Re: The Savage Brawl [Round 1: Afterlife]
02-26-2010, 08:52 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.
The sudden appearance of Ekelhaft's main body had not been kind to Hoss's psyche. As he runs from the growing miniature protostar, diving through the hole earlier bored by Ziir, his mind finally snaps. Eons of mental barriers meant to control the rage and bloodlust hidden within him evaporate like vapor in the face of Ekelhaft's burning insanity. Hoss finds himself falling through millions of years of memories, to one in particular...
The young man seems out of place in this section of the city. His fitted slacks and stylish overcoat mark him as someone used to finer living; or at least, someone unaccustomed to the activities which are a regular occurrence in this neighborhood. Activities like the group of gaudily-dressed men in front of him are engaging in.
One of them, dressed in a dark-red, fluffy jacket, notices the young man staring at them. He taps one of his comrades, who turns his attention from their illegal transaction. His friend gestures towards the young man.
"The hell is that?"
"I dunno, you know'im?"
"Hell naw, man. Looks like he gots money though."
The other three men in their little circle notice the commotion. One of them takes the initiative and begins to make his way towards the young man. The others follow.
"Can we help you?" the apparent leader says, sarcastically, "or are you lookin' for some trouble?"
The young man's features are difficult to make out in the soft orange glow of a nearby streetlight. Had their been more light, the approaching group would have noticed the young man smirk. He remains silent.
The group stops, two of its members begin fidgeting. They sense something is off.
The leader either does not notice, or hides his nervousness. The man to his right makes a quip about their intruder being a homosexual. The group laughs. The leader taunts the young man, "Is that it then? You see somethin' you like, homo?" He spreads his arms, assuming a dominant position; a standard territorial gesture of a frightened mammal.
After receiving no response, the leader decides he has had enough. The young man is obviously of wealth, and he intends to take whatever he can find from the young man's unconscious, or dead, body. The rest of the group, sensing their leader's intentions, advance. "You in the wrong neighborhood, boy. And now you gonna get fucked up".
The young man moves, finally. One of his hands has been inside his overcoat during the exchange. He speaks: "I was hoping you'd say that."
He removes his hand from his overcoat, and reveals a baseball bat.
He is not a particularly strong person, but what he lacks in strength he makes up for in pure, unbridled rage. He has no experience with fighting, but he does not care. He receives a punch to the face, a knife grazes his right arm, yet these wounds do not slow him. Indeed, he draws upon the anger he feels upon their infliction, grabs it, and rides it towards destruction and bloodshed.
His movements are uncoordinated, but ruthless in their execution. As the baseball bat connects, hit after hit, as blood from both parties begins to flow freely and mingle indiscriminately, a sound rises from the muffled noises of tortured flesh and battered bone. The sound is at first unfamiliar; out of place, familiar yet... broken, alien. It is laughter. The young man is laughing as his ballet of butchery continues. One of the attackers falls over, and the young man is on him in an instant, striking his face again and again until nothing remains but a bloody pulp, ignoring the blows from the fallen man's compatriots. As angry hands pull him off, the young man continues to rage. His blue eyes wide with hysteria, mouth wide open from perpetual, sickening laughter.
It is terrible. It is inhuman. It is gruesome. It is beautiful.
Five battered and broken human bodies lie on the street. The baseball bat lies further away, thrown away during the slaughter. The young man currently wields an arm, which he has torn from one of the men, and is using it to hammer upon one of the corpses, its dark-red jacket squelching with each blow. He stops, after a while, and sinks to his knees. The bloodstains are not easily visible on his black clothing. He looks at the sky as a wonderful, horrible feeling washes over him. He has taken life, and it is glorious. The power he feels is addicting, and he wants more.
The man who will become Hand of Silver, the future tyrant who will come to rule all of humanity, revels in his blood-soaked epiphany.
The memory of his first kill flows through Hoss, becomes him. Whatever remained of Hand of Silver has abandoned the billion-year-old cyborg. It is now merely a construct of violence; rage given physical form.
It runs down the stairs, no longer caring what it is running from. It merely seeks something to kill. Rounding a corner, it comes across a hulking ball of meat. A metallic shriek emanates from the cyborg's mouth, vocal chords no longer attempting to maintain human frequencies.
Gormand sees Hoss run towards him, and prepares for the inevitable attack. He analyzes Hoss's movements, and determines him to be of little threat; Hoss appears to be uncontrolled, unfocused. Hoss lunges towards Gormand, left hand shifting to form an undefined blade. Gormand merely catches Hoss with a noodly appendage, using his momentum to throw Hoss behind him, allowing the berserking cyborg to continue on his journey downwards.
That should occupy those zombies for a while.
The cyborg comes out of its downstairs tumble into a run. Its sensors detect sound from ahead, sound which indicates moving bodies. It quickly encounters a source of those sounds, and moves on. A shredded zombie is left behind.
Further up the stairs, others have entered the cave to escape the imminent and devastating explosion. As they catch their breath (for those that need to), a sound reverberates through the stairwell. It is not a sound that can be described, for it is not meant to be; it is a sound for the sake of sound. It is millions of years worth of brutality given free reign over a vessel of terrible destruction. Something in it touches the humans of the group, resonating with similar feelings.
Deep in the cavern, the limitless violence of all of humanity has been given form.
The sudden appearance of Ekelhaft's main body had not been kind to Hoss's psyche. As he runs from the growing miniature protostar, diving through the hole earlier bored by Ziir, his mind finally snaps. Eons of mental barriers meant to control the rage and bloodlust hidden within him evaporate like vapor in the face of Ekelhaft's burning insanity. Hoss finds himself falling through millions of years of memories, to one in particular...
The young man seems out of place in this section of the city. His fitted slacks and stylish overcoat mark him as someone used to finer living; or at least, someone unaccustomed to the activities which are a regular occurrence in this neighborhood. Activities like the group of gaudily-dressed men in front of him are engaging in.
One of them, dressed in a dark-red, fluffy jacket, notices the young man staring at them. He taps one of his comrades, who turns his attention from their illegal transaction. His friend gestures towards the young man.
"The hell is that?"
"I dunno, you know'im?"
"Hell naw, man. Looks like he gots money though."
The other three men in their little circle notice the commotion. One of them takes the initiative and begins to make his way towards the young man. The others follow.
"Can we help you?" the apparent leader says, sarcastically, "or are you lookin' for some trouble?"
The young man's features are difficult to make out in the soft orange glow of a nearby streetlight. Had their been more light, the approaching group would have noticed the young man smirk. He remains silent.
The group stops, two of its members begin fidgeting. They sense something is off.
The leader either does not notice, or hides his nervousness. The man to his right makes a quip about their intruder being a homosexual. The group laughs. The leader taunts the young man, "Is that it then? You see somethin' you like, homo?" He spreads his arms, assuming a dominant position; a standard territorial gesture of a frightened mammal.
After receiving no response, the leader decides he has had enough. The young man is obviously of wealth, and he intends to take whatever he can find from the young man's unconscious, or dead, body. The rest of the group, sensing their leader's intentions, advance. "You in the wrong neighborhood, boy. And now you gonna get fucked up".
The young man moves, finally. One of his hands has been inside his overcoat during the exchange. He speaks: "I was hoping you'd say that."
He removes his hand from his overcoat, and reveals a baseball bat.
He is not a particularly strong person, but what he lacks in strength he makes up for in pure, unbridled rage. He has no experience with fighting, but he does not care. He receives a punch to the face, a knife grazes his right arm, yet these wounds do not slow him. Indeed, he draws upon the anger he feels upon their infliction, grabs it, and rides it towards destruction and bloodshed.
His movements are uncoordinated, but ruthless in their execution. As the baseball bat connects, hit after hit, as blood from both parties begins to flow freely and mingle indiscriminately, a sound rises from the muffled noises of tortured flesh and battered bone. The sound is at first unfamiliar; out of place, familiar yet... broken, alien. It is laughter. The young man is laughing as his ballet of butchery continues. One of the attackers falls over, and the young man is on him in an instant, striking his face again and again until nothing remains but a bloody pulp, ignoring the blows from the fallen man's compatriots. As angry hands pull him off, the young man continues to rage. His blue eyes wide with hysteria, mouth wide open from perpetual, sickening laughter.
It is terrible. It is inhuman. It is gruesome. It is beautiful.
Five battered and broken human bodies lie on the street. The baseball bat lies further away, thrown away during the slaughter. The young man currently wields an arm, which he has torn from one of the men, and is using it to hammer upon one of the corpses, its dark-red jacket squelching with each blow. He stops, after a while, and sinks to his knees. The bloodstains are not easily visible on his black clothing. He looks at the sky as a wonderful, horrible feeling washes over him. He has taken life, and it is glorious. The power he feels is addicting, and he wants more.
The man who will become Hand of Silver, the future tyrant who will come to rule all of humanity, revels in his blood-soaked epiphany.
The memory of his first kill flows through Hoss, becomes him. Whatever remained of Hand of Silver has abandoned the billion-year-old cyborg. It is now merely a construct of violence; rage given physical form.
It runs down the stairs, no longer caring what it is running from. It merely seeks something to kill. Rounding a corner, it comes across a hulking ball of meat. A metallic shriek emanates from the cyborg's mouth, vocal chords no longer attempting to maintain human frequencies.
Gormand sees Hoss run towards him, and prepares for the inevitable attack. He analyzes Hoss's movements, and determines him to be of little threat; Hoss appears to be uncontrolled, unfocused. Hoss lunges towards Gormand, left hand shifting to form an undefined blade. Gormand merely catches Hoss with a noodly appendage, using his momentum to throw Hoss behind him, allowing the berserking cyborg to continue on his journey downwards.
That should occupy those zombies for a while.
The cyborg comes out of its downstairs tumble into a run. Its sensors detect sound from ahead, sound which indicates moving bodies. It quickly encounters a source of those sounds, and moves on. A shredded zombie is left behind.
Further up the stairs, others have entered the cave to escape the imminent and devastating explosion. As they catch their breath (for those that need to), a sound reverberates through the stairwell. It is not a sound that can be described, for it is not meant to be; it is a sound for the sake of sound. It is millions of years worth of brutality given free reign over a vessel of terrible destruction. Something in it touches the humans of the group, resonating with similar feelings.
Deep in the cavern, the limitless violence of all of humanity has been given form.