ATM II RPG

[JennyHallu]

"Alright, boys and girls."

Lola glided from the midst of the group, left in a daze after Skittles' sudden route outside the mountain, and they turned to her leadership gratefully.

"Obviously," she crooned, "things have not exactly been going to plan, and it's about time all this random silliness got under control." Dracomir looked like he was about to say something, and Lola quelled it quickly with a swish of her skirt and a swift glimpse of black garters.

"We still have to find Roggie, and I'd bet he's in his secret rooms. I don't know what's going on with Anakron or the Mountain, and frankly, I'm happy to remain ignorant: both seem dangerous." At the word dangerous, her eyes gleamed happily beneath their thick lashes.

Quickly she mentally ran through the events of the past few minutes: Skittles was out on the beach, Igor was...confused..., Maika and Dracomir were right here. The increased dangers of the anakronisms surrounding them told her Anakron might have finally snapped, but Panakeia had gone after him, and no one else had a chance of calming him. Lola would probably be turned into a cat on sight. Smilog was off who knows where, but this worried Lola very little. He was easy to write off: without real effort, all Lola could remember of him was that he had once passed the salt to Roggie at a dinner party.

That was all right. Maika and Dracomir were the two Lola looked upon as most useful.

"Come on, let's go!" She turned abruptly around, vamping her way down the hall in the opposite direction from where she had been leading Maika, her sensual gait showing no reaction to the carnage they found on the way. Inwardly, though, her heart sank, her worst fears realized. Anakron had finally lost it.

Two rights, a left, the second tapestry from the first right hand door, counting only those with green handles. She swept it aside, revealing an ornate door, with a message etched firmly into the lintel.

"What does it say," someone behind her asked breathlessly.

"It's in pig latin," Lola answered over her shoulder. "It says: 'Eakspay, iendfray, nday ntereay'"

"So all we have to do is say "friend", and it should open?"

Lola rolled her eyes and stepped back, standing tall and straight before the door. "Of course not. It's been broken for ages." With a fluid motion she took a flying leap towards the door, firmly toned legs and high-heeled shoes kicking firmly at the wood, which splintered in terror just before she struck. Lola landed and rolled to her feet, picking a splinter out of her hair and shaking it out with a wink at Dracomir, once again agog at where her dress had ridden up to.

"Come on, then, let's go," she urged, and the three disappeared into the bowels of the mountain.

~<*>~

A small voice from the splintered door murmured "Thank you" quietly before sputtering out of existence.

[Anguirel]

Much against his more haughty nature, Dracomir found himself, once again, in raptures over the very sound of Lola's voice, and so entirely forgot the ingeniously cunning strategem he had been about to present.

"Obviously," she trilled delightfully, "things have not exactly been going to plan, and it's about time all this random silliness got under control."

How witty! How conspiratorial! How intimate! Ooo! A black garter!

Obviously. Random silliness. Charming as she might be, nobody messed with this woman, it was clear. Such decision of tones! Might she not be encouraged to adorn the Malfoidacil line? She was, perhaps, a little old, but that had not stopped his father Luciamir, Dracomir reflected, who had married the highly unsuitable older woman Narcissowen Black after the 98th Annual Conference of Death Eater/De Sade enthusiasts.

Maybe slightly too much information from them, Tom reflected, particularly as they had insisted in detailing the romantic story of their first encounter from the earliest years of his meta-childhood. But after all, bondage seemed to be the norm here in Middle-earth. After all, nobody seemed to have objected to Thingol and Melian. Dracomir would have paused to dwell upon his astonishment that Elves, who did the cleaning at home, had once ruled Beleriand. But Lola's hair, so artful that it seemed quite artless, tumbled over one of her shoulders, so he did not.

Then she started using karate on the door. Usually Dracomir would have showe off at this point with a quick Alohamora, but he was somewhat otherwise engaged at this point.

Then he recalled vaguely where they were. He checked the Mordorers' Map. Yep, they were about to have an audience with King Roggie of Morgoth. Again. Oh dear. But at this point the Malfoidacil logic kicked back into action.

"Maika," he remarked, "I don't know if that stuff you got from Alli is helping, but if you want to double-check, I happen to have here a stylish, haute monde silver Unblemishability Cloak. Belonged to my grand...mother, y'know. Want to try it on? It's never failed before."

[littlemanpoet]

"Destined to do?" Anakron spat. "Hound me? Why?"

Panakeia was half walking, half skipping to keep up with him. "Not hound you! It's what I'm here for!"

"Who says?" Panakeia was about to answer when Anakron threw up a hand. Panakeia almost walked into it. "Shh!" They listened. Light steps, unique to stilletos on cement, could be heard coming their way, at a run. "Skittles! Doom and Dweomer! She's more cracked that the legendary Crack of Doom. I don't want to be seen by her. I'd like to keep my eyes in my head. This way!"

Anakron led Panakeia quietly down a dark corridor. They watched Skittles race by, apparently headed for the bleating robot.

Panakeia snickered.

"What?"

"You're actually afraid of her."

"Afraid? Don't tempt me or I may knock your head in too."

She glowered and stuck her chin out. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Skittles would, and worse, without a moments thought, because she doesn't. That's something worth keeping at a respectful distance. Especially with my konveyances working no better than a faulty flash light."

They had resumed Anakron's fast pace down the corridor, and presently came to his rooms, where they found in the doorway the remains of Nuglut, the former, apparently, cousin of Lûgnût. Anakron had always wondered how Nuglut had been able to stay away from those umlauts that seemed to hang around Lûgnût everywhere he went, but the lack of them was not, apparently, any help at protecting oneself from the onset of a bad case of Skittles.

"Skittles was in my room," Anakron deduced. "Very, very suspicious. Any idea what she might have been planning for me, assuming that she has the capacity?"

"Um, she did suggest to me cutting of your head-"

"I wouldn't put it past her."

"-or filling your shorts with itching powder."

"Nor that."

Anakron filed carefully through his clothing.

"Well," he concluded, "I'm glad she left her signature, tragic as it was for the victim. I'll not be wearing any of these ever again. I'll have them burned. At any rate, having triumphed over the insanity planned for me by Skittles, I sense that the Dweomer evil is somewhat at rest. Now, what's this about you and destiny?"

[Celuien]

Panakeia half smiled, relieved to hear Anakron behaving reasonably again. "Destiny? Need I explain? I thought you understood."

Anakron assured her that he did not understand. Panakeia sighed. He must have missed the sign from Spockú. She would explain. She understood.

"Don't you see? It was fate that brought us together. The ATM could have chosen anyone to join the Offending Party. But it didn't. It chose me. I could have left Mordor. But I didn't. I stayed – for you. And now, at your point of crisis, I'm here, and I've been chosen for a mission! My mission is to save you from yourself."

Anakron looked questioning, concerned. "What do you mean by chosen?"

That eyebrow was up again. It was a sign to speak fully. Panakeia was seized by a torrent of words, not all of which she completely understood in her wild fervor, though she relished them in their utterance. "I was chosen! I have orders from the Captain. It is my duty to the Federation to fulfill the mission, though, given the choice, I would have taken it of my own accord. I love you. What else could I do but help, even without the concern of duty? And the Dweomer. The Dweomer, Anakron! Its existence violates the high law of the Temporal Prime Directive. It changes time. You cannot continue its evil. We can cast it away. I can show you the way. For you, for us, for the Captain!" The light, like the bright glow of a warp drive running at factor nine, was in her face again. Panakeia was ecstatic as her mind traveled far from the dark chambers of Mount Doom – for she had a vision of a brightly lit room, filled with flashing lights and chirping buzzers. The Captain sat in a squared chair. Spockú leaned over a blue-glowing box, the light reflecting off his glorious Shadowbrow and mingling with the blue of his uniform. It was a beautiful sight. Panakeia at last understood Kirk's despair when he was told that the ship did not exist. But that was a lie. Of course the ship existed. Panakeia saw it, clear as day. She had to go there, to stand upon the bridge, and Anakron had to come with her. She would bring him to the Captain, and any evil she failed to repair would surely vanish in the Captain's wisdom.

The vision faded, and Panakeia saw Anakron again, a puzzled frown working its way over his face. Why should he frown? Their path was now laid before their feet, and they had but to follow it to its logical (Panakeia savored the word – Spockú used it often) conclusion at the Captain's chair. Then all would be made right by Kirk's wisdom, and if necessary, his uncanny ability to beat anyone in a fight. There was no reason for Anakron to be concerned. Or afraid, if that was what his expression meant.

"Anakron! Come with me. We will seek the Captain. Come with me. It is what we must do."

Anakron's frown deepened. Now he understood. His latest anakronism was taking hold of Panakeia's mind.

[Diamond18]

Skittles slipped unnoticed through the darkness like a dark, unnoticeable slippy thing, till at last she reached the hall in sector 17 where her electronic doppelganger lay in a rather destroyed state. The hallways was otherwise unoccupied, which was fortunate for those who might have been occupying it, seeing as how seeing the damaged doppelganger did not put Skittles in a very charitable mood.

She hefted the life-sized Skittlesque machine over one shoulder and looked both ways before crossing the hall. Presently, she came across a confused and deserted Igör, who had inexplicably been left to his own devices whilst Maika, Dracomir, and Lola disappeared into the bowels of the mountain. Skittles first instinct was to eliminate the witness, but then she got a better idea, and grabbed Igör by the scruff of his neck with her free hand. "I need your help!" she declared, dragging the oddly complacent man-thing along with her.

They came to a door marked Top Secret and Skittles entered a secret code into the keypad beside said door. Then she had to undergo a retina scan and a fingerprint test, before the door finally hissed open in a hydraulic fashion. Tediously, they had to pass through three other such gateways before reaching the Top Secret Automaton Laboratory where Skittles was, oddly enough, chief robotics engineer.

Igör gaped at this information, and Skittles said, "What? I can't have hidden depths?"

She lay the robot out on a cold steel table and assembled various surgical tools and supplies. Then she washed and sterilized her hands, which Igör found somewhat odd, but did not comment on. "What did you need my help with?" he asked, helpfully.

"We must repair the creature's brain," Skittles said solemnly. "Or make it a new one. You will be my assistant. You may call me 'master'."

"Is that last part optional?"

"I suppose so," Skittles relented. "Forceps."

"Pardon me?"

"The forceps. Hand me the forceps."

"Oh." Igör studied the array of tools. "Which is the forceps?"

Skittles pointed at a power drill. "That."

"That looks like a power drill."

"Excuse me, but who's the chief robotics engineer here and who is the hunchbacked assistant?"

"Okay, fine." Igör handed her the drill.

"Be a doll and plug it in, would you?"

Igör did as bidden, and the two of them spent another hour or so drilling, cutting, and generally doing vague things to the head of the automaton.

Finally: "It's not use!" cried Skittles overdramatically. "The brain is ruined! We must find a newer, better brain!"

Igör considered pointing out that the brain had been in better shape before all the drilling and cutting, but forebear, and simply said, "Yes, master. I mean, Skittles."

"But where will we find a newer, better brain?" Skittles mused, tapping her chin.

"Perhaps in there?" Igör pointed to a door marked 'Newer, Better Brains.'

"Brilliant! Go fetch me one!"

Igör sighed, but went off obligingly. He opened the door and peered into the darkened room. It smelt vaguely of formaldehyde and elderberries. He groped around finally happened upon a light switch, but not after seizing hold of two mice (one dead), a spider, and several cans of processed cheese.

Dim light suffused the storage room, and revealed several rows of Mason jars lined up on dusty shelves. Igör read the labels curiously. There were Elven brains, Hobbit brains, Dwarf brains, Orc brains (shockingly tiny, those) and Human brains. There were geniuses, pretty-smart-chaps, average thinkers, and complete-dodos. There were right-sided thinking brains and left-sided thinking brains. There were male brains and female brains, fat brains, skinny brains, brains who climb on rocks, tough brains, sissy brains, even brains with chicken pox.

"Abby Normal," he read one label. "Sounds fitting." He carefully picked up the jar (coughing a bit from the dust cloud) and carried it back out to Skittles, who had grown bored and was contemplating amputating the robot's legs. Luckily, she had only gotten as far as drawing lines on the thighs with a pencil.

"Excellent," she said, opening the jar. "Perfect! Superfluous!" She dumped the brain into the gaping cavity that was RoboSkitt's skull. Then she patched up the forehead and reapplied the skin (which was two shades darker than the rest of the robot's skin, since they seemed to be out of 'deathly pale') and declared it done.

"Step back," she instructed, whipping out a pair of defibrillator paddles and rubbing them together gleefully. Then she administered a jolt to the robot's chest. It began to violently twitch, and Skittles cried, "It's Alive!!!!!!!"

"Yes, mas... er, Skittles."

The robot got up from the table and said, "Konvey! Konvey! Konvey!"

Skittles gave it a kick, and it settled down. "Hello! I am RoboSkitt 2000™, how may I serve you?" it chirped.

"I don't know," Skittles admitted. "I have no idea where this plot-twist is going."

"But... what's it for?" Igör asked, scratching his head.

"Chaos, confusion, distraction."

"Isn't that what you're for?"

"Yes, but RoboSkitt provides double the chaos and double the fun!"

"I'm the statement in the great mint of Robomint Gum," offered the robot.

"Precisely. And pretty soon every chief war advisor will have one." Skittles turned the robot toward the door and said, "Go, little one, go create madness until I think up a good use for you!"

[Lhunardawen]

It completely surprised, and utterly disgusted, Maika to find herself almost wanting to hug Lola. It seemed she was wrong about her after all. Maybe Lola did not really know her way around as much as it looked she did, and she did not want Maika to panic by telling her outright that they were lost. So much was she grateful to Lola for getting them back on track that she had begun to embrace such delusions.

The authoritative tapping of her stiletto heels could hardly keep up with her pacing heartbeat as she, Lola, and Dracomir silently (not counting the sound of their footsteps, of course) made their way down the hall. This is it, she thought, for the nth time, pursing her lips and breathing in deeply. After all the crazy delays that can only occur in Mordor, they were finally about to speak to Roggie--

Her usual dramatics were cut short by a glimpse of a flying kick and a loud crash. For a moment Dracomir's eyes were so wide that Maika had to hold her hands together to keep from poking them. A "Come on, then, let's go," from Lola was more effective. They stepped in.

"Maika," Dracomir's voice came suddenly, "I don't know if that stuff you got from Alli is helping, but if you want to double-check, I happen to have here a stylish, haute monde silver Unblemishability Cloak. Belonged to my grand...mother, y'know. Want to try it on? It's never failed before."

In her excitement over the more recent events (actually, she just did not want to admit that they had left her a bit disoriented), Maika had actually forgotten about the face cream. She thought it had been too long since she first applied it, and it probably worked no longer - if it even did. She squinted at Dracomir's face. He was smirking. But he has always been smirking! One could count with the fingers the number of times his (nick)name appeared with "smirked," or some other lip movement to that effect, in the books and even including the toes would not suffice. Maika decided that the urgency of the situation did not leave her much choice.

"I don't know why you even bother, Dracomir," Maika finally replied, "but I could not be so rude as to refuse. What harm could it do, anyway?"

Maika saw a faint glint in his eyes, and she stood wondering what it was for and so did not see how, suddenly, there was something on Dracomir's hands. A long and silvery something. He handed it to her, and she gazed at it, taking in its exquisite feel with sheer wonder. It felt like water woven into a cloak. But in the midst of her awe, she hesitated.

"What?" Dracomir exclaimed, a little irritably.

"It's silver. Haven't you read my Character Description Form? 'I wear nothing but black and white.' "

Dracomir smirked again. "So? Will you let yourself be hindered by something you did not create for yourself? Come on, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. And it's for your own good."

Sighing audibly, Maika gently unfolded the silvery something. It fell gracefully to the floor. She quickly threw it around her shoulders as she saw Lola look back at them, apparently wondering why they had stopped walking. She raised her eyebrow, giving Maika a quick look from top to bottom, as if she had been wearing a red-and-white striped shirt and a yellow polka dot bikini bottom. Maika ignored her as she snorted and turned away.

"How does it look?" she said softly to Dracomir as she stepped ahead of him and turned back towards him. He nodded approvingly. The smirk was no longer there; in its place was a smirkier smirk.

That better not mean something, Maika thought as she hurried towards Lola with Dracomir on her tail, or...or...whatever Maika would do, he certainly would not be smirking for a long time.