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We all know the story. A victim. A locker. Superpowers. Yet where in one possibility a frightened girl commanded the insects she shared her iron casket with, in another possibility Taylor's anger eclipsed her fear, and a different power answered her furious screams. A power that gave her the armor and rage of a legendary warrior, and the skills of the greatest smith to ever live.
Crossposted from Spacebattles, where 1-4 are already readable. Debates happen there. Reading happens here. Enjoy the latest plot bunny!
Fandoms: Worm/Berserk
Godo!Taylor BerserkerArmor!Taylor
Rating: low M for violence, language and trauma
Genre: Supernatural
Pairing: none
IRON
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Design 1.1
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IRON
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Design 1.1
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As the distant laughter of my tormenters echoed off the walls of my metal prison, the sound becoming more distant as they left me here, I began to scream in earnest.
"LET ME OUT!" I shrieked, banging on the locker door as hard as I could; I didn't care how much it hurt, or that I'd probably break my hands before the lock would give. All I could think about was the rancid smell of shit and other horrid things that made a mush that came up to my knees, wriggling things starting to crawl into my shoes and pants and –
An inarticulate screech left my lips as I began trying to make the door of my locker give way with my sticks of arms, my weak hands, my knees. I was doing more damage to myself than the metal, but I didn't fucking care!
I wanted out of this putrid coffin!
"LETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUT!"
Each syllable was joined with renewed attempts at getting free, getting out; I didn't want to die here!
'Why?'
More bugs began to climb under my clothes. I ignored them, still raging against the door that'd shut in my face; through the slits that were about head height, I'd seen her.
Sophia Hess.
Smirking. "Hope you like your new apartment, Hebert," she'd sneered between my cries and screams of revulsion, "It's honestly more than you fucking deserve, you weakling."
I felt and heard the bones in my hands cracking from the impacts, but I kept punching. My knees felt like they were bleeding, felt like my kneecaps were about to break, but I kept at it. The bugs were biting me, moving toward my injuries, but I kept fighting. I could barely breathe in this toxic filth, but I kept screaming.
I kept fighting, kept screaming, kept struggling. Kept kicking and punching and bashing my limbs against the unyielding metal of the locker.
No teachers were coming. I couldn't hear anyone outside between my screams and the ringing bangs of my attempts at freedom, at survival. None of the rent-a-cops came by on patrol, not even the fucking janitor, who should've smelled the stench coming from here before school opened for the day and dealt with it!
I would never know how long I was at it, beating against the lid of the coffin the Trio had prepared for me until my hands and knees were nearly broken from my incessant struggles… and then I started using my forehead.
Another animalistic shriek of rage left my lips; why are they doing this to me?! What did I ever do to them?! Nothing! And now they were trying to kill me!
'NO! I'M NOT GOING TO DIE IN HERE! I WON'T STOP FIGHT –'
[IRON]
A field of stars. Two titanic creatures spiraled through the void. They communicated with one another, targeting a world they wished to harvest, agreeing as though they'd been arguing on where to stop for gas.
The vision ripples and becomes a high-ceilinged hall of darkly-stained wood, the walls covered in thousands of exotic and mundane blades. I am walking though the hall, but it's not my body that walks. It feels strange, looking on all the blades and handles and knowing what each and every one is called.
Bardiche. Halberd. Billhook. Claymore. Wabakashi. Kama. Odachi. And those are only the mundane yet beautifully-crafted items hanging in the hall.
Then there are the odd ones, further in, weapons with names.
A massive, ugly sword that seems alive: Soul Edge.
A silver claymore, crackling with blue-white lightning: Alastor.
A huge odachi with a red handle, rippling with strange green energy: Masamune.
A blue broadsword, the runed blade glowing a bright sapphire blue: Gramr.
I was starting to feel afraid, and more than a little annoyed at the lack of something I could use. I had the feeling that I needed to make these weapons before I could use them.
Besides, as amazing as many of these implements of violence were, none of them would help me get out of the locker.
And then I spotted what lay on the far side of the hall: arranged on a mannequin was a suit of black, jagged armor, the helm fashioned to look like a jackal's snarling visage: the Berserker Armor.
I had the feeling that this armor was what I needed, and began rushing toward it, only marginally noticing other, shiny armors arrayed around the alcove and the ridiculously-sized blade-shaped slab of metal that rested on an altar behind my target: Dragon Slayer.
I touched the armor, fury and relief flowing though me, right before –
STRUGGLE
The sound of worn, squeaking wheels. Creaking ropes. The smell of death.
A child's piteous cry. A broken woman's cooing. A man's harsh voice huffing in resignation.
FIGHTSTRUGGLEFIGHT
A woman dies. Gives me a name.
A sword, heavy in my hands. Blood on my face. Silver coins in the dark.
Light leaving men's eyes. Battle. The screams sound the same.
Fire in the night. Death rattles. Freedom.
FIGHTSTRUGGLEFIGHT
"W-wait! I yield! Please have mercy-" the sword is lighter now.
The screams still sound the same. The rich still try to leash me. I walk away.
Ambush. A woman with black eyes. A white hawk.
CTayslcoar
GSROIPFHFIIATH
HATEFIGHTSTRUGGLEHATE
Leashed, I fight. Band of the Hawk.
Two banners, two countries, warring.
The sword is light in my hands. The blood is sweet on my lips.
Zodd
Behelit
HATERAGESTRUGGLEFIGHT
More war. More battle. More blood. We win.
Knights. Status. Position. Knives and whispers in the dark.
More collars. More leashes. No.
I leave. CasTaylorca pleads. I… can't stay. GRIFSOPHIAFITH challenges.
I win. I leave.
STRUGGLEHATEHATEHATEHATEFIGHT
I return. TayCaslorca says things.
Rescue. GRSOIFPHFIIATH is broken.
Waterfall. Pack. Group. …family…
Lead, they will follow. I know nothing but battle.
Decision. Leave or change? Change or leave?
…Eclipse…
STRUGGLEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEFIGHT
Godhand
SOPHIAGRIFFITH
BRAND
DEATH
BLOOD
"…don't…look…"
"GRRRRRRAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
HATESOPHIAHATEHATEHATEHATEKILLKILLKILL
Struggle.
Pain.
Behelits.
Pain.
Apostles.
Pain.
Armor.
Pain.
GriffithSophia.
HATE
KILL
– the armor rippled over me, bringing all these visions and feelings, forming itself into a collar around my neck as I flailed and screamed without a voice.
Everything went black as a red-flavored howl of vengeance and hate tore through my mind.
[IRON]
'– ING!'
The locker gave way with a screaming screech of tearing iron as my sight became swamped in red and black. I felt the iron molding itself around me as I fell toward the ground, tearing through the insects that were trying to eat my flesh and smearing their squishy corpses against my body –
PAIN.
– and then I felt blades punching into my hands and knees, keeping them from shattering completely when I use them to break my fall.
Not that I minded much at all, because all I could feel was hate, a tearing gnashing of teeth that rose up my spine and wrapped around me in a vicious cloak of copper-flavored red and black; in mere seconds, the violence of the armor forming around me stilled, and became warm and comforting, like a pair of thick arms encircling me, as though telling me, Don't worry. I'll guard you. I'll protect you. I'll help you fight.
Or, maybe it did tell me that, but I was too angry to really hear it clearly; that, and I was reaching for more iron. The lockers around me/us weren't the best of materials, too flimsy and poorly made, but, well, that's one of the downsides when it comes to mass-production; quantity at the expense of quality.
It offended me for some reason. An itch made itself known; I wanted to start replacing the flimsy lockers with better quality ones. Something I'd have to work on later, once I had more resources… and figured out why it felt like something was missing…
I didn't have a weapon. Hate and shame ran through my blood, right before I used the claws of the Berserker Armor to tear some more metal away from the row of lockers. A check of a nearby classroom produced a few other odds and ends that allowed me to start fashioning a rough attempt at the Eagle's Claw.
It was the simplest high-tier weapon I could make with the lack of materials at hand: no forge, no hammers, no tongs or anvil or anything, really, aside from the flimsy, poorly forged iron I'd torn off the wall, and my fists. It wasn't the best metal, but a little elbow grease and the power the Armor lent me would ensure the Claw functioned as it should.
Good thing the floor was stone, too, and the Armor gave me greater strength than I had before, or any attempt would've been for nothing.
That must've been a sight: a rail-thin armored jackal hammering and folding slabs of metal with its hands at a frenetic pace, crafting a wicked blade in the middle of an unused classroom. I didn't fucking care how I looked, though; I needed protection, more than what the Armor gave me, and the Talon would allow me to fight off threats, as well as deal with… with…
Sophia…
Through the shadowy red of my vision, and the roaring of my blood in my ears, I heard the screeching growl of HATE that left my maw at the reminder of what'd befell me mere moments ago. The laughter. The locker. The mocking words.
I was going to kill that fucking bitch!
Taking up the still-glowing-hot Eagle's Claw (it was sharp and strong enough for dealing with all but the strongest threats; not bad for a thirty-minute effort), I stalked toward the exit to the room I'd forged my blade in, violence on my mind…
A rumble left my stomach, sounding like an avalanche.
…Food first. Then I could wipe that fucking bitch off my gear and the face of the Earth, not necessarily in that order.
Shouldering the Claw, I darted away and down stairs with the wind whistling in my ears. I tried to make as little sound as possible, but, on the ground floor, I heard a distorted voice spouting gibberish.
The Armor locked up and tensed at my hesitation, preparing to defend us from whatever threat the speaker might pose; someone started running, away from me. Good. The Eagle's Claw wasn't done yet; I needed better, sturdier metal for the finishing touches.
A glance about showed me the coast was clear. The Berserker Armor let out a growl of impatience; it wanted a fight, to rip and tear. I growled back an appeasement: we'd get a fight soon enough. I needed to finish the Eagle's Claw and eat something filling, if we wanted to win.
It agreed, and we started running again.
The scent of food brought me to the cafeteria. Shadows in my vision shifted, their forms sinister and ugly to my eyes, making distressed shrieking sounds behind the metal and glass counters. I roared at them, waving the unfinished Claw in warning as my stomach made another protest. The shadows fled around me, or out another entrance, still shrieking.
Ignoring the ugly things, I leapt nimbly over the counter and set the blade down on a metal cart; stainless steel, much better.
Spotting some offerings of food, I walked over; granola bars and other breakfast-related items. Before I could select something myself, the Armor took over and started scarfing down any food in arm's reach; a mushy feeling surrounded me as the jackal-headed helm shredded a few dozen muffins, bringing back the feeling of being in the locker for the few seconds it was there.
Interestingly, it started shifting toward my mouth, and I understood: the Berserker Armor was treating me like a baby bird, chewing my food before directing it to me. A lick showed me it wasn't too tasty, a bit metallic, but it would be filling enough.
While I ate the slurry, the Armor took over finishing the Claw for a few minutes at my orders. I wanted the Claw better able to defend and attack, and the metal in the cafeteria kitchens was of a better make than the lockers I'd used for the base. A few moments of clawing, heating on a stove, and folding, and the Armor had the ingots the blade required for the next stage of forging.
This was how I spent the next five minutes, slowly drinking the slurry that, to my annoyance, wasn't very tasty at all, while the Armor hammered our fists away at the Eagle's Claw; on the other hand, the spikes that'd pierced my body started retracting into the Armor while I ate.
Maybe I had a regeneration ability? I obviously had powers, now. They seemed to be centered on the creation of bladed weapons, armors, and shields… no, wait, there were hammers and maces in that weird hall from my vision, too. I had the feeling that something came before the hall, but I couldn't remember it.
Probably not important.
So I could make melee weapons, armor and shields. Some of the things in that weird hall, like… Masamune, and Dragon Slayer, and Suncrusher (a hammer whose head looked like the Sun's surface) made the Eagle's Claw look pedestrian.
Not that the Claw was a slouch. It could cut through anything but the toughest of armors, and doubled as a shield, but compared to Gramr or Senbonzakura, it wasn't all that amazing.
But I couldn't forge Gramr or Senbonzakura without special materials, and making something like Dragon Slayer or Masamune would take weeks, if not months, to complete.
It was as I completed this thought that I heard a commotion outside, drawing my attention from my forging, eating, and musing. More shadows had arrived, and some of these were making loud and violent noises.
The Claw was done… well, it wasn't done done, but it would serve until I found a proper forge and got my hands on some coal for the carbonized steel process.
I plunged the blade into a nearby cold room to quench the heat and make sure the metal bonded in just the right way to maximize the blade's durability; once it was done, I shook it to dislodge any imperfect bits and lunged over the counters to confront the first shadow, which pointed a blocky… machine? The red and black swirls were making it hard to tell, so I snarled at them and brandished my newly finished sword; the warning worked on the other shadows, so-
BANG-BANG!
PAIN
I screamed. The Armor screamed with me, and joined me in attacking the offending shadow.