"The Head Has Spoken"
Chaos was erupting in the hallowed Halls of Judgement. For years upon countless years, men tested their mettle against each other in sprawling battlegrounds dedicated to the most primal of instincts, War. War has and always will prevail in humanity, so the original Judges felt it was prudent to funnel such urges onto a set of fields where people could either fight each other or an ancient species that once threatened humanity. However, one tribe had found a way to almost cheat the system, a system which has been in place for a long time. Such a transgression, while known to the other tribes as a possibility, had riled the councils and the battleground was voted to become disposed of in a manner befitting the wild chapodecima jaroslavus. I took it upon myself to visit one of the ancients to find a solution.
In his office were aging relics from a time almost forgotten. I circled around the room for awhile, before the host entered. He was decorated with the skulls of the fallen, all those whom he bested in battle. Of course, this world, you could live forever, and if you were slain, then you'd just come back. Some sort of alien technology, I reasoned. However, the skulls were of those who had great skill, but none were greater. Except one, but he now lives on an island retreat, having sex with the locals whom considered him a demigod owing to his 3 arms. The potent one, he was called. But no matter.
"Why have you entered my office without an appointment? I do not take kindly to disturbances of this nature. Speak, and speak quickly, for I have little patience for those who unearth me from my slumber," he declared.
"There's a problem with one of the latest battle arenas," I established.
"That matters not to me. They have long since forsaken me and my methods. And besides, I don't deal with the mortal realm and their petty qualms about capturing oddly shaped relics from an age long lost to the annals of time."
"As the Jeffersonian, I feel you're obliged to know that they're voting to borrow one of your features from your patented battle arena."
"Oh? I'm listening."
So there, I laid out the proposal. There was an issue with an arena, one where a stalemate could occur. It wasn't an easy thing to pull off, but it was an even harder situation to break. The Jeffersonian, last of his noble race, had access to ancient and semi-forbidden technologies. One was a transient shapeshifting technology, reknown to turn even the most hardened of Battle Marine steel to any sort of material, including, but not limited to, raw fires or toxic sludge. It was a brilliant plan, but one that was risky to pull off without a plan B. So, the Jeffersonian, in his infinite wisdom, opted for a simple theft of all objects in the battle arena that could hamper a counterattack to the capture of a relic. It was a flawless plan, as deemed by the Jeffersonian. One Week Later
My travels to the Halls of Judgement yielded only a video capsule to show for my efforts. The head of the Council sent his emotionless proxy known only as "HatNub" to deliver the holographic news. Business as usual then. The Council head rarely ever shows himself personally, preferring to use his robotic companions to deliver final verdicts.
The Jeffersonian was waiting for the news.
"Have you any news of the council?" he questioned.
"Only this," and I handed him the capsule.
He quickly inserted it into a hologram player. An image that was glaring with reflected light from an overly polished scalp. An impressive feat, since the sun had already started to undergo heat death. I was somewhat taken aback, since almost no one had even seen the face of the Head Judge. He was grinning in an almost infuriating manner, dripping with venomous disrespect.
"Yo, ya fuckin jabroni! I hear people still had a glancing thought about ya, so here's what I'm gonna do about this. Ya see that idea you had, I thought about it, and then I decided that all yer ideas are shit, and we're just gonna scrap the arena altogether! I gotta hand it to ya, Kistus, yer lava floors idea made us laugh like hell. Peace out, homes. Maybe ya can be relevant some other time! Enjoy the care package included."
The hologram dissipated in a cloud of pure Rogainum. At that moment, the Jeffersonian caught what could only be described as ebola and powerful schizophrenia, as he started to bleed from the eyes and eat his own fecal matter. Such an attack means little to the battle-hardened immortals of the Arenas like us, but the insult will still sting as he resurrects. I shook my head as I realized the quibbling tribesmens' whines and cries have just overturned decades of established commandments. Without a glance backwards, I put my cloak back on and set off for the Arenas. The Judgement of the head of the councils was unquestionable. The tribes will have their wish. For now.