From: andsol@owlnet.rice.edu (Andrew J. Solberg)
Subject: [KQ] Kron [Factory Basement] Liquids
Organization: Rice University
Date: Sat, 5 Sep 1992 07:28:23 GMT

*Ploit*

*Plunk*

*Ploop*

Water drips down the walls of the factory basement and collects in small pools.
These catacombs and tunnels are surprisingly humid, for the Generican sewers
run close at hand, and it is rumored that there are underground rivers flowing
through the rich limestone bedrock as well.  Sinkholes are depressingly common
in Generica, and depressingly populated as well.  Needless to say, Genericans
think long and hard before digging a new well.

*Ploot*

*Plipp*

*Plubb*

Only minutes ago, this basement was the scene of a great deal of activity.
A small army of thugs, armed with vicious, fearsome practice weapons, had a
most unfortunate encounter with real and deadly opponents.  The previous
minute also featured a number of freaked-out guards and the odd assassin
or two.  In fact, the present surviving occupants of the tunnels would tell
you, were you there to ask, that the preceeding ninety seconds involved more
hack-'n-slash than an epileptic jointing a chicken.

*Plink*

*Plapp*

*Pladoop*

Now, however, it's Miller time.  Well, breather time, anyway.  The Kron-
questors, as they have begun to refer to themselves, have found the entry
to the next level.  Strange noises emanate from the trapdoor down, and
the party has wisely decided to decompress a tad before jumping into the
horse-hockey all over again.  Kron in particular is glad for the peace and
quiet.  He's not a youngster any more, and smelly holes in the ground piss
him off.

*Ploog*

*Plish*

*SPLASH*





Splash?!



Kron looks up to see dim shapes running down the hallway.  It's the daywatch
of the upper floors of the Joystix factory, and they, unlike their coworkers,
are quite ready for battle.  "Oof..." says Kron.  He throws the trap-door
wide open.  "Down, folks!  Down!"  Maleiu takes the lead, diving through the
doorway.  The others follow as javelins start to whizz overhead.  Kron ducks
a few of them and then leaps after his fellows.  On the way down, he catches
the handle to the door and pulls it closed.  Hanging by the handle of the
trapdoor, Kron pulls one of his throwing daggers and wedges it into the 
hasp of the door.  Pounding commences from above as Kron drops to the ground
and takes his first look around.

Mistake.

The sub-basement of the Joystix factory is in pure chaos.  Once an orderly
drug laboratory, it is now a disaster area.  Glass beakers and rods lie
broken on the ground.  Strange fluids flash into vapor on the floor, 
occasionally pitting the stonework.  Twisted hunks of metal and wood lie
strewn about the place.  Such destruction....could Meshtak have returned?
Nah.....

Stranger still are the current denizens of this disaster area.  Cartoon
rabbits, wolves, cats, and gunslingers engage in loud but non-lethal combat
around the principal boiler.  A large, brutish man drawn in four colors
drops a safe on a sailor with bulging muscles.  And over there -- could
that be the legendary Thundarr the Barbarian?!

With a start, Kron realizes that not all of the teeming action is comprised
of 'toons.  Under the remnants of a piping gantry, Marcel the Cyberknight
duels with a hideous skull-faced warrior.  A small tribe of cartoon indians
seem to have roped up an octopoid horror from another world and are prancing
about it happily, as 'Raelf sits nearby in a similar bind.  And in a nearby
beaker the size of an elephant....THK!  NOOOOOoooooo.....

......wait.  Yes, Thk is completely immersed in a vat of bubbling liquid.
Yes, Thk is sitting at the bottom.  Yes, he does not seem to be in a very
good spot.

No, Thk is not dead.  No, Thk is not writhing in abject agony.  No, Thk is
not floating like an overfed goldfish. 

He is standing on the bottom, staring at the party, and tapping impatiently
on the glass.

Kron moves to the tank, pulling out a slim golden cord, as the others move
to the assistance of their comrades.  "Okay, okay, lizard man.  Keep your
gills on."

Kron tentatively touches the vat -- yowch!  Too hot to meddle with.  Wait...
over in the wreckage of a workbench, Kron spots a full-arm gauntlet, used
for pulling hot specimens off etna burners.  He pulls it on to his right
hand and goes back to the vat.  He beckons to Thk, who curiously presses
himself to the glass to see what will happen.

With his left hand, Kron makes a loop of his cord.  The thread glows dimly,
and the space inside the circle turns into deep, impenetrable darkness.

Kron slaps the loop to the side of the beaker.  The fluid inside immediately
starts gushing through the loop and onto the floor.  With his gauntleted
arm, Kron reaches into the scalding fluid and grabs Thk's hand.  He yanks,
and the startled King of All Lizardkind plops wetly onto the floor of the
basement.  Kron drops the cord, and the hole in the vat suddenly ceases to
exist.  

Kron peels off the leather gauntlet, now dissolving, as Thk coughs and 
shakes most of the irritating stuff off his body.

<kaff> <kaff> "Ssssssss......I'd (sss) rather sssswim in the ssssea, 
 persssssssonally......Glgggchh...."

Kron smiles.  "You haven't seen Generica's Harbor at Low Tide."

-- 
Andrew Solberg          |"If I were your wife I'd poison your tea!" 
Undying University Mooch|              Anon. Outraged British Woman
andsol@owlnet.rice.edu  |"And if I were your husband I'd drink it!"
Phone:713-529-8627      |              Winston Churchill