Forward: This was a joke. No, really. It was Sunday night at Katsukon 9 and Rob quipped that if we were stuck in the hotel much longer we would be running around in loincloths and warpaint like something out of "The Lord of the Flies." Rule No. 1: never visualize. That image stuck in my head. Three hours sleep and then a five-hour drive through the remains of the blizzard of the decade can do that to a guy. And with a fever of 100.5. ---- This is the con that never ends... "Post-Otakulypse" 1.2 A joke taken much too far. Copyright (c) 2000 rivetsandsteam.com Have you ever wondered what would happen if the convention ended but no one could leave? SnowKatCon 9.1: Day 27. Should future otaku find these files you must understand: it wasn't our fault. Under the stress, many retreated into their coslay personas. Others became liberated by the lack of traditional social constraints. Some just freaked. A J-Pop fishnet boy in a fetal position crying his eyes out is an uncomfortable thing to behold. Especially when his mascara runs. Many tried to "Make It Home" in the first week. Some made it and reported in while the phones were still working. All but five of the hotel staff fled into the snow-filled night early on day three. Guess they wanted to die at home. The next day Peacebonds came off the props just after a rash of attacks that were attributed to cosplay pose theft retribution. What I was back when the world was more than two-dozen some-odd levels of suites and conference rooms is unimportant. What I have become sickens me. It's amazing what you can rationalize to survive. My birth name is no longer used. They now call me "The Axe". More of a title or a warning than it is a proper noun and given to me for the simple fact that some pieces of fire safety equipment are very versatile. May I draw your attention to the large, spiky bit on the back? Unlike most of the warrior caste, my training was medieval European. Very Lodoss War. Honed with axe and shield, sword and spear, out on the tourney field - not in the dojo. Admittedly they were blunt, rattan weapons, but the technique transfers easily enough. No offence to the Street Fighters, but a shieldwall with spears in the second line is devastating in the narrow corridors and access tunnels of this snowbound tomb. With the capture of the previous commander, I am now leader the Jigens, a warband of the Lupin Tribe, which dominates floors four thru seven under the domain of Warlord Neo. I've got some real anti-heroes in long, black coats, but, dammit, other than Neo's personal guard, they're the nastiest group of yaros around. Though I do not have the ritual scars of a veteran cosplayer, I still have their respect. Even the council of The Family will listen my words, though not necessarily like what they hear. The collection of badges torn from my victims' bodies speaks for me. Attendee, staff, panelists, guests and even a few security. They all fell before The Axe, though by universal agreement paramedics and techies enjoy immunity to all depravations. The white, frozen death is still accumulating. If power fails completely, the lobby, second and third floors will have to be abandoned, though patrols must be maintained. I'm amazed that the glass walls have held out this long. You can still see some of the bodies on the outside, huddled against the fire doors, frozen solid and buried under 17 feet of ever compressing snow. That was the fate of all who couldn't follow the rules of the con: badge surrendered and bodily removed from the hotel. We have enough "volunteers" to further consolidate resources without too much effort, but heat is going to be a problem. We're running out of cars in the underground valet parking to siphon the precious juice to maintain the jury- rigged emergency generators. I'm reminded of scenes from old WWII submarine movies. There was always a problem in the engine room. The tunnel dug through the snow linking the hotel to the deli across the street needs to be reinforced. Again. As much as we all dread the idea, the exodus into the unknown labyrinth beneath this dead city is inevitable. It is the tenth day since anything has been heard from the remains of con-ops. Security no longer does recon missions. Rumors about Con-Chair abound. The Staff room has been nailed shut. Their last act was sending a group of brave folk to their icy deaths so they could try to get to a working phone, an operational cell tower or, heck, a police station or hospital. Snowshoes out of seat cushions. My guess is the National Guard simply shot them on sight after martial law was declared. We have an alliance with the Utenas and will most likely combine our peoples into a single tribe. Always liked that show. Once the skit of unification is written and (hopefully) rehearsed, a cosplay will be held down in main programming. After all the aspects are judged, the awards ceremony will take place. If all goes well: best in show. Then the dance! Doom-doom-doom-doom... The last holdouts of the Industry Professionals have decided to join us. Some of them are still suffering from the DTs when the booze ran out. We had a few who leapt off the third floor balcony down several stories into the artists' alley. These simple acts of surrender to the uncaring universe set the tone for the rest of the con. Even I shuddered, and I'm a big fan of railing kills. The Sailor Tribe is still reeling from the attack of three days ago. They gave as good as they got but had to withdraw from the outer stairwell on the 10th floor. A brave Tuxedo Mask fell that day, saving his ladylove. We have no treaty with them, but we couldn't just sit there. By the time we were able to get the Jigens up the steps to rally their routing lines back to the scene of battle, there was nothing but splashes of blood across the cinderblocks. No bodies were found. When we got the survivors back, Neo slapped me around for disobeying orders. Had to, otherwise his authority would crumble. Who would mess with the guy who smacks The Axe around? Later, he took me aside and said he would have run off and done it himself, but he cannot do everything, can he? He's so tired. The DDR Tribe is grousing about electrical rationing for the third time in as many days. They were told they could climb to the top floor if they didn't like it. Some of them would work for anyone with an active power supply. The CCG tribe just sits back and chuckles. The RPG Tribe went paper and pencil long ago, though there are still some questions on rules compatibility between the various systems and editions. And then there's the occasional "house rules" brawl. The Gundam Tribe shattered this afternoon. It was messy. The Universal Century purists want nothing to do with alternate timeline folks. The inclusion of Double Zeta was tenuous at best and voted in by only the narrowest of margins. G-Gundam individuals fled to the Street Fighters, only to get they armored skirt plates spanked. Nobody wanted the V-Gundam people. Wing ladies scattered between the Slash and Leather Tribes. The few F-91 fans decided to recant their dubious beliefs and embrace the One Year War. The Turn-A crew (all three of them) has not been seen since. Thank Go Nagi I'm an old-school super-robot fan. One of the few Chobits left on-site has hooked up with me. We shall see how it goes. Exotic Girlfriends can be so fickle. Will she tend my wounds or snag my swag and snare another fanboy? Maybe she's just attracted to my big, throbbing promotion? Ouch. She just hit me. That's what you get for reading over my shoulder. Ouch. She hit me, again. Now she's pouting. 'scuse us for a bit, folks. Now, where was I? Recent raids above the 15th floor have penetrated - Ouch - into the dark realm of the Hentai Plushie Imperium. It's dark because their power was shut off once we switched to emergency generators. Their vending machines are bare; the violated dispensers of zero nutritional value goodies left silently screaming with teeth of jagged glass. We stripped all of ours clean in one concerted effort over two weeks ago and used the husks for barricades. Fortunately, Mini- Rob and his troops are good at sneaking; otherwise all that trash crunching underfoot would have alerted even the dumbest guard. Go Nagi, the smell! I'll never feel clean again. Just moments ago, one of our spies have sent a disturbing report back from the The Top, the once outrageously expensive restaurant on the 19th floor that is now the personal domain of the Overfiend. Prisoner population is dwindling. His minions have started referring to those captured in battle as "Menchi's". Tomorrow, Neo will approach the Council of Chiefs. Going to try one last time to organize the oblivious egocentrics into one army to take The Top from the smelly bastards. We don't want them to follow us down into the tunnels and attack the flanks of the evacuation column. It must end now. A piece of advice: never -NEVER- trust a Fujiko. It was well past checkout time. We should have left hours ago. It started to snow. "One last game of Settlers before we hit the road," she said. "What harm could it do?" End.