Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 3: Las Orbitas]
12-04-2010, 12:55 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.
Thane's interest in co-opting the other contestents for his own ends had been steadily waning throughout the battle. With the elf's disrespectful greeting, the trapped Old One finally decided he'd had enough with them all entirely.
So when the upstart little elf dared to have the gall to stand up to him, he treated her as he would any other pathetic, useless obstacle.
A burst of burning pain scorched its way through Holly's body. Her blood felt like it was boiling, and she could feel her bones stressed by strange implements. Lines of firey pain traced themselves across her skin, screaming their rage at her.
And then it was gone, and so was Thane.
The eldritch monstrosity stomped down the hallway, reflecting on the Countess's betrayal, and considered that his forced modifications might actually have some use. The constant pain he was in from pieces of metal, raw power sources and other foreign objects which had been jammed into his body with no regard for his own comfort, provided a constant source for his mental projections.
He continued onwards, and lifted a hand. In it, a small, circular device he'd picked up during his earlier massacre. His understanding of technology did not come with the experienced past which most would possess; instead, his nature as an Old One allowed him to quickly assimilate the inner workings of all tools and devices of power. Things which sentient civilizations produced to elevate themselves above others, and which could both bring enlightenment or doom. For the Old Ones were at the root of all such power, and inspiration for such tools originated with them.
As such, Thane had an instinctual understanding of his newly-upgraded self, and of the device in his hand. He knew it was a communication device, and that he could get the attention of the remaining workers in the area with it.
First, though, he'd need someone's voice.
-----
The group of Ouroborous dubbed "Strain A" by The Controller, had been generally tearing through the failing station, blindly searching for food. As it drove yet another screaming engineer before it, several Ouroborites paused, distracted by an exposed section of wiring, where the engineer had been working.
They paused because they sensed food.
In its heyday, Las Orbitas had represented the pinnacle of human technology. It had been operational for centuries, and in order to maintain its status as a beacon of humanity's achievements, it underwent near-constant upgrades. Towards the end of its lifetime, the standard superconductor-based circuitry which had powered the station's electronic systems had been replaced with a cheaper, more efficient, and exponentially more powerful organic circuitry. As such, the bulkheads of Las Orbitas were filled with organic materials; warm fluids pulsed through vein-like tubing, carrying data and raw materials to organ-like fluid sacs, which were able to restructure themselves on-the-fly to accomodate any situation.
So when a single Ouroborite scittered across some of the sticky green fluid which had spilled onto the floor, and its sensory receptors reported it was standing in hot, delicious food, it immediately began feeding.
And soon after, the rest of Ouroborous, Strain A, followed.
The Ouroborites spread through the bulkheads, lavishing in the constant, unending feeding frenzy. As they encountered the larger fluid-sacs of the stations "organs", they laid hundreds of thousands of eggs in the warm, thick fluid.
Ouroborous spread, and slowly, the station began to lose power. Lights flickered, terminals shut down, hull integrity fields dissipated, and the station began to groan as its lifeblood was sucked dry.
As much as the station was suffering, its inhabitants were about to suffer more. For as deadly a threat as the failing station represented, the cause of that failure was infinitely more dangerous.
Ouroborous was in the walls.
-----
Thane's new mechanical legs whirred as they carried him through the increasingly-poorly-lit corridors of the space station. He was following the scent of a mind; each stomp brought him closer to his target, through the twisting, maze-like paths of the innards of Las Orbitas.
-----
Christopher Schmaltz glared at the screen of his diagnostic tool, willing the results to change. He'd known this salvage/repair mission would be a disaster from the moment he boarded the shuttle which had brought them all to the station, and he'd seen a few familiar, if unwelcome, faces. Had he known that his former gang had some interest in this station, he probably wouldn't have come along. They weren't the kind of folk to take nicely to ex-members.
Then, people had started dying. At first he thought it to be the handiwork of his ex-fellows, but the terror in the voices on the radio... the sounds... no, this was something else. And so all thoughts illegal activities and conspiracies and gangs were abandoned, and Christopher Schmaltz dove headfirst into working on an escape.
Once he'd heard that their shuttle had simply... vanished, he'd gone to the old munitions laboratory, where he'd heard that, back in the day, so-called "black" research had taken place. Most of the lab had been cleared out, but he had found an ancient missile which could easily be modified to carry a human payload. Like, say, him.
As Christopher sighed at his diagnostic tool, accepting its results and the realization that this would require much more effort than he'd originally planned, a sound froze him in place. Something, some whirring, buzzing, crackling thing was stomping across the metal floor of the corridor outside the lab, moving closer and closer. Closer to the lab, and closer to him.
The ex-gang member whirled, and what he saw rounding the corner sent a lightning bolt of fear down to his core.
A man stood there. Or at least, at some point it had been a man. Crackling energy traced its way down a spiked metal torso, and bands of some glowing alloy hovered around sparking arms, spinning freely. A strange purple aura surrounded this horrible mockery of a human, and Christopher nearly puked as his eyes were drawn inevitably towards the face. What little skin which was visible glistened with a sickly-green pus that oozed from gaping pores, and thin blue veins stood out through the transluscent epidermal layers. Instead of a mouth, Christopher's eyes were greeted with writhing, dripping tentacles. Two slits occupied the space where a nose should be, and a single, gleaming, black eye looked out from the only remaining eye socket. The other was a cybernetic implant, and the skin around it was red, irritated, and oozing.
Then a voice spoke in his mind.
Use your radio. Call the rest of your team. Bring them to this room.
Christopher simply gaped.
Call them NOW.
The final word was accompanied by a burst of pain over his left eye, shocking Christopher out of his fear-driven stupor. He raised the radio to his mouth, paused, and gulped.
"Uh... I... I'm not sure how to get them all here..."
I do not care how. I only care that you do it, and that they arrive in a timely manner.
"... o-ok then."
He pressed a button on the device.
"H-hey..." his voice was weak, stuttery. He cleared his throat, and gathered himself. "Calling all surviving members of the Las Orbitas Salvage and Reclaimation team, this is Engineer Christopher Schmaltz. I've found a way off this station. Come to the Naval Research deck, Laboratory 10. We're getting off this damn station."
Christopher let out a breath, and looked up at the monster standing before him.
That will do, said the voice in his head. Now, I must prepare for their arrival.
"W-what... what are you going to do?"
I shall start with killing you. I need a sacrifice.
"No, WAI-"
Christopher's cries of protest were cut sickeningly short as a metal hand shot through his chest, and removed his heart.
Thane's interest in co-opting the other contestents for his own ends had been steadily waning throughout the battle. With the elf's disrespectful greeting, the trapped Old One finally decided he'd had enough with them all entirely.
So when the upstart little elf dared to have the gall to stand up to him, he treated her as he would any other pathetic, useless obstacle.
A burst of burning pain scorched its way through Holly's body. Her blood felt like it was boiling, and she could feel her bones stressed by strange implements. Lines of firey pain traced themselves across her skin, screaming their rage at her.
And then it was gone, and so was Thane.
The eldritch monstrosity stomped down the hallway, reflecting on the Countess's betrayal, and considered that his forced modifications might actually have some use. The constant pain he was in from pieces of metal, raw power sources and other foreign objects which had been jammed into his body with no regard for his own comfort, provided a constant source for his mental projections.
He continued onwards, and lifted a hand. In it, a small, circular device he'd picked up during his earlier massacre. His understanding of technology did not come with the experienced past which most would possess; instead, his nature as an Old One allowed him to quickly assimilate the inner workings of all tools and devices of power. Things which sentient civilizations produced to elevate themselves above others, and which could both bring enlightenment or doom. For the Old Ones were at the root of all such power, and inspiration for such tools originated with them.
As such, Thane had an instinctual understanding of his newly-upgraded self, and of the device in his hand. He knew it was a communication device, and that he could get the attention of the remaining workers in the area with it.
First, though, he'd need someone's voice.
-----
The group of Ouroborous dubbed "Strain A" by The Controller, had been generally tearing through the failing station, blindly searching for food. As it drove yet another screaming engineer before it, several Ouroborites paused, distracted by an exposed section of wiring, where the engineer had been working.
They paused because they sensed food.
In its heyday, Las Orbitas had represented the pinnacle of human technology. It had been operational for centuries, and in order to maintain its status as a beacon of humanity's achievements, it underwent near-constant upgrades. Towards the end of its lifetime, the standard superconductor-based circuitry which had powered the station's electronic systems had been replaced with a cheaper, more efficient, and exponentially more powerful organic circuitry. As such, the bulkheads of Las Orbitas were filled with organic materials; warm fluids pulsed through vein-like tubing, carrying data and raw materials to organ-like fluid sacs, which were able to restructure themselves on-the-fly to accomodate any situation.
So when a single Ouroborite scittered across some of the sticky green fluid which had spilled onto the floor, and its sensory receptors reported it was standing in hot, delicious food, it immediately began feeding.
And soon after, the rest of Ouroborous, Strain A, followed.
The Ouroborites spread through the bulkheads, lavishing in the constant, unending feeding frenzy. As they encountered the larger fluid-sacs of the stations "organs", they laid hundreds of thousands of eggs in the warm, thick fluid.
Ouroborous spread, and slowly, the station began to lose power. Lights flickered, terminals shut down, hull integrity fields dissipated, and the station began to groan as its lifeblood was sucked dry.
As much as the station was suffering, its inhabitants were about to suffer more. For as deadly a threat as the failing station represented, the cause of that failure was infinitely more dangerous.
Ouroborous was in the walls.
-----
Thane's new mechanical legs whirred as they carried him through the increasingly-poorly-lit corridors of the space station. He was following the scent of a mind; each stomp brought him closer to his target, through the twisting, maze-like paths of the innards of Las Orbitas.
-----
Christopher Schmaltz glared at the screen of his diagnostic tool, willing the results to change. He'd known this salvage/repair mission would be a disaster from the moment he boarded the shuttle which had brought them all to the station, and he'd seen a few familiar, if unwelcome, faces. Had he known that his former gang had some interest in this station, he probably wouldn't have come along. They weren't the kind of folk to take nicely to ex-members.
Then, people had started dying. At first he thought it to be the handiwork of his ex-fellows, but the terror in the voices on the radio... the sounds... no, this was something else. And so all thoughts illegal activities and conspiracies and gangs were abandoned, and Christopher Schmaltz dove headfirst into working on an escape.
Once he'd heard that their shuttle had simply... vanished, he'd gone to the old munitions laboratory, where he'd heard that, back in the day, so-called "black" research had taken place. Most of the lab had been cleared out, but he had found an ancient missile which could easily be modified to carry a human payload. Like, say, him.
As Christopher sighed at his diagnostic tool, accepting its results and the realization that this would require much more effort than he'd originally planned, a sound froze him in place. Something, some whirring, buzzing, crackling thing was stomping across the metal floor of the corridor outside the lab, moving closer and closer. Closer to the lab, and closer to him.
The ex-gang member whirled, and what he saw rounding the corner sent a lightning bolt of fear down to his core.
A man stood there. Or at least, at some point it had been a man. Crackling energy traced its way down a spiked metal torso, and bands of some glowing alloy hovered around sparking arms, spinning freely. A strange purple aura surrounded this horrible mockery of a human, and Christopher nearly puked as his eyes were drawn inevitably towards the face. What little skin which was visible glistened with a sickly-green pus that oozed from gaping pores, and thin blue veins stood out through the transluscent epidermal layers. Instead of a mouth, Christopher's eyes were greeted with writhing, dripping tentacles. Two slits occupied the space where a nose should be, and a single, gleaming, black eye looked out from the only remaining eye socket. The other was a cybernetic implant, and the skin around it was red, irritated, and oozing.
Then a voice spoke in his mind.
Use your radio. Call the rest of your team. Bring them to this room.
Christopher simply gaped.
Call them NOW.
The final word was accompanied by a burst of pain over his left eye, shocking Christopher out of his fear-driven stupor. He raised the radio to his mouth, paused, and gulped.
"Uh... I... I'm not sure how to get them all here..."
I do not care how. I only care that you do it, and that they arrive in a timely manner.
"... o-ok then."
He pressed a button on the device.
"H-hey..." his voice was weak, stuttery. He cleared his throat, and gathered himself. "Calling all surviving members of the Las Orbitas Salvage and Reclaimation team, this is Engineer Christopher Schmaltz. I've found a way off this station. Come to the Naval Research deck, Laboratory 10. We're getting off this damn station."
Christopher let out a breath, and looked up at the monster standing before him.
That will do, said the voice in his head. Now, I must prepare for their arrival.
"W-what... what are you going to do?"
I shall start with killing you. I need a sacrifice.
"No, WAI-"
Christopher's cries of protest were cut sickeningly short as a metal hand shot through his chest, and removed his heart.