allstarz | week 0 execution

Entry tags:

!execution

week 0 execution

W0: EXECUTION

In the morning at 12:30pm sharp, you hear the intercom speakers blare loudly across the entire airport, perfectly audible no matter where you are.

All passengers, please report to the Flight Deck effective immediately. All passengers, please report to the Flight Deck effective immediately...

Hopefully that’s not quite as long a trek as Saturday for you. All the same, you are propelled by that same sensation to come to the Flight Deck. Your feet carry you past that glass doors onto the outdoor terrace, where the benches and quaint planters await. Why, it’d look almost serene if not for the fact that one of you appears to be missing. There’s really only one place they could be, isn’t there? Your gaze might eventually settle over the runway you can see out below—the view is great from up here.

While you're not forcibly rooted to your seats, there's no way out. The glass doors close behind the last person and refuse to budge, and the viewing glass is just as unbreakable. As for any open areas, the invisible forcefield is working so very hard on this Sunday.

Oh, and because I’m sure this is the most pressing question on your mind: yes, Allstars Coffee is still serving hot beverages and small baked eats, even during execution. That’s what you need during stressful situations, right? More commemoration ASS caffeine? Yes, we thought so. You’re welcome.

In just a few minutes, the combatants approach, as helpful screens light up to further help you understand today's proceedings.

CULPRIT

EXECUTIONER

Allstars——prepare for sendoff!!

NAVIGATION; (FULL NAV)

INFO

PLAYER STATUSES IC PROFILES MURDER PROPOSALS CYOA SIGN-UPS

SETTING

NPC AUDIENCES LOCATIONS ROOMING CURFEW

REPORTING

PC TURN-IN MOD REPORTING EVENT TURN-IN VOTING

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ a gust of wind blows, sweeping up a thick cloud of dust over the runway. boothill steps onto the dirt and concrete behind it, his long hair and red scarf waving and twisting in the air. his spurs jangle with every step and crunch of pavement beneath his heels. his hat stays perfectly on his head.

he doesn't look at the audience, but they definitely want to look at him—and how the environment around him abberates, glitches, refracts bright neon colors that shouldn't be there. he doesn't seem to notice them or he completely ignores them.

ANGER. VOLATILITY. DRAMA. DEFIANCE.

these are some of the many colors that appear, but these outshine the rest, flashing in sharp, crisp bars that disappear in a blink.

boothill calls out across the runway to his executioner. his eye is still glowing red, and his teeth flash in an bitter, angry smile. in a deep, tinny voice: ]

Let's duel.

[ his executioner is silent for a long time, but that's probably because his executioner is being a bit reluctant for a long moment - hesitating to step out onto the runway. Out of cover. A fool's move, for a mage. Eventually he does emerge, doing his best to not show any further fear or hesitation. what must be done, must be done. the wind ruffles all the black feathers along his coat, not looking nearly so elegantly dramatic. more like a slightly irritated crow.

he does stop to glance at the audience, and then the dazzling array of colors, the shifting abberations - `the fade?` not quite. there's a strange, silver flash at his ear as he turns, hands twisting at his front like he's wishing deeply for something familiar that he feels extremely and almost helpless without. ]

Not exactly my thing, Boothill. I take it you're still entirely out of your mind?

[ apparently he hasn't learned anything from last time, and will be egging on the violent, crazy guy. ]

Edited 2025-06-08 17:27 (UTC)

[ at the other end of the runway, boothill is already stalking forward towards the dark, feathered figure standing saintlike at the other end, hunched, hands clasped. the colors continue to flash, climbing over the air around boothill, spreading through the floor.

his cold, iron hand reaches down to the holster at his thigh. it spins out his revolver in neat circles until he holds it beside his head, barrel pointed to the sky. his other hand is still at his side, fingers rolling into a fist.

boothill's emotions roil inside of his body like an angry sea. he can hardly contain it when he looks straight at anders, the crosshairs in his eye aiming true.

he doesn't say anything. he just comes closer, holding his gun. ]

Edited 2025-06-08 17:36 (UTC)

I meant what I said, before. You do not deserve this. This is an injustice upon you as well. This will not stand.

[ his eyes watch the revolver and he starts to step back, glancing to see if there's absolutely anywhere he can take a dive behind - shoulders tightening again, flexing his fingers like a test of something. there's a roiling anger beneath his expression too, though none of the corresponding color and feverpitch power, only venom and bile.

and also some actual real bile taste in the back of his mouth, because as boothill gets closer he will definitely see the face of someone who is suffering from a hard night. uh-oh. should be careful going too hard in the lounge, boys, you never know what the morning will bring. there's a crackle of something at the edge of his fingers. ]

Going to shoot me next?

[ a warning shot. the bullet fires quickly in the air, the pop and bang ringing in everyone's listening ear, commanding attention. he is not afraid to shoot, no matter what anders has at his fingers.

the colors follow the trajectory of the bullet, glitching in shapes now rather than flickering bars, like light reflecting off a spinning prism.

when boothill finally opens his mouth, it feels like all of the rage flying out of him. ]

Don't you forkin' lecture me. I've had it with your long-winded, fudge-headed nonsense.

[ fudge this. fork all of this. he wants to go home. he's sick of being laughed at. he's sick of being told things he doesn't care about, being somewhere he doesn't understand. the prism's architecture and archways are foreign to him. the fact that emotions refract is not his fault. he wants to go home, and he needs something to sate that desire. shooting is what he knows best. ]

When it's time to shoot, quit yappin'!

[ in a flash, his gun drops to his hip, his other hand pulls back the safety, and halfway across the runway, boothill fires a flurry of perfectly-aimed bullets at anders. ]

[ isn't it everyone's dream to just fucking start shooting anders when he starts gearing up for yet another rant? oh to be boothill right now, living our dearest wish.

wouldn't we all rather be at home right now? isn't that what was earned, what was taken? instead they are here, and now, back again in some horrific arena and screaming in the wind at each other. again. benchmarks after benchmarks.

he's a bit slow on the draw becuase of the grogginess and some of the faint, throbbing pain still radiating from the side of his head - ducking to one side as a bullet whizzes by enough to take out some of the feathers at his shoulder and letting out a real, proper: ]

Fuck--

[at least it's shut him up? and then he swings a hand around in a practiced motion, gripping a worn, wooden staff with a heavy and nasty looking hunk of metal at one end, tied with a red ribbon. the end swings, scraping along the pavement of the runway with sparks - projecting a shimmering shield of arcane magic that pulses as each bullet hits it, flinching with the effort. already the shield starts to crack like glass. ]

If you want a fight, you have it, nughumping idiot!

[ i also have silly cursing. we can do this all day. ALL DAY. ]

[ silly cursing standoff. whoever gives the worst diss explodes the other immediately. execution over

nothing hits. his bullets glance off of that shimmering shield with sunspots of color and disappear in the air. boothill's single eye widens, rounds out. his pupil shines brighter, burning into different shades of red and pink. the rage gets so much worse. his bitter smile disappears, his frown spread like the slash of a knife across his face. ]

Bring it on, forker!

[ he will not win the diss war, but he will, surprisingly, holster his gun and charge forward.

this is all so familiar. he remembers being picked up off the ground in a graveyard by long tendrils sprouting from his back. he remembers his adversary, blurred in an angry stain of red, large hands gripping an unlit metal torch.

this is all memory. in reality, against anders and for everyone in the flight deck to see, boothill reels both hands back behind him, over one side. in a flash of colors, something is suddenly in his grip:

a chainsaw, revved and shaking like an angry animal. it's different from the one totty and kate have seen, and this one is painted in bright, childlike colors despite its menacing teeth.

the colors are a blur of brown as he swipes the chainsaw upward, taking off anders' forearm with the force of the swing. ]

Edited 2025-06-08 18:23 (UTC)

[ haha! oops. fucked around and found out.

there's only a brief moment of genuine shock and fear and pain - sending him stumbling back and watching as his hand his entire fucking hand go skittering off across the tarmac, still gripping the staff as it rolls off useless.

so much for that. he goes entirely pale, bleeding profusely - soaking into the black coat and dripping down on his boots.

aren't cycles funny like that. he'd hesitated before, been nearly killed for the moment of oh-so-very human reluctance. it has always been his flaw. his weakness. by himself, he is a coward, intent on only his own freedom. his own salvation. to be alone is to be the worst version of himself.

anders eyes roll back into his head and he stumbles and starts to fall, in the motion of a body passing out in either pain or shock, and getting suddenly caught in the strings of a new puppet master. it's not the same sort of transformation he's had before - carried off by a rage and changing into a warrior - but more of a forceful shove out of the way. if anders will not protect himself, then someone else will. it's a blinding flash - his eyes begin with glow with an eerie blue light, skin beginning to burn and crackling with it, splitting. lyrium bright and ozone sharp, like the body can't quite contain everything within it - spilling out like a violent force. abomination.

every movement is slightly inhuman, overextended, with no fear or resistance caused by weak human fragility. ]

I will not let you harm him! You will submit to your judgment!

[ cycles, cycles.

leaping at him, bodily, with a completely monstrous howl - with much more force than you'd expect one skinny mage to have - the one remaining hand going to tear at wherever he can, sending a lightning shock through it with all the power it can muster. ]

[ the weight of the chainsaw swings boothill with it with no tendrils to bolster him and counterbalance it. the slice and the carnage afterward released some of that rage, but not all of it. not enough of it. then he sees that hand rolling and sliding off elsewhere, the staff clattering in its grip.

it's devastatingly familiar all over again, and it stops boothill in his tracks, the chainsaw like dead weight in his hands. shapes flash in the air in different colors, but the primary ones are different this time. CONFUSION. DELUSION. DENIAL. REMORSE?

anders has only that moment of reprieve to stagger backward, for that possession to take hold and grasp him in its steely strings. boothill's attention snaps back to anders as soon as the air flashes brightly, briefly blinding him. he throws his arm over his eyes to shield his vision before he hears the crackling fire and spitting threads of blue lightning skipping over anders' body.

the air charged with shades of red again. justice is here. boothill wants him dead for ruining his rage. ]

Get outta my way!

[ and he charges forward again even as anders, with his body bigger than all of theirs, leaps at him. boothill has no sense to dodge the lightning from his single hand as he swings the chainsaw again—this time intending to slice anders fully in half. ]

Edited 2025-06-08 19:03 (UTC)

[ get out of the way? Boothill is now the one in the way of Justice. Of true justice. This is penance. Boothill has ceased to matter in the face of the cause, a small thing - remorse is a human’s folly, no matter the metal shell surrounding it. This is now bigger than just him, driven mad by whatever force is attempting to exert its will. The true cause of Revenge. On every Templar, every holy sister, every executioner and demon and god and Host and Auditor - anyone who dares to stand in the way of vengeance will be destroyed, and Boothill is simply the first thing in the way. It is elation to see the face of it. To feel it so clearly, after so much time sleepwalking towards foolish attempts at things like peace, contentment with a life that has no meaning beyond the next day.

it must the closest thing he has felt to true joy since the explosion at the Chantry. Fulfillment. Purpose.

the chainsaw swings towards him, barely bites into the flesh, but he does not flinch or pull because he is not of mortal men, not slowed by injury or regret, or anything like mercy or kindness. it’s too late for any of that now. he is a monster and he will do as monsters do. a spirit. a demon.

you need two hands for proper magic, but this is not magic as much as it is something deeper, more primal. the Fade itself - or whatever passes for it here. he reaches out with his remaining hand to arrest the swing of Boothill’s arm - grip solid and heavy as steel and pours fire out of it, enough to scorch the ground, enveloping both the chainsaw and Boothill’s arm, burning with more heat than the sun.

it doesn’t so much break as shatter into molten, metallic shards - leaving red hot streaks into the ground below and flicking at the edges of his coat, and drawing lines across exposed skin without a flicker of pain. ]

It is useless. Submit.

[ in some other time, boothill and justice would have found common ground. the words are written on his profile for everyone to see: revenge needs no excuse. despite his aloofness and optimism and recklessness, boothill approaches his revenge on the man who took his world away with meticulousness, having backup plan upon backup plan, all to savor that one moment where his vengeance is finally brought down on oswaldo schneider's head.

righteousness. justice. meting out punishment through individual action. these are tenets of being a galaxy ranger. he and justice might have agreed on things if boothill had held out a little longer. neither of them are so lucky.

boothill's arm, caught in justice's grip, immediately melts off at the wrist. his hand drops to the ground, a metal band with its jeweled head still flashing on his ring finger. the chainsaw shatters into fractals and shimmers out of sight. boothill yells out into the air, his voice full of crackling electricity. his arm cracks and sputters, blue liquid pouring from whatever crevice isn't melted off. he falls backward, catches himself before he can hit the ground, and staggers onto his feet.

the blue liquid pouring out of him changes. red. blue. orange. green.

in an angry bolt of DEFIANCE, boothill yells again, losing all sense of the world around him as he wheels around and tries to kick justice in the head with the spur on his heel. ]

Edited 2025-06-08 19:31 (UTC)

[ they probably would have. justice is strange and violent and off-putting - but he has his appeals. it can be a wonderful dream, to want justice in the world. to imagine what it would look like. where there is equality and fairness, and no one is taken from their families and made to kill for the entertainment of it. but justice is not as beautiful a concept as the stories can say, the truth can look like this. bloody and brutal for no reason but being in the wrong place at the wrong time, to be the wrong person in a world that eats and eats and eats.

his arm with the missing hand is hanging somewhat uselessly by his side, still bleeding heavily, and what skin can be seen on his face is pale and wan. but it wouldn't be the first time Justice has steered a Grey Warden corpse. the kick is heavy enough to move him, if only because boothill's weight and strength, but he reaches over with his remaining hand and grabs him by the leg - swinging him around with both that supernatural, monstrous strength, and also maybe some Telekinesis - sending boothill flying into the side of a nearby airplane with a crunch of metal. ]

Enough.

Edited 2025-06-08 19:46 (UTC)

[ it happens faster than an enraged, short-circuiting, dizzyingly dissociated mind can comprehend. another memory reaches the surface: how a few days ago, he was delightedly marveling at how south could somehow pick him up when they hugged. today, justice grabs him by the leg and pitches him across the runway.

boothill doesn't know what he hits. he collides with something hard, first with the back of his metal skull and then with the rest of his body. colors erupt from him, again in larger fractals, blindly opaque. it feels like his entire body has blown outward.

the impact is almost explosive, but it doesn't erupt the plane in its entirety. instead it's bent from the impact, the hull broken open on its side. boothill, or what's left of his almost decimated body, slides to the ground: limbs fallen apart, torso busted open with bits of iron and metal blown to pieces, wires hanging out of him with the ends in sparking strings. liquid pours out of him in different colors.

the colors that flash through the air are fading. propped up against a sheet of broken metal, his head still attached to his body yet bleeding profusely, he looks at anders if he approaches, wherever he is. from beneath his broken metal shell, there is a pulsing—the beating of a human heart, desperately clinging to life.

the red behind boothill's single eye has faded. his looks down briefly towards his own chest. his voice breaks as he speaks, full of eerie static: ]

Get it over with, Magic Man. You know what to do.

[ the last time he had done this, he had fought justice out of the way, pushed his way back to control. to make sure he did it himself. to offer to hawke the only act of love remaining to him. a mercy for a mind too far gone, the same as once had been provided for him.

the eerie blue light seems to fade out of anders as well, leaving him stumbling - barely staying upright as he makes his way over to stand by boothill and whatever remains of his broken body. it's not as if anders is doing much better. his body is made to do none of these things, not made to withstand that heat of the primal fade, or use itself as a shield. it feels pain and regret and fear. he shudders as he summons the dredges of his mana to heal just enough to stay awake, alive. keep the body moving long enough to end it.

he remembers asking boothill, what feels like forever ago, what he would prefer if he were to suffer this fate again. he hopes it is better, this time. that the indifference of justice to the plight of one man is cold comfort, but the only type of mercy he can provide. there's an impulse there - that he could pour what's left of his mana into trying to repair whatever this is, to put back together what he's torn apart, to do what it is a healer is supposed to do instead of whatever this is. the only thing he knows how to do. to take more life, leave more things wretched and broken, and fight the nauseating tide of what feels like elation at the carnage.

instead he nods, fumbling with his one remaining hand at the back of his belt for the knife he keeps there - hand slick with blood and struggling to grasp it. ]

I'm sorry. It's too late for us. May you see justice in the next life.

[ collapsing to his knees and driving it right into the beating heart. ]

[ there are so many warnings and errors going off in boothill's neurocircuitry—systems failing, losing energy, losing cognitive processing. even so, a ridiculous thought comes to mind as anders' shadow rises over him: that the shade feels blessedly cooling on his face, where his sensors can still register the faintest of changes in temperature. it's the smallest bit of comfort he gets while answers speaks, telling him to find justice in the next life.

justice. more colors flash, fainter than last time. DESPAIR. SORROW. REMORSE. REGRET. does he deserve justice at this point? killing twice on the first week? maybe roxana, real roxana and not the one from his strange and fading memories of the prism, was right. maybe he was always fated to be corrupted this way.

boothill's chin falls to his shoulder when he can no longer hold it up. there's a thump on the ground next to him. the knife dives into the crack over his breastplate, the place where his heart lies exposed.

out in the runway a few meters off, in the direction where boothill's eye is pointing, a toddler sits in a small circle of grass, out of place in the middle of the pavement. she wears a red bandana over her little clothes, and her hair thin and curly near her head. a hand-carved guitar, perfectly sized for her body, lies halfway on her chubby legs. she hits the strings with her hands and laughs delightedly at the light, discordant sounds it makes. then she looks directly at boothill as he dies beside anders and gives him a big grin, her bubblegum-pink gums showing little bits of baby teeth.

LOVE. GRIEF. TRUST. ACCEPTANCE.

boothill smiles at her and she disappears, eaten up by flames like a piece of parchment. he dies this way, colored blood pouring out of him, the light going out behind his eyes entirely.

Boot of the Hill is dead. ]