Here's a fun little sci-fi/horror exercise:
1 – Read about H.P. Lovecraft (if you have the guts to read his actual work right before bedtime, please do so)
2 – Read Megaman Gigamix vol. 2 (I stopped at the sewer part)
3 – Sleep
4 – ?
5 – Profit!
I apologize in advance if this is total pretentious nonsense, and I'll be happy to answer any questions.
Disclaimer: I can only claim inspiration and not ownership, because I am neither Lovecraft nor Ariga nor Inafune. (WHERE IS MY TERRA DOLLY, CAPCOM)
Since the warning was given and the white prison torn to pieces, seventy-two black hours have passed, and in those hours the entire Earth has been forever altered. Every sea has been tainted with unmeasured liters of blood; every continent bears the scars of pathetically one-sided battles, of giant claws gouging a defenseless face over and over until ancient landforms and cherished landmarks are wiped away. Class, color, creed –each of these and a thousand other groupings have ceased to matter, as the remaining humans become one family united by terror. A hysterical fraction has survived long enough, running, pushing, clawing, weeping, screaming till their voices are no more, to reach the shelters, although no one dares name the universal fear that even the strongest fortification possesses a limited life-span against the unceasing onslaught of the metal demons. The majority are no longer able to do as much as quiver in fear; the invaders, enjoying their new playground to the fullest, have each destroyed more targets than a thousand marksmen could wish for. Beside the unfortunates' remains (above them, below them, ruined flesh interspersed with titanium fragments) lie the bodies of countless robots, filled with determination to defend their homes and their humans, yet lacking so much of the power needed to do so. All have paid for their weakness, in blood and oil, for three days.
On the morning of the fourth day, right after the sun has risen on its burnt-out shell of a domain, the destruction stops. At some mysterious signal, the bloodthirsty aliens stop their unholy game of hunting those frightened few who elude and defy them. Rock's family were caught the morning of the third day, forced to alternate between fighting and fleeing ever since, and though they are destitute and in dire need of rest and repairs, with one of their tormentors a mere five feet away, they are grateful for the reprieve.
The Liquid Emerald Abomination re-forms its arm and tilts its head to the side, then back, gazing up at nothing, mouth open slightly. It speaks to itself, or perhaps to a compatriot, far off but not unaware, in words strange and terrible, and then, in the same bizarre tongue, it starts to chant a disjointed melody. Rock and his brothers, in the middle of another escape attempt, do not take a single step more in spite of themselves. His auditory sensors nearly overloaded with the alien signal, the boy can feel his body tremble and ache with every horrific note–
–burning–
–and it will not respond to any command he gives it; he sees the anguish on his brothers' faces and can tell that they share in his suffering. The only choice left to him, left to any of them, is to remain in place and hope that the singing will come to an end before it does too much harm to a previously-damaged frame, or shorts out someone's positronic brain. All of this is and more is known to the Liquid Emerald Abomination, and to those with whom it has communicated. While Rock is aware of this he is unsure whence his own awareness comes, but the grin on the creature's face is a clear indicator of the amusement and pleasure it receives from watching the futile struggle of its prey.
After three minutes of this torment, the Liquid Emerald Abomination closes its hideous oozing mouth, gives the most imperceptible of nods to its captive audience in a gross mockery of a virtuoso acknowledging his patrons, and vanishes. The next three days are more disastrous than the first, for with such a small number of robots still there to make sport of, several of the fiends turn their attention to the shelters, the final obstacle between humanity and total annihilation. A second endeavor to repulse them, courageous but fruitless, is made by the surviving robots, and the enemy regard it with twisted mirth, laughing cruelly as they dispatch the defenders at their leisure. As they complete the metal massacre which scarcely requires a tenth of their effort, they continue to focus on battering, burning, blasting their way into the doomed strongholds, knowing the helpless prizes within will soon be exposed to them.
Rock finds himself alone –he refuses to allow himself any time to think about how or why –yet even without support, without his helmet, currently dented, cracked, and half-buried in rubble somewhere, with far too many places sore from blows or from debris embedded in his armor, he fires plasma shot after plasma shot at his would-be executioners. His feeble attacks gain him nothing more than the same derision exhibited towards his late robotic brethren, and for his temerity he is rewarded with the temporary position of their favorite plaything. The extraterrestrial savages alternate between abusing him and disregarding the pitiful remnants of the security systems that have failed to do their job. Dodging another kick he staggers upright once more, wishing he could deny that it is a matter of minutes until the precious lives he has vowed to protect will be extinguished (and what of the shelters that he was not there to guard?)
The next kick does not come, nor does another punch, or any other form of aggression. There is an uneasy silence, disrupted only by some ruined building collapsing further in upon itself somewhere in the distance, and the dust begins to settle in the bright sunlight. Rock spins in a circle, looking above, below, anywhere that might conceal a fatal surprise, wanting to avoid whatever it might be, but hating this tension and desiring anything to end it. Beyond him, balanced effortlessly on the ruins they have created, the Ancient Unholy Raptor and the Pale Queen converse. Although the words are no more familiar than they were the last time Rock heard them, he is certain the pair are discussing him, and as if to confirm his suspicion, the latter turns soulless black eyes on him, its ever-present smirk widening. Rock's complex systems create in him a feeling not unlike that of a human shuddering at something unpleasant.
Grotesque music fills the air again as the Pale Queen moves slowly but deliberately in Rock's direction, and the shudder intensifies into a violent shaking, as if his very molecules are attempting to separate from each other and intend to stretch him out first before disintegrating him–
–that's it, stretch–
–he thinks it must be this intense because the singer is so close to him now. He cannot leap out of the path of the Pale Queen, cannot drop to his knees in agony. The otherworldly automaton stands over him and extends a hand; the paralysis passes, but it does Rock no good as he is now trapped in a cylinder of some transparent dark substance. Within there is just enough room for him to raise his arm and shoot at an angle, a futile gesture that elicits a soft chuckle from the other.
-Don't struggle. You'll be released soon.
Rock can see the Pale Queen tracing patterns on the wall of his prison, wearing a smile that looks almost kind. The language he has spoken since the day of his activation sounds warped on his captor's lips. In the back of his mind, the carefree laboratory assistant he once was wonders what this cylinder could be made of.
-What? R-released? When?
-Three years.
Instantly any semblance of kindness is gone from the face of the Pale Queen, and in its place appears wicked triumph. The black eyes follow Rock as he rises above the broken concrete, above the verdant shock of hair he has come to despise, until each is lost to the other's sight. The departure happens so rapidly that Rock still hears his own scream of despair and rage when his beloved planet appears no larger than an apple.
Rock does not access his internal clock during the flight for fear that the amount of time passed is heartbreakingly less than what he has estimated. He devotes no more time to guessing the composition and properties of his craft, having exhausted his knowledge already. The sole modicum of good fortune lies in his overtaxed systems no longer demanding an opportunity to recuperate, probably an effect of his imprisonment, as is the disabling of his sleep mode. The only action he can take is to rest his forehead (or his back; there has been abundant time for each) against the tinted wall and watch the galaxies passing by beyond his reflection. At times the hated form of the Pale Queen can be seen next to his in the glass-like material, and if he refrains from moving and tilts his head just so, the two images seem to be sharing a leisurely stroll and a private joke; however, the imperfect illusion causes Rock's body to appear larger, darker–
–hotter–
–and his circuits register stretching and shaking again until he looks away.
Some far-off object, unrecognizable to him at first, doubles in size, then quadruples, and in the same amount of time it took for the Earth to vanish, Rock flies toward a structure that is equal parts temple and space station. A silvery-grey door slides open noiselessly to admit his transport as its speed decreases to virtually nothing, providing a view of a spacious chamber of the same color. It is occupied by a lone table, large enough for some papers to be scattered across it and close enough for him to see that the papers are photographs of robots, some unfamiliar, others opponents in previous fights. Questions chase one another through his mind, faster than he can acknowledge them all, and he wrestles with them as he drifts down a short hallway to the one door at the end.
On the other side of the door is another large room, with another table its sole occupant. The capsule halts above the center of the octagonal surface, and Rock gazes at the cosmos on the other side of the tall windows that take the place of walls here. In this deceptively tranquil atmosphere, he permits himself to briefly enjoy the stars and the solitude.
-It's good to see you here, Rock.
The Pale Queen is there in the chrome-colored doorway, frightfully pleased with itself, and immediately the calm disappears, and the stretching returns to grip him worse than ever. Instantly Rock's palms press against the cylinder's wall, his eyes not leaving that accursed ebony pair as he pleads with his sadistic host through teeth that chatter even as they burn.
-Please stop this! I-I need to protect what matters!
-What is it that matters to you so much?
-Doctor Light… Roll… Everybody…
His voice falters and he starts to slump as he realizes that out of all the people and things he values, very few of them must still exist. The Pale Queen has declined to take a seat, choosing to stand in front of Rock and once more drag its finger this way and that across the opposite side of where two helpless hands have not moved.
-You are a poor negotiator.
Rock's treatment, harsh as it has been, can be considered lenient when compared to how the rest of the planet has fared. While his happiness and comfort were accorded no more importance than those of the loved ones he was forced to abandon, the creature before him desires to prolong his existence, no doubt as part of its plan. He is no closer to having any of his questions answered than when he was first abducted, and the Pale Queen, superior to everything with which the Earth came against it, has no reason to share the details of the plot with him. His ignorance, though, has not obscured one paramount, undeniable fact: that these self-styled rulers of space must not accomplish their goal. They have made him an enemy, a joke, a prisoner, but he will not be their instrument.
And so, as the Pale Queen, intoxicated with its own grim success, withdraws its finger, Rock pries loose from his boot a jagged piece of metal which he earlier did not think to remove; as he is half-convinced its edges have begun to warp, he tears open the panel on his chest and prepares to shred the components within to useless scrap. Mentally he bids goodbye to all that he longed to keep safe–
–and now a hand covers the hand that is slashing at wires, and its opposite is at his throat, and Rock is free, sprawled amid myriad melting shards of his floating cell, beneath him the table, above him the Pale Queen, smugness replaced for the first time with wrath, and he can only see the eerily flawless features contorted so, and he can only feel heat–
Thanks for giving this a chance. I actually woke up when poor sweet Rock was strangled, but I bet you lot can figure out what should come next, so there probably doesn't need to be a chapter 2. (Can't wait 'til the Game Boy games are on 3DS so I can go and fight these guys. ARIGA-SENSEI Y U NO DRAW MOAR SUNSTAR VIOLENCE –the Wily-Light brofist was great though.)