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Title: DOOM: Repercussions of Evil
Author: Peter Chimaera
Obligatory Linkage: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/836450/
Sporkage by: [livejournal.com profile] agenttrojie and [livejournal.com profile] tea_fiend
Sporkage rating: M for violence and a tiny bit of swearing
Sporkage summary: Trojie has never played a FPS game in her life after a traumatic incident with Wolfenstein 3D when she was but a wee nipper, and so had no idea what was going on for most of this mission. Pads, meanwhile, spent her formative years being fragged repeatedly by her brother. Someone sent Pads a link to this fic while she was sort of [read: very] drunk, and she just couldn't resist it.




***

September 2008 HST



John Stalvern waited.

So did Trojie and Pads.

'Is anything meant to be happening?' the latter whined, accompanying the verbal distaste with a glare of disgust at their indefinable surroundings. She slid a hand down to the protruding belly that was still, after several months, doing sterling work in the field of keeping her off the fags.

The lights above him blinked and sparked out of the air.

'Yes,' Trojie said, her voice carrying a vague hint of authority, but rather a larger hint of discomfort and unease. Pads's gaze flicked upwards.

'Don't worry about those,' she announced, having eyed the weirdly flickering incandescent lights for a moment. 'They're designed to throw you off. This looks familiar though. No monsters coming.'

Agent Trojanhorse, for some reason, appeared totally unreassured by this information.

'How do you know?'

'Because I was twelve once. I grew up with this game.'

'Ye-es,' Trojie decided. 'You know, I'm still a little confused about that. What's your date of birth again?'

'A lady never tells,' Pads said, with just a suggestion of a disdainful sniff.

'You're not a lady,' said Trojie in a pedantic tone of voice.

'I am too,' said Pads, pointing, er, pointedly, at her distended belly.

'Biologically you're female. Doesn't make you a lady - Sirius.'

Pads looked pained, right up until the demons appeared, on cue, at their first mention in the Words.

There were demons in the base.

Some part of Trojie must have believed the Words, because her right hand groped blindly in the direction of the Bag, presumably seeking weaponry. The rest of her managed to maintain an air of suave sophistication, even in the face of her partner's elaborate sighs and flailings - clearly, Trojie determined, meant to suggest unflappability in the face of canonical monsters, although the effect was hindered somewhat by Pads's right hand, which had, in the course of her ill-tempered gesticulations at the warped canon they were currently being subjected to, settled on her tobacco pouch and showed no signs of letting go.

'Should we be armed?' Trojie inquired. 'Or are these wishy-washy Sue demons with no powers beyond whimpering, simpering, and collecting the loves of hideously warped canons?'

'They're real demons,' Pads told her. 'Big and pink and sort of weird in the leg region. Very weird, actually. ' She paused, and stroked the tobacco pouch thoughtfully. 'Actually, I'm sure they should fall over.'

'Are we grabbing one for dissection?' Trojie wanted to know. Pads shrugged dismissively.

'Can if you want. Doubt you'll learn much. Evil virus, blah blah, Mars, Hell, blah blah. It's a shoot 'em up.'

'It is?' Trojie looked suspiciously at the curiously clean and unmarked surface beside her, upon which the letters "UAC" were emblazoned. 'Shouldn't we, you know, be sort of being... I don't know the technical term. Mobbed by these "demons"?'

'No,' Pads declared, shaking her head authoritatively. 'Not until we step over the line.'

'The line?' Trojie arched a slightly singed eyebrow. 'Which is?'

'Not in this fic, hence the lack of sawn-off shotguns we're toting.'

He didn't see them, but had expected them now for years.

'Hang on. Who is he?' Trojie asked, perplexed.

'Our protagonist,' Pads replied. 'The chap whose face gets progressively bloodier and bloodier at the bottom of the screen until you remember god mode.'

Trojie nodded, endeavouring to give off an air of someone who knew exactly what was going on, and almost succeeding.

His warnings to Cernel Joson were not listenend to and now it was too late.

The act failed, and Trojie slumped momentarily, before snapping to attention and vibrating with the indignancy of one who not only has no idea what they're doing here, but also has no idea where the hell here is.

'Who's "Cernel Joson"? Dare I assume that he means 'Colonel'?'

Pads shrugged delicately, unsure. The tone of Trojie's voice could have marked the sentence as a question, but equally could have labelled it the precursor to a violently flame-ridden attack on the entire continuum. Pads patted her partner's arm, in a consoling and orthographical sort of way.

Far too late for now, anyway.

'For, er, what, exactly?' Trojie asked.

'For the stopping of the death, destruction, mayhem, carnage, et cetera et cetera with extra blood,' Pads clarified. 'Although how this is a story rather than the intro to the game, I don't know.'

John was a space marine for fourteen years.

While Trojie busied herself with the opening and closing of her mouth, goldfish-style, in the universally recognised semaphore for "whiskey tango foxtrot", Pads frowned.

'That's... weirdly Germanic.' She poked at the offending sentence with one finger, lip curling in disgust. 'Chuck a seit in and I'd call Babelfish, but 'for'...' She shook her head, making disconsolate clucking noises.

When he was young he watched the spaceships and he said to dad "I want to be on the ships daddy."

'Yes,' Trojie said, nodding. 'Because all wannabe space marines are utterly stuck in the nursery and call their father figures daddy. Before they go off to, er, shoot monsters.' The nod became rather more vigorous, and Pads detected a worryingly manic note within.

Dad said "No! You will BE KILL BY DEMONS"

Trojie's critical eye was almost more than Pads could take. The Animagus quickly ushered them on to the next sentence of incomprehensibly pointless dialogue.

There was a time when he believed him.

'I spy with my little eye,' Trojie muttered, 'something beginning with P P.'

Then as he got oldered he stopped.

'Pronoun Problem. Orthographical disasters, too.'

'He stopped what, exactly?' Trojie asked, determined, despite five years' experience, to try to force some sort of logical structure on the narrative. Pads just shrugged.

'Believing his dad, I think.'

But now in the space station base of the UAC he knew there were demons.

'Well,' Trojie said after a moment's pause for thought. 'This means he's getting et, right? Which means we don't actually have anything to do here. Why are we here, exactly?'

'Because my algorithm picked it up,' Pads answered, stroking the tobacco pouch distractedly. 'No, I don't know why. There are no beards, there are no moustaches. There is no Narnia, and there is no Remus Lupin. Really, I'm as much at a loss as you are. It's not even slash.'

'And for that I'm thankful, given that the only character mentioned aside from our protagonist and "Cernel Joson" is demons with wonky legs. I can be doing without that, thank you.'

"This is Joson" the radio crackered. "You must fight the demons!"

Both agents watched the radio, in a vaguely dispirited sort of way, as it briefly contorted into a Jacob's cream cracker, complete with stinky cheese, before snapping back into a perfectly ordinary electronic device.

'Well,' Pads tried, for want of anything better to say.

'Yes,' Trojie agreed.

'So,' Pads ventured.

'If you've any sentence at all,' Trojie volunteered, 'I'm game. 'Cause I got nothing here.'

'I think I need to spend some quality time with that algorithm,' Pads said, after several minutes' internal debate, during which John gotted his palsma rifle and blew up the wall.

"HE GOING TO KILL US" said the demons

'I think you may very well be right. Also, in all my years of resisting boys with gaming habits, I have never heard of a palsma rifle. What is it?'

'Got me,' Pads said. 'In my day it was the shotgun, the chaingun, or nothing. 'less you were feeling hardcore and went on a berserker punching spree. Only Regulus could ever get away with that.' The agent's face twisted downwards, clearly expressing disapproval at this unwarranted demonstration of sibling skill.

'So lost,' Trojie announced, a beatific grin on her face, 'that's it's not funny. I'm just going to smile and nod through this, okay?'

'So long as we find me a shotgun at the end, fine by me.'

"I will shoot at him" said the cyberdemon and he fired the rocket missiles.

'As opposed to the bullet missiles, I suppose.' Pads sounded utterly revolted. She slapped her hand against her forehead, and let it linger there longer than was strictly necessary. Unfortunately, this gave the action time to move ahead.

John plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up.

Trojie glared, for a moment, at the rape of the English language that was being committed in front of her bewildered eyes. Then, deciding Pads probably had the right idea, she joined her partner in the universal symbol for *facepalm*. There was silence, for a moment, broken only by the weirdly disjointed blaring of the plasma gun.

After a moment, Pads cheated, and peeked.

'Back up,' she advised, not trusting her partner to listen and pulling her well out of the way just in case.

But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.

Pads parted her fingers, just enough to peer at the scene of devastation before them.

'You know, in my day, ceilings didn't fall in. If they could fall in they'd have depth. Nothing had depth except what killed you.'

'You do realise just how many laws of physics that breaks, right?'

'Pshaw.' Pads waved a dismissive hand. 'Physics is as nothing in the face of the Doom engine circa 1993.'

"No! I must kill the demons" he shouted

'Well get on with it then,' Pads said, barely resisting the urge to give the protagonist of this ill-thought-out fic a right ding round the earhole. 'What are you waiting for? You've got a gun. Demons are only, like, fourth level baddies. You can take them out with three ballistic punches.'

The radio said "No, John. You are the demons"

Both agents mulled this over in silence for a while, as havoc and mayhem unfolded in front of them. Eventually, Trojie broke the ponderous quiet.

'So demons don't have punctuation then?'

'Either that or he's suddenly turned into multiple demons, I suppose, that fear no full stops.'

'With badfic, anything is possible,' agreed Trojie. 'We'd better put it on the- we have been keeping a charge list, haven't we?'

'Mentally,' said Pads. She began to tick points off on her fingers. 'Crimes against grammar, and spelling, and pissing us off, and making me think there was a beard in the offing when there totally wasn't, which is unfair.'

Trojie nodded solemnly, and cast her eye over the Words. 'The end's in sight,' she announced, pointing. Pads looked too.

'Buggeration!'

'What?' Trojie wanted to know. Pads's response was to pat her pockets frantically, finally producing a shotgun, which she pointed at the protagonist. Several shots later, he crumpled to the floor with a shriek, and, after a moment, vanished.

Trojie raised an eyebrow.

'Frankly, I don't care if he's canonical or not. He's pissing me off, and pregnant Agents should not be pissed off.'

'So you killed him? And where's he gone?'

'It's a first person shooter,' Pads explained, stroking the trigger with one finger. Trojie looked blank, so Pads tried to explain. 'Spawn isn't just what I've got in my stomach, you know. It's also the noun applied to the process in which first person shooters come back to life at the beginning of the level when they die.'

'So?'

'So it's not like we're really killing him. He's just going to respawn. Admittedly with very poor quality guns, which might be a hardship if we could determine what level this is meant to be. But do you really care if a cacodemon gets him in the face?'

'There is that,' Trojie admitted. 'Not that I have any idea what a cacodemon is, mind, but it certainly sounds unsavoury.'

'He can't be canonical, anyway, and it's therapeutic, really,' Pads continued to wheedle. 'Helps get the aggression out, and all that.'

'I believe you,' Trojie said, rooting around in the general region of her waist, and finding, thanks to canon's ineffable powers, some heavy weaponry there. 'So how does this gun work?'

'That would be the pistol,' Pads said. 'It's piss poor, basically. Nicely alliterative though. Try the next.'

'Can't I try it on him first?'

'If you like. Assuming you can find him.'

'So we don't know where he respawns then?'

'Haven't the foggiest,' Pads said, hefting her shotgun and grinning. 'Oh, deathmatch, how I have missed you,' she breathed serenely. Trojie still had questions, however.

'Might this not be, er, dangerous? That "palsma" weapon thingy looks like it could do some damage. Or some hymns. Although I may be misreading it.'

'Point.' Pads frowned. 'Have we got a keyboard?'

Trojie fumbled in the Bag, and eventually produced one. 'And this is for...?'

'Cheat codes,' Pads explained. 'Hand me the RA.'

'You're hacking into the continuum's cheat function?' Trojie asked, as Pads fiddled with the keyboard, attempting to figure out how best to attach it to the Remote Activator.

'Yep,' the Animagus answered distractedly. 'I mean, unless you want to be killed and brought back to life repeatedly.'

'No thanks.'

'Iddqd it is then. Oh, and we can walk through walls too, if you like.'

'I'll pass. Are we sorted?'

Pads hit a button on the RA, tapped the keyboard and few times, and grinned at the beep it made. 'Aye, cap'n. Let's hunt some Stu.'

***

Four days later, at least according to HST, the respawn function finally ceased to entertain the Agents.

'You know,' Trojie said, blowing across the barrel of her gun in a manner Pads could only assume had been picked up from some extremely dodgy Westerns, 'this is starting to get a little tedious.'

'And that would be why we're not in the DMS,' Pads agreed, slipping the shotgun into her bag and pulling out a rather more bulky weapon, as the sizzling, scratching fizz of the respawn alerted them to the protagonist's reappearance below them. 'Give this one a try. Auto target or not, you can't go wrong.'

'What is it?' Trojie asked.

'The BFG-9000.'

'Dare I ask about the acronym?' Trojie wondered, making a very shortsighted attempt at aim.

'Big Fucking Gun,' Pads explained, and pointed to the trigger.

One giant ball of green energy and a splattered Stu later, Trojie leaned against the nearest wall and sighed. 'We should really get rid of him. Although how, when the little bugger keeps coming back to life, I don't know.'

'Just wait?' Pads suggested.

And so wait they did, as the incomprehensible narrative ran through from the beginning once more, until:

And then John was a zombie.

The Stu's hair suddenly turning green, as his eyes took on a lacklustre dazedness and he began to let out breathy and slightly sinister moans, gave Trojie a sudden pang of homesickness.

'I hope Absinthe and Apple are alright,' she said. 'Hurry up and charge him so we can get back.'

Pads holstered her various firearms, and snapped her fingers at the character-turned-zombie. 'Oi, John Stalvern, also known as Gary-Stu,' she said. 'You are charged with the following offences against DOOM canon: The inability to spell "colonel". Inability to form past participles. Lack of logic arising from poor grammar. Dementedly Anglo-Saxon grammar. Abuse of punctuation and the accepted conventions of directly reported speech. Overly melodramatic totally-not-flashbacks. Pronoun Problem. Inability to form past participles of ageing. Turning perfectly ordinary electronic equipment into crackers and thus giving agents the munchies. Further inability to formulate the past tense. Inability to spell "plasma".' Having already run out of fingers, and only just noticing this slight hiccup in her otherwise dramatically-executed chargelist, Pads shrugged, and continued. 'Crimes against grammar. Redundancy in language, to whit, not rockets, not missiles, but "rocket missiles". Inability to formulate the correct past tense of the verb "to plasma". Attempt to use "plasma" as a verb. Deus ex ceilinga. Pointless angst and strife, despite that being a totally different game, even though it was based on the same engine. Lack of plot tension.'

'And pissing off the Agents,' added Trojie. 'Don't forget that.'

'How could I?' asked Pads long-sufferingly.

John Stalvern, meanwhile, was staring blankly at the agents. As Trojie opened her mouth to ask what was wrong and if the character was perhaps drugged, he raised his pistol, aimed it at her, and fired.

'Ow! Hey, that hurt,' she exclaimed, before bending to examine the scratch.

'Only a pistol wound. You'll be fine. Thank Glod for canon, eh?'

'Yes, but I'm bleeding.' Trojie held one hand over the bullethole in her arm, applying pressure and wincing. 'And shouldn't you be killing him?'

'Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry.' Pads turned and aimed in the vague direction of Stalvern. 'Shame this isn't the Doom 3 engine,' she said, pulling the trigger and appreciating the splash of innards. 'No headshots here.' She looked somewhat woeful, so Trojie kicked her.

'I'm glad it's not the Doom 3 engine,' Trojie said, still attempting to put pressure on her gunshot wound. 'I dislike seeing anything as interesting as a brain get splattered across the wall.' She opened a portal with the hand of her uninjured arm. 'Let's get back. I need a seriously long shower, and I think Absinthe and Apple want to be fed; this took days.'

'Well it's a good thing you got those holiday-feeder things, then, isn't it?' said Pads as she stepped into their RC. Instinctively she covered her head with her hands to fend off the aerial attack of the mini-Chimera. Whilst doing so, the pregnant Animagus made her way to the console.

'Apple, get off,' said Trojie amiably, pulling petfood from the cupboard. 'What're you doing?' she asked Pads, who was now typing ferociously, glaring at the Console.

'I'm trying to work out why this bloody algorithm throws up missions that aren't what I programmed it for,' Pads said. 'I ask it for Remus, beards, and Narnia, slash only, and we end up with Sue after Sue. Upstairs are going to cotton on very soon, if they haven't already, and then I dread to think what the punishments are going to be. Ah!'

'What?' asked Trojie above the noises of her pets enjoying their meal. 'You found it?'

'Well, I think I've narrowed down the search parameters enough that it won't throw up too many weird ones,' said Pads. 'And it appears this fic we just finished was a troll.'

'That ... explains a lot. Certainly the less explainable aspects of it, if you see what I mean. But, please,' and Trojie put on a rather pathetic face, 'can it not happen again? I'm longing for a nice badslash fic. No more Sues and trolls, please?'

Pads thumped a few more commands into the keyboard. 'With any luck,' she said, hitting Enter one last time, 'that's the last of them.'

Date: 2008-11-10 06:45 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sedri.livejournal.com
Never heard of this game, so can't be very helpful there, but it certainly sounds like you guys had fun!

Two things, though, that are either typos or really confusing:
"whiskey tango foxtro", Pads frowned. |
'This means he's getting et, right?

- are those meant to be "foxtrot" and "it" ?

In any case, good fun, and now I'm off to read the other one!

(...Oh hell; that rhymed. Shoot me.)

Date: 2008-11-10 08:07 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] agenttrojie.livejournal.com
Foxtrot should indeed have a T on the end, but 'et' is Northern for 'eaten', and our Pads is indulging in dialect there :P

Yay for rhymes :D

Date: 2008-11-10 09:20 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sedri.livejournal.com
Kill the rhymes. Am glad I was right on one score. :)

Date: 2008-11-10 06:54 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] tea-fiend.livejournal.com
Argh. Even my most excellent eye for spag-beta fails occasionally. Thanks for pointing that one out.

Date: 2008-11-10 10:19 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sedri.livejournal.com
No worries - makes me feel useful, and a little less intimidated by your Excellent Eye.

Date: 2008-11-10 10:26 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] tea-fiend.livejournal.com
Trust me, every time I go back and read our old missions, I always spot a couple of mistakes. I can just rarely be arsed to log out, log back in as Trojie, and fix 'em. So I'm actually probably spotting the same mistakes over and over, but oh well.

Date: 2008-11-11 12:01 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dracorn-adagio.livejournal.com
Four days of Stu-slaughter? Fun.

I'll admit it, the line The radio said "No, John. You are the demons" made me laugh. Hard.

Date: 2008-11-11 12:08 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] agenttrojie.livejournal.com
It's a classic badfic line, isn't it? :D

Date: 2008-12-02 10:25 am (UTC)
ext_85481: (Default)
From: [identity profile] hsavinien.livejournal.com
'So lost,' Trojie announced, a beatific grin on her face, 'that's it's not funny. ... 'that' perhaps?

That was very weird. Amusing, certainly.

Date: 2008-12-02 08:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] agenttrojie.livejournal.com
I'll have the Editrix look into it :P Thanks!

Glad you liked.

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