Brutal. One thing I think could use some more explanation is the world it's all taking place in - it sounds like Earth, but there are orcs and psychic powers.
Quote:
Originally Posted by happyturtle
I love this story. I'd love even more to know more about the world they're in. It's fascinating the mix of orcs and real world places
I hadn't intended to reveal much information about this world in this story (it's pretty short, according to my outline.) But I think I'll write a little more about that world in general.
I still consider myself a feminist despite having a biological attraction to certain parts of female anatomy and the desire to now and again see plate metal curvaceously wrapping around their sensual forms in a cradle of cold, sumptuous, steel.
The beach is a wonderful place to sit back and enjoy the weather. She knew that as well as any girl her age. That and the break from school was all the reason she needed to go out and relax. The waves were blue, the sky was clear, and there was nothing that could ruin this day. Barring something completely ruinous, of course, but she didn’t really think about such things; leave the girl to her fantasies.
As she lay back on a particular stretch of beach, she was quite surprised to feel a small sting on her arm. She sat back up to examine her arm, but found no trace of any spot or wound. She dismissed it as nothing, and lay back down. Her short nap was enjoyable, and lasted about twenty minutes. She woke up feeling refreshed and energetic…
Dig
On a whim, but nothing more than a whim, she picked up her shovel and walked down the beach. Every once in a while she would stop and shovel a bit of sand, looking for anything that might be interesting.
Before long, she found something. A shell, she thought. It was large, and it had pointed barbs on it. It must belong to some kind of turtle, she thought, and it was easy enough to imagine the shell as the upper half of the shell from some turtle. She took it home with her with the intent to look it up on the internet when she got home.
Dig
She woke up in a cold sweat. Not from a dream or nightmare, but because her body had pulled her out of sleep quite abruptly.
Dig
She got up and walked around the house. Dig? Dig what? Why did she want to dig? What was the purpose of digging? There’s no reason to. She decided to go back to bed.
Dig
She got some clothes on, good for going out and getting dirty in. She wasn’t sure why she was going to go out and dig, only that she had to. She had to! She picked up the family’s shovel, and started out. A bit away from the forest, she stopped. This was a good place, right? This was a fine place for some midnight digging. It wasn’t enough. She had to dig more.
She stepped into the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, and grabbed some more snacks. She didn’t really expect to be back soon… she somehow knew that she had to dig a lot. She got a piece of paper and a pen, and decided to write her family a note, so they wouldn’t worry too much. Or they would worry, maybe? In any case, when she tried to write, all she could think of was to dig. She couldn’t even remember her own name, she had to dig so hard. Part of her wanted to tear into the tile of the kitchen, and from there dig and dig until she didn’t have to anymore. Words failed her. In the end, all she could scrawl on the paper was three words,
I MUST DIG
She was not back by sun-up. Her parents were in a great panic. When she was still not back by sun-down, they formed a search party. They looked all through the nearby area, but no one found anything.
She woke up the next morning, deep in the woods. She had fallen asleep in one of the holes she had dug… large enough to curl up and fall asleep in. You would think that falling asleep in a depression in the ground like that would not be very restful… apparently, it was for her. In fact, she felt better than ever… not sore nor even drowsy.
In fact, the only downside was that she was hungry… and she had eaten all the food she had brought with her. She had to… she needed the energy to dig. Without food, she realized, she would have to go back home and get more. And explain to her parents what had happened.
She was a little confused when she got home and everyone was out. Even her brother wasn’t there… where were they? She would have to go into town and look around, then. Or maybe she could stay here and-
Dig
No, she thought, I did that. I dug until I couldn’t anymore. I dug lots of holes… big holes, small holes. I don’t need to dig anymore.
Except, she did.
She packaged up more food, anything she could take with her, and went back out to the woods. There she dug more holes, travelled deeper into the woods, and dug more. She dug all day. And when night fell, she dug a big hole for herself to sleep in. And she slept; a temporary reprise from the manic need to displace large amounts of dirt.
When she awoke, she felt amazing… and hungry. She finished the food that she had brought with her, and dug a few more holes just to keep the urge down. From there, she began to get hungry again. She wanted to go back to her house and get more to eat, but something caught her eye: a wild blueberry bush.
She cleaned that bush out. It gave her the energy to go further into the forest, and dig more. She wanted to return to her home, but she had already dug near her home and it was a long way away, and she had to dig now. As the day went on, though, she got hungry again. And this time, there wasn’t any berries around to simply eat. She had to go back. She knew it.
Dig
It was no use. She just had to dig hungry. She had noticed by now that when she got hungry enough that the urge to dig was drowned out a little… but it wasn’t to that point by the time she hit the root. It was a big root, one from a tree, but not as tough as roots that grow above ground. She had come across roots earlier when she was digging; it just took a thwack or two with the shovel to cut through them. This time, however, the root gave her pause. She cut it out, and pulled it up and looked at it.
She was hungry.
No, she said to herself, she wouldn’t eat roots. It was a root! Certain insects and small mammals ate roots, sure, but she was a human. She would not eat roots. Her digestive system couldn’t take it, anyway. Roots were tough stuff! And it would taste nasty.
Once again, her body and her mind disagreed. She ate the root anyway. It tasted good, and somehow her jaw was strong enough to bite through it. It was filling, too, and it didn’t give her any digestive trouble at all. That is how she got through that day, eating roots and berries. She even tried a little tree bark. At the end of the day she dug an extra-large sleeping pit… she just felt she needed more space. As she dozed off, she mourned that she had doubtlessly gone insane.
She woke up sore. Her lower body especially, but her upper body was pretty bad-off, too. She slowly stood up, and stretched her eight legs…
What the-
She had changed during the night, turned into a bizarre, centaur-like abomination. Her lower body was similar to a scorpion, but had no stinger. The claws were still there, large and strong. She was hungry… hungry for roots and bark and whatever else she could eat. And she had to dig.
That’s when she truly went insane.
She went on for a while, digging here and there. Before long, she found that she could dig deeper and easier, now. Her claws were perfect for digging, her human body had gained muscle, and now she could spray the walls of her holes with a spray from her mouth that kept them from crumbling… and when she began to dig actual tunnels, it worked on the ceiling, too.
One day, when she was digging a tunnel, she broke into the tunnels of a group of moles. The little mammals came tumbling out, scampering around and trying to find the tunnels that they knew were here not ten minutes ago.
She killed them all. It was easy, with her claws and shovel. She killed them, and stripped their bodies of all meat. Such a feast sated her for two days. It was not the most unappetizing thing she had eaten… in fact, it was good to eat some meat.
One day, while digging a tunnel, she stopped and dug a room. After she finished the room, she realized that she could feel an end… there was just something she had to dig. A home. Tunnels and rooms, all together so they could move from one to the other. The dirt was fine here, and there wasn’t even any boulders or rocks in the ground. As she dug, she felt the goal getting closer. She would dig her home, and then she wouldn’t have to dig anymore.
This story is based on a plot I tried to run. I didn't see any reason to try starting again, but I did enough detail on the planning I didn't want to waste it. You will probably notice the lack of full explanation of why this is happening. Unfortunately, I was unable to work the full explanation in. It is possible that it will be explained IC sometime... just unlikely.
Edit:
So, a chance for self-RP came up. I wrote it for here.
CANON: Foreshadow
Spoiler
Iriel is an eldritch being, that was pulled into the Nexus due to a recent apocalypse. Not directly, but she can be traced back to the incident where the stars were right. This was the same incident in which the local benevolent Elder God, K’ra-Naggath (known to many as Zee), got bombs in her brain and was thrown into a far-coma.
Now, Iriel helped K’rax recover a bit. Recently, they had a short (short short short) chat that ended in K’rax being annoyed, and giving Iriel a note.
“Needs food badly”
Not super helpful. Iriel knows the reference, but she somehow thinks that it’s something more. Right now, she’s in a kind of vapor form, floating over the streets of inside. She’s not sure what it means, and isn’t in the know to ask the right people and find out. So right now she’s floating along trying to think of something.
After a COMPLETELY unrelated series of events, Kate Kyland steps out of a park, walking home. It was a nice walk. Nothing weird happened at all. Iriel (a steam trail with half a vauge face) is flying along, looks at Kate, and comes to a screeching halt.
No way, Iriel thinks to herself. There is no way. There. Is. No. Way.
…is there?
Her curiosity piqued, Iriel follows Kate. Not too obviously, not that it’s terribly hard to sneak behind Kate. She follows her to her apartment, and slips under the door… usually Iriel wouldn’t ever invade household except under extreme circumstances. These circumstances are a bit extreme, though… It looks like her, but with cybernetic additions and several abnormalities to her bioenergy.
Iriel is distracted by Kate’s roommate, a large and sentient spider. That’s something you don’t see every day… although it occurs to her that Kate does, doesn’t she?
“Hi Kate.”
“Hi Sophie.”
Iriel is surprised at this. Kate… she’s named Kate?
“Hey, some kind of mist followed you home.”
“What? Oh, no.”
It’s so easy to forget that being in vapor form doesn’t actually make you invisible.
Kate steps forward, looking at the cloud of steam with half a face. “Can I help you?”
Unfortunately for any of you that were hoping for a scene of very awkward conversation, Iriel is much better at the whole talking thing. “I just wanted to ask a question. You seem like a knowledgeable person.”
Sophie backs up. She’s not sure what to make of this…
“Um, I’m not too knowledgeable, but I’ll help if I can. What do you want to know?”
“Who is the man that knows or can find out anything?”
“What?”
“There should be a guy that can find out anything that he wants to… anything at all. Do you know who that might be?”
“No I don’t-”
“Magtok.”
Both Iriel and Kate turn toward Sophie “Who?”
“Magtok. Cyborg? The half-metal face you see everywhere?”
“Him? Is he really the man to talk to?”
“Well, he is a supervillain. He might be an ex-supervillain, it’s not too clear. He is a solid businessman, and doesn’t exactly keep his nose clean.”
Perfect.
“Thank you! That’s a place to start.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Please, what’s your name?”
“Kate Kyland.”
ORANGEHAIRSIMILARBIOENERGYKATEKYLAND
“Thank you! I won’t forget you!”
Iriel slips out. It must be an alternate Kate Kyland. There is no way that she’s connected to… well, to Kate Kyland. Duh. Alternate selves: The logical conclusion.
Iriel flies away, given a hint and feeling a little silly. Kate goes on, with a ton of bricks that will hit sometime in the future in a different universe.
That, of course, is for the future in an alternate form of media that will hopefully someday be written.
Time for another round of comments. I was thinking about the next part of the goblin backstory or Sophie's backstory, but what's the point?
Quote:
Originally Posted by happyturtle
This is a story that took place in a Nexus splinter timeline, during a Lovecraftian apocalypse. The personalities and histories of the characters are canon, the apocalypse and events are not.
Missy Halifax Reunion (Alt-Nexus)
Spoiler
*snip*
That was brutal. I never did take part in the alternate universe ending to the elder gods plot for my own reasons, but it definetly provides good story material. Poor Missy just can't get a rest, though.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Kid Kris
Doctor Deforestation Suspicious Circumstances
Spoiler
Well, what was original. Not very long, but props for making an actual article with it. What did you use?
Quote:
Originally Posted by Lost_Deep
I must dig
Spoiler
*snip*
Creepy. Shame this plot didn't work out, even though that's what often happens. There's potential in there.
Quote:
So, a chance for self-RP came up. I wrote it for here.
CANON: Foreshadow
Spoiler
*snip*
Huh. Weird. Kate sure attracts the strangest things, doesn't she.
Quote:
Originally Posted by orb_of_blood
Starring Tyalla (currently working in the Sleeping Goblin): I need more than two words!
Spoiler
*snip*
Just out of curiosity, did you expect your story to be read and commented upon? Because if so, then not providing any indication that you've read anyone else's story, much less any comments, is somewhat unfair, wouldn't you agree?
Anyway, an interesting story describing quite a strange society apparently revolving around changing shape, and yet home to typical intrigue. Exposition could maybe use to be a bit more subtle, but that's never easy to do.
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My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.
More*Sevet will have to wait a bit, I'm not exactly smart, so a clever escape plan will take a while.
More Alfred will have to wait a while, because it would have to be the parent's perspective and I am a lazy dope.
So... Emmi and probably the Guild if i ever make it.
Make the World Beautiful
Spoiler
The rolling rattle of skate wheels on concrete echoed that night. Wearing a plastic fair mask of a kitty cat, and red head phones over curly hair, a girl by the figure, skates up to the empty wall. It would make a good canvas. Lifting the mask up to free her mouth, she takes a whistle from her rainbow colored camo-patterned hoodie and blows.
"Hwack-Hwack" the duck call sounds out into the night.
More rattling. This time several skaters, all in different masks. The first to speak up is a skater in a surgeons mask. "Nice wall, Emmi. It'll be perfect."
"Glad you think so, Doc" the kitty mask says, "Who's picking the subject today?"
"Yo." says a younger kid in the back with a pig mask. "I figured today we could try a little life drawing." he says micheviously as he pulls out something that sounds like a magazine. He shines a flashlight on the selected page revealing it to be a calendar. A naughty one.
"Is that the freakin Remnant Cheif?" a skater in the back asks.
"Little perv", Doc says snatching the calendar and thwacking the kid on the head. "The point of this club was to decrease that nonsense. Kids go to school this way y'know. Who am I kidding? Of course you know. You probably go to school this way." He finds that Emmi has taken the calendar and looks over the painting.
"I have been meaning to practice anatomy." she says, intrigued by the idea.
"Eh, Eh?" he says to Doc.
"Don't get me wrong, Joker is still a little perv and his picking priveleges should be revoked for like, ever. But we can clean this up, and make it presentable. Is Eve here?"
"Yeppers." a short blue haired girl in a Smiley mask rolls to kitty mask from the group.
"You've got all the mecha pilot plugsuits memorized, right?"
"Baaaackwards and forewards."
"Good you're on suit detail then. Everyone else, you know what to do. And someone keep joker from the naughty bits."
"Never get to have any fun." Joker pouts.
The only sounds for the rest of the night are the hissing of spray paint cans, and later the rolling of skate wheels away from the scene.*
That morning, over what should have been a big empty wall, a bigger than life painting of Remnant's own Vasquez in a sexy pose that shows off her chest. Only instead of being naked, she's wearing the red mech pilot suit of a particularly popular anime. Neither perfectly skin tight, nor exactly modest, the suit manages to show off her form that the artists worked so hard on without coming off as, at least intentionally, perverse. Next to the picture is a vertical list of names
General Surgeon aka "The Doc"
Freakin A!
All-hallows Eve
Shady Spring
Speakeasy
Impractical Joker
Beautiful M.E.
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Pirate Justin avatar by myself. Emmi avatar by Gulaghar, Much Thanks!
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 1 – Day One of New Life/Existence in Dreary Little Dump Called Limbo. Paper and Pen Provided by Libby, So Thanks For That, I Guess.
Spoiler
Died today. I suppose it was sorta inevitable, and it shouldn’t really surprise me as much as it does, given how many clones I’ve had come and go before, but somehow…somehow I guess I just always assumed I was going to be the greatest Magtok who ever lived. It sounds silly, I know, but I just naturally assumed that I would be better than everyone else. I thought I’d be that one very special clone, the first MagClone to live a normal human length of time, to make it through several decades instead of a handful of months or weeks. Death-defying stunts, dangerous schemes, ravenous AMENite maniacs with more guns and magic in their hands than brains in their heads, all of it wasn’t meant to stop me. I thought destiny expected me to outwit and outlive them all.
Destiny clearly had other plans though, unfortunately. Well, destiny and a massive harpoon gun, of course. Libby said that incident means I’m technically qualified to spend my afterlife in Valhalla, should I decide that place would suit me best, since apparently I get a choice out here. I don’t know where she’s getting this ‘technically qualified’ garbage from, though. I was totally kicking ass and chewing bubblegum right up until the part where my torso had a five foot length of steel sticking out at both ends. I mean, I’m not the best marksman, and I’m not sure if I took anyone down with me, or got any wounds on anyone either, but five more minutes and one less harpoon gun and there would’ve been a gods-damned throne of corpses for me to lounge around on. An entire throne’s worth of them, I tell you! Stupid jerkface bastard with a giant harpoon…
Aaaaargh! What kind of sick bastard kills a guy with a weapon like that, anyway?! Gods, I’m just so upset right now. Why the hell didn’t I fight harder?! Why didn’t I just dodge that harpoon?! Where the hell am I going to go now?! Why don’t I just have someone use resurrection spells so clones don’t have to deal with this?! Libby is the only person I know out here, and even the creepy reaper goddess lady says I can’t stick around for much longer. I have to make a decision soon, I have to pick out a place to spend the rest of forever, and I don’t get a do-over if I screw up and pick the wrong set of pearly gates. Choosing might sound easy at first, just pick a place with clouds and angels and a bright, pretty name like Paradise or some junk like that, but then I went and actually put some thought into it, and gods, do I ever regret doing that.
If I pick a hell, pick out someplace terrible and soul-crushingly painful and unpleasant, does some angel come down from above and say that my humility is totally impressive and awesome and qualifies me to go to UberHeaven? Or do I just burn and look like an idiot for all eternity? It’s probably too late for me to do that, since at least part of my mind will be subconsciously expecting a reward for asking to be put in hell, and that feeling of entitlement would probably screw me over here. If I just ask for one of the heavens, of course, I’ll look greedy and selfish and then get cast down anyway! Also, no matter what afterlife I choose, even if I get a good one, pretty much everyone there will be smelly nobodies I’ve never met before. Everyone always perma-deadtimes or gets resurrected in the Nexus, nobody worth noticing ever really stays dead in any sort of meaningful way.
…Okay, I think I’ve got a plan. I’m going to stretch out my time here in Limbo as much as I can, prolong the inevitable by any means necessary. I don’t know what the rules are here, exactly, but I’m pretty sure you can challenge Death to a game, and get your soul back or something. It’s definitely too late to ask for a resurrection, since my body’s probably been thrown into the dead clone furnace by now, but maybe I can negotiate my way into sticking around here just a few days longer. I’ll gamble my soul for a few weeks to decide where I’m going, choose a game I have some sort of obvious advantage in, and then research as much as I can until I find an afterlife that doesn’t suck forever. That way, even if Libby can’t let her feelings for me get involved, and is obligated somehow by her death goddess duties to actually try to beat me, I’ll still win. And then I’ll…I’ll do something, I guess. Gamble my soul again for even more time? I don’t know what I’ll do yet, really, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out when the time comes.
Damn, every Magtok that dies ends up going to an afterlife? That's... a lot of dead Magtoks kicking about up there.
Or down there, even.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by IronStylus (on boobplates)
I still consider myself a feminist despite having a biological attraction to certain parts of female anatomy and the desire to now and again see plate metal curvaceously wrapping around their sensual forms in a cradle of cold, sumptuous, steel.
Last edited by Kris on a Stick : 05-23-2012 at 10:28 AM.
Hey Magtok, you don't mind if I just assume that there's going to be a multitude of Magtoks populating most of the Circles of Hell, and thus have any future characters from Down There react as such upon meeting him in life, do you?
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Quote:
Originally Posted by IronStylus (on boobplates)
I still consider myself a feminist despite having a biological attraction to certain parts of female anatomy and the desire to now and again see plate metal curvaceously wrapping around their sensual forms in a cradle of cold, sumptuous, steel.
This is silly, and yet rather sad when you read it through. Makes you wonder why Magtok didn't commission a demi-plane to store his dead souls or something.
And I have to admit, I'm not sure how I feel about Magtok's story getting more comments than half of mine combined.
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My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 2 – Day Two of New Life/Existence in Limbo. There's No Sun or Anything To Mark the Passage of Time Down Here, But Libby Says It's Been Close Enough to a Whole Day Since I Showed Up, So Whatever.
Spoiler
Okay, so the whole gambling my soul on a competitive thing that I said I was going to do last night? Unnecessary, as it turned out. When I approached Libby and explained my plans to her, she just shook her head and smiled that irksome little creepy smile of hers. Turns out I misunderstood her, that my time limit with which to choose an afterlife was never really a set rule, but more of a polite suggestion than. So I guess I'm not doing any of that, then. Lucky me, I guess, that a death goddess has a silly infatuation with me, and doesn't mind telling me these things, or I could've gambled my soul over nothing.
See, the reason why it's a suggestion is if I stay here too long, folks are going to start to notice. Demon folks, that is. Angels too, and those weird robot ant afterlife guys from Dungeons and Dragons or whatever. Everyone is going to look down at Limbo, and see a MagClone soul, sitting around in indecision, and basically try to jump me like big, fat, smelly, steaming stack of fried cave rat nuggets in gross mushroom sauce, sitting on a plate right under that stupid Dippy's ugly goblin nose.
So yeah. The afterlives are mobilizing, and I need a new game plan. In fact, it might even be too late for one. Kal has already dropped by, the first of the eventual horde, giving me a rather half-assed sales pitch and a full-assed grope, which either implies that he's gotten too arrogant because his hell-thingy already has plenty of MagClones, or he's gotten too accepting of failure, for all the clones before me that rejected him and his smelly 'You'll finally have a look that will match that one awesome infernal week avatar you got a while back' offer that he only comes around just to mess with me. I asked Libby, but she just put a hand over her mouth, repressed a giggle or two, and said she's not allowed to disclose much information about previous Limbo souls people. That's minotaur poop, I know a white lie when I hear one.
So anyways, I took to asking some more questions after Kal left, figuring it'd be best that I clear up any additional misinterpretations of afterlife rules I might've made, as well as investigate my other options, if any, outside of picking an afterlife or waiting for someone sufficiently powerful to come along and pick for me. Firstly, I asked her about making my own plane of existence, for MagSouls. She said approximately six other clones had the same idea before, and ran their own planes for a short time, but never saw much business. The problem, y'see, was that the average MagSoul didn't want to go to a MagSoul afterlife. That would imply the ruling clone was superior or had seniority or something. Libby was always nice enough to provide fliers and such, but those new souls coming in would say "Fudge that noise, I'm opening my own afterlife. It'll be better than that clone's afterlife. It'll have blackjack, and hookers, and lasers attached to things!" And then they'd go do the same thing the first guy did, and fail just as badly. Failure isn't just a matter of wounded ego, either. All of those little baby planes inevitably got eaten by El Diablo when they failed to convince a single soul to join them and help defend against the fiery devil hordes. Libby says that it wasn't quite as bad as it sounds, though, that those clones whose souls were extinguished had ended quite painlessly. Libby is terrible at lying.
Next, I asked her what would happen if I stayed here in Limbo, besides the whole 'demons out to kidnap/make deals with me' thing. Turns out that there's a whole bunch of faithless rebel soul peoples hiding out in various little hidey-holes. Downside to that, of course, is that if I die in Limbo as a faithless, I die for good, and that's it, and there's a terribly large chance one of the rebel soul people might find an excuse to kill me, what with me being me and all.
So...that's pretty much the full extent of my choices. I can hide here with some smelly atheists and wait for one of them to eventually shank me, I can hide here all by myself until the demons kidnap me, I can make my own plane and wait for devils to eat me, or I can take a gamble on one of the afterlives, and hope I don't get eaten, kidnapped, or shanked in someone else's home turf. I asked Libby to give me her best estimate on the odds of each choice, and it looks like, as expected, the afterlife choice one is the only option that has even a remote chance of permanently keeping me alive. So I'm sure you can guess what I'm going to do next. I mean, it's pretty obvious to anyone secretly reading this journal behind my back (Yes Libby, I know you've found a way to do it. You're a goddess, of course you were going to find a way, and of course I would know. Don't look so surprised when you finally get around to reading this, jeez.) what my plans are.
That's right, I'm declaring war on and invading Kal's place! Some first and second circle dump run by a Lady Morgatha or something. I don't recognize the name, but she sounds like the sort of dumb broad who'd sit in a river and throw Zweihänders at people. Should be a piece of cake. That'll show that jerk for groping my butt! D=<
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"If two wrongs don't make a right, try three."
-Laurence J. Peter
Maggy Dent avatar by happyturtle
Last edited by Lord Magtok : 05-24-2012 at 09:32 PM.
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 2 – Day Two of New Life/Existence in Limbo. There's No Sun or Anything To Mark the Passage of Time Down Here, But Libby Says It's Been Close Enough to a Whole Day Since I Showed Up, So Whatever.
Spoiler
*snip*
Magtok has made a wonderful decision. There is absolutely no possible way that this plan can backfire at all. His arrogance wont get the better of him. Things will not go south, or as south as things can go when you literally decide to conquer (a) hell, and Magtok certainly won't end up trying to backpedal like an out of control swanboat.
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Pirate Justin avatar by myself. Emmi avatar by Gulaghar, Much Thanks!
Here's the not-all-that-awaited third part of the Operative's backstory. I'm not all too satisfied with this, but I'm not entirely sure how I can improve it.
The Operative Patient Interview 3
Spoiler
The week following up to Hayes's next session passed without incident. Dr. Oakley made much more progress with some of his other patients. It helped him build up the smallest bit of confidence leading to the challenge that was Merrick. But then, his other patients were mundane criminals. Hayes was the first psychic he had even met, let alone needed to try and treat. He wondered if the genetic condition that caused psionics had addled Hayes's mind to some degree. Given what he'd heard of psychics, that seemed the best explanation.
Eventually Thursday came again. Oakley sat at his desk ten minutes early, to organize the notes he had made on Merrick. He recovered his tape recorder and began his notes for the day. "Preparing for session two with Mr. Hayes. The number of pages of notes I've made on this man is easily an order of magnitude higher than those of any other patient I've seen. He is an anomaly, of sorts, something that is only aided by his abilities. It is my hope that the psi-blocking device will have allowed Hayes to consider his own thoughts over the week instead of others's, and perhaps he will be more accommodating."
He put the recorder down again a few moments before the door to his office was opened. As before, the stationed guard shoved Merrick in, and was quick to shut the door. Merrick, though, had apparently seen a few changes. He was ever so slightly less gaunt than before, and the ball and chain had disappeared from his ankle. The manacles and handcuffs were still present.
"It seems the security are taking better care of you. Mr. Hayes," Oakley began, while gesturing for Merrick to take a seat.
"I have been released from solitary confinement," Merrick said, "and I am now allowed three meals daily."
"But you're still bound." This was a point of confusion for Oakley. Normally, prisoners that weren't in solitary were also allowed their freedom of movement.
"Of course. Security and the other inmates are afraid of me. As they should be." Merrick's voice was still cold as ever as he spoke.
"If it's your condition they fear, then do th-" Oakley could not continue, as he had just provoked the first emotion that Merrick had shown. And judging from the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, it was not a positive emotion.
"Don't. Ever. Call my abilities a condition again." To anyone else, the look in Merrick's eyes was indicative of simple anger. But Oakley had worked with soldiers before. Those black eyes were filled with the intent to kill.
"I- I apologize, Mer- Mr. Hayes. That was inconsiderate of me." Oakley almost broke the air of professionalism by using Merrick's first name, but he was convinced that such a transgression couldn't possibly go over well.
The killing glare that Merrick had did not remain for long. He soon returned to his 'normal,' nearly blank expression. "Remind me where I had left off in recounting my case."
Oakley was shocked by this development, and wiped his brow a little. "Ah, you and your squad were just returning to base, and you'd sent the HQ plans to the orc terrorists."
"Yes, that was it," Merrick said. "Now let's continue."
The squad disembarked from the helicopter. MacGregor was escorted to the infirmary for psychological diagnosis. Most of the other troops headed back inside to celebrate a job done relatively well (and of course, to talk about how Hayes really needed to cool it,) but Merrick stayed at the ready. He fully expected the orcs to retaliate. After what he'd done to their hostage, it was only a matter of time before they came with guns at the ready.
He waited five minutes. Ten. A half-hour. Two hours. He was beginning to feel disappointed in these Pakistanis. He'd killed their precious refugee, and yet they hadn't even sent one man to find who was responsible? How lethargic of them. Merrick turned back to the base, reaching under his gas mask to remove them.
Then he hear the raid sirens. About time. While he was sure the rest of the SAS were gathering their gear, all Merrick did was turn towards the direction of the orcs he was beginning to sense, and pull his pistol from its holster. His ice pick was already in his other hand.
As he steadily walked toward the nearest intruders, a few other troops in full combat gear joined him. "Hayes, do you know who they are?" was the main question he heard.
Merrick suppressed a snort. Despite how much these people hated him, they still relied on him for any information. It was just funny to him. "Orcs. Pakistani. I think the same ones from Karachi."
"The hell, we gave them their hostage, now they're here for more?" Coutts said.
"Clearly. Keep your guard up." Merrick knew this was a silly suggestion. If this attack went according to plan, nobody in the SAS beside himself would need to even fire a shot. Not that they knew that, of course.
It wasn't long before the SAS team came across the crude helicopters that the Pakistanis were using. No less than five dozen orcs exited the vehicles, immediately with their AK's pointed at the small team of eight. Their leader, who was clearly much bigger than the rest of the orcs, began shouting in Urdu. Orcs liked to talk in languages they thought were difficult to understand.
Unfortunately, Urdu wasn't difficult to decipher, not for Coutts. "He's saying... we're going to pay for killing the young one? Hayes, what the hell did you do?" The accusation was instant. Though not entirely unreasonable.
"Nothing unnecessary. That orc is lying to us."
The leader started to give orders. Merrick didn't need the translation to figure out what was going on. But he was much faster than some Pakistani. In five seconds, the orcs started firing. Right into the psi-shield that Merrick had raised.
Another second later, Merrick's ice pick was embedded in the enemy leader's throat. Merrick, thanks to his abilities, had been able to much faster than any naked eye could detect. In another second, three other orcs had received a bullet between the eyes. Only one of those was from Merrick, though. The rest of the SAS team were starting to catch up.
With the leader dead in an instant, the rest of the battle was not much challenge to the Special Air Service. The shield Merrick put up moved with the team members, keeping them from enemy fire. Merrick moved like mist while in the fray. Nothing could come even close to touching him, even at the range he put himself at.
In fifty-seven seconds, every orc that had attacked the Wales SAS headquarters was dead. Of the sixty that had arrived, forty-one were stabbed or shot by Merrick. Merrick himself stood atop the last of the corpses, stomping on its neck to confirm the kill. He was practically soaked in orc blood. The team, however, did not celebrate their success, like with the prisoner exchange. Instead, Merrick found himself being approached by both Coutts and the unnamed (to him, anyway,) helicopter pilot.
"You're to see Captain Baker. Now," the pilot said, in no uncertain terms. This part of the situation certainly hadn't gone according to plan. Without another word, Merrick reported to the Captain's office. Probably to receive further orders.
@Patient Interview 3: Damn Merrick, you crazy. More, please.
@Make the World Beautiful: Poor Joker.
@Suspicious Circumstances: Idly curious as to how you went about making this thingy.
@Rise of the Prophet, Part 2: Damn, goblins are scary little monsters.
Anyways, here's the next MagJournal thingy. I'm as surprised as anyone else at the speed with which I'm cranking these things out. Already have a pretty good idea of what I'm going to do with the fourth, too.
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 3 – Day One of…Crap, Which Circle Am I On? First, Second? Screw it, I’ll Ask Someone and Add It In When I Get to Entry 4.
Spoiler
So I did exactly as I said I would at the end of the last MagJournal entry, and got a job at Kal’s place today. It’s pretty nice for a Hell, actually. He wasn’t lying to me about that, I’ll give him that much. It’s a bit lewd for my tastes though, which should come as a surprise to absolutely nobody, seeing as how I’ve made it clear before that I’m not really a fan of the whole ‘spiky codpiece and flaming pasties’ aesthetic. There’s only so much of what I’ve seen that I can actually put to ink and paper, of course, for fear that Libby will somehow find it and then go catatonic at the thought of a uvula piercing or whatever, but goddamn, they’ve got some really messed up stuff down here. I honestly have no idea why anyone would want a barbed-wire top hat, nor do I want to.
Luckily, I’m not really going to be hit with the dress code that badly. Not right now, at an entry level rank, anyways. See, it turns out the harpoon I got hit with back when I was alive counts as a piercing, and a big enough of one to meet all their silly stylistic requirements. I’m sorta glad for that, I guess, but I was finally about to get around to trying to remove the thing from my midsection, so it’s a bit of a mixed blessing. The big ol’ thing makes getting around insanely difficult, of course, since not everything is just open space like it was back on Limbo, but I’ve been able to manage well enough so long as I don’t try turning around in narrow hallways or anything. I’m also told that it can slide right out of my chest without any effort at all (well now I feel really stupid for not even trying), my chest will just reform until it’s time to put the thing back in, and it can be used as a spear, if we’re ever invaded and I’m without a better weapon, so that’s definitely a huge bonus. Not allowed to remove it unless I have a fight to the death situation or I’m sleeping with someone or something, for dress code reasons, but I’m sure I’ll find a battle soon enough. A battle, not that…that other thing.
I haven’t seen Kal around, or Decker, but that’s probably for the best, really. Hopefully they’re both on a really long Nexus vacation or business thing right now, because I really don’t need anybody I already know giggling at the new guy as he stumbles around with a huge lump of metal in his torso, gawking in horror at every last eyelid piercing, animated winking butt tattoo, and extra set of eyeballs his poor little mind fails to block out entirely. Most of these fools seem to be mistaking my horror for shameless ogling too, and as friendly and/or a kid as Decker might be (I can’t remember, did she go back to being a grown-up again, or what? Blargh, so confusing), I know for a fact that she’d be laughing her head off if she was here for all of that. Fudge, even the tour guide, who knew I wasn’t from around here, thought my unbridled horror and terrified babbling was a sign of some sort of awkward infatuation, and not the disgust and revulsion for the extra mouth he had at the end of his tongue that it really was.
Speaking of the tour, I forget what they said my job was going to be. It was either lowly footsoldier or part of someone’s harem, I think. Seems like the sort of thing I should’ve been paying attention to, but I guess I’ll be able to figure it out when they get around to assigning uniforms. I mean, I’m sure it’ll be easy enough to tell the difference between Lady Morgana’s military force and her personal collection of-
…
On second thought, I think I’ll go back and double-check with the tour guy. You know, just to be on the safe side. The roles might all be one and the same, too. Since this is Hell and all that. I’ve said enough about the fashions around here as is.
Beyond the weird way everyone dresses and stuff, and also the fact that this journal is being monitored now (I left the first two entries with Libby, and told her to incinerate them if anyone asked about it because all of the embarrassing stuff I wrote about Vasquez in there), I think I might actually grow fond of this place. The food’s alright, if you like the souls of the unworthy, the locals have made it loudly and uncomfortably clear that they’re up for anything with anybody, and nobody is asking me potentially compromising questions! Yep, this is definitely the place for me!
re: Suspicious Circumstances. Since two people have asked already. Basically grabbed a newspaper article off of Google Image search and fiddled around with it in the same art/image manipulation program I use to create avatars. Clone stamp erases all the text while keeping the grainy paper background. Photo also courtesy of Google, with a few quick filters to make it look authentic. Add text, with a few filters again to make it appear faded and grainy. Stick some blurs on there as 'censorship'. Finished. Is simple.
Will read, comment on other stories in the morning, though of course I've read and enjoyed Magtok's story already since he sent it to me for approval.
Possibly add my own. Possibly.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by IronStylus (on boobplates)
I still consider myself a feminist despite having a biological attraction to certain parts of female anatomy and the desire to now and again see plate metal curvaceously wrapping around their sensual forms in a cradle of cold, sumptuous, steel.
@Rise of the Prophet, Part 2: Damn, goblins are scary little monsters.
Well, the story is meant to describe a people who have been pushed so far they snapped, and everything that looks human has become a target. So "scary" is definetly what I was going for.
__________________
My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.
Um... excuse me while I make a note never to make fun of Dipsnig again. >.>
Patient Interview 3 was awesome, and Make the World Beautiful was hilarious.
And now:
Marked: Prologue Kal Backstory
Spoiler
The worst thing about the Broken Hills was the wind. This far south, as far south as one could go on the continent of Hybras before hitting the frozen seas that marked the Bottom of the World, it was everywhere. It was strong. And it was cold. And it was miserable. It blew across the plains. It blow across the heights. It blew across the valleys. It blew through the great halls of Blackwell, where the mighty kings who had ruled the Broken Hills with an iron fist had ruled for generations. It blew through the ports of Reddale, wrestling with the fishing ships that fueled the vast armies of the Blackwatch, armies that as of yet had been unbeaten for hundreds of years. It even blew, or at least tried to blow, into the deep caves of the Whitepick dwarves, reclusive allies of King Blackwell who emerged from their dark tunnels only to provide their finest crafts, whether in metal or warriors. The only place that the wind did not blow at all was in the Castle-at-Blackthorne, where thick stone walls that had whethered countless assaults on the kingdom of Blackwell, now whethered a no less violent and determined assault on the 10th wedding anniversary of Lord Eamon of Blackthorne, and his lovely wife, Lillanthil. The gods forbid such a momentous occasion be ruined by a chilly breeze.
Said lovely wife, however, was not currently celebrating the occasion with her husband, but rather on the short walk back towards celebrating the occasion with her husband, after having stepped outside for a visit to the Little Half-Succubus' Room. The tapping of her high-heeled shoes echoed hollowly through the cold, dank halls which, though lavishly decorated, nevertheless remained dank and cold, for not even the finest Elvish tapestries plundered from the North (Elves rarely gave up their posessions willingly - especially not to the 'inferior' races) could disguise the fact that the castle's original designer had clearly decided that such petty concepts as 'style' and 'beauty' were abominations to be avoided at all costs. Somewhere, hordes of devils punish him by dressing him up in the latest fashions from Gempri, while he is forced to lounge in an elaborate Pelusian suite as the soft strains of an Amphoran symphony drift in the air like hummingbirds.
Lillanthil smiled at the image, even as she dismissed it. If anything, Hell was even less creative.
Abruptly, she was at a crossroads. To her right, the dining room where her husband awaited, no doubt waiting to spoil her in ways not yet invented in all the Seven Heavens. The husband who, for the rest of the night, would proceed to wine her, dine her, romance her, and then take her to the bedroom where they would soon be in so much bliss it was almost criminal. To her left, her newborn son. The bawling little orcspawn that had sat in her abdomen for nine, miserable months, stretching and malforming her lovely body so that even now, on her anniversary, she had been forced to have a new dress made for the event to replace the one she could no longer fit into. The diminutive terror whoses cries pierced the walls which had taken rock and arrow and cannonfire without shaking like paper, keeping herself, her husband, and half the servants up all night, every night, for weeks. The latest scion of a family of monsters and murderers... and that was just on his father's side. It was almost no choice at all. She went left.
What she saw there punched the breath right out of her lungs, sliced it up, stole its cash, and left it bruised and bleeding in an alley crying weakly for help. Her heartrate quickened. Her fists clenched. Her legs trembled in conflicting desire, one wishing to turn and flee, one wishing to charge forth, saber in hand and screaming the harshest battlecries she knew. Every nerve in her body screamed in equal parts terror and rage. A real scream, one born out of pure hatred and outrage, swelled up from the bottom of her chest, gained momentum in her lungs, and roiled forth in righteous fury before ultimately dying in the back of her throat, emerging as a feeble gasp. "Oh do please hush, child. You'll wake the baby."
Morgana sat in a deep armchair, clad in a silken white robe and rocking back and forth gently, cradling Lillanthil's infant son in her arms. The previous occupant of the armchair, the boy's wetnurse, lay splattered across the far wall and part of the ceiling, the steady drip of her blood punctuating the near total silence of the room, broken only by the rhythmic creaking of Morgana's chair, and the faint, mechanized clicking of her two bodyguards.
Morgana looked up at her daughter, noticing the aura of magic surrounding both her fists. "And you can put those away as well, darling. You know full well my guards and I can shrug off any attack you are capable of mounting. All you'll do is endanger the child."
Swallowing heavily, Lillanthil released her hold on the Arcane, and struggled to find her voice for a moment. "What more do you want from me, Morgana? What more can you take?" She hissed. "Why, nothing." Replied Morgana, with unconvincing surprise. "I'm merely here to visit my new grandson."
Morgana smiled, returning her gaze to the infant cradled in her arms. She brushed a lock of hair out of his forehead for a moment with a finger, before letting the wispy red strands fall back into place. "Little baby Kal. Your uncle will be so pleased to learn you've named a child after him, even after how you last parted ways." She said, her words laced with malicious glee.
Lillanthil closed her eyes, struggling to maintain composure. "The child's name is Kalfinn, not Kal'selthezaar, and as far as I am concerned he will never hear that name, nor yours, for as long as he lives." "Such harsh words, for your family. Are you sure you can keep him from his destiny?" "He has no destiny! At least, not with you! Leave now, and never come back!"
Morgana smiled. "You can't keep him from me. He'll be mine eventually. His blood marks him."
Morgana slowly traced a spot on the baby's forehead. A raised nub that would eventually grow into a horn, marking his diabolical heritage.
She stood.
"But I'll follow your wishes for now."
She placed the child back in his crib, pausing to arrange his blankets and tuck him in properly. Then she straightened, turning once again to face her daughter. "Eighteen years. That's how long I'll give you. And then I'll be back. And we'll see if what you said to me the last time we spoke holds true."
Morgana smiled one last time. The broad, smug smile of someone who knows, deep down, that they have already won. "But I think we both know that I'm going to turn out right. Again."
And then she was gone.
Adrenaline left Lillanthil, and she leant against the doorframe, slowly sinking to the ground. For the first time in a very, very long time, she was afraid.
__________________
Quote:
Originally Posted by IronStylus (on boobplates)
I still consider myself a feminist despite having a biological attraction to certain parts of female anatomy and the desire to now and again see plate metal curvaceously wrapping around their sensual forms in a cradle of cold, sumptuous, steel.
Well, it's been 500 years. The goblins have turned into more... sophisticated methods of getting back at their enemies.
Now, for Kal's story. I wonder what the story behind Lillanthil and Morgana is. And as always, mortals get caught in the middle and splattered all over the walls and ceiling.
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My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.
You walk into the nursery and see the splattered wet nurse all over the walls. If the baby is still alive, it was done by devils. If the baby is also on the walls, goblins. If the baby is in the smoothie maker, it was Magtok.
I wonder what the story behing Lillanthil and Morgana.
Me too, frankly. I'm still working it out.
__________________
Quote:
Originally Posted by IronStylus (on boobplates)
I still consider myself a feminist despite having a biological attraction to certain parts of female anatomy and the desire to now and again see plate metal curvaceously wrapping around their sensual forms in a cradle of cold, sumptuous, steel.
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 3 – Day One of…Crap, Which Circle Am I On? First, Second? Screw it, I’ll Ask Someone and Add It In When I Get to Entry 4.
Spoiler
*snip*
I think this is funny, just like the rest of this story's been so far.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Kid Kris
Marked: Prologue Kal Backstory
Spoiler
*snip*
This wasn't so funny, but I still want to read more.
I'm a little burnt out on writing the Patient Interview series, so here's something entirely different.
Cassidy Scarlett The Shadows of Seattle, Part 1
Spoiler
Cass woke up and lifted herself to her feet. She looked at the wall across from her, with its always growing and changing mural of graffiti. It had been the closest thing she had to entertainment since she'd come to the underside of this bridge. Signs of pride for various no-time gangs, crudely worded messages to Lone Star regarding their corporate badges and where they can shove them, and various other typical sprawl-related lines and images covered the arch Cass had decided to sleep under a couple of weeks ago. New ones had been added the previous night, partially covering some statement about Aztechnology. Cass had paid little of this graffiti any mind throughout these past few days, though she did enjoy watching it shift and change – sometimes just a few square inches were painted over, other times it seemed like half of the arch had changed.
She shivered a little. October was never much fun out in the streets. Cass pulled her coat closer to her. It was an old military-styled greatcoat, three sizes too large for her. It wasn't really hers, of course. She'd taken it off of the dead body of some homeless guy. Shot in the head, and Lone Star doesn't bother to do anything about it. Damn typical of the pigs. She searched through all the pockets of the coat. Sure, she'd already done so more than a few times, but some part of her still wanted to believe there was some kind of credstick in there, even if it only had ten nuyen on it.
Eventually, she sighed, and started shuffling off from her spot. It was about when she got all the way out from under the bridge when the smell hit her. Most people wouldn't have smelt it, but most people weren't adepts. Cass was, though, which was why she was smelling something that she didn't like at all. The ghouls were on the move, and they were coming in this direction. Fortunately, they seemed pretty slow, and they were far enough away that she didn't have to leave today. Definitely tomorrow morning, though. Maybe she could find some condemned building to squat in while she was out in the streets. Maybe she'd have to swallow what little pride she had and climb down into the sewers. She didn't like thinking about that much more than the incoming ghouls. Before leaving, she took the one thing she had out of her pocket – a SIN identification card. She hid it underneath a large rock – can't be too careful when you're about to commit some thievery. Then she shook off the bite of late autumn, buttoned up her coat, and kept walking.
Though this was a relatively new area to Cass, she still knew how to navigate the streets well enough. Today, she was heading to a nearby mall to look for a good mark. Pickpocketing was really the only thing that she could consistently make money off of. At sixteen, she was too young for any decent jobs, and that sliver of pride kept her from doing much of anything on the other side of legality. That combined with no sort of financial safety net resulted in her life becoming a life on the streets or very occasionally inside a squatter's haven.
Cass shook away her thoughts. She was being oddly introspective today. Thoughts like that kept her from making her money. She arrived at the mall she'd spotted yesterday - a pretty typical place for a sprawl. Crowded with people of all metatypes, even some trolls. Here, the stores were cheap and the food was even cheaper. Still, Cass couldn't much afford to pick and choose. There were plenty of people around. She looked around for someone suitable. Unfortunately, most of the people were obviously veterans of the slums, and were watching everyone near them. Today wasn't going to be an easy day. At least, that's what Cass thought at first. Then she saw someone that wasn't as street-smart.
He was a well-dressed elf. Too well-dressed for any sprawl. Too neat-looking too. His well-groomed face and tailored clothes made Cass subconsciously fret with her long and unkempt hair. That only lasted a few seconds. She didn't know why this high class guy was in this place, but he was going to be a pretty easy mark for a quick swipe.
The approach was a simple one, especially for someone as small and non-threatening as Cass. All she really needed to do was keep her head down and look passive. She didn't have to worry about her own pockets being emptied; she didn't have anything on her. The elf was too busy looking at all the various shops to notice her coming towards him. At least, until the moment of truth – when Cass “accidentally” bumped into him, and slipped one of her hands into a few of his pockets and grabbed everything she could in one quick and fluid motion. She quickly took a step back and muttered an apology, knowing that her relatively innocent face would do all the work for her. The elf said that it was nothing, and told her that she should be more careful.
Cass stuffed what she took into one of the pockets of her coat, and got out of the elf's sight so she could get a look at what she managed to take. At first, she was a little disappointed in herself when she saw it. All she'd managed to get was a single credstick. But then she saw its color. Silver. That meant this credstick could have up to five hundred nuyen! All Cass had been able to snag before now was a bunch of blue sticks, that never had more than thirty stored, but this? Five hundred? She almost didn't know what to do with that much-
Cass slowed her breathing down. She didn't want to look too much like she'd just scored big. But she does take it to a nearby scanner. The scanner picked up the credstick's tag, and displayed what was left on it. When she read the hologram in front of her, she almost danced a little. 500. Even.
She'd hit the jackpot! That elf hadn't even used the nuyen yet! It was all hers. She still didn't know what she could possibly do with that much, but it was a hell of a lot better than the zero nuyen that she had when she woke up. This was almost enough for an entire month, but Cass decided to keep going for the day. She changed locations a couple of times to throw people off of her trail, and found a few other credsticks, but nothing even close to the silver one off of that elf. She kinda wanted to thank him.
By the time the sun set, Cass was counting out the credsticks she'd taken while walking back to her spot under the bridge. Without that silver one, this would've been a pretty bad day, she'd only stolen thirty-one credits otherwise. But five hundred thirty-one, that was a wee bit better.
Cass saw that the graffiti on her arch had changed yet again while she was gone. That message about Aztech and their blood rituals was now completely covered, thanks to a new Halloweener sign. But it was when Cass came to her spot for sleeping that she found something a lot more interesting.
It was a small package. In the exact spot she'd slept last night. What the hell was it? She went to pick it up, and saw “Ms. Scarlett” written on the side. That was the name her SIN was assigned to! How the hell did whomever dropped this know her name?
Cass tried and failed to calm down as she picked up the package. It was pretty light, even for something of its size. She unwrapped the paper it was in. The actual contents of the package became less interesting when she saw that there was more writing on the other side. It read:
Good job swiping my credstick – if it weren't for my guys, I might not have noticed you. You can keep it. Consider it, and this gift, as a taste of things to come. If you want to know what may lie in store for someone of your talents, meet me at 901 5th Avenue tomorrow at two o'clock. I have a job for you.
-Jack
Cass couldn't believe this. That elf, apparently named Jack, not only knew she'd taken his silver credstick, but wanted to offer her a job, as some sort of reward? This was stupid. She couldn't do any sort of job, she was just a sixteen-year-old pickpocket. Then again, though, not only did he know she was a thief, but he knew who she was, and where she slept. So maybe if she didn't go, he'd just come and take the credstick back.
At about this time, Cass's attention came back to the actual package, and she saw why it was so light.
It was a pear.
She tentatively took a bite out of it, and was shocked at the sweet taste and the juice spilling onto her chin. No soy. It was a real pear. Less than a minute later, there was no trace left of it.
New MagJournal entry! And I have an avatar to go with it, too!
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 4 – Day Twenty-Seven of Hell. Would’ve Updated Sooner, But I Was Busy, Fudge You
Spoiler
"Get up, maggot."
I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known they wouldn’t go easy on me because of my name and history. Back in the Nexus, being a MagClone meant something. Down here, stranded in Hell without any of my brethren around? I might as well be just another mortal with a stick in his chest. Nobody made any concessions, nobody gave me free stuff or promised me easy promotions or did any of the things I’d expected them to do for someone of my prestige and infamy.
"I said get up, maggot. You know what I’ll do if you make me repeat myself again."
Exhibit A, my lovely drill sergeant in boot camp, Ms. Rubyteeth McDiesIfWeEverMeetAgain. A more cold-hearted and psychotic hell-tramp probably exists somewhere, but I’ll be damned if she’s not at least the fourth worst person this side of the Styx. If she gave any sign of recognition when she first heard my name on day one, I definitely missed it, and she didn’t seem to care about its significance later, either.
"Go **** yourself," I spat out, along with some blood and a couple of my teeth, one of which, I’m proud to say, almost nicked her right in the eye. It was the second week of boot camp, and we were in the middle of our usual afternoon flirtations. I was lying in a ditch for failing to successfully navigate an obstacle course that required the use of magic I refused to learn, she was standing over me with a healing wand, and the rest of the cadets were watching from afar, at they assumed to be a moderately safe distance.
"Excuse me?"
"I said go **** yourself. I’ve seen this movie before. You hit me, I fall down. I get up again, you hit me, I fall down, and the whole process keeps going on until you hit me really hard and say something profound that motivates me to stop lagging behind, or you call it quits because I won’t stop standing up and all the Magtok-punching is bruising your knuckles. Also, you’re like the forty-eighth person to call me maggot. At first I thought you did that to everyone, but no, I’m the only one here who gets called that. It’s not clever anymore, it’s not even insulting, ma’am, it’s just vaguely sorta annoying. I don’t-"
I really wish she hadn’t interrupted me. I had this really clever remark lined up about how if she didn’t have her smelly demon magic, she’d lose any sort of fight in an instant, but then she decided to butt in preemptively and stomp down on my right arm, and keep putting pressure on it until it made that awful snapping noise. Y’know, the one that sounds sort of like a tree branch cracking, or like an arm being stomped on so hard it breaks into a million pieces? That one. Oww.
"Fifteen laps around the barracks, or fifteen minutes in my quarters, maggot. Either way, you’ll get your arm back when you’re done."
Yeah, I was in no condition to do even half that many laps. But I did, and then the healing wand fixed me right up. The next day, I did a few more, too. And so on, until it was firmly established I wasn’t going to budge on the whole 'Magtok doesn’t do your stupid lame-face elf magic nonsense' stance that I insisted upon sticking to, and that I wasn’t into whatever kinky torture curtains she had in mind. A bit more broken limbs, some extra fireballs, and in a month I’m sure they could’ve convinced me to change my mind about the whole wimpy elf magic thing, but seeing as I was just an insignificant piece of rubbish with a whale-hunting stick in my torso, I guess they figured it wasn’t worth it. When our time in boot camp finally came to a close, I graduated to the Infernal Guard just like everyone else. Or at least, that’s what my papers said.
In truth, after earning my gun and uniform, I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time working with Clockworks. So someone down here knows who I am, I guess. They’re warforged, for those not familiar with this particular kind of hell, by the way. The Clockworks are these huge metal guys, big ol’ magitech robots, made up of equal parts gears, servos, steam, and the wailing souls of forgotten children. Dumb as Magbots, and just as blind and subservient to anyone with enough ribbons and medals to hand out orders. Since they fall under the command of some doofus called General Klank (I’m serious, that’s his actual name. Figures that the only people he can command respect from are designed from the get-go to have absolutely no sense of humor), they’re technically outside the chain of command of the Infernal Guard, and vice versa. Though we’re supposed to work together, there’s usually a fair amount of bickering, rivalries, and all sorts other stupid nonsense about who has more pin-ups of Lady Morgana stapled to their tank or whatever going on in the background. I don’t know, maybe I made up the pin-ups thing, I don’t care. I never really pay attention to that sort of thing anyway. The point is, the Guard needs Clockwork to absorb most of the casualties and be all non-magicky Terminators or something like that, and the Clockworks need us to be magicky portal support and also to keep them operational and wind them up like silly little children’s toys or whatever.
Now, as you might not be aware, warfare in Hell sucks. Seriously, it’s just an absolutely stupid mess of stupid out here. I came in expecting orderly little lines, two massive armies charging recklessly into one another, that sort of thing. Devils just hacking at each other with pointy pitchforks, the occasional fireball spell, and maybe even a siege of some obsidian fortress covered in superfluous black spikes, like that one part of the Lord of the Rings. Basically, I expected war down here to play out like movies, more or less. As I’m sure even the most naïve propaganda imps who might be secretly reading this already know, I was wrong about all of that. So terribly, terribly, terribly wrong.
It all comes down to magic here, and who has more of it. Trenches, supply lines, most sorts of close-combat…none of that is really used, because none of it really matters when someone can just pour gas fumes into your base through an invisible portal, and then wait for someone to light a cigar. When you have to deal with a large number of people who can fly, turn invisible, bar entry to locales with flesh-consuming forcefields, do mind-control stuff, take on the physical appearance of others, and shoot you down with long-range, uncannily accurate magical clockwork weaponry, you have to be ready for everything. I, being my usual self, of course, wasn’t ready for anything.
It all started one dismal little morning, about a day after I’d finished some class on Clockwork maintenance, in the hopes of transferring to a position a bit less lethal than front-line infantry, somewhere where my skills could really shine. I’d been taking the time to get to know some of the tin cans on a more personal level, (not an easy task, when everyone is basically a Magbot, but dumber), memorize the names of all the officery peoples in charge of the company, and generally get a feel for how these robot guys did business (mostly they just sat around and waited for someone to order them to go kill people. Urgh, some of them were so dull, I really think I might have been the first person to ever try speaking to them). Anyways, my squad and one other squad full of stupid clanking idiots I wasn’t familiar with were called down to the briefing room, as it seemed they finally had an assignment come in that’d be easy and straightforward enough to break in some of the new guys. I’d like to say the air was tense with anticipation, and that everyone was eager to finally get out there and do something instead of sit around all day and take up space, but I’d be lying. These robot guys wouldn’t know pain if you ripped their arms right off, I doubt any feeling as complicated as desire ever crossed their hopelessly empty idiot-holes. My cultist and demony brethren were looking pretty daft and empty-skulled too, come to think of it.
Our orders were simple. Some creepy devil guy with a creepy name, Malach the Dominatrix or some such nonsense, was (and still is, I should mention) contesting Morgana’s claim over this Lusty Second Circle place I’ve been hanging out in, and has his peoples holed up in mountains and islands and such. Scouts identified a man-made (or devil-made, whatever) cave network not far from our own forces, presumably full of smelly succubi, incubi, and whatever else this Malach guy commanded. Someone from the Infernal Guard’s upper ranks was going to portal us in, throw a big ol’ anti-portaling field over the mountain, and we’d all stomp in and murder the face off of anything that moves. A simple, efficient, and swift attack, assuming our scouts accurately estimated what kinds of enemy numbers were down there (they didn’t), and that our tele-mage didn’t die before he could warp us back home (he did). I probably should’ve been a lot more worried at the time, but the way I saw it, I’d be spending the whole mission in a mountain, in a cave, with robots guarding me every step of the way. I mean, it was as close to being home again as I’d ever be; I wasn’t about to gripe about it just because there’d be some succubi getting shot at while I was there. If anything, putting some of those things in their place would just make the whole deal that much sweeter.
"I’m sorry, Lord Magtok," our portal guy had said upon dropping us off just outside the cave entrance. "I’m afraid I’m just too much of a stupid girly wizard to hang around for the real fighting."
…Okay, maybe he didn’t say it exactly like that, and I suppose he was probably under orders to wait for us outside the cave and be our lookout, but the moment I found out that our only escape was going to be sitting on his stupid barbed tail a few kilometers from whatever nightmarish doom awaited us inside the enemy lair, I knew things were going to get bad. First, I tried telling him to come with us, orders or no orders, but that didn’t work out, and I got smacked upside the head for questioning authority, too. Then I almost asked one of my robot squadmates to stick with him, but thought better of it, for two reasons. One, I didn’t know if those tin cans would listen to me, since they were outside our chain of command and nobody programmed any common sense into ‘em, and two, any stupid Magbot-wannabe I left behind would mean one less brass soldier watching my magnificently-sculpted ass once the lightning bolts started flying. I suppose, in retrospect, it might’ve reduced our casualties a little if I’d said something, but all I wanted to do right then was kill some stupid devil-whores and then go right back to lying in bed, in my nice, safe little bunk (which happened to be about as comfortable as lying on a slab of stone, so you can imagine how much I suddenly didn’t want to be here).
"Fine, whatever. Nobody needs your stupid, cowardly monkey-ass getting in our way anyways," I shot back, getting some rather colorful vocabulary in response that, for Libby’s sake, in case copies of these entries are being passed along to her, I’m not going to mention here. Suffice to say, I learned a few new phrases that day, most of them involving commands to shove things in places that would probably be very uncomfortable, painful, or downright impossible if anyone ever actually obeyed any of them. In fact, now that I think about it, it’s probably a good thing that that wizardly soldier guy died, or I might’ve made a dangerous enemy of one of the Guard’s best men.
So with one less body between mine and the enemy than I would’ve liked, we marched on into the cavern. We marched in tidy, tightly-knit little rows and columns, with the exception of myself, of course, as the harpoon still lodged in my chest would’ve made such closeness an impossibility. I tried to convince the Clockwork squad I’d be much better off in the back, where I could keep an eye out for sneak attacks from the rear, but something tells me they didn’t quite buy that load of bologna, because they took the matter to Sergeant Thorndrakes, after which I was immediately ordered to take point, and personally lead the way into the dark, shadowy darkness. Fudging hell-robot jerkholes, at least Magbots know their place. D=<
Ultimately though, that whole ‘personally leading everyone into battle’ thing was going to do wonders for my reputation after all of this ended. Being one of only like three survivors means you can make up whatever you want, so long as it’s close enough to the truth that if Injury McNoFaceMan ever earns enough to afford that prosthetic jaw he needs, he still won’t have enough dirt to call me out on my lies and truth-stretching, and it’ll be so long since the mission happened that hardly anyone will care. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about any of that right then and there, obviously. I was far too focused on not dying, and how I was going to rise up a few ranks and make something of myself someday, and the fact that the air suddenly went extremely dry and I could smell sulfur and-
"FIREBALL! TAKE COVER!"
Hey, remember when I said that the Clockwork guys didn’t know their place? Well, this was to ultimately prove fatal for the vast majority of them, and far too soon for my tastes, too. I swear, I know I’m usually not good about this sort of thing, but I really did tell everyone to take cover. Stupid bastards that they were, of course, they didn’t listen to a word I said. So while I was pinned to a wall by my own chest-harpoon (I probably should’ve been more careful with that thing, so I wouldn’t bury myself in a wall, but shut up, I was distracted), I couldn’t see a damn thing, and could only get the vaguest sensation that something incredibly fiery and doomful just blew past me, whilst all around I could hear all sorts of whining and griping and dying from the idiots who didn’t listen to me and hide in a corner like a coward when they had a chance. Some of the demons in my squad made it out of that initial blast, a little bruised and wounded, but our sergeant wasn’t so lucky. Now, I’m no expert on incubus physiology, but when your torso is splattered across twenty-eight different places, I’m pretty sure that’s death no matter who you are. This was weird, fireballs weren’t supposed to hit that hard, at least as far as I knew. I mean, I’ve never seen offensive magic even half that strong, excluding maybe some Exalted or one of Needs Food Badly’s hallucinatory incantations, and even then, it was never aimed at me.
So there we were, with all the Clockworks ruined, maybe three-quarters of our squad wounded, our commander in gory pieces, and me impaled against a wall and rendered totally useless. Not a fine start for a first mission, you could say. Of course, things were only going to get worse from there. If I’d any notion quite how much worse they were going to get, I think I would’ve just dove right into that ball of fire, and save everyone else the trouble. I was already starting to wonder if I’d made the right choice, leaving myself exposed to anyone who might be in the mood to take prisoners, when from out of the dark depths of the cavern, who of all people but Libby walked right into our bloody scene.
(Yes, it’s a cliffhanger ending. Yes, that’s all you’re getting for now, the infirmary wizard-doctor/robot-repairs guy says I need to get some rest and stuff. So fudge you, this is my MagJournal, I’ll finish the story when I damn well feel like it. D=< )
__________________
"If two wrongs don't make a right, try three."
-Laurence J. Peter
Maggy Dent avatar by happyturtle
Last edited by Lord Magtok : 06-11-2012 at 08:52 PM.
*catches up with this thread again* Wow, some great stuff again. Not that I'm surprised that you guys are awesome writers. Keep up the good work. *waits eagerly for more*
And now I actually have my own story. I got a random surge of inspiration the other day to write a bit about Laela and her twin brothers she doesn't have yet, Cern and Gwyd. The story actually takes place fifteen years in the future more or less.
Siblings
Spoiler
Three youths sit together at a picnic table in an open, grassy park. Two of them are chatting animatedly, one a lithe girl with short hair comprised of cherry blossom flowers, Laela, and the other a handsome young man with brown hair and the beginnings of what will eventually be antlers, Cernunnos. The third of the group, Gwydion, looks a lot like his brother save for softer features, shoulder length, very pale pink flower hair, and white eyes. He's wearing robes as opposed to the others' minimal clothing more suited to the warm day. He pays them no mind as he reads a thick book. The three are clearly siblings if one takes the time to look closely.
It takes a moment for Laela to realize that her brother isn't paying attention to what she's saying. She follows his gaze to see another young woman walking along the path. She's beautiful, with long legs, a shock of red hair, and a fox's tail poking out from the back of her jeans. Her tail swishes back and forth with each step. Laela laughs when she looks back and finds her brother straightening out his hair and running a finger over one of his budding antlers.
“Earth to Cern. Come in Cern. Do you have to preen yourself like that every time she walks by?” Laela says teasingly.
”I'm not preening. Is it a crime for a guy to try and look good?” Cern replies distractedly. As the fox tailed girl walks by he gives her a brilliant smile and a wave. She smiles back, but her attention of torn away by the sound of Laela whistling.
“Hey baby, got some fries with that shake!” The girl gives Laela and incredulous look, but then laughs and just keep walking.
Cern glowers at his sister. “You're a pig, you know that?”
“Oh come on, she knows I'm joking.”
“She thinks your joking, there's a difference.”
“Pfft, why do you care anyway? It's not like you're ever going to make a move on her. Don't you agree, Gwyd?” Her other brother avoids the attempt to drag him into the conversation by simply rolling his eyes in response. “Anyway, you've been doting over her for, what, a month? And she's been sending you signals for the past week. Just ask her out already.”
Cern's scowl doesn't relent. “It's not that easy. I me-”
“Sure it is, just ask her. But fine, just keep ogling her like a creep. Hey I know, since you're not gonna talk to her anyway, maybe I should ask her out.”
“You wouldn't. Besides, she's not even into women.”
“Nothing like the present to try.” Laela nods sagely.
“Alright, fine. Then maybe I'll just go and ask Cora out.”
“Shut up. You know that's not the same at all.” Laela's expression suddenly shifts to a frown.
“Sure it is, just ask her.” He says, mimicking Laela's voice. “Just stop being a hypocrite if you want to criticize me.”
“If you ask me.” Gwydion chimes in. “I think you both should spare the poor women and not ask anyone out.”
“No one asked you. Gwydion.” Laela snaps. “I don't take advice about women from a guy wearing a dress."
The boy sighs and sets down his book. “You know perfectly well these were a gift from Aunt Cessie. They're the fashion of the male nobles in Hestopia.”
“Are you sure she never grabbed it out of her closet?” The girl smirks.
“It's interesting hearing comments on clothing coming from someone who barely wears clothes at all.” He gestures at his sister vaguely. Laela's clothing consists of only a tank top and short shorts. “I'm sorry for not wanting to have my butt hanging out.”
Cern shakes his head. “Lay off you two.”
“Hmph.” Laela crosses her arms and looks away. “Isn't Dad supposed to be picking us up soon?”
”He has to drop a couple of the little kids off at...”
“Soccer practice I think it was.” Gwydion supplies.
“Right. I don't know why they bother. It's not like they're actually gonna stick with it.” Laela suddenly laughs. “Oh gods, you guys weren't there were you? You should have seen what Sammy did this morning. She got into some laundry. Apparently Mom forgot to empty the dryer, because she came into the dining room with some lingerie on her head. I've never seen Mom move so fast.”
All three of them burst out laughing at that. “Oh man, where did she get that?” Cern says when he catches his breath.
“Come on, don't be so naive. It obviously came from Mom and Dad's room.”
“Ugh, I don't want to think about that.”
“Nor me.”
Laela laughs again. “Really, guys? With the way those two are all the time, you're really gonna pretend they don't have some kind of love life?”
“Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to pretend, thank you very much.” Cern says stubbornly.
“You're so thick, Cern. How about when they practically made out all over the table last week?”
Gwydion rolls his eyes. “It was just a kiss.”
Laela shakes her head. “And don't forget she's pregnant again.”
Cern blinks. “Wait what?”
“Yeah, Dad's waiting on her hand and foot like he always does when another baby's coming. I'm surprised he's been letting her walk on her own.”
“And she's been eating again. Full meals.” Gwydion adds.
“You both know? When did this happen, and why don't I know?”
“Like I said, you're thick. I'm surprised there's any room for brains in that head of yours.” Cern shoves her in response, but she just laughs.
“I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but damn. Here I thought they were slowing down. You'd think there'd be a point where there's just too many of us.”
Gwydion picks up his book and finds his page again. “They do have us as babysitter slave labour. I expect that helps.”
Cern just chuckles and shakes his head. “I guess.”
Before the trio can move onto another topic, the sound of a horn draws their attention to the not too distant road. A truck is idling by the curb.
“About time. Thought he'd never show up.” Laela hops off her seat and hurries over to the truck. Her brothers follow at a more leisurely pace. Once they've all piled in, the truck pulls out and they head home.
New MagJournal entry! And I have an avatar to go with it, too!
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 4 – Day Twenty-Seven of Hell. Would’ve Updated Sooner, But I Was Busy, Fudge You
Spoiler
*snip*
Great stuff, but I have to say that Magtok calling anyone girly is rather ironic.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Gulaghar
Siblings
Spoiler
*snip*
Looks like the apples don't fall far from the tree. And that Sakura and Adir haven't changed much in fifteen years.
What I can't overlook is that you called football soccer. Soccer. =I
__________________
My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.
You walk into the nursery and see the splattered wet nurse all over the walls. If the baby is still alive, it was done by devils. If the baby is also on the walls, goblins. If the baby is in the smoothie maker, it was Magtok.
"I don't eat babies! Die in a fire!"
Post-Death MagJournal Entry 5 – Day Twenty-Eight of Hell. Still Stuck in a Bed in Clockwork Repair Center/Infirmary
Spoiler
So apparently I’m going to be part of some wacky ceremony tomorrow where I get pronounced Champion of Lust, Hero of the Seventh Circle, and Super Hell-Warrior Deluxe (hold the tomatoes) or some crazy nonsense like that. Sorta like being knighted, I think, except instead of being patted on the shoulder with a sword by some old broad who probably shouldn’t be trusted around swords, there’s no old broad. Unless Morgana’s one of those age-defying immortal types who likes looking way younger than she actually is, of course. Most of those folks have the decency to wait until around thirty or forty or so before locking themselves in, so you at least have some idea that they’re not quite as young as the people around them, but every now and then there’s a few jerkface exceptions.
…
If a propaganda imp steals this and reads it out loud to you and you’re not twenty seven I swear I didn’t mean that. Please don’t kill me, Lady Morgana. .-.
Aaaanyways, so yeah. Champion of Lust. Sorta ironic, really, since I was only in it for myself and not trying to be a hero at all or anything. And also because I don’t give a damn about lust, and haven’t slept with a single freaky hell-thing since I got here, and have absolutely no plans to change that. Ever. Forever. As long as I un-live. No matter who’s asking, even if it’s Lady Doomface herself. The drow are a perfect example of why rampant sexing aren’t good for a society. So is whoever used to rule this circle before Morgana showed up and exploded everyone’s skulls, come to think of it. Curtains make people slow, lazy, and apathetic, and I’ll be damned all over again before I let myself become any one of those things out here.
But enough of that, let’s get back to that big important mission I was telling you about. Unless someone’s tampered with my past entries (an entirely plausible possibility, unfortunately. I still need to sleep now and then), we left off with Libby’s fortuitous arrival, just as my team got TPK’d by a single measly fireball like the filthy NPCs that they are. Seeing as she’s a death goddess and all, my first impression was that she came to collect the splattered goo pasted all about the cavern walls. My second impression, after that first one turned out wrong, was that she looked really cute with this new form, with a sort of sandy brown hair beneath that dark reaper hood she’d just pulled off, and a figure that I’m almost certain was completely naked beneath the robes, as per her usual way of going about things. Please don’t ask me how I found out that’s how she normally goes about things, by the way. Please, I really don’t want to go back down that road again.
It wasn’t until she was right up in my face and quietly trying to pull the harpoon out of the wall that I realized I’d been stupidly ogling her without a word for about an entire six seconds. Gods, and this was the girl I’ve been trying to convince to stop having a crush on me, too. Way to completely sabotage everything forever, MagBrain. You’re a real pal.
"So err…not that I’m not grateful or anything, because I am, but what are you doing here?"
"Rescuing you."
A long pause followed that curt reply, in which I briefly wondered if the surface world was still holding its annual Obvious Statement of the Year awards. Libby deserved at least the bronze medal for that one.
"…Maggy?"
"I walked right into that one, didn’t I?"
"You did." Her trademark cheeky little smile shone back at me, looking more radiant than ever. Gods, it’d been so long since I’d been near a woman without a pair of spikes growing out of her skull, I think I was starting to lose it. Then again, it was just the stress of nearly being turned into roast Magtok on a stick, before realizing I was instead Pinned And Totally Helpless Succubus Snacks On a Stick.
"Okay, but seriously, doesn’t this break a few rules?"
"Does it?"
"Oh don’t give me that line of bull. I don’t know, I’m not the fudging death goddess in the room, but I’ve got a pretty good guess that yes, yes it does! I didn’t ask for you to come down here and possibly endanger your position just for one measly clone, y’know. Neither of us would’ve been gaining or losing anything of any real value if you’d just sat this one out!"
Just as quickly, that adorable little smile was gone. With one last tug, the harpoon finally removed itself from the wall, and I was left flailing about like an idiot, trying to regain my balance as Libby turned her back and just started walking along deeper into the tunnel. As much as I didn’t want to go down that path, and even though I had enough more corpses around me to justify turning back and running away in terror, I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t even like Libby (or at least the part of my brain that isn’t a dirty, rotten traitor doesn’t like her), but I couldn’t just let her walk away like that, ruining her day for something as terrible as saving me from an embarrassing and helpless death at the hands of whoever happened to feel like coming down that tunnel next.
"Libby! I’m sorry! I just…"
I don’t know when the hell she learned to move so fudging fast, but I found myself wrapped up in a hug before I could even figure out what I was about to apologize for. It was a bit of an awkward hug, of course, since I hadn’t taken Ol’ Impaley out of my chest and it’s sorta right in the middle of the part of my torso where hugs are supposed to happen, but she seemed to manage her way around it anyways. I was starting to regret my own guilt now, as this huggy thing was just about the most confusing and uncomfortable and vaguely numbing experience I’d ever gotten from a hug.
"It’s okay, really. I just wasn’t expecting you to worry about me."
And just like that, guilt crashed right into my face with the force of a thousand oncoming freight trains. Gods, Libby was just lousy with accidental guilt-lobbing today. Breaking off from that hug actually felt physically exhausting, which was a bad sign of things to come, surely. What chance had I against ravenous hordes of sociopathic, carnivorous sex-devils, if I couldn’t even fight off snuggles? I was no soldier, and this was a war I wasn’t even remotely likely to survive.
"So what now? Was pulling me out of the wall your entire rescue operation, or...?"
"You’re here to clear out Biela’s devils, aren’t you? They’re down this way."
"Well yeah, but the original plan called for two full squads worth of backup and magicky support and giant fighting robots to do most of the work. I don’t think-"
"Everything will be okay, trust me."
Whenever anyone else says a thing like that, you just know things are going to turn out horribly. I was putting some serious thought into just dropping my gun, running right out of the mountain, and surrendering myself over to the nearest enemy soldier in the hopes of slightly less painful death, or maybe try to exploit some loopholes or something by proposing to Libby, but both choices were taken right out of my hands in an instant. Libby unexpectedly turned around, wrapped her fingers around mine, and started pulling my hesitant butt right into the horrific abyss I was trying so hard to avoid. I could hear ghoulish laughter and the crackle of a fire farther into the tunnel, but with the way noise echoes about in these places, I couldn’t quite place how much farther the enemy would be. It’d be only minutes before the true battle began, and while those incubi and junk wouldn’t be expecting very many upright bodies after that vicious fireball trap they set for us, I was sure they’d be more than prepared for a catgirl in a silly black reaper dress, and a flimsy little human with a metal pole in his spine. There was hardly any time left to prepare. My knees felt like those wobbly gelatinous cube monster things Ms. Rubyteeth used to motivate cadets to not fall behind whilst running laps, and my throat felt as dry and coarse as sandpaper. I only had time for just one last trick up my sleeve, and it had to be a good one, because despite Libby’s promise, I knew things wouldn’t be quite so simple.
Reaching into my uniform with the hand not wrapped around Libby’s, I slowly pulled out my sidearm, thumbed the safety, and took a deep breath. I raised the clockwork handgun up to around shoulder height, let go of Libby’s hand so I could hold the weapon with both of mine, took a step back, and in one fluid motion, before she could even realize what was happening, I shot her. I shot her five times, right in her pretty face.
__________________
"If two wrongs don't make a right, try three."
-Laurence J. Peter
Maggy Dent avatar by happyturtle
Last edited by Lord Magtok : 06-17-2012 at 12:31 PM.
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