The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 6: Tidal Cove]

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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The next problem: the dumpster.

The Countess fastidiously picked an errant insect off her shoulder, and ground it down meditatively while following the screams. The lightning arced from byzantium-tinged coils to the howling demolition expert on the floor ahead of her, lighting the place up to the olfactory tune of fried bugs and human. The smell prompted a second wave of Ouroborites to extricate themselves from the walls, until the smell of burning chitin overwhelmed the earthy tang of blood and charred skin. Despite their cooked kin discouraging the Ouroborites in this portion of the facility from lingering, a veritable train of the insects skittered in her wake, scrambling over each other in their poorly-informed haste to crawl all over the amalgam and its wing-crushing, mandible-snapping, leg-severing mess of gears and metal.

She kind of liked these ones, even if purple wasn’t really her colour. Several unfortunate workers later, the Countess was holding the elevator open (the typical way, so Ouroborous couldn’t get into the shaft and cause grief). She spun the one remote mine she’d managed to salvage from the first victim in her spidery fingers, humming a little over the sound of carpet being devoured. As the doors opened with a ding, it occurred to the Countess that with an entourage as voracious as this one there wasn’t all that much she needed to see coming. The amalgam stabbed a steel finger into the elevator’s ceiling light, vision exploding with little bursts of white as the power was siphoned from light to coil. A dynamo on the shoulder, perhaps? She’d think about it.

The Countess peeled off a bit of aluminum plating from the elevator’s interior, and pressed on. But not to the refrigeration stores. Not just yet.


Hauling a dumpster of bait would be somewhat redundant without there being a trap to set it in. The rink in the stadium was devoid of ice or even a sizeable puddle to get that derelict feel down right – technology had found easier ways for idiots to compete on low-friction surfaces without them putting knives on their feet.

Nonetheless, fiddling with some switches in a back room generated the gravitational field across the rink. Her Ouroborites were somewhat preoccupied with the vermin and scraps lying around, but if there was still power this deep in the station it was best Ouroborous in general didn’t get its mandibles into it. She cranked up the stadium lights in the vain hope that the boosted current would discourage the bugs, then shut off power to the rink before heading down to examine it closer.

It didn’t look edible (though Ouroborous rasped off the top layer of peeling paint anyway), which wasn’t a great start and gives you the first step in an embarrassingly short path to concluding how we got to the dumpster. The Countess skittered about across the rink until it was satisfactorily slicked with purple, by which point another battery of coils had arranged themselves up her arm. She’d need all the juice she could get.


The infamous dumpster was in the corner, wheels conspicuous only in their absence. Really, it was more of a metal crate serving the task usually reserved for a dumpster, which was for tossing a load of discarded/scavenged edibles into. It hovered about a foot off the ground on its flatbed barge, occasionally suffering a fresh scorch mark as the Countess punished any Ouroborites who got too close to the truck and its delicious power source.

The amalgam peered down a garbage chute, noting with some disappointment the lack of sharp-bladed fans, but somewhat relieved at the lack of a smell wafting up. A basement full of Ouroborites only taking a break in their gorging to produce more offspring didn’t appeal to her, if only because it meant she’d have to find a way down there.

The coolroom doors had just about bent her fingers to pry open, and the cold was certainly discouraging her branch of Ouroborous, but the Countess didn’t have time to mess around. She had a deadline to be keeping. Of sorts. She did what was needed, slammed the crate lid shut, and slapped the mine she’d picked up on the hinges before getting out of there. An attempt to coax a bit more speed into the truck shorted it out, which meant an irritating detour to get a new one after sharing the old with Ouro. Metal and organic circuits – it was a match made in a very, very messed up heaven.

Before time-dilatingly long, the amalgam got the meat to the rink, got the meat on the rink, then started melting and spinning out a trail of wire so she could blast said crate of meat open. After all the rushing about and preparation she’d put in, this last bit was surprisingly relaxing. Perhaps she could make a hobby of this, or learn to use a garrote.

Somewhere far above in the cavernous bottom floor of Las Orbitas, some fans shut off. Then some lights. Then an elf came staggering across the clearing, bound for the arena, and the Countess found herself struggling not to snigger. A spark danced from finger to filament, followed by a slightly beefier jolt to really get the juices flowing.

Surrounded by a now rather peckish little horde, the Countess rolled her supercharged shoulder and skittered after Holly. The shrieks grew ever closer – until, at some point while the amalgam lurked in the rows of seats, Ouroborous came pouring in. Holly was only a few steps or a good push away from standing on the rigged rink, too. Perfect.

“Enemy of my enemy and so forth.”

The tiers of seats were even more annoying to descend than scale with these legs, but the Countess liked to think it looked stately and predatory rather than at all awkward. She launched another small bolt at a pack of stragglers to hasten gathering them all on the rink.

Then the lights went out. The Countess sighed, and passed the time firing a few more sparks, waiting for her quarry (both Ouroborous and elf) to get onto the damn rink already. The crate of meat would serve as an excellent lightning rod, once the last of the prawns came down from the roof.