A Tragicomic Duel: The Maiden of Stars vs. The Blizzard of Idiocy. Part 8 (By Robert Burns and Elijah Kopp)

SCENE I. A Desolate Snowy Plain near the Frontier.

(Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. They are clad in oversized, rusted plate armor that clanks rhythmically. They are shivering violently. GUILDENSTERN holds a map upside down; ROSENCRANTZ brandishes a wooden practice sword he has painted silver.)

GUILDENSTERN

Hark, Rosencrantz! The Prince Fortinbras—bless his chiseled jaw and superior jawline—hath commanded us to guard this pass. We are the "Elite Vanguard." We are "Max-Level." I feel the "Aura" flowing through my very greaves!

ROSENCRANTZ

Indeed! We have prepared, Guildenstern! I have eaten a very large potato for a stamina buff, and I have practiced my "Mogging" face in a frozen puddle for three hours. Ophelia shall find no purchase here!

(Enter OPHELIA. She floats three inches above the snow, her celestial raiment now a piercing, glacial diamond-blue. Her tome, Missiletainn, is encased in a shell of spinning ice crystals. She looks bored.)

OPHELIA

(Voice echoing like a cracking glacier)

Still you persist? The twin barnacles upon the hull of existence! I seek the Prince of Brain-Rot, he who keeps the Lord Hamlet captive in a cage of "Sigma" illusions. Move, or be erased from the very footnotes of history.

GUILDENSTERN

(Attempting a "Mogging" pose but accidentally locking his neck into a painful cramp)

Stay thy hand, OP-helia! We have studied thy "meta"! We have... we have... Rosencrantz, do the thing!

ROSENCRANTZ

(Nodding fiercely)

Behold our ultimate counter-stratagem! The Synchronized Turtle!

(They attempt to lock shields, but ROSENCRANTZ trips on a snowbank and falls face-first into GUILDENSTERN’S midsection. They become a tangled heap of metal and wool, sliding helplessly toward Ophelia like a discarded sled.)

OPHELIA

(Looking down at them with profound pity)

You are not even a challenge; you are a hardware malfunction. You speak of "Preparation," yet you cannot even defeat the force of gravity. I shall grant you a cold mercy.

GUILDENSTERN

(Muffled, from beneath Rosencrantz’s boot)

Wait! I have not yet activated my—!

OPHELIA

(Lifting Missiletainn; the snow begins to swirl upward in a violent, glowing vortex)

Silence! The heavens do not negotiate with "Low-Tier" trash! Taste the absolute zero of my indifference! Behold the Galactic Permafrost of the Unwritten Scroll!

[Alarum. A massive pillar of violet frost and starlight blasts from the book. The snow erupts into a blizzard so dense it obscures the sun. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are spun upward, their armor clattering like silverware in a dryer.]

ROSENCRANTZ

(Spinning through the air)

O! My "Aura" is leaking! The cold... it is very chilly, Guildenstern!

GUILDENSTERN

(Flying past him)

I have forgotten how to breathe! My stats! My precious stats are resetting to zero!

OPHELIA

(Casting a final, crushing wave of Luminary energy)

"I have edited the script, and thou art but a typo!"

[With a thunderous CRACK, the duo is blasted across the horizon, two streaks of light disappearing toward the distant mountains.]

OPHELIA

(Dusting a stray snowflake off her sleeve)

Fools. They brought a butter knife to a supernova. Now, the path to Fortinbras lies open. His "Army" is but a collection of pixels waiting to be deleted.

(She turns toward the massive, dark silhouette of Fortinbras’s Castle on the horizon.)

OPHELIA

Hamlet, wait for me. I shall break thy "Mewing" streak with the hammer of reality.