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The Devlin Omnibus; A compendium of stories
Topic Started: Sep 25 2010, 07:47 PM (1,145 Views)
Deleted User Sep 25 2010, 07:47 PM Post #1
Deleted User

 I decided to post the random short stories and/or poems I make when I get bored. -shrug- That's...really, actually, all there is to say on the matter, I suppose.
Keep in mind I write these as entertainment for when I'm BORED, so if they're not great, whatever. -shrugs again-
---

Directory

-Wrath and Ruin: Blood and Fire: Found Below
-The Far Realms of Terror: Child of the Gods: Also Below.
-Chaos: Again. Below.
-Chaos Brotherhood: Here
-The Wasteland Chronicles: Story 1: Second Story Down
-Wrath and Ruin: Slave of the Empire(Which, I personally don't like too much): Here
-Wrath and Ruin: Inquisition: Here
-The Far Realms of Terror: A Nightmare to Remember: Here

---

Story: Blood and Fire
Universe: Universe of my own design christened 'Overlord's Grip'

The building was dark.
That was the first thing most people would notice upon entering the little ruined office building, located somewhere on one of the thousands of currently nameless avenues and roads of the city of York.
No light filtered in from the outside, as all the windows were boarded up, and the city itself never had much light; even in the middle of the day, due to the massive haze that constantly coated the atmosphere of the planet these days.
The next thing they would probably notice was the fact that the building was tilted slightly, very old, and clearly structurally unsafe due to such age. This was, in fact, typical of most buildings in the once-great city of York; ruined, dark, and very unsafe.

York was once a thriving hub of a city, 200 years ago, it had been called 'New York'. These days, those unfortunate enough to live there just called it 'York'. When asked why, they would simply reply, "Well, it doesn't look so 'New' anymore, now does it?"
During the Domination War of 2012, York had been targeted by the forces of the Warlord and conquered almost as soon as the war started, since it was such a major city and therefore an obvious target. As a result, it had suffered many battles between the unholy and superhuman soldiers of the Warlord, and the weak and pitiful men of the US Army.
Needless to say, the US hadn't stood a snowball's chance in Hell.

Once the war had ended, New York had been left ravaged. All of the city except for Manhattan was under quarantine, with nothing allowed in or out, as almost all the city had become a prime spawning ground for the unholy zombies of Mantorok and the daemons of Chaos. The remainder of people in Manhattan live in constant fear that some of the beasts might escape and enter their part of the city(for they often do). The city has, over 200 years, changed drastically from a thriving hub to a dismal and bleak slave compound.

York, for odd reasons, seemed to be changing slowly, yet again, into another kind of hub- a hub for the few remaining organizations that oppose the Warlord, who, after 200 years of ruling the world, is now known as the Overlord, and due to this surge in anti-overlord activity, the notorious and brutal Overlord's Inquisition had begun to establish a more constant presence in the city.

And this brings us back to the office building previously mentioned, from which we have become sidetracked, and now you should know just why this building is so decrepit, and why Inquisitor Eight of Blackest Night was creeping through its halls.

Eight, or Mister Black to most, was a tall and thin figure. Almost 7 and a half feet tall, with all black clothing(a tuxedo, a trilby, and some pants) aside from his bright red tie and the gray band on his shirt sleeve that bore the Cancer astrological sign, and a massive 8-ball with two glowing red eyes for a head, he was an impressive figure.
And not so luckily for him, a very noticeable figure as well. To say he stuck out like a sore thumb in crowds would be a bit of an understatement. This usually wasn't a problem, because Inquisitors weren't exactly known for their stealth- that's what the assassins of the many Imperial Assassination Schools scattered worldwide were for. An Inquisitors job was to hunt you down for heresy, then go in guns blazing and shoot you until you were dead.
The job requires more skill than it sounds, trust me.

Black, the most deadly Inquisitor the Inquisition had to offer, the man(or rather, machine, as all Inquisitors are entirely mechanical) who had slain rebels and kings alike, had been brought to this city in order to seek out the entity lurking deep beneath the surface of York and plead for its aid in his ongoing assignment to hunt down and kill his renegade brother, Mister White.
He had accomplished his task and had just been on the way out of the city when he had received a message over System-42, the operating system in his computer brain that allowed him to remain in constant contact with the Inquisition HQ, located within the Grand Citadel, which if memory served correctly had once been called the 'Pentagon' in ancient times.
This message had been sent to him from the Overlord himself; one of the highest honors an Inquisitor could receive. It had read;

Black, my child.
I see you are close to locating your traitorous sibling. This pleases me.
However, a small matter has come to my attention; the fact that you are in York. Of course, this is not a problem; in fact it is beneficial to me.
You see, I have received intelligence that states that a scouting party of the Union Militia, one of the few remaining rebel factions, has arrived in the city and plans to set up shop.
Of course my first instinct was to send an Inquisitor to have this straightened out; but none of the Inquisitors were close enough to have it dealt with in a timely fashion. And then I realized that you, my most prized soldier, were in the city itself.

If you can't figure out what I'm about to ask you to do, I would seriously recommend getting an intelligence upgrade.
Find these scouts and eliminate them. No survivors. Use any force you deem necessary.
My spy in their midst will rendezvous with you in a small office building at coordinates that I have enclosed in this message. He will provide you with their location, and it will also be his job to aid you in this matter.

Good luck, Inquisitor. Do not fail me. Men have died for less.

Of course, Black had instantly set the coordinates into his built in GPS and set off at a run. Being one of the most loyal soldiers there was in the Empire, he was more than willing to destroy any damned fool stupid enough to oppose the Overlord.
---

Black slunk slowly through the shadows.
"This is the right building..." He muttered to himself. "So where is this informant?"
"Dunno where he is, mate." A voice said calmly from behind him. "I’m kind of wondering myself, since you’ve asked yourself that more than a few times already.”
Instantly, Black swung around, his Peacemaker revolver aimed right between the eyes of the stranger behind him.
Or rather, it would have been, if the stranger had HAD eyes, as Black found himself staring into a silver, mirror-like mask that glinted slightly in the darkness and offered a distorted reflection of his own face.

“Evenin’.” Replied the man, doffing his large brimmed hat. Black stared. It was a man slightly shorter than himself, maybe a tad taller than six and a half feet tall, wearing a large black duster coat, cowboy boots, a brown, wide-brimmed hat, and...what appeared to be a pair of enormous metal gauntlets.
Black recognized him instantly.

“Anderson.” He said coolly, lowering the gun, “It’s been a while.”
“Hasn’t it?” The man, Anderson, replied. “I haven’t seen you since the time those rebels seized Fort Asha’man. Good times, Black, good times.”
“Indeed.” Black replied, his face, which lacked anything other than eyes, somehow having a hard expression to it. “If by ‘good times’ you mean ‘being left for dead by a supposed ally of the Empire’.”
“Blood and fire, man, you’re upset about that?” Sighed Anderson. “Alright, so I left you surrounded by a group of rebel soldiers, grievously outnumbered and almost certain to die. So f**kin’ what? I had accomplished my mission, you hadn’t accomplished yours. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t have done the same to me, given the chance?”
If Black had had teeth, he would‘ve been gritting them. The assassin had a point, though he was loathe to admit it.
“I’ll take your silence as a ‘bloody hell yes I would’ve left you to die, you son of a bitch’.” Anderson said, putting his hands in his duster pockets. “Mate, you gotta understand something. I’m an Assassin. A Mano Negro* to be precise. You’re an Inquisitor. Our kind do not get along. Your kin operate as Overlord-worshiping tanks. My kin operate as shadow-loving backstabbers; the kind of thing your kin fight on a daily basis. So of course, I left you to die, and you would’ve done the same to me.”

*-Mano Negro: ‘Black Hand’. A Black Hand is an assassin trained in the most lethal Imperial Assassination School of all; the Orden de el Mano Negro, or ‘Order of the Black Hand’, established in the year 2160 in the ruins of one of the now nameless cities of Puerto Rico.

Black snorted, which, coming from him, sounded more like a hiss of static. “Fine. True enough. Now stop blathering on for ten seconds and tell me what the hell you think you’re doing here.”
Though Anderson’s mask had no features whatsoever, Black got the impression he was grinning.
“Ain’t it obvious, mate?” He sneered. “I’m your informant. I’ve been spying on those rebel blokes for weeks now.”
“Oh, that’s just grand.” Black crossed his arms. “And I suppose this is the part where the two bitter rivals team up against a common foe?”
Anderson tapped the spot on his mask where his nose should’ve been. “Spot on.”
“Ugh. That’s completely cliché.”
“Damn straight it is, but who’re we to complain?”

---

The streets of York were silent and still. Nothing made any sound at all, and nothing moved, largely due to the fact that most of this part of Manhattan was uninhabited except for a scattered few Mutants looking to hide away from society. Indeed, it was a typical, disturbingly quiet evening.
A few seconds later, though, it was to become the most eventful evening the street had had in almost 100 years; because off in the distance was a gathering dust cloud, and a black shape approaching the street at an extremely fast pace.
Suddenly and soundlessly, with a massive gust of wind, an immense, blood red motorcycle whizzed by, driven by a man with a silver, expressionless mask, and a man with an enormous 8-ball for a head, and upon the cycle itself were mounted a pair of oversized assault rifles, that looked like a single bullet would punch a hole twice the size of a fist into someone.
A mutant who had been lurking in the shadows happened to observe this event and immediately resolved to stop experimenting with narcotics.

---

Soon enough, the War Cycle, as it was called, came to a halt about a block away from the building its passengers were headed for.
“Gotta hand it to the Marines.” Black said, getting off the cycle, “They’re batsh*t insane, but they know how to make effective vehicles.”
“I know, right?” Chuckled Anderson. “This baby is one of the f**kin’ fastest things they have. Took a LOT of string-pulling to get one.”
Black glanced at him, lighting a cigarette, and said, “The Overlord gave the cycle to you as a gift.”
Anderson paused mid-step.
“...He owed me one.” He said innocently. “You know how much he values my skills.”
Black snorted. “Anyone can get a reward from the big O if they play their cards right, Anderson. You’re not the first, let me tell you. It doesn’t mark you as particularly special.”
Anderson gave a small ‘Hmph’ and turned away.
“It’s that way.” He said simply, pointing ahead. “Just walk forward a bit, make a left, walk forward some more, and you’ll know the place when you see it.” He started heading in a different direction.
Black watched him. “And just where the hell do you think YOU’RE going?”
“I have a different objective.” Anderson replied without looking back. “I’m not here to baby-sit you, my Lord Inquisitor.” The last part was said with undisguised sarcasm.
“So, what, I’m going alone?” Black asked, crossing his arms.
“Isn’t it your JOB to go it alone?” Anderson shot back. “I thought you Inquisitors were supposed to be a one man army.”
“That’s not what I- Ugh, forget it. What’s your objective?” The Inquisitor sighed.
“That, old chap, is on a need-to-know basis.” The assassin replied, waving dismissively as he vanished into the shadows.
And so Inquisitor Black found himself walking alone towards the rebel hideout, one hand on his revolver.

Soon enough he found the building in question. It wasn’t very inconspicuous for a hideout, as there were plenty of trucks and other vehicles parked outside, marking it as a beehive of activity. Of course, this part of the city was practically empty, so it would have gone unnoticed if they set a godsdamned BOMB off.
Strolling calmly towards the building, he came across a pair of men guarding the entrance to the building.
“Halt!” One man called. “Don’t come any closer! Identify yourself!”
Black’s red eyes settled on them, examining them as threats. Quickly he realized they were only armed with sidearm’s, as the rebels didn’t expect to be found, and that they were wearing mediocre standard issue US Army suits that they had likely salvaged somewhere. A suit that was about as good at protecting you as wearing a chunk of soggy cardboard instead of clothing was, in this time period.
Still approaching them with a menacing confidence in his stride, he took the revolver from his pocket and began loading it.
“HEY! I said identify yourself! Put the gun down NOW!” The man shouted.
Black continued loading the weapon, not even acknowledging the man.
“I will give you until the count of three to drop the gun!” The man screamed angrily.
No reply from Black.
“One!”
Nothing.
“Two!”
Still nothing.
“-” Was all the man had time to say before his brains were abruptly plastered all over the side of the building.
“Three.” Black finished, coolly, the barrel of his gun still smoking.
“SON OF A B*TCH!” Shrieked the other guard, dropping his pistol in fright.
Black swung around, swiftly putting a bullet into the remaining guards chest. The guard let out a sound akin to ‘Gurghk!’ and fell the ground, a red blotch blossoming on his suit.

The machine walked over to the bodies and knelt there, patting them down. At last he found what he was looking for in one of the pockets, an identification card that would grant him access to the building.
He picked up the card and held it up to the holo-scanner mounted by the door. A beam of green light shot out, scanning the card.
“Welcome back, Captain Hendricks.” An automated voice replied as the door unlocked with a quiet ‘click’.
---

Within the building, one soldier was calmly relaxing in his office chair, eating a stale donut, and of course, slacking off. His duty was to be watching the monitor in front of him, which gave a live feed of all the cameras in the building, in case anyone they didn’t know entered.
But of course, the soldier had convinced himself, that wasn’t going to happen. This was the middle of nowhere! Who would walk in? Who even knew they were here?
“Ugh. This job sucks.” He groaned. “Nothing interesting ever happens. Day after day, it’s ‘Watch the monitors, Kent! It’s important!’. Who the fudge is gonna bother breaking in? There’s nothing interesting in this part of the city, nobody ever comes here! This place is about as lively as a dead rat.”
“Well then.” A voice said to him. “Allow me to liven up your day.”
One of Kent’s few redeeming qualities was his reaction time when he was scared shitless. He was able to leap out of the chair and wrench his gun from its holster just as a katana pierced the back of the chair where he had been sitting only a split second before.
Kent stared at the strange silver-masked man before him, who was trying to pry the katana- which was protruding from one of the big metal gauntlets he wore- from the chair.
“How did you get in?” He asked nervously.
“Roof.” The man grunted.
“B-but we had guards up th-”
“Dead.” Came the calm reply.
“But there were almost ten of them!”
“Dead.” Came the reply again, more firm this time.
With a sound sort of between a ‘CRASH’ and a ‘CLUNK’, the chair split as the katana was wrenched free.
Instantly Kent raised his gun and was about to pull the trigger when the man leapt forward with superhuman speed and sliced the weapon in half.
Kent dropped to his knees, sobbing.
“Please, man!” He cried. “Don’t kill me! I’ll do anything! I got a family! A wife and two children, back in Arkansas!”
“Well.” The man replied. “It sucks to be them, doesn’t it?”
And then he speared Kent through the chest with his katana.
---

Black continued on his merry way through the facility, a trail of dead soldiers marking where he’d been. So far it looked like no one was even aware he was inside, which was unusual, considering the amount of security cameras he’d seen as he strolled.
The soldiers all seemed poorly equipped an unprepared for a fight, which was horribly sloppy of them. Were they seriously stupid enough to believe the Overlord wouldn’t be able to hunt them down? Poor deluded fools.

Black suddenly turned a corner and found himself staring at a pair of soldiers guarding a large green garage door.
Before they could react he had drawn his revolver and shot one of them in the groin, the soldier in question letting out a terrible scream of agony before dropping like a stone.
The second soldier got off a single shot before Black shot him right in the Adam’s Apple and blew out most of his throat with the round.
“This is why you send a machine to do the killing.” Black shook his head as he approached the door. “Deadly accuracy.”
He grabbed the man he’d just castrated with a revolver and picked him up by the neck. He was still alive. Barely, and in a LOT of agony, but alive.
“You. Passcode. Now.” Black said simply, pointing a thumb at the lock attached to the door.
“Why should I tell you?” The man managed to gasp.
“Because I can either end your suffering or make it a thousand times worse. Choose now.”
“Okay, okay!” The man gasped. “The code is 3-2-9-6-7-3-9.”
Black promptly tossed him to the ground and shot him twice, once in each kneecap. The man screamed.
“Thanks.” Black said to the still screaming man, entering the code and leaving him to die in excruciating pain.
The garage door slid open and he calmly walked in. A dozen heads turned to stare as the Inquisitor emerged into what appeared to be a warehouse attached to the building, full of enemy soldiers.
“Overlord’s Inquisition.” Black announced loudly, so that it echoed clearly through the warehouse.
Instantly every gun in the room was raised at him, and a blond man wearing an eyepatch a long blue coat that trailed behind him as he walked suddenly burst out from a side-room, surrounded by a squad of rebel soldiers.
“So.” He snarled. “The Inquisition has found us. How did you get in without us noticing?”
“You’re a bunch of morons who obviously pay no attention to the security cameras.” Black shrugged. “I pretty much just waltzed in.”
“Well, ain’t that f**kin’ grand.” Snarled the man. “Inquisitor, I am Commander Pelonius, a high ranking official in this rebel outfit, and you’re not going to be leaving here alive.”
“Oh?” Black replied, feigning shock.
“Yeah.” Spat Pelonius, “If you think you’re getting out of this, forget it. We’re sick and tired of you demented freaks ruling this world. Humanity is NOT a plaything for the Overlord! We’re PEOPLE, goddammit! We have rights! We don’t deserve to be treated like slime! And killing you, Inquisitor, is the first step to a brighter future. One where we don’t have some sick, twisted dictator toying with our lives and making us suffer just for his amusement!”

“And that’s all I needed to hear.” Someone called loudly, above them.
Several heads craned upward in time to see Anderson, black coat fluttering as he descended, leap from an open window on the second floor of the building and land, katanas unsheathed, on top of the Commander, one blade through his skull, another through his chest.
“What the hell?!” Cried one of the Commander’s guards just as he was decapitated by Anderson’s blades. Anderson had stood up swiftly and whirled in a circle, like a helicopter blade, slicing open one soldiers stomach(this particular soldier remained alive for a full horrible minute as he tried desperately to keep his organs from sliding out of the gaping hole in his stomach), decapitating several, and just plain slicing the others until they were so carved you couldn’t tell who they were.
“I take it your job was to take out the Commander?” Black asked.
“You got it.” Replied the assassin.
“Alright. Now watch a pro at work.” The Inquisitor said.

He charged forward, bludgeoning a gaping soldier over the head with his revolver so hard that there was an echoing CRACK as his skull shattered. The soldiers finally got over their shock and began opening fire on him with assault rifles. Black leapt into the air just as several shots hit the spot he’d been standing in a second before and swiftly shot one man in the face and another in his chest.
A shot grazed the machines shoulder as he landed, and he pivoted on one foot, bringing his gun to face a female soldier, assault rifle raised and face contorted in a snarl of rage, then shot her thrice in the stomach.
Holstering the Peacemaker revolver, he unslung a Tommygun from his back, and began pumping customized explosive shells into soldier after soldier. One man tried to shoot him from behind a wooden crate, and Black had simply shot the crate until it shattered into splinters from the amount of miniaturized explosives in each bullet. He then proceeding to fill the soldier with lead, lead that left fist-sized holes blown into his corpse.

At last only a single soldier remained, cowering in the corner.
“This,” Black said coldly, approaching him slowly. “Is what happens when you oppose the Overlord.”
The man whimpered weakly.
“Die.” Was all the machine said before filling the mans corpse with bullets.

“Impressive.” Anderson said, clapping slowly as the Inquisitor turned away from the dead man. “If you ask me, it was a tad too show offish. But hey, whatever floats your hypothetical boat.”
Black eyed him.
“You killed the guy in charge of surveillance, didn’t you?”
“Guilty as charged, though no court in this world would give as shit about it.” Anderson replied.
They stared at one another for a moment.
“...Thanks?” Black offered, somewhat reluctantly.
“Ah, don’t mention it, mate.” Anderson shrugged. “Just doin’ my job. Given the chance I wouldn’t have done it at all. Too time consuming.”
Black rolled his eyes.

“So, what now?” The Inquisitor inquired.
“Dunno about you, mate, but I’m off.” Anderson said, turning and walking away. “Gotta report back to the Big O, and my superiors back at the Order.”
“Alright.” Black nodded. “...And, Anderson?”
“Hm?” Anderson asked, turning his head to look back...
...And then he got a fist to the face. Er, mask.
“SONNUVA-!” The assassin shouted, recoiling.
“That,” Black hissed. “Is for leaving me for dead back at the Fort.”
“Blood and fire!” Croaked Anderson. “You can’t give a guy a break, can you?”
“You want a break? Go get yourself killed. You’ll have all the break time you want.” The machine replied.
Anderson stared at him, then slowly shook his head, shoulders trembling as he laughed.
“You,” He laughed, “Are a crazy bastard, Black.”
“One could say the same about you.” Black stated.
“True that, mate, true that.” Anderson chuckled. He offered the machine his hand.
Black eyed it warily. “I hope that’s not an offer of friendship. I don’t do ‘friendly’.”
“Of course not.” Scoffed the assassin, “It’s an offer of respect.”
Black continued to eye the offered hand, then met Anderson’s eyeless gaze.
“Respect,” He said, “I can do.”
And they shook hands.

---

Story: Child of the Gods
Universe: Cthulhu Mythos

Child of the Gods, why do you cry?
Young and frail are you, with power unmatched by men.
Child of the Gods, when will you fly?
Unstoppable and immortal, yet you never leave your den.
Child of the Gods, what do you say?
Your word is wise, but your voice unheard.
Child of the Gods, is today your day?
Have you decided to fly like a bird?
Child of the Gods, why did you die?
The dreaming dead await you, beyond the sky.

There is a tale told among the men of the small, coastal town of Shaleburg. A tale passed down from several generations, from a time when the great-grandparents of the current generation of youth were mere infants in diapers, squealing for their mothers.
A tale of an old, decrepit mansion, abandoned and avoided by all- human and animal alike- that sits atop old Rose Hill, overlooking the sea. Falling apart and weathered by time, the mansion has an unmistakable aura of malice surrounding it. If you dare approach it- and not many do, believe me- you will be constantly plagued by a nagging fear of being watched, of something unspeakable lurking just out of sight, watching you, waiting for you, ready to pounce on you.
Nothing lives there anymore- including plant life. The ground is brown, cracked and barren, all the grass, all the trees, everything, all withered away as though by some unspeakable, unnamed plague. The buildings windows are cracked, the wood is decayed, the paint has faded, and the chimney is on the verge of collapsing in on itself.
In fact, many are amazed that the building has not collapsed yet, for it way so poorly taken care of way back when it was inhabited, and now it sits alone, a silent watchman, guarding terrible secrets behind its sealed doors.

The tale of this building begins one summer in the year 1924, when the family who owned the little old house on Rose Hill, a family of shut-ins a world apart from the other denizens of Shaleburg, received the newest addition to their little hermit family- an infant boy they named ‘Alastair’.
The Goodman’s, the hermit family dwelling on Rose Hill, were not truly his parents, for their only daughter, Francine, was single, and not quite interested in the opposite gender, if you understand, and Francine’s mother had long since passed away.
The young boy appeared on their doorstep one night, according to them, during a violent storm. Lightning struck a tree outside, mangling it into a horrible, monstrous-looking form, and that, they say, is approximately when young Alastair appeared.
He was in a little wooden basket, wrapped in a blanket and seemingly calm despite the violent storm. There was no trace of anyone who could have left him there, though notably there was a quickly fading fetid, evil odor in the air. More worried about the safety of the child than the impossibility of his appearance at the time, the Goodman’s thought nothing of it and swiftly brought the child inside, adopting him into their quiet little home.

Alastair was a quiet young child as he grew, rarely speaking a word, and never crying. He did not eat much, and remained very thin; but not a ‘sickly’ thin, for he still looked quite healthy. He never associated with other children, for he did not want to; not that it mattered to the Goodman’s, for they were hermits anyway. To them, all this signified was that he was taking after them and their solitary ways.
He rarely played outdoors, and when he did, it was always to go swing on the swing the Goodman’s had installed for him on the decrepit and mutilated old tree that had been so scarred on the day they discovered him; but never died. He would sit there for hours, swinging back in forth, seemingly just staring into space and enjoying the view. But still, the Goodman’s just figured this was the product of him having an active imagination, merely sitting out there and running through childish fantasies inside his little head.
They continued to nurture and care for the lad, and it was not until he hit the age of twelve that they began to notice anything strange about him.
A pair of pudgy little growths had sprouted between his ribs, rather like large pimples or warts. Unsure of what to do, the Goodman’s assumed it was something that would just go away with time, and decided to ignore it.
But old Roger Goodman, the head of the household, father of Francine, was more concerned than his wife and children, for as he examined the growths one day, Alastair discovered he could move the growths around like stubby little arms, controlling them with just a thought. And while this was utterly bizarre and alien to them, the Goodman family was still unsure of what to do, and being hermits and afraid of what would happen if they told outsiders of their poor adopted sons freakish growths, they chose once more to ignore it.

Time continued to pass, and Alastair grew into a fine young 16 year old man, very muscular and fit- which surprised his family, for he rarely left the house, and he had never been seen working out- but with bizarre tendencies. An interest in the occult gripped young Alastair, at first an interest, but later worming its way downward into more of an obsession.
He spent hours and hours alone in the basement of the manor in which the Goodman family dwelled, poring over archaic scrolls and tomes he had gone to great lengths to achieve; forsaking his families solitary nature to venture forth into the wide world and seek these texts.
While reading one of these texts, he came across a reference to a book known only as the Necronomicon- a book of unimaginable horror and power, written by the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred. Alastair immediately left home, seeking a copy of this text with a frightening, almost savage ferocity; he simply had to have the book no matter the cost, refusing to allow anyone to stop him. His family tried to talk him out of it, begging him to stop his occult obsessions, for they feared he would start something he could not stop.
But Alastair ignored the pleas of his once-loved ones, trekking all across the country to find a copy of the mad Arab’s text. At last, he found a copy, when traversing an old marsh down in Louisiana, shunned for reports of its semi-tribal inhabitants who practiced horrible rituals and revered eldritch, unspeakable things.
It is said that young Alastair encountered a man in this marsh, standing alone, ankle-deep in mud, staring into space as though waiting for something.
The man was dressed in decayed old brown robes that covered his face and his body, though clearly showed he was a hunchback. The man said nothing, merely walked out of the marshes and up to Alastair. He reached into his robes, and with frail, bony grayed hands with wicked sharp nails like talons, offered a large black book to Alastair- the Necronomicon he had been searching for so desperately.
As Alastair tore his gaze away from his prize to thank the old man for the book, he realized that the mysterious stranger had completely vanished without a sound. The marsh had gone silent, not even the insects making noise.

Thinking nothing of it, Alastair Goodman made his way back to civilization, to catch a train back to his manor on Rose Hill.
It was after he arrived home that strange, unnatural things began to happen. Alastair no longer spent hours alone in the cellar, instead, he spent days down there, perhaps not even sleeping. He shouted horrible things in an insane and archaic tongue that hurt his families ears merely to listen to. A few of Alastair’s ‘brothers’ began to have terrible nightmares, so unspeakable that one nearly died of a heart attack in his sleep, due to the horrors he encountered in his sleep. These brothers forsook their oath of hermitage soon after, leaving home to find a new place to call home; one without a deranged cultist brother calling upon powers he should not mess with.
The remaining Goodmans- Roger, his wife, Francine, and Dale, the last brother- all slowly began to succumb to an unknown illness. They sprouted hideous boils filled with pus, their skin paled to white, and their eyes began to leak a yellow ichor. They coughed and wheezed and croaked and could barely move, nearly collapsing from the effort if they so much as tried.
And during all this, Alastair still kept his occult chantings up, emerging every so often to seek sustenance to take down into the basement, utterly ignoring his families pleas for help.
They noticed something strange about him- the growths from his ribs were now trailing out from under his shirt, long and dangly...they seemed to resemble some hideous, fleshy flagella, unnatural to the human body. His skin had taken on a scaly, rigid texture, and was now a dull gray-blue color. His eyes were yellowed and reptilian, his teeth pointed.

One night, Alastair emerged, trembling with what seemed barely contained excitement, and dragged a protesting, sickly Dale to his feet, carrying him down into the basement with him. Roger and his wife demanded to know what their deranged son was doing, but Alastair gave them no answer. But he did not need to; for the bloodcurdling scream that erupted from the bowels of the cellar later gave them all the answer they needed. Clearly, their adopted child had gone mad, and sacrificed their youngest son for his insane rituals.

Then they heard a scream from Alastair as well, and loud noises like a bird trapped in the room, fluttering about and ramming into things, a dull thud, and finally, silence.
The Goodman’s had no idea what had occurred, and their sickly state left them in no position to find out.
As time went on- about over the course of two weeks or so- Rogers wife and Francine passed away due to the illness, but Roger inexplicably survived, becoming his old self once more.
Worried by newfound horrible odors wafting from the basement, but frightened of what he might find, Roger tried to avoid going down there to see the fate of Dale and Alastair, who had never emerged from the basement since that horrible day two weeks ago. But he knew he had to, and steeled himself as best he could, ready for anything.

However, he was certainly not ready for what he found.
Dale was down there- a large knife jabbed into his lungs, his body carved up and decaying, the blood stale, the corpse stinking, sitting upon a makeshift altar Alastair had constructed from a table stowed in the cellar. Alastair himself was there, too...laying facedown in a corner, not breathing, clearly dead.
He was hideous- his skin had turned to blue-gray scales, the growths from his ribs were clearly large, octopoid tentacles, and his teeth were jagged and numerous, like that of a shark. A pair of hideous, daemonic-looking leathery wings were folded over his backside, apparently having sprouted from his spine at some point. His fingers had turned into horrible, sharp claws, perfect for tearing flesh.
As Roger looked down in horror at what had become of his poor, deranged adopted child, and his youngest son, his attention was suddenly drawn by a noise from the other end of the cellar.
What he saw was an indescribable horror that drove Roger Goodman mad.
It had no constant form- it was ever shifting, a writhing mass of what appeared to be gas, tentacles, appendages such as arms or legs, and large eyeballs, all these ’limbs’ of a hideous, non-Euclidean geometry, unnatural and horrible. It was squatted in the corner directly across the cellar from Alastair, shadows rendering most of its maddening body hidden in the darkness.
It gurgled something unintelligibly, which alone seemed impossible, as it had no visible mouth, and though he did not recognize the language at all and it hurt his ears to hear, Roger understood it clearly.
Disturb not the son of the Daemon Sultan, It seemed to say, For he is dead and waits, dreaming, for a great and terrible purpose to fulfill.

Roger fled the house immediately after it was done speaking, hurling himself off the cliff behind his home on Rose Hill that overlooked the sea, plunging into the sea and drowning himself.
A year passed, and the plant life outside the house seemed to have decayed and died, all animals avoided the place, and unspeakable malice loomed over the area surrounding the manor, frightening off potential intruders.
One dark, stormy night in the Winter, a night disturbingly reminiscent of the day of Alastair’s appearance, a terrible cacophony of maddening shrieks and thumps erupted from the walls of the manor, shaking the whole building. There was a final, horrible gurgling roar, and then something burst forth from the roof, punching a huge hole straight through it, a massive, winged form, screeching and flying away over the sea. The storm seemed to follow it, the dark clouds drifting slowly after the form, obscuring it from sight.

The next day, the hole in the roof had mysteriously repaired, as though it had never broken at all. There were gurgling moans from within the building at precisely 6 in the evening, and a voice, in an insane language, echoed out from the walls to be heard by any within range.
The dreaming dead has awoken, It gurgled, A Harbinger of horrors yet to come.
---

Story: Chaos
Universe: Warhammer 40,000

Chaos

----

The first thing he felt was heat. It was really, really hot. Like an oven. Then, he felt a sharp jab in his ribcage- pain. Good. It meant he was still alive.
Groaning, he slowly forced open his eyes, crusted over with blood from a deep cut on his forehead. At first, he thought he had gone blind. Then, he thought it was night time. Then, he realized the truth- the room was pitch black with no windows or light.
That probably partially explained why the room was so hot.
There was a creak of metal, from the sound of it, ancient and weathered, the groaning of door hinges, and a loud SLAM that made his ears ring. His mouth opened in a silent scream of pain as it his brain throbbed painfully in reply.
By the Emperor, he felt like he had a hangover.
"Han Lyanthis, of the Imperial Guard?" A hissing voice called.
He raised his head in the direction of the sound. Was that his name? Yes...yes, it was. It was all coming back to him.
“Are you Han Lyanthis?” The voice said, its tone more impatient this time.
“Yes.” Han managed to croak.
“Good.”

A gauntleted hand shot out of the darkness and clamped around his neck, slamming him against the wall. Han tried to scream as he felt one of his ribs crack under the force, but the fist gripping his throat would not permit him to speak.
“You will listen, and you will listen well, Slave of the False Emperor.” The voice whispered. "You are our prisoner. As of now, we own you. And you WILL do as we say."
Han’s fear changed swiftly to that of anger. Slave to the False Emperor? That could mean only one thing. His captor, whoever he or she was, was a...
“Heretic.” Han managed to whisper.
His captor let out a laugh that echoed with pure madness and malice. The small size of the room, combined with it’s emptiness, made it sound as though a thousand voices were laughing in chorus, and Han could not help but feel frightened.
“Now then, Imperial,” His captor continued, voice lined with an emotion that sounded like malevolent glee, “I shall take you to the Interrogation room.”
Han felt the grip around his neck release him, and he dropped to the floor.
His captor dragged him to his feet and threw him through an open door.
Unlike the last room, this one was lit- torches lined the walls, revealing a circular stone room. Six pointed stars lined the walls, blood stained the floor, and bones lay scattered this way and that. The room stank of human excrement, and gave off an aura of terror. A dead Imperial Guardsman lay nearby, his outfit torn, his skin flayed. It looked like he had been killed only recently. A jolt of fear passed through him as he realized the Guardsman was from his regiment.
“Recognize him?” His captor spoke, and Han turned. His eyes widened as he saw who it was.
It was a large, armored giant, easily twice, perhaps thrice, the size of an average man. His armor was a bright, fiery red, the shoulders a sunny yellow. A pair of horns extended from his helmet, which bore an expression of hate that glared down at Han unblinkingly.
A Chaos Marine.
“Chaos scum,” Spat Han, “What do you want with me?”
The Marine did not answer, merely grabbed Han by the collar of his outfit and dragged him over to a chair, tossing him into it lazily.
Then he moved to stand to the left of chair, stoic, staring at a nearby door.
“What are we waiting for?” Han inquired.
“Be silent, Imperial.” The Marine growled, drawing his bolt pistol and leveling it to the Guardsman’s head. Han wisely chose to be silent.
Before long, the doorway swung open.
A large, black and gold armored figure strode through. A red cape trailed behind him. Skulls adorned his power armor, the shoulders a blood red color. One shoulder bore the mark of Khorne, his chest the mark of Chaos itself. The aura of malice he generated, the look of authority he had, the way the Chaos Marine saluted when he entered, meant he could only be a Chaos Lord.

But something was off. Why was this Chaos Lord colored so differently from the one beside Han? Their coloration seemed to mark them as being from different legions- so why would these two legions be working with one another?
And another thought fluttered through his brain; what did they want with him?

The Chaos Lord stopped at the foot of the chair which Han sat upon, leaning to lower his helmet to eye level with the comparatively small guardsman.
“Greetings, Imperial.” He said in a dull monotone. “I am the Chaos Overlord. I would tell you my true name, but there’s no need- you are likely not long for this world anyway...if you are anything like your comrades.”
Chaos Overlord? Han wondered.
“No doubt you are wondering why we took you.” The Overlord continued. “You know something that we want to know. You are from the regiment stationed on Yurask, correct?”
Han scowled. He would never tell the forces of Chaos anything, no matter how terrified he was. He was a servant of the Emperor, and he did NOT tell Chaos anything.
The Overlord sighed and nodded once.
The Marine to Han’s left gripped his arm tightly, squeezing. Han felt his bones start to crack slightly under the armored giants immense strength
“The Overlord,” He growled, “Asked you a question.”
He squeezed harder, and Han shouted in pain as he felt his arm snap like a twig.
“Y-yes.” He spat, tears forming on his eyes as he gritted his teeth and tried to take his mind off the pain.
“Good,” Purred the Overlord, “Then you would know the weaknesses of the fortress there.”
Han sat bolt upright, the pain forgotten.
“You filthy heretic scum!” He screamed, “What in the blessed name of the Emperor makes you think I would ever tell you that? What kind of moron are y-”
“BE SILENT, WORM!” The red marine roared, grabbing him and hurling him into a stone pillar.
“Now now,” Purred the Overlord, obviously amused, “That was not a smart thing to say, Imperial. I have ways of getting what I want.”

“You’ll never break me...” The Guardsman moaned, trying to stand upright.
“No?” The Overlord said, walking over. “Then what do you call this?”
He raised a massive armored foot and stomped, hard, on Hans right knee, shattering it. Han screamed.
“And this?”
He stomped on the left knee, also shattering it.
Han sobbed and screamed at the same time, flopping uselessly to the ground as he attempted to rise onto his now unworking legs.
Anger, fear, and even the seeds of doubt in the power of the Emperor began to form in his mind as he endured the agony.

“This one will be broken easily.” The Overlord muttered to the nearby Marine. “He is weak willed. We have not even begun to torture him, and already he cracks. He is like a child’s plaything- amusing, but in the end, fragile.”
He walked over and picked up Han by the neck. That had been happening a lot recently, Han realized. Dizzy with pain, he almost found it funny.
“Are you ready to talk?” The Overlord asked.
“The weaknesses...The western wall of the fortress receives more weathering than the rest of the place.” Han said before he could stop himself, “It needs constant repair. It’s much weaker than the rest of the walls.”
“Excellent.” The Overlord said, dropping him. He turned to leave.

“W-wait.” Han croaked. “I gave you what you wanted...Help me. Heal me.”
The Overlord paused.
“Help you?” He asked curiously, turning his head, “Why would I do that?”
“Be-because...”
“Because I forced information out of you? Information you didn’t willingly surrender to me?” Scoffed the Overlord. “And you think this makes you entitled to my help? You are a fool, Imperial. I have what I want, and you tried to stop me from getting it. You were an obstacle, and obstacles must be torn down to reach the goal.”
He turned to leave, and said to the nearby Marine, “Dispose of him. He is of no further use to me.”
“Yes, my lord.” The Marine said.

Han felt his blood boil with rage- at himself, at the Emperor, and at these heretics. They didn’t help him, after he had given them the information he wanted? Where was this glorious Emperor now, to save him from the Chaos scum? And why had he been foolish enough to believe that the Overlord would actually help him?
His blood felt hot, boiling, and suddenly he realized he wasn’t boiling with rage-
His blood was, quite literally, boiling.
It was heating up rapidly, and he could feel it, burning the insides of his veins, slowly burning through, then beginning to heat and burn his flesh from the inside out.
His face twisted in agony and horror as he realized he was being cooked alive from the inside out.
And nearby, the Marine in red had a gauntlet, palm forward, outstretched towards him, hand seemingly radiating heat.
He was doing this.
Han tried to beg him to stop, but he couldn’t. Words could not form through the sea of pain he was drowning in, and all that came out was a gurgling noise.
He fell over on his side as blood poured through his flesh, burning away all his flesh from his bones, as he realized his death was coming.
He did the only thing he could do.
He screamed.
--
 
Deleted User Sep 25 2010, 07:49 PM Post #2
Deleted User

 Story: Chaos Brotherhood
Universe: Warhammer 40,000

Chaos Brotherhood

---

Metuo.
From orbit, it looked hideous. A giant ball of dust, covered in enormous bronze factories that towered up to the skyline, spewing pollution across the landscape in enormous, billowing gray clouds. In fact, the atmosphere itself now had a sickly tint to it, visible if you looked carefully enough. The rest of the planet was nothing more than dust and rock...kind of like a smaller version of Mars, in appearance, if it weren't for the small patches of mutated forest that dotted the landscape here and there. Yes, from space it truly looked like an abomination, a blight on the universe...

...But on the surface, it looked much worse.

Daemonic beings roamed the sands, beings that sought nothing more than to kill. Beasts that had an anatomy so twisted, it seemed impossible that they should be alive, but somehow, they were. On the streets of the ancient cities, armored and mutated soldiers patrolled, fending off incursions from any of the daemon beasts that dared try to enter the city, for the ones in the sands were nothing more than mindless animals.
Such was the way of life in the Eye of Terror.

And in orbit, thousands of hideous ships with metallic hulls that seemed to writhe in agony as they floated through the void surrounded the planet, sending down smaller gunship's known as Thunderhawks to the surface, or waiting for the Thunderhawks they’d send down earlier to return. Occasionally one vessel would drift away from the planet and set off into the void once more, headed for parts unknown, for reasons equally unknown.

And down below on the surface of this horrible planet called Metuo, in the highest point in the tallest tower in the ancient forge world city of Dusk, stood the man who ruled this planet with an iron fist, and all the ships in orbit.
He was the Chaos Overlord, Devlinaerus Atrok’ya, the first Chaos Lord to ever have controlled a total of five Chaos Legions.
His armor was black and gold, his shoulderplates blood red, a black mark of Khorne embedded on one shoulder. He wore a dark purple cape, black stains on it marking places where enemies blood had once fallen.
This was his world, granted to him as a home by the Dark Gods he served.

He stood in what appeared to have been, in times long past, the office of whatever Adeptus Mechanicus operative had been in control of the operations on Dusk. Before him was an enormous window, with which he could gaze down on the entire city like a God on high. However the window was also impractical- it made whoever used the office vulnerable to a sniper.
Not that Devlinaerus was worried. He had the favor of the Dark Gods- he would not be killed by such means.
But that also did not make him stupid. He had long ago improvised and ordered his Marines to construct automated ‘shutters’ for the windows, thick steel sheets that would fold inward and block the glass like a shield at the press of a button.
He looked down briefly, gazing at the Flesh Hound curled up at his armored feet. His name was Garm, and he was a Lesser Daemon of Khorne. He had been granted this creature, along with another pair of daemons, as gifts for his servitude of the Chaos Gods.
Behind him stood a Daemon and another armored individual, who wielded a wicked looking staff glowing with warp energy.
The daemon had a thin build and red, scaly skin with yellow, wolfish eyes. Its horns were sharp and black, extending high above its strangely elongated head. Strapped to its back was a wicked looking longsword.
The armored man was known as a Sorcerer- a powerful psyker who worked for the dark powers of Chaos and followed the teachings of Tzeentch, the Change God. Like Devlinaerus, his armor was black and gold, but instead of blood red shoulderplates, his were an icy blue, their coloration pale to remind him that he had once been an Imperial Librarian, but now was a Chaos Sorcerer.
The daemon was known as Santanius, and he was Devlinaerus’s personal bodyguard. He was a lesser daemon called a Bloodletter. And the Sorcerer was Devlinaerus’s advisor, Pythas DeAlumak.

“Look, Santanius, Pythas,” Devlinaerus suddenly spoke up, “Look at my world. Is it not perfect? Is it not an excellent place for the servants of the Dark Gods? Daemons roam the streets. Desecrated buildings provide multiple fortresses. And five legions walk this planet...five. All of them under my command.”
He turned to meet their gaze, the red eyes of his helmet examining them both.
“Truly, I have the favor of the Gods.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Agreed Pythas. “You are the embodiment of the Gods. Your will, is their will.”
Devlinaerus shook his head, amused. “If I need a bootlick, Pythas, I will say so. You do not need to kiss my ass every time I speak.”
Santanius gave Pythas a sharp-toothed grin of barely controlled laughter.
The Sorcerer said nothing in response.
“So,” Devlinaerus began, strolling over to a nearby desk and activating the shutters, he then sat down in a small throne that barely managed to hold his weight. “What news have you brought me?”
“The Imperial Guardsman you interrogated turned out to be truthful.” Pythas began, “We managed to destroy the west wall of their fortress, and their downfall was swift.”
“And?” The Chaos Overlord inquired, “Did you find what we sought?”
The Sorcerer and the Bloodletter exchanged glances.
“Well?” Devlinaerus asked again, his tone growing cold.
“Well, m’lord...” Santanius spoke up, “As soon as we penetrated the inner walls, a Space Marine chapter arrived in drop pods. They managed to distract us long enough for the local Imperial Guard regiment to smuggle the artifact into space and spirit it away.”

Devlinaerus said nothing, the eyes of his helmet unblinkingly glaring at them.
He nodded.
“I see.” He said. “Do you have any idea where they took it?”
“No, sir.”
“Then Pythas, you will go, NOW, and begin figuring out where they took the artifact.” The Chaos Overlord growled. “Santanius, go with him and ensure he does all he can to discover the whereabouts of our prize. When you discover the coordinates, inform me. I will accompany you this time. And we will not fail.”
“My lord, are you sure that is wise?” Pythas asked, “Surely your time is better used-”
“BE SILENT.” Roared the Overlord, and immediately the Sorcerer was quiet. “I am your Overlord. I decide where my time is better spent. I decide on my own actions. If I say I am going with you, I am going with you. And you do not question it.”
“Y-yes, my lord.” The Sorcerer nodded apologetically, “I am sorry, my lord.” He turned quickly and fled out of the room. Santanius shook his head and quickly took off after the panicked Sorcerer.

“Such incompetence.” Devlinaerus sighed. “To think, I give them the simplest of errands, and I have to step in and do it myself.”
“Actually,” A voice said, crackling with static, “That may not be necessary.”
Devlinaerus turned to face the newcomer, who was hidden in the shadows.
“Is that so?” He asked coolly.

===

In orbit around Planet Vadeio; just outside the Eye of Terror

Guardsman Lafelit sat in the monitoring room of a large cruiser, along with his partner, Guardsman Helvarn. It was a plain, grey room, with no portholes or anything, just chairs and a bunch of screens that detected incoming objects or vessels.
It was a dull job and in Lafelit’s opinion, unimportant. Nobody would ever want to attack their cruiser, the Unbroken Vow, because there was just no point. It served as nothing more than a transport freighter for Imperial Guard units, and it was heavily armored. Nothing short of an armada could destroy this thing, Lafelit thought, looking away from the screens, So why bother watching these dumb screens?
Suddenly there was a beep as a vessel, ID’d as an Imperial Guard Valkyrie, requested permission to board.
He shrugged, and pressed the button to open the docking bay and allow them in.
He flicked his eyes over to the monitor depicting the docking bay and watched as the ship flew in...
His eyes widened abruptly as he realized it wasn’t a Valkyrie at all.
It was a black and red Thunderhawk, bearing a six-pointed star.
He was so transfixed and horrified by the realization that his incompetence had allowed Chaos to board the vessel he was to protect, that he never noticed Helvarn sneaking up behind him with a knife gripped in his hands.

===

Desmoval Sodantius, Infiltrator of the Cruentus Marines, calmly strolled out of the monitoring room, where the slit-throated corpse of Guardsman Lafelit now lay in a pool of its own blood. About three weeks ago, he had stealthily killed the real Guardsman Helvarn and taken his place in the Imperial Guard. His disguise was flawless. He had surgically altered his face to resemble Helvarn. He had mastered sounding like Helvarn. He was of the same build as Helvarn and walked with the same air of confidence. Not one of the Guardsman fools had thought for a moment that he was anyone else.
And now, he was finally about to enact his plans.
He put on a panicked face and barged into the room of Commander Danvius, the man currently in charge of this cruiser.
“Sir!” He cried. “Chaos scum have infiltrated the ship! They’re on the lower decks!”
Danvius whirled around in shock. “What?!” Without another word, he barged past Sodantius, rushing away to raise the alarm.
Desmoval’s face switched quickly from panic to an expression of gleeful malice. This was just too easy. The Dark Gods would be pleased with this.
He quickly hurried into Danvius’s room and looked at the data-slate on his desk. Just as he had predicted. The data-slate contained the password for the storage room where his prize was to be found.
He smirked and rushed off to find his Chaos brethren.
--

Executor Regiolo quietly crouched in the shadows of his Thunderhawk as the first Imperial Guardsman boarded it. He could hear their whispers of fear, he could hear them quivering in the boots. If he concentrated, he could almost hear their hearts beating rapid with terror.
This was truly the life, striking fear into the hearts of mortals, fighting the Imperial scum...This was the life of a man of Chaos.
He silently and swiftly leapt from the shadows, plunging his knife into the Guardsman’s chest. Soundlessly the man crumpled and died as Regiolo removed the small blade. His four troopers, cloaked and transparent, hurried out of the Thunderhawk. Regiolo watched them go, then activated his cloak and slipped out of the craft unseen.
He knew his mission; rendezvous with and retrieve Infiltrator Desmoval, then recover the object that rightfully belonged to his Overlord. These orders came directly from Executor Darak himself, the highest authority in The Cruentus.
Silently, he whispered an order to one of his nearby Marines. The Cruentus Marine’s acknowledgement light winked on, and he raised his sniper rifle. With a noise like ‘fwip!’, a bullet whizzed across the docking bay and embedded itself in a Guardsman’s forehead.
Another command whispered, and three more Guardsman went down.
Regiolo’s eyes swept across the room a few times, before he was satisfied that he and his me were all that were left alive.
“Go.” He said to his Marines, “Spread out. Find Infiltrator Desmoval.”
They nodded, and quickly marched deeper into the ship, moving with superhuman speed and determination.
---

Desmoval quietly loaded his plasma pistol as he stalked silently down the corridor. The upper levels, as he had expected, were abandoned, thanks to his false call that Chaos forces were in the lower decks, instead of in the docking bay, where they really were.
Desmoval had spent the last several minutes making his way to his current location, taking all the shortcuts he knew of to decrease his chances of being seen by any lingering Imperial forces.
He stopped, locating the door he was looking for. The maintenance room.
The Infiltrator walked in, browsing the varied machinery that lined the walls, each connected to the numerous mechanical systems inside the large space ship.
He grinned as he located the one he was looking for- the wires connecting the ships power core to the lower levels.
Raising his plasma pistol, Desmoval quickly shot the wires. The plasma quickly ate through, severing them...and also severing the power to the lower floors.
He laughed and strolled out of the room. All the Imperial Guard forces were on the lower levels...And with the power cut, the lower levels would seal themselves off, and the airlocks would be opened. They would suffocate to death.
“Phase One, completed.” He said with a smirk, “Now to find-”
Suddenly he felt something grab him by the throat and force him against the wall. He could see nothing, but whatever it was, was extremely strong.
Suddenly a black, gray, and red Chaos Marine appeared as if out of thin air, leering down at him. Of course- it was a Cruentus Marine.
“Identify.” The Marine growled.
“Infiltrator Desmoval...” Gasped Desmoval, barely able to breath.
“Proof will be needed.” The Marine responded. “Sanguis Bibimus.”
“Corpus Edimus.” Desmoval replied, giving the correct phrase.
The Marine dropped Desmoval immediately, and he landed on the floor with a thud. “Acknowledged. Greetings, Infiltrator.”
“And to you, soldier.” Desmoval said briskly, rising and dusting himself off. “Where are your squad mates?”
“They are scattered across the ship, searching for you. Shall I summon them?”
“Yes. But tell them to head to the following location.” Desmoval quickly recited the location of the Vault, where he was headed. “Tell them that if they reach it before us, they are to guard it with their lives until we arrive.”
“Your will be done, Infiltrator.” The Marine turned away to use his vox to relay the message to his comrades.
---

The figure stepped out of the shadows. He was an enormous man, wearing dull black(almost gray) power armor, marking him as a member of The Cruentus. Pulled over his helmetless head was a gray hood like that of the mythical Grim Reaper, masking his face with shadows.
“Greetings, my Overlord.” He said to Devlinaerus.
“Grandmaster Althurion.” Devlinaerus replied. “What did you mean, that it may not be necessary?”
“I mean, that Executor Darak’s Marines informed him of our loss before the knowledge was relayed to you.” Althurion replied, “As he was closer to the objective than you were. He dispatched an elite team of Cruentus Marines to retrieve your prize.”
“Did he, now?” Devlinaerus asked, “And when did I give him permission to do that?”
“You did not, sir.”
“Then why,” The Overlord said coolly, “Did he think he could?”
“He declared the situation needed immediate reaction, and that there was not enough time to wait for your order.” Althurion replied in monotone,
The Flesh Hound, Garm, raised his head and looked at Althurion. His lips drew back in a snarl, as if sensing how this news displeased his master.
Devlinaerus glanced briefly at the angered daemon hound, then back at Althurion.
“Tell Darak that I appreciate his quick response.” Devlinaerus said, “But also warn him that if this mission he has tasked his soldiers with does not succeed, he will regret it.”
Althurion bowed. “I will inform him, my lord.” He turned and stalked back into the shadows, somehow vanishing from the room.

Devlinaerus stared at where the Grandmaster had stood, then returned his gaze to the hound.
"Is it so difficult to establish that I am the supreme authority?" He asked the daemon, as though it could answer. "Perhaps they need a reminder."
Though it was rather impossible, the daemon dog seemed to grin at it's masters words.
---

Desmoval swore loudly, ducking behind a crate placed in the hall.
As he had suspected, the vault was guarded.
But not by any regular Guardsman; by Ogryn.
"Ogryn." He sighed, "Why did it have to be Ogryn?"
The big, brutish, caveman-like soldiers were at the end of the hallway, piles of crates forming a crude defensive line for them to use in defending the vault, in case intruders tried to attack it. He did not think they had seen him. Maybe if he was silent...
“Soldier.” He whispered to the transparent Cruentus Marine flanking him, “Your name?”
“Kharlan, sir.”
“Kharlan, I want you, as silently as possible, to assassinate the head Ogryn over there.” Desmoval explained quietly, “Then as soon as I give the signal, I want you to...”
---

The Head Ogryn glowered silently out at the hallway from his makeshift ‘bunker’. His men were ready to defend the Vault with their lives. Chaos had invaded the ship, and that meant they were after the contents of the Vault. And though he didn’t know what was inside, the Head Ogryn knew he should not allow them entry.
He smirked as he thought of stopping the first Chaos Marine to arrive with a bullet to the chest. Yeah, that’d show them...
The Head Ogryn was so occupied with that cheerful thought that he didn’t realize a bullet had embedded itself in his brain and blown the back of his head out, killing him. All the way to the afterlife, he was smiling.
---

The other Ogryn's stared at their dead leader in shock, momentarily distracted. That was all the time that Desmoval needed.
They didn't notice the oval-shaped red grenade land in their midst until it had detonated.
With a loud 'crack', the Krak Grenade exploded. One of the Ogryn’s was caught in the blast, his legs blasted off from the force of the powerful heat blast.
Then suddenly Kharlan turned off his cloak, and stabbed his chainsword into the chest of one of the large muscular guardsmen. The teeth bit into the flesh, ripping a hole and tearing out flesh and chunks of gore.
He swiftly swung around and beheaded another Ogryn before it had time to draw it’s lasgun. Another punched him in the shoulderplate, slightly chipping the ceramite of his armor. He elbowed this Ogryn in the face, breaking part of his skull and driving chunks of bone into his brain.
The last Ogryn charged at him with a final warcry. Kharlan stared, then abruptly sidestepped. The Ogryn slammed into the wall, and Kharlan kicked it in the spine, shattering it.
“Easy enough. The way is clear, Infiltrator.” He said.
Infiltrator Desmoval walked over, looking around carefully. “Excellent work,” He said, “You’ve done Khorne proud.”
“Thank you, Infiltrator.”
Desmoval walked up the immense door, looking it over. He entered the correct code, and stepped inside the Vault, where his prize awaited.

The second he set foot inside, alarm klaxons went off.
“Hell!” Desmoval spat, “I could have sworn the security system was off!”
“It was.” A voice said, and Commander Danvius stepped out from behind a crate, scowling. “I reactivated it. Lucky for me I wasn’t in the lower levels when you sealed everyone down there, Helvarn- if that IS your real name.”
Desmoval smirked grimly. “You think you’re going to make much of a difference? You are the only one here...We outnumber you.”
“You think so, do you?”
A trio of Gunservitor’s walked into view, also from behind the crates. Immediately, they opened fire on Desmoval and Kharlan.
“Son of a bitch!” Sodantius cursed, diving for cover.
It was too late for Kharlan. They had caught him off guard, the bullets tearing through his armor and ripping holes through his flesh. Blood spattered across the wall and floor as Kharlan collapsed.
“Blood...for the...Blood God...” He groaned as he died.
“Dammit.” Desmoval said, “Now what do I do?”
He raised his plasma pistol and leaned out from behind his cover, firing at the Servitors. But his pistol alone wasn’t enough to damage them very badly.
A pair of bullets tore into his shoulder, and he dropped his pistol as he instinctively grabbed his shoulder. It looked like it was the end, as Commander Danvius raised a bolt pistol and took aim at the Infiltrator’s head.

Then there was a loud crack, and Danvius’s head exploded in a shower of bone and brains.
Desmoval swung his head around to see Executor Regiolo and his Marines standing in the doorway, one Marine‘s sniper rifle still smoking.
“Apologies for the late arrival, Infiltrator,” Grunted Regiolo, “Consider yourself lucky we arrived, the Dark Gods frown on failures such as the one you would’ve suffered if they’d killed you.”
“Shut up and kill the damn Servitors!” Desmoval snapped.
“As you wish.” Regiolo said mockingly, raising his bolter and blasting a Gunservitor into bits of metal and flesh.
His remaining Marines opened fire as well, quickly demolishing the last two Gunservitors.
Once they were done for, Regiolo stomped forward, towards a small silver crate in the center of the room. He picked it up, and opened it slightly. The second he did, an aura of malevolence shot across the room, its sheer ferocity making Desmoval slightly nauseous.
“We have found it...” Regiolo hissed. He wheeled around and snapped, “QUICKLY! Back to the Thunderhawk! We must return this to the Overlord!”
His Cruentus Marines cloaked and took off at a run, Regiolo following.
“Wait!” Desmoval croaked, “What about me?!”
“You are a failure!” Regiolo snapped. He raised his bolter and shot Sodantius once in the head, killing him. “And I dislike failures.”
Cackling madly, he followed his men back to his ship. At last, the Overlord would have his prize.
---

2 days later

Executor Regiolo kneeled before the Overlord, the small silver case clutched in one arm.
“My Overlord,” He said, his voice echoing his awe at the sight of his master, “My mission was a success. I have retrieved that which the men of the Corpse God sought to take from us.”
“Show me.” The Overlord said simply, from where he was seated.
Regiolo nodded, standing. He walked over to the desk and placed the case in front of his master. He opened it, all the way this time, and the aura of pure hatred and malice from before flooded the room, more powerful this time.
The Overlord gazed down at his prize, his red eyes burning with pleasure.
“You have done me a great service, Executor...” He hissed. “And you will be rewarded. Go now.”
Executor Regiolo saluted and quickly marched out of the room.
The Overlord’s gaze lingered on the artifact of power which the Cruentus had retrieved for him, against his orders. Indeed, they had done him a great aid. More than they knew.
He snapped his fingers, and Santanius appeared in a flash of smoke.
The Overlord walked over to his window, once again looking down upon his great and mighty planet. He was silent for a moment, and then said,
“Contact Commander Raiake. Tell her to enact Phase 2.”
“Phase 2, milord?” Santanius inquired, “Phase 2 of what?”
The Overlord waved dismissively. “I will tell you another time, daemon. She will know what it means. Now go. And before I forget, tell Pythas to stop researching the artifact and come here.”
Santanius nodded, and was gone.
Devlinaerus removed the large, blood red gem from the silver case and looked at it once more.
“Soon,” He whispered, “Soon, I shall show them why I am in charge. I will make the Chaos Gods proud. I will shatter worlds. And it will all be thanks to this...”
---

Stories: Wasteland Chronicles
Universe: Fallout

THE WASTELAND CHRONICLES
Story 1: The Cannibal of the North

A lone Wastelander strolled calmly along a riverbank to the south of the destroyed Raven Rock. He paused for a moment, scanning the horizon for Mirelurks. They tended to be near just about any water source you could find- so you could never be too careful.
He nodded once, satisfied that none of the crab-like creatures were around, and began on his way again.
What he was doing up here, was investigating claims he’d heard from some ex-Raiders. That there was an old abandoned Raider camp here, still fresh with loot and ready to be populated once more- preferably by Wastelanders that could colonize it. He’d be hailed as a hero, and he’d get to lead his own settlement. For a man in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, this was one of the most successful positions there was.
He stopped yet again, and looked down at the crudely drawn map the Raiders had given him. It was horribly hard to decipher, and very inaccurate. But after days of walking, and a few wrong turns, he was pretty sure he’d gotten the gist of it.
He turned his head...and immediately raised his Hunting Rifle.
Behind him, rapidly approaching, was a Mirelurk. It’s pincers snapped threateningly as it advanced, eager to claim some prey.
The Wastelander fired several rounds into its chest as he struggled to remember the most effective method of ‘Lurk killing that his father had long ago taught him. The Mirelurk continued it’s advance, unfazed by the bullets.
Suddenly the Wastelander remembered- the face! The face was soft and fleshy, and extremely vulnerable. Everything else was just a hard carapace, nigh on bulletproof.
He raised it just as the Mirelurk entered striking distance, and shot it in the face.
The Mirelurk gave a high pitched, almost insectoid scream of pain, as the bullet passed through it’s small brain and killed it.
The Wastelander sighed with relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. One more slip up like that, and he’d be dead.
He turned and looked at a nearby cavern. That had to be the Raider camp.
He walked in, looking around- there were makeshift, now dimmed, light fixtures on the wall, indicating it had been populated once. He grinned. He’d found it! Soon, his dreams would be reality.
“Yahoo!” He cried happily, turning to face the entrance. “See that, Wasteland? I told you I’d make something of myself someday!”
Suddenly he felt a sharp pain, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He coughed out a spatter of blood.
Looking down, he saw extremely sharp, long nails protruding from his gut- the trademark claws of the legendary, deadly Deathclaw. He mentally cursed himself- the Northern Wastes were considered Deathclaw country- they were fuggin’ EVERYWHERE up here. He felt stupid for even TRYING to make a settlement up here...all the promises he’d made to his friends back in Megaton about starting a settlement, they were nothing more than lies now. And worse, they’d never know how he died...and he’d never get to say goodbye.
He weakly turned his head to get a glimpse of the son of a bitch lizard who’d killed him- and his eyes widened.
Instead of a horned, lizard face, he saw a gasmask. A Filtration Mask to be precise- the kind of mask worn by Raiders. His initial reaction was to think the Raiders had lied and lured him to his death, until he realized that this so-called Raider wore a pair of Deathclaw gauntlets.
Raiders NEVER wear Deathclaw gauntlets. Especially not TWO at once.
“Food...” Hissed this strange being, “You make good eats...”
He withdrew his bloodied claws, and turned the dying Wastelander to face him. It was then that the Wastelander got a good look at him; clad in Raider armor, scarred all over the place, and hunched over with a distinct, almost ‘Deathclaw’ posture. This man seemed more Deathclaw than human- and from the sound of it, he was a cannibal.
“Yes, you plump...You well fed. You tough for making it this far...And the tough always taste the bestest, Royce thinks.” Cackled the being. “The tough come here to die, little Wastie, and Royce awaits them with sharp claws and open mouth.”
He laughed once more, and stabbed the Wastelander through the throat.
The last thing he saw, was the image of the being beginning to carve the flesh off his arm with a clawed finger...
---
One Week Later

Richard Saber, Mercenary Extraordinaire- or so he claimed- sat with his boots propped up on his desk, inside his Megaton base of operations, facing the door. He did this vigil every day for a few hours- waiting to see if any clients would walk through the door. How he was able to do it for so long without getting bored, his comrades had no idea.
In the other room, Virgil, clad in his Tesla armor, minus the helmet, was seated on the couch in the other room, participating in his usual daytime activity- sleeping.
Ignatio meanwhile was up in his room, polishing his katana and listening to GNR Broadcasts.
Beside Richard, on the floor, lay his faithful canine companion, Garm.
Lazily, Richard patted his dog on the head, who looked up and whined questioningly.
“Nah bud, nothing’s up.” Said the merc, “Just a tad bored.”
The dog blinked once, as if confused that Richard had actually admitted he was bored, then put his head back down on his paws.
As soon as he did, there was a loud cry of “SON OF A BITCH!”
Abruptly the dog leapt up with a yelp, and Richard sighed.
The silver Mister Gutsy butler the mercs kept around their base, Lars, floated into view.
“GodDAMNIT!” The robotic soldier yelled.
“What did you do THIS time?” Moaned Rich.
“I’ll tell you what I did!” Roared the robot. “I was going about my business, when I remembered you told me to go take out the trash! SINCE WHEN DOES A SOLDIER PICK UP TRASH?”
“Since I told you to.” Richard growled. “Now get to it.”
“WHY YOU INSOLENT-” The robot yelled, then suddenly it shut up. It floated there a moment, then spoke again, its gruff drill sergeant voice turning into a kind British accent, “Terribly sorry master, I don’t know what came over me! I’ll get right on it!”
The robot floated off.
“I swear, I almost regret the day I found him at that Enclave Outpost.” The mercenary leader said to Garm.
The dog just panted in response.
Abruptly the door swung open, and a man clad in the familiar jacket of a Regulator stepped in.
Richard froze, eyes wide at the side of the law bringer. With one swift motion, he had a Chinese assault rifle aimed between the Regulator’s eyes.
“You won’t be harvesting my fingers today.” He growled, finger on the trigger.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” The Regulator said. “Hold it! I come in peace!”
Richard stopped his itchy finger right before it pulled the trigger. “Oh, do you now?”
“Yeah. I come with a proposition.”
“Take a seat, then.” Richard stated. The Regulator did as told and took a seat in the chair before his desk.
“So, let’s skip small talk, shall we, and get right to business.” The law bringer said, no nonsense. “You hear about the guy who went to start a settlement up north about a week back and never returned?”
“I thought we were gonna SKIP the small talk.” Growled the merc.
“Humor me.”
“Alright, I heard about it. Guy probably died, the north is dangerous. So?”
“So,” The merc continued, “We...the Regulators...hear rumors that his death was at the hands of a wanted criminal. A vicious criminal. He’s evaded us numerous times, and there’s a HANDSOME reward for his capture. Emphasis on handsome.”
“Oh really? Consider me intrigued.” Richard said, grinning and leaning forward. “So, who’s the punk?”
“A man by the name of Royce Flannigan.”
“The cannibal?” Asked Richard, blinking. “Damn, you guys picked yourselves one mean bastard to target.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally, no.” Richard grunted. “But I know that anyone who tends to meet him doesn’t come back alive.”
“Then you know how dangerous he is.” The Regulator said. “I was assigned to hunt him down...And I’ll be honest, I’m not confident in my ability to do so. Frankly, I just don’t want to die. So what I want you to do, is capture him and bring him to me- alive. I’ll take him back to the Regulator base and execute him in front of them, so they think I did it.”
“So basically, I do the killing, and you get the fame.” Richard said. “Normally that would be a deal breaker, good sir. How handsomely are we talking again?”
“4000 caps.”
“SOLD, to the man in the duster.” Richard laughed, extending a hand. “Shake on it.”
The Regulator smirked, and took his hand. “Glad to hear it. When can I expect my man back here?”
“Come back tomorrow, I’ll have the perp.”
---

Richard tapped Virgil on the shoulder. He grunted and looked up at his boss. “Eh? Wuzzat?” He yawned.
“I’ve got a job for us. Seems simple enough, so I’m going to go it alone. Sound good?” Richard asked.
“Yeah yeah, sure. Can I go back to sleep?”
“Fine. But let Ignatio know.” Richard sighed. “I’m taking the vertibird. See you guys later.”
“A’rite. Have fun.” The heavy weapons specialist yawned once more, and fell asleep.

Outside, Richard hopped into his personal Vertibird- captured from an Enclave camp, he and Ignatio had learned how to fly the thing. Now, they could be anywhere in the Wasteland...in mere minutes. Much to Richard’s disappointment, the weapons systems were busted. The bird had been AT the camp in the first place for repairs. The Fat Man launcher had been intact, but it too had broken after an assault on an Enclave outpost.
He clambered into it, seating himself at the controls. The blades whirred, the ‘legs’ of the vehicle retracted, and it lifted out of Megaton, sailing into the air, headed northbound.
He looked down at the wastes below as they flew by- a Mutant fighting a band of Raiders...some ruined buildings, an Albino Radscorpion...the usual chaos you’d expect from the Capital Wasteland.
“Alright, so where am I going...” He muttered, looking at the note the Regulator had written. God, the handwriting was sloppy. It seemed to say somewhere south of Raven Rock, but not as far as the broadcast tower by the Deathclaw Sanctuary.
“Well the idiot who’d gone into the north should’ve known not to go near Raven Rock. Even without the Enclave, it’s a hellhole up there.” Richard scoffed. He looked down at the suit of Tribal Power Armor...straight from The Pitt...that he wore. He hadn’t had it repaired in a while. He briefly hoped it wouldn’t break, then put the thought out of his mind. Neither the armor, nor his T-51b helmet, were THAT badly degraded.
...Or so it seemed.
Either way, I won’t be out here long. The Merc thought, So it shouldn’t matter.
----

Richard set the bird down on a cliff below Raven Rock. He drew his assault rifle and hopped out- he’d seen Mirelurks down below, near the river, so it was best to be prepared.
He began climbing down the cliff face, hopping down rocks, until finally he hit the soft dirt of the riverbank. He paused, listening carefully for the trademark noise of a Mirelurk. He didn’t hear anything, which was a good sign- but it could also mean they were underwater, just waiting.
“Can’t be helped.” Richard said. “Now, where is this bastard holed up?”
He set off, walking along the river- unknowingly following the trail of the Wastelander who had met his fate at the hands of Royce only a week prior. As he strolled across the deathly quiet wastes, the only sound the lapping of the radioactive water against the shore, he felt an odd sense of tranquility- this was what he lived for, the thrill of hunting his prey, out in the Wilderness, not knowing what to expect, yet expecting anything and everything, at the same time. The unpredictability, the constant combat...Though most would disagree, THIS was truly life.
A smile fell on his face as he thought about it...And his peace was shattered as he heard the cry of a Mirelurk.
He wheeled around, leveling his rifle. Running towards him was a brownish red Mirelurk, large and four-armed, pincers snapping threateningly, eager to kill. A Mirelurk Hunter.
It swung a claw at Richard, and the Mercenary jumped backward to dodge the swipe. He fired a spray of bullets into the chest of its carapace to knock it back, perhaps stall it. But like a moving tank, it kept coming, swinging its claws and snapping at him, while Richard dodged out of the way. It was like a dance, almost, except one dancer would die at the end of the performance.
Finally, the crab-like beast got a claw on Richard’s arm, clamping down like a vice. Richard cursed as his armor cracked slightly beneath the impressive power of the Mirelurk’s claw. He swung his rifle, hitting the crab in its soft fleshy face. Surprised, it released his arm and stepped back, as if it was confused that it could’ve been hurt at all.
It was then that Richard raised his gun and sprayed a hail of bullets into its face, little bloody holes appearing in the flesh, spraying chunks of meat here and there.
The crab collapsed. Richard turned away from it, and his eyes were greeted with the sight of a decaying Mirelurk corpse...probably about a week old, from the looks...and smell...of it. He was on the right track. He could almost SMELL the faint, soda-pop-ish scent of the bottle caps he’d make off this mission.
He noticed a cave nearby. From here, he could see light fixtures inside. A good place to start his search. It was near Raven Rock, there was a dead Mirelurk nearby, it had light fixtures- either there was a damn smart Deathclaw living in there, or someone had been here...or was STILL here.
Rich walked cautiously up to the cavern, peering into its darkened interior. The lights were working, but very dim...And something stank. Bad.
He walked in, looking around, and felt something crack beneath his armored foot. Looking down, he saw a disgusting sight...the rotting corpse of a Wastelander, several bones exposed, large chunks of flesh missing. It was obvious that this man had been cannibalized. The mercenary raised his rifle, looking around. Royce had been here, that much was clear...But where was he now?
“Anyone home?” He called into the cavern. He waited, listening to his echo, but no response came. “I guess not.”
He turned to leave- only to find a man blocking the entrance. A thin man, a filtration helmet clasped in one of his two Deathclaw gauntlets. Four scars ran across the right side of his face, across his right eye, which was completely white- and obviously blinded by whatever had inflicted the wound.
“My my, look at what Royce has here!” He cackled. “A little tin man, come to play.”
“Tin man my ass.” Richard growled. “Royce Flannigan, I presume?”
“Flannigan? Oh my, yes, Royce remembers that name, from long ago. Yes, Royce believes that is his name.” He grinned. “And who are you, tin man?”
“My name is Richard.” The merc said, “And I’ve been tasked with hunting you down.”
“Hunting me? Oh no no, you misunderstand. ROYCE is the hunter. This is ROYCE’S land. Royce hunts YOU, you don’t hunt Royce, tin man. Do you think it was coincidence that Royce showed up behind you just now?”
Richard cursed. This crazed man was right; it couldn’t have been coincidence. He’d been duped, all this time he’d assumed he had been the hunter, when actually he had been the hunted. That foolish error had lured him right where the cannibal wanted him, into the trap.
“And now tin man, the time for talking is over. Royce is a busy, hungry man, and you are a foolish man just ripe for the eating.”
With that, he lunged forward, slashing at Rich with his claws. He moved like a blur, his speed was almost superhuman. The merc ducked, and Royce flew over his head, landing on all fours. “Tricky tin man! This will be fun!” Cackled the madman.
“You’re damn right it will be.” Richard lunged forward, to smack him with his rifle- he didn’t want to shoot him, he needed to take him alive...or he wouldn’t get paid.
But Royce was gone before he could even blink. He dove beneath the mercs legs and ran out the cavern door, into the wilderness. Richard charged after him. “Dammit! I can’t let him escape! I need that money!” Richard roared.
“Escape? Who’s trying to escape, tin man?” Royce called, stopping. He turned and charged again, swiping towards him. Richard moved to block the blow- only to be caught unawares as Royce slashed at his helmet with his free arm. He was knocked flat to the ground by the surprise blow. Royce laughed again.
“See, tin man? This is Royce’s domain, Royce is the only winner here!”
“Wrong.” Rich suddenly swung upward with his assault rifle- hitting Royce directly in the...well, ‘sensitive region’.
“Eeeeeep.” Is an accurate description of the pain-filled noise Royce made as he collapsed.
Richard removed a rope from the pack strapped to his back. He removed the gauntlets, and tied his arms together.
“Word of advice, Royce,” Sneered Richard, “Don’t mess with me.”
Royce’s response was a cross between a hiss and a moan of pain.
Richard slung him over his shoulder. It was a good day.
===
The Next Day

Outside the gates of Megaton, Richard stood before the Regulator, who held the rope binding Royce.
“Thanks, mate.” The Regulator grinned, “The boss will be so grateful for ‘my’ hunting him.”
“Right. Now about that reward-” Rich began, but was cut off, as suddenly Royce leapt onto the Regulator, choking him with the rope binding his arms. He forced him to the ground, and while he was gathering his breath, grabbed a combat knife out of the Regulator’s belt and slashed the ropes.
He snatched up the dual Deathclaw gauntlets from the Regulators pocket, and slashed his throat.
He turned to Richard, who just crossed his arms and stared.
“...We’ll have to play again some time, tin man.” Grinned Royce. “Shall we call it a draw?”
“Sounds fine.” Richard shrugged. “Now get out of here.”
Still grinning, Royce ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Why...” Gurgled the dying Regulator. “Why...didn’t you...stop...him?”
“He was too fast. The only way I could’ve stopped him was to kill him. And you specifically said NOT to kill him.” Richard shrugged.
“You...bastard...” The Regulator said.
“Yeah yeah, I’ve been called worse. Hurry up and die.” Richard walked forward and stomped once on the Regulator’s neck. There was an audible crack, as his neck snapped.
Richard leaned over and pulled a bag of caps out the duster. “Cha-ching.” He laughed.
He started to walk off, then turned and leaned over the corpse once more. He gripped the ear of the corpse, and tore it off.
“I know somebody who’ll pay good money for this.” Grinned the evil bastard known as Richard Saber.
--

There's...I think seven...More installments in the Wasteland Chronicles but for the time being, I'll refrain from posting them or else this is going to be one MASSIVE page.
 
Lord Tora Unlimited Crusader Sep 26 2010, 01:58 AM Post #3
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【The Knight of Tigers 】

 I've probably said this before, but you have a knack for capturing dark settings and genres. Y'got just the right kinda description in the right places and everything.

The universes you write in are grim and badass, and your characters are no different. Kudos, bro.
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Deleted User Sep 26 2010, 05:22 AM Post #4
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Crusader (TUC)
Sep 26 2010, 01:58 AM
I've probably said this before, but you have a knack for capturing dark settings and genres. Y'got just the right kinda description in the right places and everything.
Actually, TUC, I don't believe I've ever heard you say that. xD But thanks nonetheless.
 
Cat Sep 26 2010, 01:59 PM Post #5
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Your fate is mine to decide.
 Gah... Devlin, so much detail!! I love the way you potray your characters!!! Your settings are so dark and gritty and the way you describe them is so bloody brilliant!!

The length kinda discouraged me at first, but it was well worth it. Keep it up dude!!
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Lady Miracle Sep 26 2010, 02:01 PM Post #6
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[insert something cheerful here]

 Great as usual. Liked it. :D Keep up the great work.
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The Muffin Man's wife and a
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KitmPosted Image Sep 26 2010, 02:22 PM Post #7
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Lava Reef Act 1
 *stands and claps slowly*

Those were brilliant. The level of detail, the gritty settings, the variety and realism of characters... Dev, put these in a damned anthology already and publish it or something. XD
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Deleted User Sep 26 2010, 02:30 PM Post #8
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The Amazing Spider-Kitm
Sep 26 2010, 02:22 PM
*stands and claps slowly*

Those were brilliant. The level of detail, the gritty settings, the variety and realism of characters... Dev, put these in a damned anthology already and publish it or something. XD
D'aww, shucks.

I dunno if they're PUBLISH good... xD
 
Cat Sep 26 2010, 03:32 PM Post #9
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Your fate is mine to decide.
Mister Black
Sep 26 2010, 02:30 PM
The Amazing Spider-Kitm
Sep 26 2010, 02:22 PM
*stands and claps slowly*

Those were brilliant. The level of detail, the gritty settings, the variety and realism of characters... Dev, put these in a damned anthology already and publish it or something. XD
D'aww, shucks.

I dunno if they're PUBLISH good... xD
I mean no disrespect when I compare your stuff like this, buuuut... If someone like Stephanie Meyers could get her pieces of crap published, then an actual piece of good work like this could EASILY get published!!

But hey, that's just what I think. :/
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Deleted User Sep 26 2010, 03:47 PM Post #10
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Cat Complete
Sep 26 2010, 03:32 PM
Mister Black
Sep 26 2010, 02:30 PM
The Amazing Spider-Kitm
Sep 26 2010, 02:22 PM
*stands and claps slowly*

Those were brilliant. The level of detail, the gritty settings, the variety and realism of characters... Dev, put these in a damned anthology already and publish it or something. XD
D'aww, shucks.

I dunno if they're PUBLISH good... xD
I mean no disrespect when I compare your stuff like this, buuuut... If someone like Stephanie Meyers could get her pieces of crap published, then an actual piece of good work like this could EASILY get published!!

But hey, that's just what I think. :/
...

PfffftLOL.

Okay, I gotta admit, that's a good point right there. xDD
 
HollyYoshiPosted Image Sep 26 2010, 04:36 PM Post #11
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I object to your claims
 All I can say is 'Damn! You're good. Like, really good."

I am impressed. ;)
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Lord Tora Unlimited Crusader Sep 26 2010, 06:58 PM Post #12
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【The Knight of Tigers 】
Mister Black
Sep 26 2010, 02:30 PM
The Amazing Spider-Kitm
Sep 26 2010, 02:22 PM
*stands and claps slowly*

Those were brilliant. The level of detail, the gritty settings, the variety and realism of characters... Dev, put these in a damned anthology already and publish it or something. XD
D'aww, shucks.

I dunno if they're PUBLISH good... xD
*taps a conductor's baton on the desk* Two-three-four... PUUUBLISH! PUUUBLISH! PUUUBLISH! XD
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~One third of =SB='s Legendary Australian Trio. The man who surpassed anime fandom and became the Patron Saint of GAR and Moe.~
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Deleted User Sep 27 2010, 12:54 PM Post #13
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 Slave of the Empire

---

Phase I: Pestilence

It was a quiet Fall morning, in the peaceful town of Kingston, Maryland, which had long ago been destroyed. It had, however, been rebuilt as a sort of Shantytown over the years, and now it was one of the most peaceful little communities existing in the nightmare future ruled by the Empire.
A young lad of about 16 strolled cheerfully down a soggy dirt road, a slight breeze blowing some dead leaves around, careful to avoid the puddles from last nights rainfall so he didn't get the clothes his mother had just cleaned for him dirty. He was a tall lad, and skinny too. He was tan, probably of Spanish descent, with long black hair. His eyes were a dark forest green, and naturally he wore a cheerful smile.
He was on his way to one of the few remaining Schools, as he always did, four days a week.* He didn't particular like school- nobody really did- but he realized it was necessary, so he pretty much sucked it up and went.
Of course, it was a nice day out, after a rainfall(which he had always loved, for some reason), so he was certain today would be a good day.
Little did young Nikolai(For that was the boys name), as he happily strolled towards the large steel cube that made up the Imperial Education Facility, realize that he was wrong.
Horribly, horribly wrong.

*-The Overlord, shortly after ending the Domination War, decreed that Friday be considered a ‘Weekend’. And therefore, school was shortened to four days a week rather than five.

---

Nikolai groaned and covered his eyes from the sun as he lay on the ground, beaten and bruised. The throbbing pain in his eyes seemed to make the sunlight burn his vision, and he was in enough pain already.
"Aww. You look like you're about to cry." The massive teen towering over Nik chortled. He was like a gorilla; with massive muscles and a back that was almost hunched. He was also, clearly, the local school bully, who took pride in beating the living crap out of anyone and everyone, even if they did nothing to 'deserve it' in his eyes.
"S'matter, you baby?" The gorilla-child grunted, kicking the already hurt Nikolai swiftly in the leg, causing the 16-year old to let out a muffled whimper of pain. "Take it like a man. What a wimp. How will you ever survive in the Empire if you're too much of a weakling to take a beating?"
He laughed. "Maybe I oughta do you a solid and just kill you. Nobody’d convict me. A weak little brat like you doesn’t deserve to live.”
This massive brute of a teenager, who was obviously somewhat sick in the head, continued to laugh, advancing menacingly towards the wounded Nikolai, as several others stopped to watch.
“No...” Moaned Nik. “No... Go... Away...” As he uttered this last word, a strange phenomenon overtook him. His head began to ache, his arms began to tremble, and his eyes began to shine with a bright blue light.
The bully stopped, eyes widened with shock, as Nikolai suddenly raised a hand, which erupted in what seemed to be blue fire.
“GO AWAY!” Screamed Nikolai, and a force that seemed to come from nowhere blasted the Bully across the school yard.
Everybody turned to stare and gape, and Nikolai stared at his hands as the fire faded.
“Wh...What did I just...” He began, until suddenly his vision began going dark. He lost all strength to support himself, and collapsed motionlessly on the ground, unconsciousness overtaking him.

---

Nikolai awoke, several hours later, laying on the couch in his house.
“How did I get here?” He murmured. “Was it just a dream?”
“No, honey.” A voice said. “I’m afraid it wasn’t.”
Nikolai turned his head to see his Mother standing there in the doorway leading to the kitchen.
“Oh, hi, Mom.” He groaned. “What happened, exactly? I’m a bit foggy on the details.”
“Well, uh...” She began hesitantly. “I don’t know. They said you... flung a kid halfway across the schoolyard. They didn’t tell me how...”
Nik stared at her. Something wasn’t right. Her voice was trembling. Something about her suggested she knew more than she was telling.
But one thing really struck him.
That look in his Mother’s eyes as she faced him.
Was it... fear?

---

That night, as Nikolai was in his room doing the homework the school had sent home with him, he heard a series of thunderous knocks on the door. From downstairs, he could have sworn he heard his mother go, “Oh, no...”
Slowly he heard a click as she opened the door, and he crept over to his door to listen in.
“H-how can I help you?” His mother’s voice drifted up the stairs.
“You know what we want.” A gruff, metallic voice answered. “We have come for the boy.”
Nik froze where he stood. Him? The stranger had come for him? What for? What had he done?
“I-I don’t know what you mean.” His mother replied.
“Do not feign ignorance, wench!” A different voice, harsher and higher-pitched, but still with a metallic tone to it, hissed. “We know the boy is here. You can either make this easy, or we can make things much, much worse.”
“You...You can’t have him!” He heard his mother cry. “He’s my SON! I won’t let you monsters take him!” He heard the door slam.
From outside, he heard a barked order. “SEIZE HER.”
There was a loud crash as the door was broken down, and a scream of terror from his mother. Instantly Nikolai threw open his door and rushed down the stairs, pausing midway down to gape in horror at his mothers attackers.
They were immense, armored brutes, with spiked armor and horned helms. Their suits were black as night, trimmed with gold, with massive blood-red shoulderplates. In short, they looked positively daemonic. One turned his head, his red eyes burning with rage, to look at Nikolai.
Instantly Nik knew who they were.
Chaos Marines.
The enforcers of the Empire, each one was said to be worth an army; they were unstoppable, their loyalty to the Overlord unwavering.
And they were here for him.

Silence fell as slowly each Marine turned to gaze at the child. One Marine had his mother grasped in his huge metal gauntlets, looking as though he was about to tear her in half. And he could probably do it, too.
Slowly, Nik mustered up the courage to speak.
“If I come with you, willingly,” He began, “Will you release my mother?”
“Nik, NO!” His Mother cried. The Marine holding her clamped a hand over her mouth.
“We will.” Grunted the largest one, who seemed to be the one in charge.
“Release her first.” The boy said.
The Marine holding his mother looked as though he were about to shout something, but he was silenced by a motion from the commander. His leader gave a brisk nod, and the Marine reluctantly released the woman.
“Take the boy.” The commander said, turning and striding out. Instantly a Marine shot forward and grabbed Nikolai by the arm.
“NOOOOO!” Sobbed his mother, sinking to her knees, tears streaking from her eyes as she buried her face in her hands.

“Where are you taking me?” Nikolai inquired fearfully as they dragged him out. The marine gripping him slapped him lightly, but to Nikolai, it felt like he’d just been punched by a man twice his size; which just went to show their strength.
“Silence.” The Marine growled. “From now on, worm, you speak only when spoken to.”
They pulled up to what looked like a massive metal box on wheels. The Marines opened the rear of the truck, and they tossed Nikolai in.
“Have a pleasant trip.” One snarled malevolently.
As they shut the door, leaving Nik in total darkness, he could hear their evil laughs clearly.

---

Phase II: Famine

When Nikolai awoke, he was in an all white room.
It was empty, aside from a closet filled with white clothing, and a bed. Which, you guessed it, was also white.
There was a door, which was more of a big gray sheet of metal with no visible way to open it. He presumed it opened from the outside.
Looking around, he noticed a small plate on the floor. It had two slices of bread and a glass of water on it.
His stomach growled hungrily as he eyed them, and realized it must be past breakfast time by now. Walking over to where the plate was, he ate the bread and drank the water, while wondering where he is... and why they were giving him bread and water instead of an actual meal. Even the SCHOOL had better meals than this.

As soon as he’d finished, the door slid open, to reveal a bald man wearing goggles that seemed to cover his entire face, and a lab coat. His face was contorted into a look of disgust.
“On your feet, maggot.” He spat. Nikolai didn’t like his tone; so he hastily obeyed.
“Welcome to Facility Delta-IV.” The man said. “Many people enter, and eventually, they leave. But you, boy, aren’t leaving for a long time.”
Cautiously, Nikolai asked, “Why?”
“Why?” Echoed the man incredulously. “Why?! Boy, have you no idea what you are?”
Nikolai shook his head.
“What you did at that schoolyard.” The man said. “You flung that boy across the yard. How did you do that?”
“I... I don’t know.” Admitted Nikolai. “I just wanted him to go away. And...well... I did the rest on instinct.”
“What you did,” The man replied, “Was throw him with the power of your mind. Telekinesis, if you will. You, boy, are a Psionic.”
Nikolai blinked, not understanding.
“You are a mutant. You are the next step of human evolution. You have powers mere mortals can barely fathom! You control and bend reality, with only your mind. You are almost a God among men.” Hissed the man, as his expression slowly became a vicious, shark-like smile, “And that makes you a valuable weapon to the Empire.”

“And what if I don’t want to be a weapon? What if I just want to go home?” Nikolai snarled.
“I’m afraid you have no choice.” Scowled the man. “You are a Psionic. You are, as of today, property of the Empire. What is your name?”
“Nikolai Stones.” Nik replied.
The man whipped out what looked like a flashlight mixed with a baton and swatted Nikolai across the face with it. Nik cried out, falling over, as a jolt of electricity along with the blunt pain of the baton coursed through his body.
“Wrong.” The man snarled. “You have no identity here. You are nobody. You are only a weapon, to be used and discarded. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes...” Nikolai sobbed.
“Good.” The man put the baton away. “Your training begins tomorrow. You have the remainder of today to rest.” The door slid open once more, then shut with an echoing CLANG.
Nikolai stared at the door, tears streaming down his face. He prayed that this was a nightmare.
Because it sure felt like one.

---

The next day the man brought Nikolai to a room that contained nothing but a projector, a screen, and a chair.
“You are to watch this video.” The man instructed, holding up a disk. “Take a seat.”
Nikolai nodded obediently and sat. Instantly, there were several CLANGS as clamps sprung from the arms of the chair to hold him in place. Several wiry metallic hooks descended from the ceiling and painfully hooked themselves under his eyelids, holding his eyes open.
The film began to play. It depicted scenes of brutality, of soldiers, of daemons, of mass killings. Of people brought to their knees before the might of the Overlord, being brought under one flag. The film was both teaching Nikolai of Imperial History... and brainwashing him into a servant of the Empire; and Nikolai knew this. He resisted, attempting to close his eyes, but cried out in pain as he realized the hooks dug deeper into the flesh of his eyelids as he tried. With no choice but to watch the horrible depictions and droning voice planting the Imperial Creed in his brain, he tried to relax and resist mentally, but found he could not; each thing he saw and heard was being swiftly and firmly lodged permanently into his mind.

And all the while, the man in the white coat grinned menacingly.
---

The next day, they shaved Nikolai bald and then brought him to a room with a new man in it. Tall, muscular, and also bald, the mans eyes were a pure milk white, and his body was coated in dark blue tattoos that seemed, at first glance, to just be random patterns. Nikolai couldn’t help but notice the metal collar around his neck, akin to one a dog would wear.
“Today you will be taught how to use your gift.” The man said, his voice echoing as though more than one person were speaking. “You must focus your mind, will it to do as you please. Focus hard on an object; truly concentrate, and once its image fills your mind, will it to do as you please.”
He motioned towards a small cube of wood in the center of the room.
“Try it.” He said simply.
Nikolai grunted in understanding, and began to stare at the block of wood. He focused long and hard, gazing at nothing but the wood. But he found his attention kept shifting away. Every time he tried to look at something else, the man in the white coat, who was still behind him, gave him a swift smack with the electrified baton. If Nikolai cried out in pain, he got another smack.

And so this went on for several days, until Nikolai finally managed to hold his concentration.
“Good.” Said the tattooed man, as though sensing his focus. “Now, will it to float. Picture the wood slowly rising off the ground, to come to a stop and hover in midair. And then gently will it into motion.”
Nikolai nodded, closing his eyes and beginning to picture the wood floating. He stopped briefly to glance at the wood as he heard it shuffle slightly; earning himself another smack from the baton.

After several more days, Nikolai managed to make the block hover off the ground.
“Good.” The tattooed man nodded, “Good. Tell me, student...” He asked, a strange look in his milk-white eye. “What is your name?”
“Nikol-” Nik began, but stopped as he saw the man in the white coat raise his baton angrily. “-I have no name.” He finished hurriedly. Satisfied, the man in the coat put away the baton. The tattooed man nodded slowly...and almost, it appeared, sadly.

---

Phase III: War

And so it went on, for many days, and then many months, and finally years. They had Nikolai learn to fire bursts of psychic energy. They taught him to send out a psychic shockwave, to read peoples minds, to float. They taught him ever art of the Psionic, forging him into a powerful being...

But one thing they could not convince him to do was kill another human.

As much as they tried, no matter how many beatings they gave him, no matter how many times he spent chained to the walls of the dungeon, no matter how many meals he was forced to skip, they could not get him to use his powers to kill another living being.

---

Nikolai groaned. Everything seemed to hurt. For days now, he had been beaten senseless and starved for not killing a human. He was 20 years old now, much taller and more muscular, and due to the high build-up of psychic energies, his body had started to glow a light blue color. In addition to that, he was a highly skilled Psionic warrior at this point. He was, they said, one of the most promising students they had ever seen... except for his compassion for other human beings.

Nik had never been a fan of manslaughter. He had been raised by a peace-loving family who hoped for a better future. And in his opinion, violence was not the answer.
Unfortunately the Empire did not see things his way, and they seemed determined to beat this into his head, literally, no matter how close to death they brought him.

But he would not let them break him. He couldn’t. He had SOME dignity left, and no matter how battered and bruised it was after four years of this horrible place, he intended to keep it alive and well.
Sadly for him, this was not to be.

---

The white double doors slid open, and Nikolai found himself staring, for the first time in four whole years, into sunlight.
He was in a jungle, it appeared- whether it was outside the facility or built indoors, he could not tell- and it was full of life. The plants basked in the sunlight, birds chirped and bugs flew to and fro. After living in the blank white building that was the Facility for so many years, it was quite a nice change of pace.

“Why have you brought me here?” He demanded, seemingly to no one. For a moment, it seemed as though he would not receive an answer. And then a voice blared over a distant loudspeaker;
“For your final test.”
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “What test?” He asked.
“The test that will determine your fate. Today, Subject #339842, you WILL kill a man. Or you will die.”
The doors slammed shut behind Nikolai, menacingly.
“Today, you must throw aside your compassion. Swallow your emotions. Destroy your pride, and embrace the cold-blooded killer that you must become.” The voice droned. “You will do it, or you will die. It is as simple as that.”
There was a beeping noise, and the distant sound of doors being opened.
“Begin.”

Though he had no idea what to do or where to go, Nikolai took off at a jog, heading into the thick foliage that made up the jungle. Ordinarily it would’ve been impassable, but he forged his way forward by throwing a psychic field around himself; that shoved aside everything that tried to impede his progress.
At first it seemed the test was pointless; that he was just going to be stuck in here, for there were no landmarks, no people, no nothing. But then he eventually came to a clearing, large and circular, in the middle of the jungle.
He stopped, dropping the field, and looked around.

As soon as the field dropped, a man leapt out of the bushes, a pistol in his hands, and he opened fire.
Nikolai gasped in pain as a bullet pierced his white robe, and raised a hand. The pistol whizzed out of the mans hand. Growling angrily, the man rushed Nikolai and tackled him. Nik let out a ‘WHOOF’ of pain as all the breath was knocked out of him.
Nik shoved the man off of him and swiftly punched him in the face. As he did, three more men emerged, these ones also toting guns, and they shot at him.
He did whatever he could; try to deflect the bullets or send them zinging off into the trees, send their guns away, send the people themselves flying backwards a ways; but no matter what he did, they always either retrieved their weapons, or new soldiers emerged from the foliage.

Nikolai knew now what was going on. These men were going all out. They were really, truly, trying to kill him. If he didn’t do something, he would die.
“No... No... No...” He hissed worriedly as he continued frantically trying to dodge bullets. His white robe was almost completely red, and he tried in vain to ignore the agony of the multiple bullet wounds he had suffered.

He felt his psychic powers surging forward in his mind, seeming to dominate his thoughts. Nik’s eyes widened as he slowly began to realize what was going on.

His powers were beginning to consume him.

--

Final Phase: Death

“NOOOO!” Screamed Nikolai. His body began to glow an ocean blue. Beams of light shot forth from his eyes and mouth, and the soldiers ceased fire to gaze in awe.
Nikolai screamed in terror and pain. The ocean of psychic energy coursing through his mind was slowly drowning him from within his own body. He couldn’t remember who he was, what he was, where he was. All he knew was he had power, lots of it, and it needed to get out.

He turned his gaze on the men as they resumed fire.
They were shooting at him. And it hurt. Why would they do such a thing? He could not remember.
Angered that they would dare cause him pain, he screamed in rage, a horrible, bloodthirsty scream that no man should ever be able to make, and a bright blue wave of energy coursed outward with a sound like a sonic boom, blasting the men off their feet and scattering them everywhere.

Still screaming, he fired beam after beam of energy into the downed men, blasting holes in their bodies, slaughtering, flooding the clearing with blood.
At last, he had become that which his tormentors desired; a living weapon, a being of pure destruction.
“Restrain him!” The voice over the speakers blared nervously, but Nikolai did not notice, he was still blasting the downed men.

He felt a sharp jab of pain, and wheeled around to face a man with a blowgun still to his lips. Raising on hand, he mimed grabbing the foolish mortal by the throat, and the mans eyes bulged as he realized he couldn’t breathe.
Slowly though, Nikolai released his grip. His power was fading. His consciousness slipping. He suddenly realized he was floating a few feet off the ground. His last thought as Nikolai, the last he would ever have, was that he was as good as dead.
And he was correct.
And then his vision blackened and he saw nothing more.
---

When he awoke, he was chained to a wall, an iron helmet covering his face. A metal collar was around his neck, like the one he had seen on another man what seemed like eons ago.

He could not remember who he was, where he was, or why he was here.
He struggled against his bonds, but found he could not break them. He summoned up the vast reservoir of psychic energy he knew he could command and attempted to use it to break his bonds, and the instant he did, he screamed in terrible pain as a powerful electric shock coursed through his body from the collar.

The door to his dark, musty brick cell slid open, and a familiar man in a white coat, who he could not quite recall, strolled in.
“I see you have finally embraced yourself.” He sneered.
“Who am I?” Asked Nikolai, his voice echoing in a familiar way...as though he were speaking with two voices and not one.

“You are no one.” Replied the white-coat, “You are a husk. You are nothing but a weapon. You serve us. You obey us. You remember this?”
The ‘husk’ found he could remember it. Imperial Creed. How he was to serve. What his purpose was; how he was expendable.
“Yes.” He replied.
“Good.” White-coat said. “You will be released tomorrow to begin your servitude. You are not to use your powers unless instructed.”
He turned and strolled out.
The husk watched him leave, and pondered this.
He had no identity. He was a shell of his former self.
His gaze on the door hardened.
No.
He was not just A husk. He was THE husk.
“Husk.” He whispered to himself. “It has a nice ring to it.”
And so was born Husk, one of the most powerful Psionics to ever serve the Empire...forevermore.
 
Ludichaos Sep 28 2010, 10:40 PM Post #14
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[Outrealm Vagabond]
 Well, I said I'd at least attempt to get "Blood and Fire" read for you tonight, and so I did. Yet to read the rest (didn't realise just how many there are) as I was unable to drum up enough interest in the universes you based them on at the moment. When I've got more energy on me I'll give 'em a shot though. :P

Anyway, thoughts.

I stand corrected, Black is definantly more cold than Anderson in this case. Seriously, I felt for the guy who coughed up the passcode, really I did. Just ouch man. As for Anderson, am I safe in assuming there's a bit of an Australian influence there (all the use of 'mate' gives me that impression)? None the less, I do like him. He's a total smartarse are times and I have always liked characters like that.

The setting was your standary dark, gritty affair and as always you pulled it off nicely. Well done there sir.

I also see a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference (or I think it is), so points for that. Oh, and the line about the intelligence upgrade got a chuckle out of me. If you can work a little humour into a setting like that I can't deny that you're good. |P

End verdict on Blood and Fire: I liked it over all. Nice (in the loosest sense of the word considering) universe and I like the main characters here. Props to you man. :D
Edited by Ludichaos, Sep 28 2010, 10:43 PM.
【One third of Sonic Blast's Legendary Australian Trio. The last remaining member 】
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Deleted User Sep 29 2010, 04:14 PM Post #15
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Chabot
Sep 28 2010, 10:40 PM
As for Anderson, am I safe in assuming there's a bit of an Australian influence there (all the use of 'mate' gives me that impression)?
There's a weird story behind that.

Originally, Anderson was going to be Spanish(As you can tell from the fact that he attended an assassin school in Puerto Rico), but then he became British somehow, and before I knew it that had changed yet AGAIN into an almost-stereotypical Aussie.

It's almost like he wrote himself, really. And considering how strange that universe is, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if it was somehow writing itself. xD

As for the humor, there's a bit of 'Deep' meaning behind that. The humor in such a dark and nightmarish universe like Overlord's Grip signifies that "Even in the deepest depths of the darkness, there always shines a little light."
Or maybe I just made that up on the spot to impress you all.
You guys be the judge.

And now; The next story I will be putting up, I meant to copy onto my computer AGES ago(for I wrote it in a notebook originally) but never did; it comes directly before Blood and Fire. B&F was a sequel to it; and though this one isn't as epic, it offers a look into the deeply horrid and occult world that is Earth in the year 2212.
It'll be up as soon as I'm done with the laborious task of typing it all up.
 
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