Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 1: Focal High School]
06-06-2010, 05:46 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.
Barren plaster and slick tiles and waxed wooden floors. And stagnant, empty stillness. Besides the droning of fluorescent lights overhead, the first floor of Focal High School was completely lifeless.
Ouroborous slowly, methodically wriggled down the hall away from the gym, rounding a corner that led to a stairwell. Scent trails were thin and dense, swerving and crossing over each other. Some of them were many days old. A few Ouroborites veered off to one side at the smell of an interesting trail before immediately doubling back and rejoining the mass of insects to devour a weakened comrade or burrow its way into the center to lay more eggs, or even to retreat from the cold floor. Much more pressing issues to deal with. There was so much information that there might as well have been none at all.
Already frustrated and impatient from the last few minutes of fruitless hunting, a few insects at the forefront of the swarm skittered ahead in search of fresh prey. Plumes of pheromone gas gathered the attention of the rest of Ouroborous, and it began to crawl forward. After all, there was nothing to-
As one, Ouroborous stopped in its tracks.
"Help me. The daef woman has gone iansne. She's tpeprad me in the paece room and she's gonig to klil me. Palese hurry."
Antennae twitched and flicked pensively as tens of thousands of minds dimly picked up the concept of a cry for help, embedded in a psychic message in thick, heavy language that it couldn't understand. Cry for help. Help meant wounds, wounded prey, wounded comrades, a battle that was being lost or a fight already won, a call to swarm and overwhelm, an invisible primal beacon, meant come closer, always, help meant come closer
come closer
Responding to the dull headaches from the psychic message, Ouroborous gathered together and picked up speed, unquestioningly making its collective way towards the uncertain. Fight or prey, it was better than nothing. It slowed down and thinned out when it reached the stairs, some of the Ouroborites skittering up the walls while others lurched their way up each step. A few lost their grips and fell onto their backs, and Ouroborites dropped off the walls and ceiling to quickly rip it apart before they could right themselves. A thick, pungent scent wafted down the stairs, and the Ouroborites looked up, their beady eyes glazed over. Scent of battle, scent of wounded comrades, scent of slaughtered prey, of fresh carcasses, scent of EVERYTHING, of ripping and tearing and shredding and flaying with claws and mandibles, the rush of battle, overwhelming, euphoria, carnage, everywhere at once
The crystal-clear scent of blood, thick and dripping and fresh.
Frail, useless little legs scrabbled and chafed at smooth black bands across Ourobororite underbellies, letting loose a chittering, howling collective screech that echoed against itself in the tight stairwell, a horrible screech that sounded like being twisted apart, like needles against your skull. Windows shattered in rapid succession, one after the other down the hall. Contestants in other rooms fell to their knees or on their sides, clutching their heads as if it would protect their minds from the the paralyzing shriek, resonating in their heads like crashing waves and helicopter blades and overlapping with itself as the high-pitched yell started back up. Ouroborous surged and fluttered and poured out of the stairwell, driven by overpowering bloodlust, all these people and the scent of EVERYTHING bearing down on it, searching for prey, anything to sate the hunger and stop the burning
Barren plaster and slick tiles and waxed wooden floors. And stagnant, empty stillness. Besides the droning of fluorescent lights overhead, the first floor of Focal High School was completely lifeless.
Ouroborous slowly, methodically wriggled down the hall away from the gym, rounding a corner that led to a stairwell. Scent trails were thin and dense, swerving and crossing over each other. Some of them were many days old. A few Ouroborites veered off to one side at the smell of an interesting trail before immediately doubling back and rejoining the mass of insects to devour a weakened comrade or burrow its way into the center to lay more eggs, or even to retreat from the cold floor. Much more pressing issues to deal with. There was so much information that there might as well have been none at all.
Already frustrated and impatient from the last few minutes of fruitless hunting, a few insects at the forefront of the swarm skittered ahead in search of fresh prey. Plumes of pheromone gas gathered the attention of the rest of Ouroborous, and it began to crawl forward. After all, there was nothing to-
As one, Ouroborous stopped in its tracks.
"Help me. The daef woman has gone iansne. She's tpeprad me in the paece room and she's gonig to klil me. Palese hurry."
Antennae twitched and flicked pensively as tens of thousands of minds dimly picked up the concept of a cry for help, embedded in a psychic message in thick, heavy language that it couldn't understand. Cry for help. Help meant wounds, wounded prey, wounded comrades, a battle that was being lost or a fight already won, a call to swarm and overwhelm, an invisible primal beacon, meant come closer, always, help meant come closer
come closer
Responding to the dull headaches from the psychic message, Ouroborous gathered together and picked up speed, unquestioningly making its collective way towards the uncertain. Fight or prey, it was better than nothing. It slowed down and thinned out when it reached the stairs, some of the Ouroborites skittering up the walls while others lurched their way up each step. A few lost their grips and fell onto their backs, and Ouroborites dropped off the walls and ceiling to quickly rip it apart before they could right themselves. A thick, pungent scent wafted down the stairs, and the Ouroborites looked up, their beady eyes glazed over. Scent of battle, scent of wounded comrades, scent of slaughtered prey, of fresh carcasses, scent of EVERYTHING, of ripping and tearing and shredding and flaying with claws and mandibles, the rush of battle, overwhelming, euphoria, carnage, everywhere at once
The crystal-clear scent of blood, thick and dripping and fresh.
Frail, useless little legs scrabbled and chafed at smooth black bands across Ourobororite underbellies, letting loose a chittering, howling collective screech that echoed against itself in the tight stairwell, a horrible screech that sounded like being twisted apart, like needles against your skull. Windows shattered in rapid succession, one after the other down the hall. Contestants in other rooms fell to their knees or on their sides, clutching their heads as if it would protect their minds from the the paralyzing shriek, resonating in their heads like crashing waves and helicopter blades and overlapping with itself as the high-pitched yell started back up. Ouroborous surged and fluttered and poured out of the stairwell, driven by overpowering bloodlust, all these people and the scent of EVERYTHING bearing down on it, searching for prey, anything to sate the hunger and stop the burning