[Twi]Chronicles of the Impaler: Crisis of Infinite Draculas OOC

[darkblade]

Alright I'll write up the opening tonight and hopefully have the start of the next game tomorrow.

[industrious]

Cassandra Cain - "Black Bat"

Spoiler

Spoiler

+ The best martial artist in the world. Beat Lady Shiva twice and everything. Maybe top 5 if you want to be a bit wary.
+ Her first language is body language-she can tell what you are thinking by the way you move and position yourself. Has been able to beat someone at rock-paper-scissors since every time since she was a child.
+ Intimate knowledge of the human anatomy-nerve clusters and the like.
+ Makes ninjas look like Gilbert and Sullivan pirates when it comes to stealth.
+ Extremely loyal to her friends.
0 Asexual. Probably.
- All three of her friends.
- Little to zero ability to function socially. Very introverted. No knowledge of social graces or mannerisms-can fake them by emulating others.
- Illiterate, and has trouble expressing her ideas verbally as well.

Stephanie Brown- "Spoiler Robin Batgirl I-Have-No-Idea-What-I-Am-Now-Okay"

Spoiler

Spoiler

+ Spunky, can-do attitude. Perpetually cheerful and optimistic.
+ Will never give up-managed to fight off the hallucinations of the Black Mercy. Which Superman, for the record, couldn't do.
+ BFF with Cass (since BFF is already plural)
+ Highly creative and inventive tactical thinking. Unpredictable.
+ Attractive. Really attractive.
0 Mediocre fighter-good enough for your average mugger or C-list supervillain. Nothing particularly special.
- Acts before thinking. A lot.
- Legacy of messing up due to above; most of the Bat-family won't consider her plans seriously.
- Has been tortured. Slowly. To medical death.

[karusk]

I want to play a few of the Teen Titans as well, if that's alright.

Invader Zim

Spoiler

Spoiler

+ Access to technology that gives him a tremendous advantage over the humans, and the ability to create whatever is needed for any situation. This includes an orbital satellite that is capable of devastating much of the planet, a sentient AI that controls his house, spaceship and satellite that exists only to serve him, prototypes for armies of robots that should kick into production just as soon as he controls most of the planets natural resources, and an in-progress mecha (that he needs a crew to use).
+ His Pak. Without it, he’ll die in moments, but just the same it is his most useful feature. It provides:
- life support
- nutrition
- multiple weapons, many of which are destructive enough to level buildings
- a set of four spider-like mechanical legs that are strong, can crawl on any surface, and allow him to move far faster over any terrain.
- an organ harvester
- scanner pads
- hand-held communicators
- memory drive capable of storing an almost limitless amount of information
- charging cell
- atmospheric processor
- high tech infrared/nightvision binoculars
- holographic transmitters
- four rocket boosters that allow him to fly
- as well as a sort of biomechanical rebreather mask used in no air or bad air environments
- Out of control ego that more or less assures he'll lose.
- General incompetence.
- Does not actually have the support of the Empire, whatever his beliefs on the matter.
- Without his pak he’ll die in minutes. He’s also allergic to water, however a coat of paste protects him.
- Really bad at disguise.

And finally, the character who needs to be included. Here as somebody’s bodyguard, as he's the only operative they could successfully infiltrate into the school. Not that it worked out very well.

Sousuke Sagara

Spoiler

Spoiler

+ A highly decorated Sergeant within some paramilitary counter-terrorist force.
Was abducted by the KGB at the age of three, and trained to be the perfect soldier and operative, and was an assassin in Afghanistan by the age of eight. Raised as a guerrilla fighter, Sousuke became a skilled AS pilot and soldier, then later mercenary, before being recruited.
+ Master at unarmed combat, and has three black belts and the highest decorations at four types of mixed martial arts (and he’s a total pragmatist. He does not fight flashy, he cheats, puts you down, then brutally keeps you down whatever it takes) with combat experience on five continents, and has a rating with every weapon that shoots a bullet or holds an edge. Also seems able to carry far more concealed weapons on his body then can readily be believed.
+ Extremely good looking. If a girl looks at him, they will develop a crush almost instantly. A heterosexual male has a (slight) chance of avoiding this (he’s very good looking), but chances are will instantly see him as a threat to their own romantic aims and become hostile to a comical extent, essentially acting in a way that makes them seem like they’re suppressing a crush anyway.
+ Master of concealment and trap building. This comes up far more often then you’d expect, given the sort of guy he is. He can improvise very quickly without anybody realizing.
+ Sosuke is obsessed with his duties which makes him socially inept. He believes in always being prepared, meaning he walks around with enough weaponry to solve every problem (he believes every problem can be solved with sufficient pressure on the other parties. Hence, weapons).
+ Thanks to a generous donation to the academy, he’s effectively, he’s above the law as long as he doesn’t actually hospitalize anyone. He cannot be thrown out of school no matter what he does. Up to and including holding teachers at gunpoint while abducting kids to use in a hostage situation against their older siblings. Or bombing buildings. Or planting land mines.
+ Can pilot Mecha.
- He’s very paranoid, and has a tendency to misinterpret romantic advances as attempts to kill him, and to which he responds to with an unreasonable amount of force. It's pretty much 100% guaranteed that if he's saying something or doing anything that could possibly be construed as romantic or seductive, he'll kill the mood almost immediately by revealing his intentions to be purely pragmatic if not actively violent.
- Completely incapable of lying. Even Starfire would not be fooled by his attempts.
- Can't wrap his mind around his homework assignments.
- Tends to be oblivious about other people. To a really hilarious extent.
- Has a tendency to react under pressure. If you have read this, you’ll understand how.

[darkblade]

Two characters (plus satellite NPCs) per person. It's them or the Titans.

[darkblade]

Game is up.

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showt...3#post12288383

[Cracklord]

Shoveler was planning on making his fabulous return in this one. Someone better find him.

[Colesign]

Question: Does this game occur before or after the Twlight/Eragon Lynching crossover?

Or was that simply another universal continuity?

Effectively, I'm asking: Do the Evil Librarians still exist? And are the Free Kingdoms Still Hidden from the Rest of the World?

[darkblade]

Different universe from all previous games mostly to avoid messy business with Lelouch and Light.

-Britannia controls all of North and South America as well as several smaller territories as per Code Geass canon.
-The librarians are still in power.
-Alphas and Mutants are just different names for the same subspecies of humanity.
- Knightmare Frames and Arm Slaves (read: mecha) are common weapons of war built with the schematics drawn up by subliminal mental attunement of the Whispered with some unknown force.
- The Black Knights are still fighting to liberate Japan and exist but are not able to come half way across the world for Lelouch right now.

Anything else will be covered in PMs.

Edit: The PMs have now been sent out.

[Colesign]

Cool. Thanks for the Clarifications.

And yeah: Alphas 'are' pretty much Mutants. That's a bit of canon welding that makes sense.

[Colesign]

Say, Industrious, Doliest: you still up for Vampire Assassin? Due to queer circumstances, I'm expanding the plot a bit to accommodate Cracklord's thirst for conquest. By which I mean a war upon transdimensional Istanbul and the Sultan himself!!!!

Still interested?

[doliest]

Okay, a good idea to place this here as any else; my D.C conference starts tomorrow-hopefully, I'll still be posting in everything at least once a day, but if the Hotel doesn't have Wifi, obviously, I won't be able to.

Here's hoping free Wifi at whatever hotel they stick me in.

[Cracklord]

Sure. Well, we can do without you for a bit. But make sure you get onto Shoveler.

[industrious]

Still interested. It's just the week before finals.

[Colesign]

No prob. As long as there's interest, this game can still pick up it's pace again when the finals are done with.

[doliest]

WIFI! Bad, slow, unstable Wifi, but WIFI!

Posting shortly!

[Colesign]

*Breathes in and out heavily, wearing wristbands, a sweatshirt, and a headbands. Makes punching motions in the air!*

Fifty.

Thousand.

And Five Hundred and Eighty Three.

****ing.

Words!!!!!!!



Pardon me if I don't make any updates tonight. Worded out at the moment.

[Cracklord]

Congratulations. I'm happy for you. Good to hit a goal, isn't it? Now find something else to fill the void quickly.

Since The Heartless aren't really a viable source to eat dimensions anymore, given their back to being without direction until someone takes charge (future plot point? Only if someone else does an epic.) I'm assuming the IN SPACE!!! game got assimilated by the Phyrexians instead. Hail The Ineffable, Father of Machines!
I hope that does not mean cybernetic Q's.

Thus concludes the arc of Richard Seaton

Spoiler

Astral projection was more scientific then magical. It was simply transferring your life-force and senses to another location distinct from your body. Naturally, it was difficult to quantify, but it was certainly possible.
Which is why the visions he had received, half remembered glimpses of things better forgotten, visions of that which was to come, that he no longer fought against. How could he? He was part of it now. He had evolved, moved beyond the constraints of flesh and humanity into the sea of untapped potential that lay beyond, unconstrained by self-imposed limitations.
Already, he had found himself improving the Skylark in ways he couldn't believe had never occurred to him before. He'd given the ship life, and sentience, and purpose, and it was only the beginning. But the rest would come in time. For now, he needed communion. As he settled down and closed his eyes, he felt himself leave his body, and rapture pumped through him. He was to be rewarded again.
Seaton awoke in a vast, stadium like space. Except his body was still sleeping. No, while he slept aboard the Skylark his dreams had taken him across a great sea of shard and bone and rust. Paradise.
It was only a word, a Platonic ideal. Yet even as something deep within him screamed and wept in terror, his mind told him that this was it, the sum of all his dreams, his insights and inspirations he had placed upon the alter of science. This was progress in it's highest, purest form. He had turned to science to help people, not this, but somehow he could not force himself to remember that. Looking up, he could see hanging devices surrounded the blue light on the ceiling of the vast chamber. Most of the objects were so far removed from anything he had ever seen that the intended use of them was an utter mystery, their purpose far beyond him. But none of them looked benign.
Each one was like a work of art—like the art of Hell itself. The curves, edges, sweep and flow of each one held a particular horror that stabbed deep and twisted without touching them. The slick textures, pointed tips and gleaming edges seemed to probe and cut from a distance. The objects had common elements of shape and color that suggested a profound malevolence, but they were not entirely lacking in their own grotesque beauty. Some seemed as marvels of engineering with parts that moved in complex ways like puzzling anatomic structures from some fantastic organism.
And across them scuttled lifeforms, human sized yet seeming no larger then insects on the vast machinery. Tentatively the things moved, like awkward puppets on strings. Instead of feet, the things had another pair of hands at the ends of their legs. And the sound those fingers made on against the surfaces was curiously soft. The proportions of their metallic bodies were slim, feminine. Limbs held cracks in the joints where they were articulated for movement. Parts of their limbs were translucent, revealing the play of arteries and conduits from which ran pink fluids. From their torsos protruded segmented tendrils, gears, pincers and clawed hands. And they had no faces, or even heads, instead massive plates of ceramics like down-swept blades.
He should find them horrific, terrifying, a perversion of like itself, much less the human form. Instead, he exalted, as though he had been allowed to catch a glimpse of the almighty, and his body felt the tingling flush that came with the beginnings of arousal. And the screaming voice that was all that was left of Richard Seaton wondered what scared him more, what had become of them, or what was becoming of him, while his body only stared, lips moving soundlessly.
He breathed, and the air tasted of ash. Then he stood and began to walk mechanically, slowly passing through the great space and making his way towards some unknown destination, the servants moving aside to let him pass, their eyeless faces watching him with uncanny focus as they stopped their labors.
The hallway brought to mind a museum corridor several hundred feet long. At equal intervals enormous pilasters, decorated in a baroque style, supported the ceiling. Each pilaster featured a grotesque face of greenish black and chrome, yards across, its stylized mouth open in a silent roar of rage. In the distant recesses of the arched ceiling, unseen mechanisms clicked and whirred. As he passed one, from it’s mouth came breath redolent with both the stench of rotten meat and overheated electrical components. If they were just robots, why did they breathe? He shuddered, his new mind in ecstasy, his old one in horror.
Seaton passed through a cavernous chamber, pausing to see the wonders within, and saw what seemed to be a library, where small flaming symbols and dazzling, vibrant words hovered in the space of each shelf like glistening banners. Each volume was enormous in size, and seemed to be plated in ribbed metal. When he heard a dull roar, he turned and saw a river of black water running down the aisles. Knowledge. Answers to questions he wasn't ready to ask. When he had completed his pilgrimage, he would beg the right to remain in there and be enlightened to the nature of perfection. But first he had a destination to reach.
Beyond that library, was a larger still chamber where titanic, half-glimpsed machines were at work on monumental structures of such odd design that purpose and function could not even be guessed, and then onto more identical corridors. Deep in his ponderous, mesmerized mind was a tiny spark, but it died quickly, he had been dominated to the point that even the scientist within him was subdued beneath the single-minded worship of a concept he didn’t understand. Yet. Though the nature of the beast was beginning to reveal itself.
In another chamber he saw ranks of what looked like uniformed laborers, hunched over typewriters or word processors, furiously typing. Their arms were so long were they to stand they would scrape the ground, and their hunched forms were clad in brown robes, hiding their appearance, as their withered hands dancing blindly over the panels. Segmented cables protruded from their foreheads and networked them together, just like computers that could perform more effectively when linked, allowing for the parallel processing of information. One of them looked up and Seaton saw that its skull was deformed, and that reddish sensors filled its eye sockets, but it had once been a man, or at least something very, very like one. Turning from this new aberration, he noticed that above them hung a massive book laid upon an altar-like structure at the back of the room. The book was open, and across its pages were prism-like images, flickering across them like projected images. He thought he saw shapes that resembled the double helix of the DNA molecule, binary code or even letters that resembled the Greek alphabet.
A figure met him then, waiting in the long corridor, and in his own way he was as unsettling as all the abominations Seaton had passed, his steps mechanical, as he murmured to himself and twitched sporadically. They'd been so moulded and perverted they weren't even remotely human anymore, even in resemblance, yet this person looked like anyone you saw on the street. He was smiling hatefully, dressed in a long black robe, a hood shadowing his face, and there were no lines on the palms of his hands.
He did not belong here, among perfection. He was a blot, a cancer, as out of place as a living man. As he himself was. And yet he found himself drawn to him, desperate to hear his words. Somehow, he knew they will help him understand his purpose, fulfill the need that has become the entirety of his identity.
"We've never met, so please allow me to introduce myself. You can call me whatever you think fits, though I'm partial to Randall Flagg myself." He says smiling, and waved Seaton over. "Like what you've seen? I hope so, because we're going to use it as a template. Before you know it, most of the worlds will be just like it."
"Hail Discordia." Seaton's mouth said, though he'd never heard the words before, anymore then he'd heard the babbled prayers he sometimes found himself saying. Flagg, if that's who he was, nodded, smiling in a slightly indulgent manner.
"Exactly right. This is Phyrexia, a place where demons are of flesh and metal, and all the sins have been purged away, where the screams of angels used to echo before they were remade in the image of it's amster, where death has never set foot, and where all is one. Problem is, they're all trapped here. No way out, unless someone opens the door for them, and that's not easy. A cracks all that can be managed, it's sealed up that tight. And even if it was, that's too slow. Spreading a world at a time, integration, who has time for all that? Then again, you might say time is the one thing they do have. Ten thousand years trapped in here, before I found them. Welcome to the universes' biggest prison. I'm the parole officer."
He turned and faced Seaton squarely. "But it can still spread. Oh yes. The oil's in you now. Growing and expanding, branching out every way it can. Pumping, pumping, and singing sweet blasphemies using your brain to do it. I bet you can hear it. And you'll help it spread. Just a bit longer, and every world you touch will be as infected as you are."
He reaches into his robes, and removes a bell and sign saying 'Unclean', of the sort lepers wore in the Middle-Ages, and hangs them around Seaton's neck. They hang there with a leaden weight, and yet he can't seem to find the strength or desire to remove them. The thing that he's becoming has no time for trivialities like that. "Now quieten up, we're getting to the good part. And sorry about the whiff of brimstone. Can't seem to get it off my clothes."
It was then he finally came to the end of the corridor, and looked up. It was a spire, thousands of feet high and hundreds of feet in diameter, larger than any tower he had ever seen or imagined.
The tower was a dark, swirled red stone. From its base arose a series of suspended, elliptical halos of red crystal each as delicate and perfect as a snowflake with thorn-like windows jutting gently here and there. Those five halos, resembling stupendous disks of flame that spiraled upwards, became smaller as they reached the vertically supported capstone.
And atop the capstone was another sun.
Like all suns, it was a chained hell. A star blazing bright next to the other, larger sun that angled strangely in the sky.
"Impressive, huh?" A figure said, his tone light and conversant, though it didn’t suit him in the least. "He knows his stuff, that's for sure. You can't see them from this angle, but it's only one of four."
Seaton continued to stare even as the light burned his eyes, unable to take his gaze away. A sun, chained for nothing more then to serve as a torch. It beggared belief. He tore his eyes away, now so burned they were barely functioning, then asked, dreading the answer. "And if a sun is atop the spire, what is on the roof of this place?
In response, Flagg turned and met his gaze squarely "I'm glad you asked me that. Why, on the roof, that is six hundred tiers above us, there is a throne. And that's where you're going."
Then he was falling, falling, and when he woke up he was in cold sweat, naked on his bed, deep in a pool of black oil that was slightly obscenely organic to touch, like long rotted fruit. There was so much of it. It had been just a drop, and had become all this, expanded into all this in him, then been expelled by some miracle he didn't understand.
But that was a mystery that could wait. The Skylark was too corrupted, the mycosynth spores were everywhere, the ship was alive with malign purpose. It would have to be brought down, destroyed completely, before the contagion spread. And then there was the dreams. He knew who had done this to him, and he knew why.
He knew what he had to do.

No, I won't say why his system rejected it just yet. You'll have to play the next epic and find out.

Harry Dresden

Spoiler

If you're here, and didn't come the normal way, you have questions. What is death? A river? A woman? A desert? Well to me, it felt a lot like my body burning like candle-wax at the hands of someone I trusted absolutely, which is just as agonizing as it sounds in every possible definition of the word. Which just goes to show, don't teach anyone to burn other people like candlewax. If we could all master that, the world would be a happier place, because I don't see us getting rid of betrayal anytime soon.
The Woman, River and Desert came later, roughly in that order. The woman was young and old, kind and cruel and a few other adjectives. She gave me some gentle encouragement, which is really what I needed to hear, then sent me on my way. I then lay down and floated up the great dark river on to the great beyond. I didn't see a boatmen who gets paid in silver coins, but I was later assured Charon is there too, but it's a big river and a little boat.
I did see a lot of souls stuck in the water as I was pulled up, flotsam on the surface struggling against the current. Apparently, that's what happens to those bound by use of necromancy, which was a little disturbing, but fortunately I wasn't selected to be made into the servant of some hood-wearing cliche who aught to meet more girls, and came to the end, to be immediately confronted with more trials and tribulations. Then came the silvery desert beneath cyclopean stars, which you cross alone, and on the other side, this.
It's a wonderful city, Purgatory, and I mean that in that special way which means impossible to describe, but never boring (contrary to popular belief). A bit of New York, A bit of Chicago, a bit of Manchester and London and Paris and everywhere else (literally, I recognize the parts), all blended together into a hodgepodge of sheer, uninviting stone surfaces, narrow backstreets and alleys, and leering gargoyles, choked with fog, indistinct shapes and perpetual rain.
If you're not ready to pass on, you find a room in one of the buildings that isn't occupied , and make your home in the city, then try to come to terms with your life. If your confident, then you just have to cross through to the gates up at the exit terminal (Highway and a staircase. Apparently the Supreme being listens to music as well). Judgements on the other side. It's as simple as it sounds, but simple isn't the same as easy. Everybody doubts themselves, and when you come to those gates it's easy to question yourself. It's easier to just stay here.
And then there are the intruders. Souls are a power source for the eldritch beings beyond the veil. Of course, most of them can't just reach over and snatch them, but that doesn't stop them preying on the weak, vulnerable spirits. It's so easy and there is so much of it that most get away with it as well.
All sorts show up, Demons of every description mostly, all looking for a last temptation. Of course, all supernatural beings have to obey the rules specific to their kind, they can't just drag you into the back of their car and drive off like a poorly thought out kidnapping. They have to leverage you into contract, so that they can claim ownership. Like how Leprechauns must grant wishes when caught, and Selkies belong to those who own their skin.
Unfortunately, it's pretty easy to leverage people here. And that's where we come in. We keep them from turning men astray out of fear, desperation or confusion and being dragged into other hells. Only a trickle would make it to the pearly gates otherwise, as it is most do turn away for a time first. It takes unusual strength of character to walk right in and accept your fate.
We have a station run by guardian angels, and we keep the bad things out as best we can (which is pretty good, but hardly faultless). Some of us do it out of charity, some as a sort of penance (quiet, brooding men for the most part), some because it's who they are, and it suits them, some because it's their purpose. I don't judge. I do it myself because I'm not ready to let go of the world just yet.
It's pretty noble, but then, if we were really so noble why are we all afraid of what lies beyond the gate? Because that's what it's about in the end, putting off judgement. Your illusions are the first thing to go.
Whenever I do meet another soul, I ask for news. Most tell me things from worlds I've never heard of, others tell of people I'll probably meet, sooner or later.
I turned up my collar to try to keep the rain out (I was already soaked, it didn't do any good) and tried to focus.
A large hand seized my shoulder and turned me, forcing to look up into the face of a heavyset man with dirty-blonde hair, glaring daggers. As always, he put one in mind of a lion, somehow. As a member of the police force that kept the bad things out of the city, he had to be a hard bastard, and you couldn't find a harder, more bastardly man then this immoral man of principles. Gene Hunt.
"Don't be wanting to go that way." He said gruffly. "Last time anyone ventured that way, we never heard from him again. Nor the dozen men we sent to get him back."
I said we did our best. But there is only so much we can do. I don't know what happens to a dead ghost, but nonexistence would be my bet.
"I was just thinking."
"Well stow it, you nonce. You're on the clock. There's a clan of Oni causing trouble downtown. Haven't laid a hand on anyone, just smashing things, but it's a matter of time." He flicks the corner of his head to indicate where he meant. "So I thought, this looks like just the thing for Harry Dresden. So get on with it." His piece said, he turned and withdrew to go find someone to terrorize. He was more force of nature then police officer.
I sighed, fixed my coat, and went to go do as he said, calling up my magic. My name is Harry Dresden, and I have unfinished business. If you come this way, look me up before you pass on to pastures greener. We could both use the company.

[Colesign]

Poor Richard Seaton.

I personally see this portion of his character arc as putting him through a similar trauma as Captain Picard suffered during the 'Best of Both Worlds' two parter.

And this will subsequently give him a huge hatred for Agressive Hegemonizing Swarm type organisms, just like Captain Picard suffered: Phyrexia, the Borg, the Cybermen, The Blight, The Reapers, The Vord, the Zerg, the Tyrannids...anything that even says the words 'you will be assimilated'.

I wouldn't be surprised if a few of these species suddenly find themselves exploding...

Still, I'm disapointed Seaton didn't put up more of a fight against the assimilation. The guy's supposed to have enough willpower and mental training to rival Doctor Doom. But then again, the black oil is incredibly insidious in hijacking and perverting one's desire for knowledge and progress...

...do you always have to resolve the plots of abandoned games by having them being overrun by the armies of darkness?

[Cracklord]

The Zerg and tyranids don't assimilate you as such. They eat you, digest you, and use you to make more by adding to their total mass, then reap your entire world of anything that can be used to make more, then leave, rinse, repeat. I mean, if a bear eats you, that's technically assimilation as well, if a lot less efficient.
And I pity both the Borg and the Cybermen, because they are both part of the science fiction universe, and thereby just got assimilated themselves (the tyranids/Zerg are still a chemical equation in the Culture, The Reapers were already wiped out by Captain Kirk). If they're lucky. Machines built by any hand other then the creator are heretical, so I doubt the Phyrexians were too keen to discover them stealing their shtick.

Look, I understand your frustration at your character being put in a position where he's trapped (which is why I did it like this, rather then making you play through it), but given the process I was lenient letting him even realize he was being 'assimilated', let alone actually stopping it by nothing more then mental fortitude. Memnarch never realized, he went insane too fast, and he was an omnipotent robotic wizard who ran a universe for his creator and created suns in his spare time (and kidnapped living people from other worlds and forcibly resettled them on his after tampering with their biologies to make them evolve metal limbs). Other people exposed had even less chance. Essentially, the only way to defeat it is not get exposed in the first place.
Seaton's got resolve, but he's only human. And to the phyrexians, even the most incredibly gifted human is a blip on the mental abilities charts. They assimilate angels (beings of pure light and good that are incapable of evil) and demons, they assimilate gods, entire worlds, and things not sophisticated enough to be able to do anything but resist. It's not a matter of mental fortitude. Indeed, he should be grateful for that, because if it was, they'd first work him over with a bonesaw in order to remove his ability to resist, rather then simply infect him and wait for the results.
Your thinking it as compulsion. It's not compulsion. Rather then some sort of hypnotism you snap out of, it's the equivalent of removing the scalpel cutting you apart with nothing more then concentration. Because it's not controlling him. It's using his facilities to prepare itself, and has shut him down by overloading his brain with information. The oil, a single touch, contains all of Phyrexia. Every single tiny bit exists within the oil, waiting for the chance to come out. It's like the entire internet was uploaded onto him, albeit an internet devoted singularly to praising Yawgmoth and glorifying war. And while he tries to make his way through that, it takes control. It's not making him think things, it's using his mind to think for itself.
And the oil is self perpetuating, a drop will become a gallon, a gallon will become an ocean. Once it's in you, there's really not much you can do but find a new body to inhabit, or look forward to your new immortal life as a servant of Yawgmoth.

As for the IN SPACE!!!! game, well I suppose I didn't have to. To be honest, I was still tired from finishing off Shovelers and should probably have rested a while first. Instead I just ran it half-heartedly and sort of left it to you to make anything happen. So for that, you have my apologies. But Darkblade did it first, and it was such a fine tradition to follow.
But if it's that important to you, fine. Here are your options: Three characters can escape and get a happy ending, no more, no less, or a few poorly linked worlds centered around Akkaris have maybe a thousand humans and other species between them in a frantic resistance that's inevitably going to lose.
Shame Paul didn't see this one coming.

[Colesign]

...Yeah. I was getting a bit complainy in my last post. Sorry about that.

And it was your game, so it's your prerogative as to what happens, Cracklord.

[Cracklord]

Don't worry about it. If you do feel something is unfair, go ahead and tell me.

And it's ours. I'm telling a story, but that doesn't make it mine. If you want to add anything, feel free to.

[Colesign]

It's all cool.

And Grandpa Smedry has finally uncorked a heaping bottle full of Truth and poured it over the scalps of all of his young, brilliant student's minds.

...

I love how everyone in his class is in disguise, and most of them just as badly as him.

[doliest]

.
..
I just realized something. Darkblade stuck Zim, Smedry, Panty and Stocking...and Lelouch together. Smedry's class is the initial dumping ground for the silly characters, with Lelouch being our straight man. Though...I don't know if that was intentional, or will last.

And updating again. Don't worry, I can keep up. Finals start in 11 days, but 3 out of 4 are looking fine. Biology is a little more....iffy, but I'm at a point where, after tallying everything, it's going to be a fine wire, but a fine wire I've managed in the past.

[Cracklord]

Believe me, you cant see it on the surface, but Lelouch is crying.

[darkblade]

Lelouch went there because I couldn't put him in the same class as Light and putting him and Gary in the same Gym class would be redundant to have two fragile genius types. The fact that he got all the silly characters was mostly coincidental.

[Colesign]

*Pats Lelouch's shoulder*

It's alright, Lelouch...it's not your fault that the Evil Librarians have brainwashed you into thinking that they don't exist.

[Cracklord]

And they used logic to do it. Since their existence would be so incredibly illogical, as Lelouch demonstrates, they have cunningly fooled everyone capable of rationality into concluding that they don't exist. Good plan, Satan has done the same thing in our world.
I assume this is before Randall Dowling got knocked off (or his heart and body reunited in the realm of shadow and he's returned since), and he's secretly in charge of said conspiracy. Mostly because if he is, there's a thing or two I'd like to do over the course of the game.

Furthermore, naming C.C. Nimue is simply carrying on the theme of naming important things after Arthurian characters in code Geas, she's not actually Nimue. Well, unless you want her to be. Although if she is Lady Summer, then that could neatly work in The Once and Future King to the continuity of the fai...

[darkblade]

Cracklord may have single handily unravelled a large chunk of plot with idle speculation. Of course I've long since learned the best way to keep you guys on your toes is to use plot points from works you aren't as familiar with.

The fact that at the time no one had seen Code Geass was the only thing that kept my bad future game together. Even if it meant accidentally leaving Terry and Spider behind for which I still feel awful about.

[Cracklord]

Yeah, I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, it's a good idea, and everything doesn't have to be a surprise.

Also, I'm trying to design a Dalek mecha for the next epic because Mecha are awesome and inevitably appear in these games, and Daleks are also awesome. Anyone got any ideas on that regard? I don't want it to just be a fifty foot high regular Dalek, but by the same regard they wouldn't base it on bipedal either.

[Colesign]

Oh, that's simple, Cracklord:

Make it a giant Spider Mecha! Six or seven legged. In fact...

Maybe something like this:

Then make it much bigger, stick more weapons on it, give it a bunch of combat plungers, and perhaps give it the power to change shape.

Of course...you're going for more Super-Robot style Mechas, right? Getter, Gurren Lagann, and all that?