade their kid from doing something dumb either, even if the kid doesn't realize they've been done a favor until like... seventeen years later." #6: "... Yeah, there's what someone should use a wish on. Making crap like this not a thing."
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan's buckler sinks away. He puts his hand over his face and takes a moment to calm himself. This is a challenge. He can do this. He's an elite. He's just as cool and smart and rakishly handsome and clever as everyone else here. When he opens his eyes, Aidan looks at each one in turn. "What's the phrase? Put your money where your mouth is?" "There is always a way. There is always a way." Aidan repeats to himself as he moves forward towards the challenges, steeling himself. "Good wins. Freedom always matters." Aidan mutters to himself. "Honor, courage, benevolence, loyalty." He stands in front of the funhouse mirror. There is a teenager. A young man. A squirrel in his sunday best, standing in a crowd to wave a hand towards the one person he has never seen before. His mother, atop a wagon, her head held high, holding her regalia, her sons holding standards. Seconds before he is about to reach out to her. And... Then again, looking at the mirror to see his father staring at him as he lashes on The Aegis. "You... let him make his own decision. But then you support him. And catch him if he falls." Next, the non problems. The little people are having a picnic! Aidan takes a moment to sit there and eat a sandwich with people next to the train track who have been saved from the train. The interior of the cabin. Aidan looks around slowly, thinking of those closest to him. The people who he supports, lovers, parents. His city. Is it going to disappear? "Yes, I would go back. If there was anyone more I could save, would anyone be able to sleep at night knowing you passed it up?" He looks around at the others. The answer seems easy, but he is slowly slogging through mud to continue. The girl with the knife. Aidan kicks the knife away and leans over to take up the bandage next to the wounds. "No one is going to make you kill those people. You don't have to do it. And if you are going to, we can watch. We can stop. It doesn't have to happen." Aidan's tail begins to droop as he gets near the flower. This is the sort of looking in the face of death people are supposed to do over five to ten years. Aidan is having to look at it all at once. The props are the thing dragging him down. He stares at the flower, then shakes his head. "No. No, it's not that simple, you can't say it's that simple!" Aidan turns around, looking towards horned alex. He points at the flower. "We plant the flower. And we fight the super bugs. And we cure the disease. And we keep the little girl alive as long as possible. She won't die the second the flower can be plucked. People can be kept alive, there is still HOPE. Every future bug swarm can be stopped, the disease can be cured. And the daughter... Well. If I was her, I'd want everyone to live." Aidan turns towards the last one. Three indistinct balls. A slap in the face. A deliberate harsh take on his statement. He stalks up to them, then turns around.. "You can't pick one, because you need to be able to figure it out! There's nothing here! You didn't even try!" He glares up at the sky, thinks about his code of honor, nods to himself, then flips the sky both middle fingers. "SEE, EVERYONE ELSE GETS IT!"
James Bond	>Solve everyone else's new trolley problem. You have sixty minutes. Bond sets another timer on his watch. As with the last, it's five minutes early--necessary, to keep him on task for something that's not at all his forte. The first question sees Bond stroking his chin, glancing between the three ill-defined shapes. Is there? God. I hope so. His mind drifts back to the first exercise, and he finds with some amount of dread that it is woefully easy to relitigate, over and over again, what might have been done differently. How do people live this way? How does anyone slow down? The... least defined of the three, I suppose. People who make things into binaries rarely consider or even want to consider those 'secret third things.' Yes--that's got to be it. Next question. Flowers. As tempting as it would be to go for the third option, to create a reserve of flowers that could prevent future tragedies, Bond is very much a man of practical considerations. "I'd use it to save the world that's in danger. That man might hate me for it. I can't say I wouldn't, in his place. But... I have to address what is, in that scenario. Not what would be nice, or what could be." Next question. This one is easy. He doesn't stop to think about why it's easy. Before he can, the decision is already made. No--he doesn't do it. Old habits kick in, and the decision is reduced to simple math. No thought as to who those five people are, or who this girl is, or when they might die. Just 'no.' Not thought hard, but thought with chilling purpose. It strikes him, his answer to that question, by the time he reaches the next one--a well-furnished cabin has him hanging just past the doorway for well over ten minutes. Was that last decision the right one? Why didn't he stop and ask himself then? Why now, after the fact? It isn't until he nearly bumps into Metaphor that he realizes, fully, he's in the spot for the next question. "Sorry." Thirty-five minutes have passed. Would he trade away everything he's gained to get back what was lost? Bond frowns, hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes contemplating the tops of his ankle boots, for a long period of silence. There are some things I'd do almost anything to get back. Some people. Some feelings. Bond sighs, forcing himself to look up and the partial cabin interior. But I've also come back from something that I thought would break me. And the people that I have now were... so important, for that. "I think I'd pass," he says. "Taking that wish doesn't just cheapen the sacrifices I've made, but the sacrifices of people who are important for me." I finally get to decide who James Bond is. Giving that up would be the same as saying I don't deserve to.
James Bond	Fifty minutes have passed. The next challenge is his own. "I would warn the relative," says the James Bond who warned his replacement. "Maybe he'll resent me for it, maybe he'll call me a hypocrite. But he deserves to know what he's getting into. The job certainly won't tell him." Bond's timer goes off, during the non-problem. Since he'd set it five minutes early, that gives him a bit of time to come up with an 'answer.' "This is awful," he says. "At least the bottom made an attempt. I used to be a glorified trigger-man and even I know the point of these things is to do something other than throwing up your hands--" He makes an aggrieved, short sigh. Well, he made it this far without his British Socialization rearing its head. "Look," he says, in a decidedly less sharp tone, one hand on his hip and the other running through his dark hair. "It really is fine if you don't 'get' these. I guess this is, if nothing else, asking what they are, in your way. The idea is that... there are times, whether it's because of urgency, or emotion, or especially both, that the part of you that feels is the part of you that demands action. They're thought exercises meant to put you in that state of mind." Bond paces, his brow knit together in thought, as he searches for how else to put it. "...it's called the trolley problem, but everyone treats it like it's called the lever problem. The problem isn't just the choice, it's the time you have to make it, and the opportunity cost of dithering about a direction the lever won't and can't go in, while the trolley gets closer." Fifty-seven minutes. "...on my world, history is full of awful things happening to good people," he continues softly. "It's easy to say things like 'I wouldn't have let the soldiers force me from my home.' But we can only say those things because we weren't there. That's what these kinds of questions are trying to illustrate, I think." Time's up. Bond sighs.
AME	No trouble's had getting onto that same page- enough was done by everyone else to be able to skate by on that. Lucky for AME, for sure. Thinking hard and purposefully about your answers are sufficient to submit them. Oh. So these people can read minds. So this is a dream, like the rest were talking about? Not that that's any excuse to give up now, though. Are they recording her thoughts? Will those be cut in, in post? Was the entire point of this to expose those thoughts in the first place? She's been lead right into their trap. And, if this isn't just a bad, bad dream, her closest thing to a return to the screen will be an immediate exposure for what she is. And that would give them the best ratings of all, wouldn't it? AME doesn't need to act to show a near-total failure to respond to the actual given prompt, this time. She's on her knees immediately, thinking hard and purposefully about how she has absolutely no way to respond to any of this. Though the problems themselves are... easy enough, actually. At least in the cases where they're actual problems, and not non-answers like what she wrote. With some degree of resolve, she shifts her sitting posture to something less hopeless and more thoughtful. There are next to no odds that this will do anything, but it's not like there's any other options. A set of three vaguely defined shapes. There is no actual problem given- the only answer is to agree with the sentiment and move on. A powerful and rare flower, and three mutually exclusive uses for it. Wait, but why would planting the flower prevent you from curing the disease or destroying the bugs? Not in the spirit of the question at all. A dangerous girl who needs saving. What if she's so grateful for the help that she never kills anyone? Moving back on a life lived. Well, if it's loved ones I've lost, I'd have no choice but to take those over material gain, right? That's the real happy ending. Someone following in your footsteps, when you worry that they really shouldn't. I mean... if you're just really nice with your warning, it should be fine, right? And then the last one is her non-problem. A refusal to answer the actual question. Kind of like what she just did. Done with her non-responses, AME leans over and waits for the mind-reading axe to fall.
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan, who has literally thrown his hands up, slowly lowers them.
Kuroto Dan	The seal breaks open, and immediately it's a fight for one's life to not fall off. Considering that if someone falls off, they're disqualified, Genm briefly considers trying to undermine the rest of his opponents by purposefully trying to disrupt him, but given he's not too sure how that'd work, he instead prioritizes himself instead. Leaping up into the air, Genm begins jumping on blocks made of bricks, allowing him to parkour his way through the sudden shift in terrain, allowing him to land in the newly revealed plane where he's greeted with his new task. >Solve everyone's new trolley problem. "So, the Taskmaster has ran out of his own ideas and is now using our own for content? I thought you said you gave up being a farce long ago." There's some palpable annoyance in his voice. Partially because he feels this is extremely lazy, and both because it's actually pretty clever to turn his own genius against him. Now if he meant to do that, or if it was just a happy little accident, he's uncertain. That aside, he's got 60 seconds to answer multiple questions, and although he only needs half that time, he's eager to get started right away, starting with the two easiest ones. >The question is a trick > I'm not really sure what better means here :< Given the low effort of both, his thoughts on them are both the same. 'You're not very good at playing games, are you? Ask a question next time and don't waste the paper you put ink on.' Next, it's on to a question that honestly, is pretty derivative, but at least it's something with substance. Does he save the life of one or five? He ponders for what is probably an atto second before coming to the same conclusion he had put on his Concord resume. With the scenario presented as is and no outside factors to consider, he would let the girl kill herself because the life of five outway the life of one. Next is the question about flowers and a cure. Genm, for once, actually starts to rub his chin in deeper thought, though ultimately, the answer is easy for him to think up. If the problem is the scarcity of the flower, he would damn the other two to grow more of the flower so that he could solve both problems later. It may be cold, but that's how it has to be sometimes for the sake of truly eradicating future problems. The work question is also pretty good. While he doesn't have any qualms about controlling someone, he is also rather indifferent to how they feel. Ultimately, however, he would let them pursue his line of work. Though not out of any respect for his fictional relative, but simply because one has to discover things themselves. The last question, his question, is the hardest. And the one he spends the bulk of his time on has he just absentmindedly stares at one of the pictures on the wall for more than a half an hour. As tempting as it would be to bring back the one he lost... The person he is now can't accept such an easy way out. No, he doesn't care about things about how it'd cheapen the loss or anything like that, it just fundamentally boils down to one thing. If he didn't bring the back with his own power, then there's no point.
Kale Hearthward	Sixty minutes goes by. Whether contestants answered quickly, were down to the wire, or let the clock run out, everyone has the same sixty minutes. And then everyone's brought back onto the stage. "Now," says the TASKMASTER. "As a quick matter before we proceed, my assistant here has earned his capital letters back." "Oh, finally," says the HORNED ALEX, relieved. "But only the first ones," adds the TASKMASTER. "... Oh," says the Horned Alex. "In any case. This has been a quite entertaining competition," says the TASKMASTER. "And the scoring has been quite close." "In the first round, there were three standouts - Metaphor for her dramatic flair, AME for her effective strategy, and James Bond for his effective persuasion." "In the latter rounds... we had combined scoring. Each contestant won points based on how hard it was for other contestants to answer. This was a subjective decision we made based on how long it took each contestant to answer each question - if one contestant took longer between approaching the problem and answering, we counted that as harder, or if they felt the need to make a long drawn out answer, etcetera." "This approach did throw off our scores a bit, since there was only one question that didn't get answers from all contestants - AME's question did not get answered by herself," interjects the Horned Alex. "This earned her points, sticking by a strict interpretation of our scoring, even if they were questionably earned." "After talling up all of the scores, it was close, but a winner has emerged..." says the TASKMASTER, and then the multi-themed giant gestures dramatically. "JAMES BOND!"
James Bond	Me? Really? Bond can't think of one game he's won that didn't involve extremely wealthy and dangerous people betting ruinous amounts of money. "I suppose there are worse things to have won following an abduction," he says drily. "Alright, then. This 'small-but-really-more-medium-sized' wish. I'll think it, and you can let me know if it's too much." There's somone in my life named Alec Trevelyan. We're close. I'd like to be able to see each other more often, without it hurting his career. After a moment of silence for anyone who isn't themselves a mind-reader, Bond crosses his arms and shoots an inquisitive look at the Taskmaster. "Is that doable?"
Metaphor	The glance around, from her position, at the other contestants has revealed to Metaphor that nobody else is actually writing their answers. She looks down at her silly little block of text on the ground - I missed something. I'm going to get disqualified. God dammit. They're warped away before she can work up the nerve to ask Bond after he bumped into her - though he would notice her trailing him somewhat. Metaphor is still in the slightly silly dress she put on during said First Round. Though she shifts uncomfortably in her seat as she's pointed out for her 'Dramatic Flair', she can't help but feel a bit proud that it turned out well. This is followed by an acute sense of thankfulness that her answers to the questions were neither graded nor presented - at least I get some vestige of dignity. The fact that she thinks this is, at minimum, a shared dream unlikely to be remembered is the fuel keeping her going. Denial is a useful tool, apparently. She turns and gives (slightly too loud) applause to Bond as he's announced to be the victor, with all the fanfare and confetti that may or may not exist. Thank God. I don't want a wish. The ongoings for his Victory Speech are listened to only semi-intently, and the gap in it where the actual Wish would be is paid no attention; her mind has already started wandering to thoughts of how her waking up will be represented within the dream. An arm idly reaches down to pick up and pocket the beaker set under her chair at the beginning. Well, this was fun. Maybe I'll use that transformation trick later.
Kale Hearthward	The TASKMASTER nods once, solemnly, in the manner of someone who's granted many wishes but understands that each one is special and unique to the wishee. It's a moment of solemnity amidst the consistent comedy. "I'll see to it. It'll take a little time to make sure that it looks natural to everyone else, but you will notice a marked difference."
AME	What else can AME do but clap enthusiastically (but gently) for the victor? Something in her vaguely registers a number going up in response to twice being praised for her performance, but the rest of her is simply waiting. To see if that apparent respect of her mind will continue to be held. Absolutely none of her believes that it will.
Kuroto Dan	"I thought I was attending a reality game show, but what I really went through was a comedy routine. Well, whatever the case, perhaps you should use those wish granting powers to make a game befitting the modern era for next time. " There's some real venom in Genm's voice as he shoves a finger at the Taskmaster accussingly, to the point where it really feels like he's about to throw down with the host for his verdict. But for whatever reason, he doesn't, and instead he just walks his armored ass on out of the set, utilizing the escape pods mentioned previously. Not long after Genm leaves, the red and white wizard previously joins him, shuffling in a panicked state as he doesn't want to be left behind.
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan REAPPEARS in his chair. He listens, knowing what to expect. What would he have got if he won. A new weapon? Is that going to save more people? And is James Bond right? There's a lot of people who believe in grey out here. Aidan thinks back over everything he said. He finds himself clapping for James Bond who, let's face it, is pretty cool. But he does have to sit there and think. Would he change anything he said? No. No, he wouldn't. Aidan smiles tiredly, clapping harder.