Armour: None
Weapon: None
Acc(0/12)
Health: (10/500) Dismembered.
As a Fourth Generation CC Platoon Captain, The Cyborg had seen his fair share of freaks.
That's not to say he was negatively inclined towards freaks. He was a freak. His fellow agents were all freaks. Some of them were freakier than others, but for the most part, The Cyborg was long past being amazing or disgusted with the varied anatomies and abilities of Draedon's creations.
That's not because they weren't grotesque or amazing- because they were. It was simply that he'd seen so many that he'd grown used to them. Just yesterday he had drinks with a group of Gen 3's whose legs were twice the lengths of their bodies. The day before - he'd snuck into the women's dormitories where he was supposed to meet a team of Gen 4 beauty queens equipped with gills, radar and echolocation. Unfortunately, they'd set him up - and he ended up squatting in a stairwell playing cards with a snake-hybrid all night.
So The Cyborg was intimately familiar with Draedon's freaks. He'd bedded a number of them (most of his parts are replaceable. There's nothing he's too scared to stick his dick into). He'd laughed and shared drinks with many others. Some of his best friends had four eyes, or three arms, or had bits of their skeleton and musculature showing - and none of it mattered at all. The Cyborg was convinced that biological anomalies just couldn't shock him anymore.
Holy shit...
That is... until his group opened the traitor CC Agent's backpack.
"Careful! Hey! Be careful! Bring that over here. Screw it up and I'll have you turned into to scrap! Somebody call the general line at The Lab and ask MedSurg to lend me anyone they can! I need this bitch alive!"
"Yes Ma'am!"
Because even laying on the ground, mangled, covered in his own blood and lacking all of his limbs -there was something otherworldly about this man. He was as pathetic as he was terrifying... yet The Cyborg couldn't identify exactly what he was terrified of. It felt like there was something absurd in the room with them. Something that defied logic and didn't play by the rules. Like The Amputee's body was the mouth of a bottomless pit. Like there was a tremendous eldritch beast crammed beneath his human skin. Was it the way The Man's pale, dead eyes stared straight through him? The offbeat of its blinks, or the strangeness of its small movements?
"Careful opening the box! The arms attack!"
Most probably it was the fact that not twenty minutes ago, one of the Amputee's arms leapt out of its locked box, punched him in the chin, and began scurrying around like a spider - hurling itself about with uncanny force and attacking anyone in its path. It took the efforts of nearly the entire lobby to catch the slippery little thing, but when they finally did - and he went marching back to the holding cell triumphantly clutching the thrashing arm to his chest - The Zoologist plucked it from his grasp and popped it into The Amputee's bloody shoulder socket like he was a plastic doll with removable limbs.
"Ma'am - gauze and disinfectant!"
"Get me sutures too!"
"Here!"
That was exactly it. He seemed artificial. Like an alien pretending to be a man (The Cyborg was fully aware of the irony in him saying so). He was laying here, punched full of holes - tortured far beyond what any human could bear, yet not making a single noise. He should have died long ago, but instead, he was healing right before their eyes!
The holes punched through him were slowly filling up. First with blood, then with sinew which leapt from one end of the wound to the other like spider's silk, then by muscle fiber, and fat, and skin - leaving nothing behind but the pattern of rust and the stain of dried blood upon his grayish skin. The process was entirely unnatural, and frankly, it made The Cyborg nervous. Just who was this man? What was he? Where did he come from? Clearly, he wasn't of natural birth. Neither did he have the telltale signs of modification. Was he some ancient horror? Was he some otherworldly creature?
"You're gonna be alright. Don't die on us, yeah?"
"..."
But it didn't matter at all how comfortable The Cyborg felt around their now-very-precious detainee. Draedon's Chief Assistant had deemed him as extremely important to the progress of project Nepheim, and The Cyborg knew if the subject either died or somehow escaped their grasp and disappeared into the city - his life would certainly be forfeit.
So he twisted his mouth into a bland smile and continued to offer enthusiastic encouragement.
"That Fox Lady's an incredible doctor. She'll have you right as rain. So hold on, okay? Keep fighting.
"..."
The Cyborg grinned as The Amputee stared wide-eyed into the light in his visor, seemingly as disoriented as he was confused. He hadn't said a single word to them since asking for one of his disembodied arms, and despite all their questioning and prodding refused to say anything more.
"I know it hurts, but push through the pain for me, okay? Is there anything I can get for you? Painkillers? Water?"
"..."
But as far as The Cyborg was concerned, so long as he stayed alive and allowed himself to be carted off to Draedon's Laboratories, that was completely fine.
The light...
There.
Garish and bright. So bright, it hurt.
But even so, he couldn't seem to drag his eyes away.
...ah.
Dare he give himself to it? Dare he crawl out of this sordid shell? It had begun as his prison, a place he once longed to escape from. A place of rough scars and bitter grief. The dark place where he cradled his bruised and mangled heart. He harbored pain in his shell. The pain of betrayal. The pain of black grief. A pain that had him longing for those moments death swallowed him up, just so he could experience that tiny moment of relief where the aching in his chest faded away...
But...
Although it was his prison. It was also his fortress.
Because he knew this pain.
He was well acquainted with the depths of this misery.
If he remained here, hiding himself within these dark walls - walls made of calloused scars, hardened and scabbed over, tempered and tried and altogether impenetrable - then, although he'd be miserable, at least he'd be safe. Safe from the viciousness that hid within the hearts of men. Protected from the grinning faces of those that wished to see him writhe and weep.
Yet...
Dare he venture out? To place his scarred heart once more in the hands of another? To risk it all and, perhaps, be plunged into further darkness? Should he once again accept the honeyed words dripping in kindness, or believe the gestures and the smiles? Why should he rest upon assurances when he knew they'd be broken? Why should he allow this man to make him a friend, when he knew well that nobody would ever be his friend.
It was tantalizing.
The hope of it. The idea he could be rescued. The fanciful thought that another could mend his heart. All of that was nonsense. The Guide had taught him well.
He was alone.
Alone in this world, bereft of everything. Unwanted at birth. Hated by the very creatures of the earth. Slain by men; slain by beast; slain by the one he loved so dearly he'd die just to see him again. Ah! He daren't! Hope was not for the likes of him. This light surely belongs to someone else...
"Come on. You can do it. Everyone here wants you alive, so please try to survive!"
"..."
A voice rings from amidst the bright light. It's a deep voice, full bodied and rich - yet also slightly mechanical in the oddest of ways. The Terrarian had never seen anyone like him before, but The Terrarian had seen very little in this world. He pressed his lips together and pondered the strange metallic implants on 'The Cyborg's face while the man chattered away at him.
"You got this. Breathe okay? I know it hurts. The Painkillers are on their way. You're gonna be fine. Just stay with me."
"..."
He sighed.
So...
So what was he supposed to make of this?
Did he know these people? No. He... he was fairly sure he didn't. He stared into the cyan light on the soldier's helmet and cast his memory back... yet couldn't find even the faintest recollection of any of them. In fact, he hadn't seen this place before either! He didn't recognize the bars, or the floor, or the tarps... he was a stranger. A stranger, in a strange place and - as far as he was aware - limbless, helpless and entirely useless...
"Grab the other arm and bring it over here. Hold it still I'm going to try and reconnect the nerves."
"Hold it still!? Zoologist, do you even know what you're asking? The thing keeps freaking the fuck ou- Oww! Shit!"
"Hold it still dammit!"
So...
So why were they fretting over him?
Why were they helping him? Why had they cleaned him? Why were they treating his wounds? Why were they begging him to live? What did they want from him? Nobody had asked him for anything yet, but surely... surely they wanted something. He had no arms, and no legs. He couldn't fight. He couldn't build. Hell he could scarcely breathe! He didn't have anything to give... so why?
What is this...
There was a whole army of people there, dressed in odd white gowns and rubbery blue gloves - and more of them seemed to flow in by the moment. He'd never seen them before, in fact, he doubted he could have imagined their appearances until this very moment. They were all running about with a certain excitement about them - bringing things in, bringing things out - bandages, healing potions, sutures, stitches. He felt one of his arms get re-attached, but before his natural healing kicked in to fumble the cartilage and bone together, the woman with fox ears and two other gowned surgeons were already sewing the torn ligaments back in place. There were all sorts of things poured into the wound. Spells were cast. Runes were drawn - and, in no more than a few minutes, his amputated arm had been perfectly joined to the rest of him!
And, to be frank, The Terrarian himself was astonished.
He... he didn't heal so fast. Neither did he heal so completely. Last time he re-attached his arm, it took half a day for the limb to root. With a sort of hazy wonderment, he lifted his arm and flexed his fingers - only for the man covered in electronics to grab his hand and squeeze it in what The Terrarian registered as a reassuring gesture. He stared blanky at the grinning man, so utterly confused - he didn't even tear his hand from his metallic grasp.
"Ta-da! Look at that! I'm telling you he's special. Incredible healing! I'm telling you there's something in his blood. I want a sample of it under a microscope asap. Somebody pull the sample we took from The Twins battle and have it ready for a second analysis. Maybe we can make something out of comparing the two."
"Zoologist, we want to start working on the legs. Patient is conscious. Can we sedate him please? I don't want to risk him moving during the procedure. Is there an anesthesiologist here?"
Lots of noise. Shining lights. The conversations being had over him were entirely incomprehensible, and although they didn't appear hostile, The Terrarian would be lying if he wasn't wary of them, if only a little. They had shown him a great deal of goodwill, but he knew that goodwill was merely a farce. Now that they had reattached his arm - should he fight? He'd fought without an arm before, but he never fought with just an arm... what could he do? Flood the room with bouncing dynamite? Spill explosive grenades upon the floor? But then how would he leave? He still couldn't walk. He'd be reduced to crawling his way out...
Why bother.
He hesitated. He frowned.
...
"Hey, you'll be okay. Relax. Don't worry."
He blinked as The Cyborg squeezed his hand and greeted him with another bewildering grin. There was the clinking of metal and glass, the snapping of latex gloves, then a faint pinprick at the base of his neck. Something cold was injected - then... then...
Then his eyes rolled back.
The light faded.
And he sank into the arms of elusive sleep.
"I cannot help but imagine... "
Its voice was wavery, ghostly and thin, yet so utterly disappointed, the Elder of Gilgal couldn't help but hang their heads in shame as it echoed off the walls. The Great Hall was fully populated with men and women whose gaunt eyes were filled with wonder as they gazed upon the figure seated at the head of the court. Yet the figure - dressed head to toe in shining golden armour - looked sadly upon the lot of them. Although none could see its eyes from beneath the slats in its helmet, they all felt its despondent gaze.
"-what inspired you to think raising me in such a squalid condition would be acceptable."
The Figure lifted its arm and removed its bracer. Beneath - there was neither cloth, nor skin, nor muscle... just old yellow bones encased in a miasmic vapour. Clearly the figure was rather unhappy with its current state, but was clearly refraining from lambasting the ones responsible for it.
"I do recall I'd given you instructions to embalm me... yet where is my flesh? A sinew, perhaps? Yes- perhaps there is strength yet in my bones, but not scarcely enough?! What do you expect- ah..."
The figure stopped himself and made to pinch the bridge of his nose. There was a huff as it made to sigh audibly. Obviously, The Great Hero: Gilgamesh, was less than pleased with his current status... even so, the old stories told of his profound generosity. He was a hero. He was powerful, yes - but he was supposed to be kind, and loyal, and good. Surely... surely he would lay down his pride and serve Yharim if that meant preserving his kin, Right?
The Hero's skeleton lifted its gaze and raked it over them. Its words were delivered almost mournfully.
"I can scarcely believe this is all that remains of my glorious legacy. A dilapidated house, a squalid march of white-faced men... has my blood really grown so thin? What of the warrior spirit? Has it died as well?"
"..."
Embarrassed silence. The elders and the people knew the old hero wasn't angry at them... but the utter sadness at which it looked upon them was worse than if it'd hollered and raged.
"Oh... children."
There was a rattling noise as the skeleton stood to its feet. It shook its head and plodded over to a nearby window which overlooked the city. It gazed out for a long while before replacing its bracer. Its teeth rattled when it spoke.
"My poor, pathetic children who've resorted to calling upon their fathers' fathers to fight their battles. We a miserable state we find ourselves in..."
The Skeleton clenched and unclenched a its fists. It emitted a thin chuckle.
"What irony. Did you know what my enemies used to call me? Before I was granted this name?"
"..."
Silence. None dared speak. If the Skeleton had eyes, it certainly would have rolled them as it walked back to its throne and sat down. There was sharpness in its tone as it reminisced.
"When I conquered a land, I honored the warriors of my enemies. The dead were gathered up and carted through the towns and cities that their families might receive their slain and perform the burial rights of their choosing."
A pause. The Skeleton turned to gaze upon his kin.
"But oftentimes the war went so long, and the bodies piled so high - warriors were naught but skeletons by the time they returned, so, in their derision, they called me 'The Skeleton Merchant'."
"..."
Again, echoing silence. The Skeleton rested it's armoured faceplate against it's gauntleted fists.
"But I don't suppose any of you know much about glorious battle. In any case, since I now look the part - I had best begin piling up bodies... Tell me, dear children, who is this 'Yharim' Character, and how must we deal with him?"
Gil: I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.
Merry Christmas y'all