UAC Personnel Log #227
UAC Mars Division, Security/Excavation
Name: Qwint, Marcus, Jackson.
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Thursday, 12-10-2158, 6:17 A.M.
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Morning was usually a nice time for Marcus Qwint: a strong cup of coffee, a bit of practice with his Energy Matter Gel sidearm, maybe some toast before leaving.
However, today was not one of those days. He awoke breathing quickly, always signs of an unknown nightmare, he cursed as he stretched, a crick in his neck. His head slumped when he went to shower, noticing the almost dead look on his face. Even after his shower, he still looked like he hadn't slept in days,
"Some first impression you're making," he'd muttered to his reflection,
Draining the last of his coffee, he opened the door of his quarters, murmuring greetings to the other staff.
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That was only two hours ago, how was it only two hours ago! And now here he was, a 19 year old hiding in an air duct, with just a damn near useless pistol.
He was screwed, his mind moving wildly. He could try and reach out for reinforcements, but that'd take too long, and there was no way out of here, not without meeting those zombies, or whatever the hell they were. His memory reminded him of something they'd dug up a little while ago, a stone sarcophagus inscribed with some sort of runes, he could try that,
"That's insanely stupid... and my only option."
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"Please, let me get lucky," he muttered, crawling through the vent shaft, somewhat wishing he had a crowbar for the grating, he shifted backwards from his feet facing behind him to his head facing behind him.
With a quick breath, he slammed both heels towards the grate, crushing one creature before he fired a charged shot at the other, destroying its head in a spray of bloody viscera, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a third leaping at him, and lunged sideways, causing it to tumble over and loosen the sarcophagus lid. In a moment of desperation, Marcus heaved the lid over the side, crushing the third and dodging a fourth, however, in doing so, crashed into a fifth.
With his sidearm skittering away, he hopped up and stumbled as the man leaped from the coffin bed, snatched up his pistol and offed the other creatures.
Marcus began to stand until he saw the pistol trained on him, the man's eyes glinting silver
"You gonna shoot or what," he said, eyeing the man, "Dead would be better than this hellhole,"
The man's lips curled slightly in the ghost of a wry smile, tossing the teen his sidearm, he went to open the door of the room.
"So who're you? Why were you in that coffin, what happened, I wanna know!"
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William Joseph Blazkowicz III woke to the scrape of stone and groans of the dead, with his brain registering he was chained to a coffin, he strained and broke one arm free, smashing in a Possessed's head, snapping the other chain and scooping up the pistol, destroying the craniums of the other Possessed. A teen, barely up to his chin, grimaced, began to stand,
"You gonna shoot or what?"
He muttered something else Will didn't catch, and The Slayer tossed him his sidearm, moving over to open the door and don the Praetor Suit.
The questions started then, Will attempted to tune them out, to no avail,
"Hey! You gonna answer my questions?"
"..."
"Guess not then,"
Will turned forward, ripping a shotgun out of bisected man's arms, throwing a door upward, and swiftly dispatching the Possessed in the room, before tearing the heart out of the gore nest. A surprised swear made his accomplice's panic known, and his shotgun began booming its retort, shredding the Imp's torso and spraying his entrails into fleshy pasta.
"Shit!" Marcus cursed, charging a pistol shot and letting fly at the new monsters he had to contend with, spraying more rounds with reckless abandon, with a great number of shots stunning the new creatures, while his companion turned them into scarlet mist. Panting, Marcus began looking around for a suit, as he wasn't about to throw himself out onto the surface of Mars without a way to breath.
What he found looked like a reverse engineered version of that armor his cohort was now wearing, He slipped into the gray armor, hearing a hiss as the helmet connected to the body.
A message flashed in the corner of the helmet's plating, pulsing a light green softly
'Aiming calibration complete'
Strapping a bandolier of shotgun shells across his shoulders and waist, sliding on ammo bands and slipping even more shells into them, Marcus gripped a shotgun from the rack, attaching a extra barrel onto the muzzle and priming the sticky bombs. As he stepped from the room, he noticed the man was missing, then glanced at the elevator, riding it to the top and stepping out.
Boots crunching in the red sand, he leapt into a roll, somersaulting to his feet just in time to blast one of the fireball throwers in the mouth, sending it reeling, before he drove a boot into its nose, firing a round just to be sure it was dead.
Checking the ammo display in the corner, the shell count read 19, nodding to himself, he racked the slide of the shotgun, advancing quickly.
He was being observed, he noted, but kept moving,
'Make sure there's someone behind you, change your step unexpectedly'
Without warning, he feigned stumbling, hearing a boot scuff the ground.
...
...
"Alright, I know you're followin' me and if we're fightin' together, I may as well know your name, huh?"
"..."
"I'm guessing you want me to go first?"
The man grunted, popping his knuckles,
"Alright, well, my name's Marcus, Marcus Qwint,"
"..."
"William, William J. Blazkowicz," the man ground out,
"Vitch or wits?"
"Blazo-ko v- you said it right,"
"Of course, I studied German and polish in high school."
"Either works,"
"Then, Welcome to Hell on Mars.
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And there is it, my OC thrown into DOOM, this one should hopefully encapsulate 2016 and Eternal,