"Are we really sure about this one?" number five spoke up. She seemed...somehow hesitant and unsure as she fidgeted, turning to look about the ostentatious meeting room. It was rare that so many of the higher ups gathered together like this, especially without the Man in Red himself being physically present to call the shots and keep the meeting on track. The actual reason for the gathering was just paranoia frosting on the anxiety cake. "With the state most of them are in, I mean. It isn't going to really be--"
"Now, now, let's not have such negative talk!" Number ten chirped, smoothing down his delicately-styled cravat. "Wounded and exhausted or not, you should know quite well the sheer power of...dogged perseverance and stubborn pride."
"Besides," number nineteen spoke up, her voice frustratingly level and calm as always. "There's still a few who are in plenty good shape."
"Indeed!" Number fourteen burst into a round of raucous laughing and applause all by herself. "The show must, and will, go on! And it will have a truly spectacular conclusion!"
Number sixteen cackled, twirling and tossing his cane from hand to hand. "Oh, to be sure, to be sure; it will be a showdown for the ages. It isn't often our dear overlord, the Manificent Masked Douchebag himself, lets us out to have a little unregulated fun!"
"Remember, now," Number seven interjected. "We do still have to make this a show. In spite of everything else, we have to ensure it all looks good for the cameras."
"Affirmative." Number three's delicate, artificially modulated and synthesized tone spoke up. "Priority: Showmanship. Secondary: Wanton slaughter."
"Oi, oi, hold on, now!" Number eight slammed his hands on the table they were all arrayed around. "We can't just go in there and start wrecking house! We're all gonna be fresh and well-rested, ready to go; even the guys who haven't been too banged up ain't gonna be in great shape, let alone everybody else!"
"....he has a point," number eighteen spoke up, sounding reluctant to admit it. "If we were to go in and fight like normally, it wouldn't exactly be fair."
"A proposal, then," number four cut in, the smirk sliding over his features betraying what he was about to suggest. "We each take a dose of power suppressant drugs. It should weaken us enough to level the playing field, even if we do fight all-out afterward."
A silence descended over the meeting room at that, as the gathered members of the Carnivale's upper echelons all traded looks and quietly whispered, murmuring among each other. It wasn't a bad idea, they all knew that much. The drugs would only be temporary, and even in the likely event some of them were bested and killed, they all had very thorough life-and-death insurance courtesy of their employment status here.
"I think it's a great idea!" number twelve said gleefully, leaning forward over the table. "We aren't trying to just murder them all, after all; we just need to provide one last, big hurdle for them, and thin their ranks a bit. So as long as we can cause some major trauma, spill some blood, maybe snap a neck or three..."
"I have no objections, either," number twenty-one added. He stroked his beard thoughtfully with one begloved hand. "I'm not fond of those drugs; the aftertaste is utterly wretched. But it is a fine alternative to our other suppression methods."
"If we went in there visibly collared, it'd set the wrong impression, anyway." Number twenty slammed a fist down on the table, scowling. "Even with their suppression nullified and their whole arsenals of bullshit back in their hands, we'd be saying we're in the same boat as them. That we're stuck playing by the rules of the game, and our heads could pop at any second." His sunglasses slid down his face slightly, exposing his eyes. "And we can't have that, now, can we?"
"Most assuredly not," number two spoke up, with a whimsical amusement to his tone. "Presentation and the way you set a stage to send a message is almost as important as the message itself, after all."
"I'm just looking forward to getting to see Coda again!" number thirteen spoke up, cheerfully. "Especially in what might be her final moments. It's been sooooo long since we got a chance to meet....wonder if she'll even remember?"
"Oh, dear," number six murmured, with a quiet chuckle. "How could anyone forget you? I'm sure all it will take is a little reminder to jog her memory, even if she has forgotten."
"Not to ruin the reunion planning or anything, here," number seventeen abruptly cut in, agitation showing plainly in her tone as much as on her face. "Where's this whole thing gonna be going down, anyway? We should probably go start getting ready."
"Aaah....well. I believe that our dear leader has elected to have it be in section eight." Number nine tilted her head back, lifting a hand to tap at her chin thoughtfully. "Or was it section eighteen...?"
"It was section eight," number eleven spoke up quietly, blowing out a thin trail of smoke around the cigarette held in his teeth. "The prep goons are already slaving away to get it set for the final showdown."
"They should be finished within a few hours, by now," number fifteen noted offhandedly. "They might be a bunch of silly dorks, but when they have a job to do, they do it. Fast."
"Very well, then." Number one finally spoke, breaking his long silence. "Everyone retire to your private quarters; take a proper dose of the power suppressants, gather your equipment and prepare to put on a show." He pushed his seat back, slowly rising up to stand. "And remember: we're supposed to be the best of the best, here. So don't throw this."
A murmuring chorus of agreement, laughter, and playful banter greeted his words as the other 'special class' employees all similarly stood up and started to file out of the room.
"Now, now, let's not have such negative talk!" Number ten chirped, smoothing down his delicately-styled cravat. "Wounded and exhausted or not, you should know quite well the sheer power of...dogged perseverance and stubborn pride."
"Besides," number nineteen spoke up, her voice frustratingly level and calm as always. "There's still a few who are in plenty good shape."
"Indeed!" Number fourteen burst into a round of raucous laughing and applause all by herself. "The show must, and will, go on! And it will have a truly spectacular conclusion!"
Number sixteen cackled, twirling and tossing his cane from hand to hand. "Oh, to be sure, to be sure; it will be a showdown for the ages. It isn't often our dear overlord, the Manificent Masked Douchebag himself, lets us out to have a little unregulated fun!"
"Remember, now," Number seven interjected. "We do still have to make this a show. In spite of everything else, we have to ensure it all looks good for the cameras."
"Affirmative." Number three's delicate, artificially modulated and synthesized tone spoke up. "Priority: Showmanship. Secondary: Wanton slaughter."
"Oi, oi, hold on, now!" Number eight slammed his hands on the table they were all arrayed around. "We can't just go in there and start wrecking house! We're all gonna be fresh and well-rested, ready to go; even the guys who haven't been too banged up ain't gonna be in great shape, let alone everybody else!"
"....he has a point," number eighteen spoke up, sounding reluctant to admit it. "If we were to go in and fight like normally, it wouldn't exactly be fair."
"A proposal, then," number four cut in, the smirk sliding over his features betraying what he was about to suggest. "We each take a dose of power suppressant drugs. It should weaken us enough to level the playing field, even if we do fight all-out afterward."
A silence descended over the meeting room at that, as the gathered members of the Carnivale's upper echelons all traded looks and quietly whispered, murmuring among each other. It wasn't a bad idea, they all knew that much. The drugs would only be temporary, and even in the likely event some of them were bested and killed, they all had very thorough life-and-death insurance courtesy of their employment status here.
"I think it's a great idea!" number twelve said gleefully, leaning forward over the table. "We aren't trying to just murder them all, after all; we just need to provide one last, big hurdle for them, and thin their ranks a bit. So as long as we can cause some major trauma, spill some blood, maybe snap a neck or three..."
"I have no objections, either," number twenty-one added. He stroked his beard thoughtfully with one begloved hand. "I'm not fond of those drugs; the aftertaste is utterly wretched. But it is a fine alternative to our other suppression methods."
"If we went in there visibly collared, it'd set the wrong impression, anyway." Number twenty slammed a fist down on the table, scowling. "Even with their suppression nullified and their whole arsenals of bullshit back in their hands, we'd be saying we're in the same boat as them. That we're stuck playing by the rules of the game, and our heads could pop at any second." His sunglasses slid down his face slightly, exposing his eyes. "And we can't have that, now, can we?"
"Most assuredly not," number two spoke up, with a whimsical amusement to his tone. "Presentation and the way you set a stage to send a message is almost as important as the message itself, after all."
"I'm just looking forward to getting to see Coda again!" number thirteen spoke up, cheerfully. "Especially in what might be her final moments. It's been sooooo long since we got a chance to meet....wonder if she'll even remember?"
"Oh, dear," number six murmured, with a quiet chuckle. "How could anyone forget you? I'm sure all it will take is a little reminder to jog her memory, even if she has forgotten."
"Not to ruin the reunion planning or anything, here," number seventeen abruptly cut in, agitation showing plainly in her tone as much as on her face. "Where's this whole thing gonna be going down, anyway? We should probably go start getting ready."
"Aaah....well. I believe that our dear leader has elected to have it be in section eight." Number nine tilted her head back, lifting a hand to tap at her chin thoughtfully. "Or was it section eighteen...?"
"It was section eight," number eleven spoke up quietly, blowing out a thin trail of smoke around the cigarette held in his teeth. "The prep goons are already slaving away to get it set for the final showdown."
"They should be finished within a few hours, by now," number fifteen noted offhandedly. "They might be a bunch of silly dorks, but when they have a job to do, they do it. Fast."
"Very well, then." Number one finally spoke, breaking his long silence. "Everyone retire to your private quarters; take a proper dose of the power suppressants, gather your equipment and prepare to put on a show." He pushed his seat back, slowly rising up to stand. "And remember: we're supposed to be the best of the best, here. So don't throw this."
A murmuring chorus of agreement, laughter, and playful banter greeted his words as the other 'special class' employees all similarly stood up and started to file out of the room.