The man with no name.
Disclaimer: Fallout: New Vegas owned by Bethesda studios + Obsidian. Kuroinu is made by Liquid, OAV by Magin.
Synopsis: How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of 'Courier six'?
What about those who seek him?
Note: Again, not entirely following Wimblegurk Brigade 'to the letter'... so, take of that what you will.
Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty… and that cacophonous sound of fly-buzzing, constant and unsettling. The scent in the air was putrid with an ammonia smell underneath… along with that tinge of lamp oil.
He knew there was more than that sum, but the numbers began to blur apart after seventy.
Were there eighty, ninety… a hundred dead people? or was that number inflated by the body-parts that had been strewn about? Sometimes you couldn't identify if a piece of 'meat' came from a man or a horse, but either way he picked up the pieces and brought it back to the gaping hole that he had dug, threw them in unceremoniously.
Dead orcs, dead peasants, dead knights and men-at-arms, people so different in life… such a wide gulf that separated one another in social rank and status, those highborn and lowborn, rich and poor, orc and human... but here in the pit they were together in death, in a heaped mound.
There were some with their eyes open, facing the sky. Vacant, lifeless stares… as though they were trying to peer into his soul as he placed them in their grave. The courier didn't know how to feel about his situation, but he continued onwards.
Continuous dragging… hours combing the landscape until all pieces had been gathered.
There were only two bodies left. Two bodies cradled in his arms, a boy and a girl, maybe they were siblings, maybe they weren't… but it was a spark of sadness regardless. They couldn't have been more than five years old. Lives stolen before their time… extinguished from the face of the world, to never raise nor walk again.
He placed them into the pit, their eternal tomb.
With the scraping of a match and the flick of a finger… the pit was engulfed in flames.
Not wishing to see the burning corpses or wanting to experience the smell of burning flesh, The courier turned around and walked away.
He was followed by his remaining orc soldiers, who dragged their human captives behind them.
Through it all, the courier wondered If he was 'the bad guy' of it all. Was good and evil just a subjective term? Did it even matter at this point?
"Hey boss, where are we going?" Ogur spoke.
The courier turned, facing the man who held back the axe-wielding orc previously. He didn't really care to correct the orc for calling him 'boss' when he told him not to, so he kept his tongue in check.
After a moment, Six spoke. "We return to the queen."
Chapter 2: Water of life
One week later.
What had been a five day journey previously, had become a week long journey. The human captives that the orcs brought with them slowed things down.
The courier was greeted firstly by that strange magical force field that surrounded the dark fortress. It defied all logic and reason, it defied science, yet here it existed. Magic.
Yet his neck-piece had been embedded with a magical seal that would open the way forward and allow access through the forcefield. Anyone else who tried to cross would have died.
He was then greeted by Chloe, Olga's right-hand and henchman… or maybe henchwoman or henchess or something. She was laying against the stone wall near the large, wooden gate, the entrance to the fortress.
"The dark queen is busy. You can relay the news to me and I will inform her." Immediately after saying that, she threw herself off the wall and opened the gate with the palm of her left hand, which glowed blue from the use of magic… or something of that sort.
The courier turned around to face his second-in-command. "Ogur, tell her."
Ogur recoiled momentarily, but then spoke up. "Mistress Chloe... We lost… most of our men."
Chloe turned to face the courier. "Did you. This will reflect po…"
Six raised his palm before speaking, interrupting Chloe mid sentence. "Let me speak…" Six then coughed to himself for a moment before continuing on. "I have killed maybe… seventeen or eighteen men… maybe more. I killed eight men on the pallisade, clearing way for 'my' orcs to take the village with ease."
Ogur then raised his voice. "More bad-humans came, on horses and armed to the teeth… they slaughtered us."
Six then replied back, with a slight hint of bravado. "And I saved the fucking day, though I won't take all the credit. I killed maybe ten more at that point. The soldiers then put all eyes on me, allowing for my second in command to rally his routing men back to the village square and take the men from behind."
Chloe noted this information down mentally. "Regardless, you have still lost men to recklessness."
The courier grunted at that last word, but didn't offer any comment, not wanting to degrade his 'relationship' with his 'client'.
Just as Six was about to enter through the gate, Chloe spoke again. "One moment."
Six turned to face Chloe, his face apprehensive. Chloe was facing the orcs that he commanded. "Leave the thralls in the prison cell where they can be sorted later."
Then turning, Chloe looked into the eyes of the courier, whose eyes quickly flitted about to avoid her gaze.
'He doesn't trust me and is afraid of me.'
Trying to change the mood, Chloe spoke. "There is food ready, and drink."
Ogur's eyes beamed at the prospect. His hand reached for his stomach for a moment. The courier, having caught sight of this, sighed.
"Do you want to join, Ogur."
Ogur's reply was near-instantaneous. "Yes."
Meanwhile, camped outside the City of Ur.
"What is your opinion on these new ones?" Hicks said, lazily gazing down at his leather shoes.
Volt turned to face his companion, and when Kin nodded his head in affirmation, Volt answered.
"I don't know them, I don't trust them, and I don't want them to fuck things up."
Hicks grinned after a moment. "Do you think they would be good… in our... plan?"
Volt looked Hicks in the eye. "Maybe."
Kin raised his voice. "Perhaps a test, of sorts. I know of a village nearby, which is likely to be raided within a near timeframe. Let them defend this village so that we will see their ability in combat, see if they suit us, if they can fight with us."
Volt smiled. "I don't like them, so why not. Let's see what they can do, And if they fail it is not my problem."
The next day: Noon.
There was some podunk little fucking village that they were supposed to defend, roughly twelve miles outside of Ur, one of a few cities that had magic-wielding princess-knights or somesuch shit… So here John was, sitting on his ass outside of his suit of power armour, with a belt-fed light machinegun resting against his right thigh, the feeding tray cleared and open.
John had an oiled rag wrapped around a coat hanger which he inserted through the barrel, damping down with the makeshift ramrod like it were a musket, clearing away small specks of carbon that clung to the grooves of the rifling in the barrel.
When using the pre-war surplus crap, you really had to wipe your guns down, they were so old that the chemicals in the powder liked to clog up into chunks, which sometimes didn't burn all the way through down the barrel, so the pressure generated was erratic and misfires could happen, especially if the recoil forces were so light that the gun couldn't cycle properly. Rule number one though, was to clean your gun no matter what, keep it clean.
Everyone likes to talk shit about raiders, vipers and 'tribals' being stupid, Inbred morons, but that was stupid NCR propagandist bullshit. In the wasteland, everybody tried to keep well-maintained weapons… those who didn't got fucking killed. Everybody could maintain a firearm and be fucking deadly with them, but the thing about the NCR that made them good was cohesion, training and a government… or rather a Tandi dictatorshit that was called a Republic but wasn't until the old bitch's death, then politicians were stepping over their own balls trying to be the new replacement. Fuck them.
"So, how did you get the armour?" Rigs asked, interrupting John's internal monologue.
John, the leader, responded. "You know those old rangemasters?"
Rigs thought on that for a moment. "You mean that old gun… ahh, bolt-action, right?"
John sighed. "Yeah, I miss the old one. Ruby, her firing-spring broke and I had to chuck most of her but I kept the barrel, no more replacement parts left… but she was a fine weapon. She was a trusty lady, great for plinking, her sights were always on, sighted in at a hundred yards… Bang. Could hardly miss."
"So?" Rigs added, trying to stir the conversation back to his original question.
John reached his arms out, holding up an imaginary firearm. "Fucking hell, you wouldn't believe it. One day, I'm about to take a piss when I saw something on the horizon, it was about ninety yards away from me, so I got flat down on the ground… It was a fucking Brotherhood guy. Y'know, my parents told me to not 'Fuck with the brotherhood'... well they'd be fucking right. It was stupid, but I thought 'why not'... Bang, shot the fuck through the eyeslot. If I hadn't a gotten'im, I'd be fucking dead."
Rigs nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, your fucking lucky to have that power armour."
John shrugged his shoulders after a moment. "What is our readout? How's our ammo?"
Rigs reached towards one of the brahmin and untied a signed document. "Four thousand 5mm, one thousand .308, Four thousand 5.56, A thousand 9mm, A thousand .45 ACP… various more of assorted calibres in varying amounts. Seven missiles, fifteen fragmentation grenades, fifteen fragmentation mines, Six pounds of C-4, Thirty pounds of dynamite, four of RDX."
"Yeah, Good enough." John said. "I expect a total expenditure of three to five hundred rounds, by the end of the day, maybe more. If they rush out, though, that changes."
This prediction was based on past experience, based on defensive firing with single-shot, or at most burst firing in short, staccato-esque outbursts. However, should shit go down, natural stress will cause increasing levels of inaccuracy, and increase the likelihood of fully-automatic bursts. This would impact negatively on the ammunition supply.
John looked out on the horizon, through the cleared central lane. This was his position as he was the only one who would remain outside, while his men were to remain inside of chosen buildings in teams of three, their positions chosen to mutually cover each other and provide rough lines of fire… In short, to ensure maximum casualties for the level of expertise and tactical skill of his men, against the heavily lopsided numbers of enemies who were likely to attack. Certainly, given that life was luscious and green, in a foreign world, so too were the population figures greater than that in the wasteland. Yet, so great is the disparriage between technology, that John knew that there would be a lot of death-dealing in a short span of time.
John trusted in his company to remain tactically proficient, even if they were not to the level of the NCR, even if he didn't like all of them. If the wasteland taught you anything, it tells you that those who stick together and fight together are overall much more likely to live.
But, divisions will kill you… and so you must crack down on the bad elements, those who in their laziness and inaction, or in their violence and anarchy, spread their sentiments around to everyone else. You must destroy those sorts of people.
If he could… and If he felt that there was some chance of success, He would kill Buzzkill before she destroys everything. He would have to do this while everyone else is distracted, or perhaps he could arrange for her death in other ways.
This, he thought upon, while he distributed out ammunition supplies between the various buildings that he had chosen. He matched the ammunition chosen to the calibre of the firearms that his companions were using, in order to improve combat efficiency.
On the way he spotted something out on the horizon, In the glinted refraction of sunlight over a body of water. He pulled out his binoculars, to better observe the body of water, and noted several other glints.
In the forest about three kilometers out, he spotted moving figures… mutant-like, shuffling about. These were orcs, he had been told by the Black dogs, orcs, the enemy of mankind. Rapists, murderers, bandits… similar to him and some of his men, but though it might seem hypocritical, John thought that the orcs were far more repugnant than he ever could be, in their actions.
'Genociding men, killing children. Gross fucking incompetents.' John thought. Even if he had to kill men, you could at least sell the children to either the Legion through intermediaries or directly to gross fucks like Cook-cook. You could also take the children by force and through violence and initiation, make them one of your own in time. Orcs only cared about fucking… and that was fucking stupid.
But this sight of orcs on the horizon did hold a great opportunity for John, he now had his next plan in motion.
Removing Buzzkill.
Back in the Dark Fortress:
"Six is your name, after the number?" Chloe said, confusion showing on her face.
"I did have a name… But I cannot remember it now." Six pointed to his head wound, feeling self-conscious for a moment as he did so. "I can remember things… about the past life I lived, but nothing solid."
Chloe thought on her own past and shuddered at her mental reflection. "Have you ever thought that you were better off not knowing your own past?." Chloe said. "Maybe there was something that the old you wouldn't want to remember? Something that would disappoint you or make you feel angry?"
Six thought on that question for a moment. "Good point. I've thought something similar myself… But I would rather have my old memories back, good and bad… Life is about remembering, reminiscing, experiencing… the good and the bad, both." The courier paused for a moment. "I remember a saying."
"In the bark lay wounds
They attest of honor
They attest of misdeed
Some hurt more than others
I give you your heritage
If you want
It will not leave
Heavy it weighs
Remember, do not take more than you can bear."
Chloe listened to that, reflected on those words for a moment. They clinged to her, they spoke a great wisdom, to which previously she had been blind.
Maybe it was not all bad, that which had happened to her in the past. She thought about herself, how far she had gone, despite the rape, the abuse. She was now the right-hand of a queen. Not many people could ever rise to such prestige.
Was it perhaps by experiencing the worst that life could offer, she had become powerful? Was it something else?
Finally, Chloe commented, with an air of finality. "I was raped."
Understanding dawned in the Courier's mind. "I understand, completely." He uttered. Anger showed on his face, as well as a look of understanding "I know of someone who was raped, A soldier. Her name was Betsy. I'll tell you one thing, Don't let it get to you."
The courier waited for a moment before uttering a secret of his own, feeling that he might as well throw something into the pot. "I… Sometimes, I think about ending my life. Throwing away the card, hurling the dice. I am always a pawn to someone else." Seeing that Claudia didn't respond, the Courier continued. "Sometimes I would play a scenario in my head where I would imagine getting my revenge on the man who… put this scar on my head. I'd kill him, then I would stand over his body and shoot myself in the head. It'd be my big 'Fuck you' send off… You can't be a pawn to somebody else when your dead."
Chloe was woefully silent as she listened to all that was said, trying to offer advice, but she couldn't think of anything to say to broach the situation. Yet, she remembered facing something similar.
"It's irrational, I know. I don't even mean to do it, but I just… feel this way, sometimes." Six continued. "Once or twice after a gunfight, I thought… 'why can't you just fucking kill me already?'... Sometimes I charge into a gunfight, seeking death… the finality of it all. It's fucked up."
Chloe finally spoke up. "I wanted to kill myself, when I was young… back when, you know. But every time I tried, I couldn't hurt myself. My body didn't want me too. It would have been easy, but… I kept on living, kept on being… that."
The courier pulled out a drink from his backpack. "This is all depressing. I think I could use a drink."
Finding a glass nearby, the courier tipped his bottle to the cup. The liquid was a light brown as it started to flow. Pre-war whiskey. "Would you like a drink?" Six offered to Chloe as he poured.
Chloe looked around for a moment before finally agreeing to a small sample. "A small glass."
Both hastily consumed the alcohol, though Chloe coughed on her first sip whereas Six made a face of grimace as he skulled his drink. Two-hundred year old whiskey wasn't always the best, but it was alcoholic.
Chloe spoke. "What is this?"
"Distilled booze. Aqua vitae, the water of life." Six said. "It kicks, it bites… it takes away the pain for a little while."
"In the bark lay wounds." Chloe said, remembering the words he spoke before. "Some wounds hurt more than others, some will heal and some will never heal. But, It is good to have these wounds. We have experienced them and survived, faced the hardship and won, even though it is a heavy thing."
Six looked at Chloe as she spoke, and when she had finished, he spoke in agreement. "We can share our wounds, our stories, our pain… and the pain inside becomes more bearable, knowing that somebody else understands you, knows what you've been through. It's like an anvil has been thrown off of you."
Chloe pointed to Six's gunshot wound. "We have both been through a lot, it seems."
"Disgusting."
Hearing that word, both Chloe and Six turned to face the source of that comment. Large, tall, dark-skinned and elf-eared… it was none other than Olga, the dark Queen.
"My Queen." Chloe said, hastily getting up to her feet from her chair.
"You are associating with that… animal!" Olga shouted.
Six stood up from his chair. There were a hundred things that he wished he could say, a thousand ways he wished he could act... but he begrudgingly degraded himself.
"I am an animal, your excellency. I am a hound of war, a dog of fortune."
Olga laughed in a haughty fashion as she began to stroke over the couriers neck, feeling over her collar. "I am afraid that there is already a hound of war, A black dog known as Volt." Olga's laughing stopped as she assumed a vicious smirk. "But I can always use a lapdog."
Six sighed, before humiliating himself. "Then I am your lapdog, your excellency."
Chloe looked to Olga for a moment. "Enough of this, just tell him what you want."
Elsewhere:
"Fucking water, always fucking water…" Buzzkill muttered in anger. Her mission was shit… get fucking water, deliver it to the groups…
"Fuck that… Fuck you, fuck you… Fuck you!"
Buzzkill shouted, looking to the three plastic buckets that were filled with water, the objects of her self-imposed hatred.
*Groan*
Of course, It didn't help that her period was about to start in a few days time, nor did starvation or her lingering drug addiction help her when she was forced to give her stash to that power-armoured fuckhead.
"Well… look at thiiiis…"
"Buehuehuehiihihiii!"
"Fuckmeat, Pink fuckmeat!"
Buzzkill turned around with but one quick action, drawing her pistol out from its tight holster…
"Fuck you!"
This shout being followed up by a shot to the lower-belly of one orc. The nine millimeter round, given that it was hollowpoint and that the muscle mass of the orc was partly-muscular, partly-fatty, found little problem of expansion… and rather over-expanded as the round entered into his large intestinal tract, which vibrated intensely. The permanent cavity was about the same diameter as that caused by .45 ACP.
That orc, unaccustomed to such violence, and given that he was shot in a pain-sensitive region, dropped to the ground in great fits of pain. His chance of surviving from such a wound was nearly zero, perhaps with a life expectancy of two days to a week.
"Yeah, Fuck you!"
Buzzkill shouted, aiming at another orc.
She fired three rounds, not entirely accurate but hitting him twice in the chest and once in the right shoulder… he was mortally wounded with the second shot, the third one hitting him as he died.
"Fuck you!"
Buzzkill fired four times in quick succession at her next opponent, to her dismay missing two of the four rounds, which due to the previous recoil and quick horizontal strafing, caused her to fire high, which she corrected by pulling down on her handle, levelling down her last two shots.
One of these bullets hit the orc on the cheek, but it was in such a location where the bullet encountered little resistance and missed the cheekbone, causing for no expansion and a clear track from the front of his cheek to the back of his cheek, gushing out with a thin trail of blood from both ends.
The fourth shot, however, was certainly fatal. This round entered through the nasal cavity, hitting bone as it tore through, causing the bullet to tumble violently, coming out at an unpredictable forty degree angle derivation, causing the bullet to rip through the top of his skull… small amounts of brain-fluid coming out in a thin rivulet in response.
"Huuuuuuufff!" Buzzkill breathed, her nerves frayed, her adrenaline spiking, her anger nearly unquantifiable.
She lowered her pistol downwards, her index finger resting against the barrel, safely away from the trigger.
"Urkkk."
Quickly noticing the panicked, pained voice of the surviving orc, she felt the hatred running through her veins, simmering away.
Enough was enough. They had called her 'fuckmeat', what a horrible choice in words.
For several moments her mind remembered the old chants and insults.
In Buzzkill's life, there were many people who thought that she was a slut. They spat at her, called her a whore, a cum-hungry bitch. Her mother disowned her, kicked her out the door…
It wasn't her fault, being raped. But no… no, let's punish the rape-ee and not the rapist. She took drugs to escape… did things, unimaginable things…
Fuck, that. She wasn't going to take anymore of that shit.
Fuck that shit.
Those two words were the type of words that the orcs should never have said. Those were the type of words that brought back painful memories.
Buzzkill's switchblade was out.
"Fuckmeat!" Buzzkill shouted out, screaming at the orc that lay at her feet, bleeding profusely from his stomach.
The orc spat at her, laughing. "Hahaha, The others… hump you."
Buzzkill hocked up a wad of spit and spat directly into the orcs wound, then she raised her boot up into the air, stomping down directly over the wound.
"Bllllcchh!" Was the sound of the orc, vomiting from his mouth.
Buzzkill then took a knee, laying over the orc's 'considerably' fat belly. "Who knows, fuckface. Maybe the other mutie-fucks like you will rape me… But I'll live, retard. You won't," Buzzkill paused as she gestured the blade of her switchblade across from cheek to cheek, drawing a visual line, showing what she had in store for him. "Here, now… It's just you and me, piggo, And I'm going to fuck you up, mutie, gonna cut you up really fucking bad, fuckface. I'll make you squeal."
For the first time in his life, the orc below her knew unimaginable terror.
Bop heard the gunshots, guessed the direction that they came from. He knew Buzzkill had been assigned to fetch water from that area.
He was up in arms at a moments notice, his FN Fal cradled in his hands.
Jerome, the third man of the group, a powder-ganger, raised his voice. "Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
Bop wished that he could talk, but he couldn't, his body didn't want to ever since the trauma. Ever since his family had been murdered by raiders, since he was enslaved, he had been mute. He could grunt, sometimes he could even speak… but he could barely form sentences. He hated himself and his stupid impediment.
They put him into an arena, gave him the nickname 'The Stutterer', forced him to fight and kill other slaves. When the fiends killed his masters… he joined up as quick as he could. Some of the fiends tried to get on his bad side, but Violet told them to fuck off, they did. Violet's death had gotten to him and Buzzkill, as Violet had been Buzzkill's 'leader'.
They had buried her in an unmarked grave, her headless corpse bloated with rot. Buzzkill swore revenge over the grave, whilst Bop did the same with a grunt. There was no way in hell that Bop was going to allow another of his friends to die.
"Gnnng." Bop growled, avoiding eye contact with Jerome.
Before Jerome could speak, Bop had left the building.
"Fuck." Jerome said, reaching for his grenade rifle and its loosely hanging bandoleer. "Fucked If I do, fucked If I don't."
Jerome hastily reached around at his bandoleer, retrieving a high-explosive round and holding it in his left hand whilst he threw it around his shoulder, securing it there by the weight of the 40mm cartridges. This done, he broke open the tube of his rifle and slotted his chosen round inside, then put the barrel back to its usual position, locking it in place.
Once Jerome was outside, he quickly ran to the direction of the shooting. It wouldn't be too much of a run.
*Scrrchh* "What in the fuck are you doing!"
Jerome knew that the voice on the radio receiver hanging off his belt belonged to 'Rat', one of the mercenary guys. He was a squat, funny man and a proud shit-talker, but he also happens to be a good sniper. Jerome quickly reached for his radio receiver as he jogged forwards through the terrain.
"The big-guy is going after that chick." Jerome replied. "I'm not going to let them die."
*Scrrchh* "Make sure spikey gets back." Rat responded. Even through the radio, Jerome knew that the short little bastard had a grin on his face. "I like her." Rat added a moment later.
After a short dash, he managed to reach up to Bop. "Oi, stick together."
Bop grunted in the affirmative.
Buzzkill was barely finished with the orc when she heard a booming voice from behind.
"I see you've killed some of us."
Buzzkill grabbed the heavily cut head of the dead orc and lifted it up high into the air, the head hanging up through the strands of hair grasped by her left hand.
"Yeah I have, fuckface. What are you going to do about it?" Buzzkill gave a manic smile, as blood dripped down from her cheeks and hair. "You wanna know what I did?"
The orc raised his hand through the air, waving it once, to which about ten other orcs and several goblins emerged from the forest, their weapons clearly presented. "I do." The orc said.
Noting that they didn't move further, and given that her pistol would hardly have enough ammunition in her magazine to contend with about fifteen hostiles, she decided to stall for time.
Being dramatic, Buzzkill lowered the decapitated orc head lower, near to her face. "Oh, to be or not to be… well that's a fucking stupid question." Buzzkill announced, remembering some stupid phrase from her childhood… hamlet or something.
Moving the head to and fro, she mimed the voice of the dead orc, as though she were having a conversation. "Oh, mistress of death, Indeed it is… I'm a fucking great-green retard you see."
The orcs on the other side were enthralled by the sight… so unimaginable to them, they were completely silent. In the minds of the orcs, they saw humanity as the weak… the 'civilised' and saw themselves as the savage, untamable beasts that ought to rule the world. Civilisation and barbarism seemed to be differing concepts.
And so, when a human girl streaming with the blood of an orc, was seen having a dramatic dialogue with the head of a dead person... it was like the combining of two worlds, the world of the civilised… and the world of the savage and barbaric all at once. Something familiar but altogether strange and exotic. It was sublime, captivating, humorous yet… invigorating.
Buzzkill mimed the voice of the orc. "I'm such a retard, I thought I could fuck'er… like my mother and my brother, my horse and my goat."
Laughing ensued amongst those who stood on the opposite. It was so bizarre. The leader of this squad was stunned. As all orcs did upon seeing women, he saw an inferior being, a weakling only deserving of bearing their spawn, now his opinion on this woman had changed.
Buzzkill turned to face the orcs. "But I showed this retard that I am not to be fucked with. Wanna know how he died?"
"Get on with it." The orc leader replied.
Buzzkill retrieved her switchblade and proceeded to stab and slice the mutilated head several times, blood pooling out to the ground in drips. "I hacked and I slashed… and out came his guts. I laughed and smiled and cut out his liver and his spleen."
Buzzkill threw the switchblade high into the air before grasping the head of the orc by both hands, proceeding to bite off one of the orcs ears, spitting it off into the distance as it hung by the corner of her lips. "Wanna know the moral of the story... you shouldn't try to fuck me… or fuck with me!" Buzzkill swore, nearly screaming it out.
Buzzkill then looked towards the orc leader. "Because If you try to fuck me, I'm gonna cut off your cock and fuck you with it. Right up the asshole… then you'll clean it off with your mouth." Buzzkill paused for a moment, then spoke again, to clarify that she was indeed telling the truth. "This ain't no joke, I really will cut it off and fuck you with it."
The orc leader stepped two steps forwards. "Ordinarily, I would turn a woman like you into my bitch. But not you..."
Buzzkill quickly reached for her pistol and pointed it out towards him. She didn't want to shoot him, not really, because if she did, the guys under his leadership would certainly kill her, but not before each one got a turn at raping her, but on the other hand, it could save her some time as killing the leader outright might demoralise the rest of his men enough for her to run away.
"And that, piggo, is something that I don't want to be. No offense, you might have a big dick or whatever, but I am exclusively a pussy-licker… just so you know." Buzzkill was lying on the last part, but she liked to lie about her sexuality to see how people reacted. She loved fucking with people.
The orc leader had no idea what that was, though he could deduce through the word that It might have suggested something sexual. "What?"
Buzzkill laughed. "You know, a dyke. I fucking love pussy. So unless you have some nice slave women… yeah no."
The orc leader quickly spoke up. "I'll show you what a real man is… pussy-licker. I'll have you sucking my dick on a daily basis, from now on, you will suck my cock."
Buzzkill sighed. "That's nice to know, fuckface. How bout I tell you another story?"
The orc stared blankly for a moment. "What?"
"Oh, it's a great story… It's about what happens when you don't offer me a drink of gin, first."
Raising her arm higher whilst the orc looked dumbly onwards, waiting for her next words, she shot the confused orc scout-leader in the head. His men were shocked, watching the man who ruled them for several years getting his life cut short in an instant, as though it were divine providence that had killed him, rather than the girl before them.
Buzzkill laughed for a moment, then screamed from the top of her head, manically, singing a line from an old song. "Why don't you do right… Like some other men do!"
Buzzkill then fired her pistol in a sweeping horizontal axis, not hitting anybody. As soon as her slide drew back and her firearm clicked, she ran like crazy while the confused orcs, many of whom had ducked down from when she fired repeatedly, began to squabble over what they should do.
A new, impromptu orcish scout leader emerged, entirely self-acclaimed from a moment of panic. His name was Bargul. "Fuck that, I'm not risking my life going after that cunt!"
Quite a few of the orcs and goblins started to agree with his assessment. But not all of them.
Ragadur vehemently disagreed with that statement. With the singular movement of his wrist he sent his javelin flying in an arc, hitting Bargul in the right thigh.
Ragadur then raised his voice, taunting Bargul. "I smell ripe bitch, I go fuck, kill, be happy! You go suck cock and be happy, I fuck women."
Ragadur then rushed off, not caring if he would be followed or not. In this, he was followed by all but two.
Bargul grasped at the javelin that found itself slightly embedded in his thigh, hanging off by a mere flap of his skin and several layers of fabric of his armour against the whole weight of the javelin. With a quick pull, it was out. Bargul thanked his textile armour for saving his leg from any worse damage, as without it… the javelin shaft would be jutting out of the other side of his leg.
"Fucker." Bargul remarked. "I hate assholes like that."
Zuruk, his friend and companion, his only follower, agreed with that statement. "Gnrrrr, fuck those lunatics."
Bargul sighed. "I'm going back to the Dark fortress. Being treated like... A human… Bah!"
Jerome spotted her first, running like a bat out of hell. Behind her, a large group of mutie fucks. He estimated that the range was maybe a hundred to a hundred and ten meters out.
Quick on the uptake, Jerome angled his weapon in such a fashion that the front sight lined up with the rear sight, through the 20 meter intervals until he got to where he felt it was right. Then he lowered the angle slightly, to accommodate for ballistic drop and the time of flight. He knew that it would take roughly a little over one second for the projectile to hit his target, at the distance he was firing from.
-Bluuump-
It was always a satisfying sound, the report of the grenade rifle as it fired. Now, the 40mm grenade sailed through the air in an arc, reaching the area at a somewhat quick pace, but not too fast that you could not see it in flight.
-Bang-
Jerome then turned to face Bop, letting his grenade rifle flop down as he dropped it to be suspended by the leather sling. "I'll grab her, you shoot!"
Dark Fortress:
Olga pointed to several spots on her map. "This is the city of Ur and this is the city of Feoh. These two cities comprise the eastern-most cities within striking distance."
Looking down on the map, Six tried his best to remember the names and the plan.
"My plan is thusly, To hastily storm the city of Feoh and Ur. This will be a two-pronged attack with an army of 5,000 in each. But, this is divisionary in nature. I have a third army of 20,000 men, which is slowly marching down towards Ken as we speak. Should the attack on either Feoh or Ur be successful, the other cities will be forced to redirect some of their forces to try to regain the fallen city, sapping their armies of men… The city of Ken should thus have reduced numbers of soldiers, guardsmen and knights by the time my 20,000 men army arrives."
Six thought on this for a moment. "How is the logistics?"
Olga reacted with a haughty tone. "Such things are beneath me. For all I care, they could be starving at the end… But as long as they can fight is all I care about." Olga paused for a moment. "Now, let us get straight to the point."
Olga pointed her right index finger towards Feoh. "I have decided that you would serve me better If you were a lone agent. You are a human and with the right disguise, would be hard to distinguish from any other human." Olga paused. "In a word, you will be perfect."
Olga then walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a rolled up segment of paper. Once it was unfurled, Six saw that it was a smuggled-in plan of the layout of Feoh. "You are to do anything in your power to facilitate the invasion of Feoh and ensure it's hasty success is brought to conclusion."
Six sighed to himself. "I understand, your excellency."
Olga then turned to face Chloe. "I direct you to Chloe, Lapdog. She will provide you with further information and provide you with your disguise."
*The saying in bold comes from the lyrics from Wardruna's Odal, that have been re-arranged to fit better.