Thoughtdeath
OOC Thread
Forty years from now, the world has changed drastically. A rising population has lead to soaring crime rates and wars start almost every day, killing millions out of a population so large it swallows that statistic. Technology held the promise to our future, but that bright light faded, choked in corporate greed, and the most recent innovation is just a symptom of the broader corruption of that promise - Impulse Manifestation Spinal Arrays. They, simply, turn thoughts into matter, a breakthrough technology. It doesn't offer humanity much though; only the most strong-willed can use it, and their creations are limited in scope even when working in concert with others. The governments of the world threw it into the rubbish bin of advancement. Realigning atoms with the mind was nothing compared to fusion power and suborbital elevators, gene-engineered pathogens and kinetic impactors. But there were some who saw its promise: the entertainment industry, to be specific. A budding entrepreneur convinced the head IMSA developer to work for him, and out of him was a new extreme sport born: Thoughdeath.
The rewards are huge. A new life, power, fame, enough money to buy a new life... the desperate came from the entire globe to California to compete. Homeless men, ex-mercenaries, crazed psychotics, convicted criminals. Anyone at all, from corporate stooge to everyday Joe, they came to compete, hoping for an elusive redemption. It was something the masses clung to, hope in the mad mad world, and it soon had the largest viewing audience of any sport, ever. A bloodsport played to an epic level, worlds created and destroyed within the Dome. Only the insane competed, and only the truly unhinged triumphed.
And you are one of those madcap competitors. Welcome to Thoughtdeath.
The rewards are huge. A new life, power, fame, enough money to buy a new life... the desperate came from the entire globe to California to compete. Homeless men, ex-mercenaries, crazed psychotics, convicted criminals. Anyone at all, from corporate stooge to everyday Joe, they came to compete, hoping for an elusive redemption. It was something the masses clung to, hope in the mad mad world, and it soon had the largest viewing audience of any sport, ever. A bloodsport played to an epic level, worlds created and destroyed within the Dome. Only the insane competed, and only the truly unhinged triumphed.
And you are one of those madcap competitors. Welcome to Thoughtdeath.
Bacon, eggs. Baconated eggs? The rambling advertisements for QuickCo Instant Breakfast (tm) mercifully cut off as the clouds began to clear, and in the stands men and women leaned forward. From either side of the stadium, nearly a mile in diameter, tens of thousands watched with baited breath. The lensing fields amplified the distant field of combat until it was as crystal clear as any telescreen in a metropolis of civilized inhabitants. Picture-within-picture goggles, purchased by the more savvy of spectators, began displaying overhead shots from the camera swarm, each position within the swarm sold for enough money to feed a small country - all in the pursuit of bloodshed.
Arcs of energy flashed dimly underneath the island that appeared once the enshrouding mists disappeared, the electrified floor of the arena packing enough of a punch to turn a man to just so much charred bone at a touch. There were dangerous participants in any Thoughtdeath, folks who might think of rushing the audience to make a point. Seeing the odd madman get vaporized was just part of the show these days, and bookies made good credits trying to signpost the exact minute and provenance of the first runner. Some years there were none, but that was still good for the men who ran the auction houses - for the house never lost in truth.
A shudder went through the audience, and the millions or billions glued to their sets in the comfort of their own homes, in bars, in spectator auditoriums. The whine of the elevators came distinctly through the loudspeakers, and then they emerged - the lucky eight chosen for this first Match! Forcecages emerged from the ground, each holding a bloodthirsty combatant in a diffident gray jumpsuit. Some of the jumpsuits were emblazoned with maker's marks, full arm advertisements for home goods, weapon corporations, mercenary outfits, even high class bordellos. They were mostly unmarked though - the organizers of the competition preferred to keep things minimal by the standards of the corporate guilds, to heighten the genuine nature of the clash of blood and bone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, spectators and contestants, let me be the first to welcome you to this, our first match of the new season of Thoughtdeath!"
In the distance the contestants could hear a dull ocean of cheers, a sound that must have been deafening in the stands. Bloodsport had taken the world by storm in a way any sport of the last century could only dream, and was wildly popular.
"The rules of this match are simple- the last man (or woman) standing is our victor! This is an initial team non-elimination round, so no contestants will be removed from the competition at this time. If you want a pass through the Tank though, or a shot at the final prize, you best get killing!
"Two teams enter. One team leaves. We've left a resuscitation pad on either one of your side-islands which you'll want to claim! Every five minutes it will bring back one of your team-members if they fall - and there are two claimable autoturrets in the middle of the map to spend those bodies claiming heh."
"Team North, to fill out your numbers, you get the venerable Brobot of much fame to soak up some bullets. Your time limit will be one hour, South, North."
The chanting came from the crowd crying out the machine's name, an android of particularly dubious provenance who was apparently a crowd favorite. How exactly the Thoughtdeath corporation had managed to make an AI compatible with the IMSA was one of the better kept secrets of the competition, but they usually didn't enable those protocols until later in a competition. The announcer continued, his voice rising to a near shout.
"Fight to the death! Fight to be the best! Slaughter all the rest! On my mark!
Ready.
Set.
Go!"
The force-walls fell, and the contestants looked about themselves, ready for anything.
