Author's Note: So, this is my inaugural fanfiction. I'm honestly not sure where to start, since I'm trying to get this out as fast as I can. This would have been out much sooner, had my procrastination not been a factor. If you'd like to now how much that influenced my process, I originally intended to release this on November 22, 2019, when Eternal was originally supposed to come out. I usually get trapped in a series of intense, energetic writing, then a period where I'm bored and get distracted by something else, and then a period when I come back to what I've written and think it's awful, and completely overhaul it. When I realized I only had a few weeks before the game actually released, I had to hurry up and finish this.
This story inspired by the footage of the Phobos demo that was originally shown at Quakecon 2018. I've incorporated some elements of the lore that we've since learned, and I'm excited to play the full game and discover everything I got wrong (as I write this, my copy is installing).
Lastly, feel free to criticize. I'm happy with the final product, but not that happy, because I think translating the speed of Doom's combat to text is really hard while also keeping it interesting to read.
(DISCLAIMER: All rights to Doom: Eternal go to Bethesda and iD Software)
Phobos
The elevator smoothly ascended the shaft, bringing the Slayer closer to the control room.
There were still several floors to go before his arrival, roughly thirty seconds of nothing. VEGA was completely silent within the suit, working dutifully on his ballistics calculations. When VEGA was concentrating, the wrath of God couldn't distract him unless he allowed it, so the Slayer made no attempts at small talk. There was nothing but the elevator's whirring machinery to focus on.
It felt humorously paradoxical that it could feel so calm in a station currently being besieged by the forces of Hell. He had previously only felt this kind of peace in the Fortress, but he never stayed around long due to the pressing needs of Earth and its survivors. The feeling wouldn't last here, either. Soon enough, he would running and gunning as always. Not that that was a bad thing; so long as there were demons to kill, he would feel right at home.
He tugged the super shotgun from his hip holster, absentmindedly staring at the engraved runes along the barrels' length. While the Praetor Suit provided a pocket dimension to use as an inventory, from which he could pull his collected firearms and ammunition as if out of thin air. In spite of that, he preferred to have Lucifer's Bane on his person at all times, when in need of a speedy draw. The policy had helped him countless times.
Another ping resounded in the elevator shaft, signifying another passed floor, and he put the shotgun away. In front of him, a corridor's blast door was left partly open by structural damage, allowing him to see past it. There was nothing but fire in the corridor beyond.
The grim visage descended out of sight, and they arrived upon a cluttered storage room. An intact blast door was there to greet them, red lights indicating that it was locked. He felt VEGA stir within the suit, followed by the lights transitioning to a welcoming green. He hadn't expected the AI to hack the door for him. Perhaps the additional suit power was increasing VEGA's ability to multitask? Whatever the reason, he gave a quick thumbs up, knowing that only the AI would see it. There was no response; the AI had re-immersed himself.
VEGA's presence within the suit created an aura, which the Slayer could detect just on the edge of his senses. It was unnerving, like the feeling of being watched. Being in King Novik's chamber before the sentinel monarch had materialized produced the same effect, although it was worse with the AI, as he was tethered to the Slayer's suit, and thus the Slayer himself. VEGA didn't have to say a word, but the Slayer could sense where he was looking, and some of what he was thinking. As friendly as the AI was, he had yet to adjust to that sensation. He shivered and proceeded through the blast door, it having obligingly slid open for him. The wail of synthesized air-raid sirens made it clear that he was entering a war zone.
What stole his attention immediately was the view from the chamber's massive window. Beyond the horizon was the titanic form of Mars. The planet towered over its tiny moon, as if staring accusingly at its inhabitants. He felt VEGA stir again, the AI directing his attention towards its surface with intense scrutiny. There, under the surface, lied the lost city of Hebeth, and with it, the slipgate that would lead him to Sentinel Prime. The Fortress couldn't channel a portal through millions of tons of rock, so they needed a way to strip the entire surface of the planet away.
Just under the planet, and many times closer, he saw weapon that he intended to do such a thing with. The massive BFG 10000 sat on its pedestal, somehow more picturesque than the giant planet behind it. The Slayer's normally serious expression gave way to a smirk as he ogled the weapon. The sheer destructive power it offered excited him, and it was truly tragic that he had to restrain his usage of it. If the blast they planned to unload upon Mars was aimed even a fraction of a degree off, there was a substantial chance that they would destroy the slipgate, as well as most of the surrounding hemisphere. VEGA's mission was to provide him coordinates to aim at, and his calculations would have to be extremely accurate. Even then, the 9376 kilometers between Mars and Phobos would have to be crossed in mere hours, before the planet's rotation moved the crater out of sight. If he couldn't, then he would have to wait, and every hour counted, considering the state of Earth. The stakes were high, and the Khan Makyr wasn't going to let him go unimpeded.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
Several technicians frantically milled about, trying to issue coordinate the security forces holding the line. Phobos Station was hanging on by the most precarious of threads; most of the floors he had passed were either infested, on fire, or damaged beyond passage. He wasn't surprised that they had no security detail at this entrance; any spare personnel had probably been requisitioned to the front, never to be seen again. Flocks of cacodemons floated past the window, which many of the workers observed with clear apprehension.
"Hostiles approaching the BFG 10000!" A technician's voice shouted over the intercom, desperation clear in her voice. If it weren't for the gun's presence, then Phobos Station would certainly have been evacuated already. If the demons got their hands on the BFG, then it would only be a matter of time until Earth was cracked open like an egg. Earth couldn't spare any forces, if they even had any secure spaceports, so the Phobos personnel were on their own. They had absolutely no chance against the demons, so everyone was in for a world of shit.
But then he would happen.
As he walked the spacious path between clusters of consoles, the technicians took notice of his arrival. A woman to his left gasped and reflexively held a clipboard as if were a shield. The room curved to the right, and a technician hustled directly into his path before noticing him and awkwardly scrambling out of his path. Another did the same, but backpedaled to the console he had just abandoned.
"Oh my god, it's him!" Evidently, his reputation had preceded him. His grudge towards the UAC for allowing the demons in hadn't been lost on its executives, and they played him up as a rogue, violent force who might pose a threat to civilians as well as demons. ARC passed on the information in their broadcasts, creating in their audience a mix of reverence and fear for the Slayer. Of course, he had no interest in shooting innocents for sport, especially not with infinitely more deserving targets right below him, but his morality was curiously omitted from their description. If anything, he was going to be the best thing to happen to these people today.
"They've overrun the lower levels!" A technician shouted into his intercom before being stunned into silence at the sight of the armor-clad hulk passing by. According to the station's automap, the maintenance sub-levels were the fastest route to the BFG; excluding the monorail, given that the attack had reduced it to flaming wreckage. It was only fitting that the best route would also have demons in it. That was typically how he knew he wasn't lost.
At the end of the room, two men operated a console, managing what he presumed were radio connections to other holdouts and the outside world.
"Corporate says we should let them through!" One said, as if too jaded from the stress to voice his disbelief over the order. His friend, though, had no such qualms and made his consternation known.
"What?! WHY?!" He shouted, turning to his coworker with barely restrained anger on his face. He empathized with the man's attitude; if he had been defending the station for hours, he would be pissed if the higher-ups wrote it off, too.
Before he could continue, the worker noticed the Slayer's approach. A red keycard adorned the man's lanyard, which provided him a solution to the locked door at the end of the hall. VEGA took notice of the Slayer's open glare at the man, and decided to oblige his actions by withholding an attempt to hack the door.
Even with his restrained pace, he closed the distance between himself and the technician in seconds, causing the man to lean increasingly far back in his chair. His shoulders jumped as the Slayer grabbed the card and began pulling him over to the reader. It was a mere meter behind the man's chair, but that was enough distance to make the incidental strangulation from the strength of the Slayer's tug miserably prolonged. With an affirmative chime, the reader turned green and the Slayer released his grasp on the technician's lanyard, allowing him to slump forward on the console in relief. He proceeded onward, having heard not a single protest from the crowd. He might have had no interest in killing civilians, but anyone involved with the UAC had better know their place.
The path led to another storage antechamber, filled with random equipment. Two guards stood watch at the elevator door, already staring at their visitor. The far bolder of the pair stepped forward.
"Hey! Who are you!?" Ignoring the demand, the Slayer took note of their armor. It was ashen gray, and much less sleek than that of his beloved Praetor. They were members of the UAC military, a glorified private contractor.
Fucking mercs. They didn't fight for a people or a belief, just for profit in the UAC's off-world resource wars, now appropriated by ARC in desperation. They weren't out there, where they should have been, fighting for the survival of mankind. They were guarding a room with some fucking boxes in it. They were glorified rent-a-cops, and they had the nerve to question him, the Hellwalker, who had done nothing but help these people since he had returned. They had been facing his entrance, as if he was the enemy they were concerned about.
His hands unconsciously balled into fists, and he paced towards the mouthy jock with a murderous fervor that only the most stubborn of demons could evoke in him. They carried plasma rifles that looked much too large for them, as if they were children trying to be taken seriously.
"You can't be- here..." Any bravado in his voice fizzled out as the enormity of his mistake dawned on him. His warning had done nothing to discourage the Slayer from approaching, and his friend had begun shifting away, as if leaving him to fate.
The Slayer squared up to the arrogant jock, who backed up until he hit the wall. His visor was opaque, but the Slayer's wasn't, and he knew that his death glare was making the mercenary tremble. He unclenched his hand, about to grab his transgressor's throat to make his point clear, but just then, through the titanium walls and plated glass, he heard it. The faintest, muffled growl of a cacodemon.
He didn't have time for this.
His point had been made already. Instead of grabbing the mercenary's throat, he opted for his plasma rifle, taking it out of his hands with barely any effort. As he walked into the elevator, he flicked the safety of the rifle, charging the electromagnetic coils within. It had a full cell, with the Slayer already carrying several in reserve.
The elevator door closed, and he began descending, both without detectable input from VEGA. He presumed that the technicians were happy to sic him on the demons, as far away from themselves as possible.
Outside, the BFG 10000 twisted to unleash a volley upon some distant target. It was surrounded by a massive grey-metal ring of power conduits, only distinguishable from the wasteland of Phobos by its metallic texture and neon-green lighting. Cacodemons littered the airspace around the complex, some being blown apart by the smaller anti-spacecraft lasers sprinkled around the complex. Green lightning arced openly in the exposed barrel of the BFG, and lights all across the facility began glowing with increasing luminosity. With a strange, distorted sound that steadily increased in pitch, the gun unleashed its devastation.
A beam of green plasma erupted from the barrel, accompanied by a shockwave that spread of the facility. Just as quickly as it appeared, the beam dissipated, no doubt having ruined something's day. The shot had barely lasted two seconds, but it was awe-inspiring. He could feel VEGA's mind on overdrive, calculating the kinetic energy of the blast from its appearance alone. By the time he was at the controls, VEGA would have a target for him.
The elevator finally descended beneath the surface, taking both of his destination out of sight. He now had roughly a kilometer to go before he reached the gun's base, and that was just a straight line, not accounting for the layout of the halls. The only demons he saw on passing floors were mere possessed, barely a speed bump on the route. The intercom crackled to life as the elevator finally came to a halt in the maintenance sublevel, speaking with a familiar prerecorded voice.
"Warning: the Slayer has entered the facility."
Damn right.
The doors opened, and he ran out to begin the carnage.
He sprinted down the corridor, slamming a fresh cell into the plasma rifle. The past dozen corridors of this maze had been occupied solely by the possessed or imps, hardly even slowing him down. At this rate, he would be out of the sublevel in minutes.
He rounded the corner, already aware from the incessant moaning of the damned that there would be a mob of zombies waiting for him. He met them with the plasma rifle's heat blast, liquidating all but one of the shamblers in an instant.
The surviving possessed was bowled over and tramped by a pinky, charging with reckless abandon at the Slayer. He dashed to the left, allowing the bull-demon to slam head-first into the wall; it missed him by an embarrassingly wide berth.
He quickly put away the plasma rifle and drew the super shotgun from his hip holster, blowing the entire tail off of the feral beast. It collapsed in a pitiful heap just as the Slayer slipped a fresh pair of shells into gun's chambers, as if it was unwilling to risk more punishment.
With another cleared hallway, he swapped shotgun for rifle and proceeded onward. He initially presumed that he had found a dead end, but a vent grate offered him a shortcut to the next corridor. He found it humorous that the ventilation shaft was tall enough to accommodate a standing person. Air was really important on a barren space rock.
He slammed shoulder-first into the grate at the far end of the shaft, knocking it loose and dropping down into the security checkpoint below. A half-dozen Imps were already there, and he hosed them down with plasma. Just as he aimed for the last one, the rifle sputtered empty, and he had to quickly dash forward to impale the scrawny demon before it could successfully hit him. He kicked the corpse away, sheathing the doomblade, and reloaded the plasma rifle with his last cell. Behind him was a portal relay, accompanied by a holographic map indicating that on the other side of the rift, he would be much closer to the BFG. He dashed into the blue vortex without hesitation.
The portal was notably slower than many of the ones he had used before. The world around him was consumed by blinding light that seemed to emanate from inside of his eyes, and he momentarily felt weightless before the light disappeared and he was left standing on the receiving platform. He doubted he would ever get fully adjusted to that sensation, either. What the hell was the delay for? Low power mode?
The roaring of a Baron of Hell in the identical checkpoint ahead quickly brought him out of his reverie. Having been in midair when he arrived, it messily landed on two Imps, crushing them underfoot. He had always seen their infighting as a shameful waste. From his perspective, his kills were being stolen, and from theirs, they were only losing forces that they could have lost to him, instead. Those imps could have held him up for a few seconds, at least.
If the baron was that desperate for a fight, then was only right to give it one.
He tossed the plasma rifle away, knowing the baron's thick hide could take the cell's contents and survive. Instead, he drew Lucifer's Bane from its sheath. It would be best to slay the imps first to ensure a lack of distractions when confronting the baron. He grappled over to the closest one, splattering it against the checkpoint wall upon arrival. Anticipating that the baron would have prioritized him immediately, he dashed away from the imp's remains, and was instantly proven right when the baron crashed into his previous position. He twisted around to grapple to the last imp, blowing it away in much the same way. It was now only the two of them.
Behind him, the baron snapped its neck to glare at the comparatively minuscule marine. Infuriated at the Slayer's trickery, it lunged forth with its armblades, before being blasted in the chest with two shells. Pieces of its ashen hide were blown away by the buckshot, exposing its glowing innards. His neural link to the shoulder cannon activated, and he launched a grenade at the baron before dashing out of the blast zone. It exploded just behind him, stumbling the monster and giving the Slayer time to slam two fresh shells into his gun. Enraged, it lunged forth again, and the Slayer ducked under its swipes to land an uppercut against the baron's jaw, followed by another pelting of buckshot. The beast's face was irrevocably mangled, and he took satisfaction in seeing the beast's agony.
Undeterred, it clasped the Slayer's right arm in a vice-like grip, conjuring a fireball which to slam into him. He stabbed into the baron's arm before spraying its torso with flames, immediately rendering the demon's attack unsuccessful. The demon began wildly patting at its flaming carapace, thrashing about in a way that resembled swatting a swarm of invisible bees. With his opponent distracted, the Slayer jumped onto a tall crate, now well above his opponent's head. The baron looked up just in time for the Slayer to leap off the crate, crashing foot-first into its shoulders. The demon slammed against the floor with a metallic crash that echoed through the checkpoint, the Slayer maintaining an almost paranormal balance. With a final swing, the Slayer decapitated the baron, splashing a torrent of luminescent blood on the floor.
The rush of energy from the slain demon invigorating him, he retrieved his discarded plasma rifle and looked around for an exit. A helpful sign pointed him in the direction of an airlock that would lead him to the facility's exterior sector. The intercom once more crackled to life just as he left the checkpoint.
"Warning: Slayer threat level at maximum."
If a mere Baron was the most threatening thing that they expected he could kill, then he was sorely disappointed in the UAC's collective imagination. He would be insulted, if he thought their judgements had any value. The muffled sound of the BFG firing outside reminded him of his mission, and he entered the airlock.
Maximum, he thought with an indignant huff. Not even close.
As the airlock cycled, he checked his stock of ammunition. With the chainsaw's tank nearly empty, he would have only one opportunity for a resupply while outside. He wasn't going to consider using the Crucible on anything less than a Tyrant.
Twenty shells, make them count... plasma, one cell... no rifle rounds, a couple rockets... some belts for the minigun...
Ballista, fully charged.
The airlock opened, unleashing the Slayer upon them.
He slammed his tightly-balled fist into the imp's face, sending it reeling to the ground, where it ceased to move. The exterior gantry was the demons' final defensive line, if their unusually high numbers and desperate attacks were anything to go by. There was no doubt in his mind that they sought to prevent his access to the BFG 10000. Such a destructive implement couldn't be lost to the hands of their Scourge.
If they wished to delay him even a few minutes, they would need twice their current numbers.
His charge had been relentless, depleting the Ballista in a matter of moments to a flurry of imps idiotically standing in the open, and cacodemons who attempted to rush into biting range without accounting for the dozen meters of completely open space between them and their target.
Dashing away from the newly-dead imp, he switched back to the plasma rifle. A group of possessed soldiers rushed his position under the cover of their shields, several more following with them. Despite using such an intelligent tactic, they were completely shocked when he sent a salvo of plasma at their cover, overloading and detonating their shields. Most of the soldiers in front were killed, giving him the opening to rush forward and heat-blast the survivors into goo.
As if in synchronicity with his actions, the BFG fired overhead, bathing the gantry in neon-green. Unlike the enormous cannon, however, his plasma rifle was now completely drained. He dashed forward, breaking an imp's knee with the stock before slashing its head off with a backhand and stuffing the rifle into the pocket dimension. At the left of the gantry, two cacodemons, sensing that he no longer held the ballista, spat wads of their corrosive bile at him. Drawing the shotgun, he grappled over to the first, impaling and tearing out its eye before lunging off it and towards the second. The demon, sensing its imminent fate, tried to ascend out of his reach, but the Slayer caught it by its jaw and hung on by its teeth. The demon opened its maw, preparing to bite down on his hands, but it only provided the Slayer an opportunity to launch a grenade down its throat and let go, dashing back to the safety of the gantry. As he landed, the ground around him was showered in vibrant blue guts. He was feeling the increasing strain of the ammo shortage.
Without many remaining options, he equipped the launcher, and fired two rockets at the demons ahead. The first one struck a barrel that a high-ground arachnotron had the poor judgement of standing next to, sending it down to floor level and reeling in pain. The second struck a cluster of possessed soldiers, eradicating their group, and he dashed forward to splatter the brain of the collapsed spider-demon with a swift blast of buckshot.
Their defense had stood no chance.
Up ahead, a mancubus guarded the ramp that would lead him to the bridge, accompanied by a lone imp, the rest having fallen back to the bridge. Unwilling to expend a large sum of what little ammo he had on the bloated demon, he grappled over to the imp before dashing past it.
Presumably scared shitless at the sight of the Slayer speeding closer to it and revving a chainsaw, the gluttonous demon sprayed down the approaching human with its napalm. The heat seeped through his armor, overpowering the conditioning system and making the freezing outdoor temperatures of Phobos blisteringly hot for a brief moment. Ignoring it, he slashed at the demon's bloated abdomen, disemboweling it, and then continued the swing to catch the imp in the saw's teeth as well. The energy from the mutilated demons flowed into the suit's receptacles, being converted into ammunition in the pocket dimension and automatically being loaded into his weapons. He was fully equipped once again.
Just as both of the imp's halves hit the ground with a wet thunk, the chainsaw's engine sputtered and died, followed by the mancubus's remains bursting and assaulting him with their usual unspeakably vile odor. As if the fresh ammo wasn't enough motivation to keep going.
At the top of the ramp, an entire squad of possessed soldiers rushed through the blast door, and were immediately met with a flame belch from the Slayer's shoulder cannon. As they flailed in agony and tumbled down the ramp, he sprinted past and hung a left, emerging onto the bridge.
Ahead, a raised platform split the otherwise level route into left and right paths. A lone arachnotron had taken up the platform as its perch, while a pain elemental air-waddled at him from the right path. Most of the remaining demons, a collection of imps and soldiers, were past the raised platform, unable to support the pair in front.
In what he presumed was a bid to distract him from the arachnotron, the elemental began hurling a constant barrage of lost souls. Instead, he ignored it, jumping up and climbing to the spider-demon's level. Undeterred by the Slayer's proximity, it slashed at his feet with its forelegs. The Slayer nimbly sidestepped the attack, putting the arachnotron between him and the half-dozen souls that were still screamingly speeding towards him.
They crashed against their spider ally in a series of explosions, destroying its overhead cannon and making a bruised, mangled mess out of its exposed brain. The demon proved surprisingly resilient, forcing itself back up and turning to face the Slayer. By the time they were staring eye-to-eye again, he had already deployed the minigun's mobile turret. Its twelve barrels unleashed a storm of bullets, perforating what remained of the arachnotron and giving the elemental several new wounds.
A fireball smacked into his side from the end of the bridge, and his head snapped in that direction. Up on the platform, he was exposed to the occasionally accurate fire of the remaining fodder. If they were so desperate for his attention, then he would have to hurry.
He continued spraying rounds into the elemental, finally stopping when it had more wounds than unblemished skin, and its horns were cracked and mangled. Switching back to the shotgun again, he grappled over, intending to rip out its eye with the doomblade like so many cacodemons before it.
However, he underestimated his velocity. Not only the blade, but his entire arm, all the way up to the elbow, sank into the demon's eye socket. Preparing to tear himself out and press onward, the demon exploded, much more forcefully than elementals usually did when they died. Landing on the surface of the bridge, he looked towards the opposite end, where a possessed soldier stood on a crate, brandishing a rocket launcher.
It fired again, and the Slayer dashed into the ditch under the raised platform to avoid the speeding projectile. There, he landed on top of an imp, slashing off its head before climbing out on the left path. Past the platform and its ditch, the mob of fodder stood in a crowd, offering a last stand for the BFG's defense. He launched a grenade into the crowd before charging in, wildly slashing the blade around, catching limbs and torsos with his swings. He anticipated that the launcher-wielding soldier would be trigger happy, and dashed out of the crowd just in time for a rocket to speed into it and take his place. The horde was utterly mulched by their ally's attack.
It was only the two of them now. With another well-practiced pull of the shotgun, he grappled up to the soldier, arriving with a kick so forceful it sent the soldier tumbling off the crate and falling onto the ground with a metallic slam. He jumped down to meet it, stabbing down through its torso with the blade. It jerked around for a moment, and then became still. The blade retracted, and he stood up, straightening his back.
And then it was quiet.
He exhaled deeply, slipping a pair of shells into the shotgun before putting it away again. The BFG wasn't firing in Earth's direction, so the control room was still in human hands. All he had to do was get there, and no one in their right mind would stand against him. The bridge ended with another ramp, leading to an utterly massive blast door, tall enough that a Tyrant would be able to walk under it without even hunching. On cue with this supposition, the door began opening of its own accord, without a single detectable effort from VEGA.
Shit, I just jinxed it, didn't I?
As the door parted into halves and slipped into the ground, it exposed a dark void beyond. The pulsing emergency lights illuminated the silhouette of a demon, steadily creeping towards him. It was much smaller than the huge-gutted cyborg-demon he was expecting, but he had a dreadful feeling that it wouldn't be easier to kill.
As the light of the outdoors bathed the demon's form, the Slayer felt a strange mix of hatred and excitement.
It carried itself with the poise of a summoner, but exuded an aura of strength and cruelty. The demon resembled an anorexic hell knight, lanky and yet toned. As demons went, this one was repugnant, its bulbous head paired with a grotesque maw of fangs and canines, horns growing of its shoulders and knees, and hands consisting of three blackened, spindly claws. When it locked eyes with the Slayer, it growled in a way that he interpreted as an underwhelmed scoff.
The demon thrashed its head around wildly, fires sprouting across its body and in a radius around it.
He knew that the upcoming fight was going to be brutal, if only due to its smug refusal to display any fear whatsoever to the Slayer. He couldn't have been happier.
With an ear-splitting roar, the Archvile lunged its arms to the sky in a pose that the Slayer knew damn well the meaning of. Behind him, the bodies of all his slain opponents stood up again, appearing to be forced upward by a puppet's invisible strings. Their grievous wounds began healing, bones painfully setting and flesh stitching itself together. Every single demon on the bridge turned to glare at him in unison, their confidence bolstered by their healer's work. It was a bold show of force, one that he knew the Archvile was making in desperation. After all, it wouldn't matter. No matter any demon's strength, it would fall before his might.
From his inventory he pulled the Crucible, and he unleashed the argent blade from its hilt. He knew its purpose, the same as his own.
Rip and tear.
Dashing forwards, uncaring about the soon-to-come barrage from the mob behind him, the Slayer slashed at the Archvile's torso.
Until it is done.