hey, im back with nltl (hello !)
quick announcement - it took me a bit to get this chapter out because i was focused on my other story "Almost Green" that's not actuallt posted on (but if anyone wants, just let me know, i'll port it over, it's the canon continuation of Curly Head where Andy goes to Lungmen and meets up with penguin logistics and then tumbles down a spiral of mental dread and also drags croissant along with himself) and yeah. oh also, i got a discord server with a bunch of active people where i post like shitty ms paint doodles related to the story if anyone's up for that. heres a link
u know what to put here, the site doesnt let me/qJAuGPD2dM
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anyway, enjoy chapter !
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… And from the all encompassing sea of red, a hand reached out to pull the castaway sailor onto land.
He reached out as well – a mortal inching for the touch of a divine beauty. A true pinnacle of human and inhuman creation. Something beautiful. Something perfect. Something straight from the summit of what humanity could've been.
The bottom of the evolutionary cycle. Evolution and its dear departed father had no say in the creation of this specimen. This… this "UTTER" perfection. This prime and alpha, ghoulish idol of a future hopefully soon to be realized. A better future. A home for the devils. What a home would it be, huh? A torn one, for sure. A big, dysfunctional family. Where bottles fly each weekend, and where the mother locks the kids away in the pantry when daddy comes home late on a friday evening, reeking of booze. Where rats riddle the basement, and where neighbors don't even dare peek. Their window shutters remain closed. Opening them would be a death sentence for all sore eyes present. Kazdel had no right to be witnessed by outsiders. Kazdel had no right to be witnessed at all.
It all should've been left dead and buried. Let the four emperors have their plights, their victories and cowardly cheap shots. Let them turn this place into an ori-rose riddled playground, where no politics could ever be conducted due to the lack of thinking juices to be put to work.
Yet it wasn't.
Yet, the devils wanted out.
Yet, they wanted justice.
Yet, the hand was still reaching for his.
.
Andrew shook off the sudden daze that had pulled his mind into a tight chokehold. His tail yanked hard to the side, as if urging – no, PLEADING, him to do the same.
He listened, narrowly rolling away from the trajectory of a blood-reeking mass of iron being hurled his way. It slammed HARD into the floor, sending a wave of shaken gasps tumbling through the entire hall. Sparks flew, as it embedded itself hard into metal.
"Nice moves, Drewie." His gun congratulated the coordination. "Bait and switch. You baited that shit, now you switch."
"Switch?" Andy glanced at the two-tube cradled in his arms. Its voice, ever present, kept seeping from the tip of its rifled barrels.
"Switch, Drewie! Good 'ol ten-ten! Knuckle sandwich!" Seeing no reaction from the boy, the gun sighed. "Look at that empty hulk! He's strugglin' to pull the sword out, BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!"
"..."
Andy flicked his sight to the supposed "sword." It was quite large. Not much to say about it other than that. It seemed as if whatever blacksmith had been commissioned to take the matter of creating this disgusting heap of steel into their hands, had been given a pretty clear and straightforward instruction. That being "make it big."
"Make it really fucking big. That's all."
No distinguishable features, no markings, no hooks or gut-circles to help send prey to the underworld faster – no nothing.
Andy stared at his own, shapeless reflection dancing across the entire blade. It kept twitching from side to side, pulsating along to the many-armed creature's strained attempts at pulling the blade from its steel-hugged captor.
Andy glanced some more. In the feverish heat of battle, something else had caught his eye. Something most interesting.
How good the leather coat had looked on him, though. Poor Henri. If only he could see his rags being used how they had always been intended to be used. He was probably seething, watching the entire spectacle from down there. Deep, deep down there.
Andy noticed a little glimmer of white and black circling around its tail, behind his reflection's shoulder. Without further ado, he adhered to the gun's request and cocked his head back.
"... Wait. Wait, what the FUCK ARE YOU DO–..."
Promptly, he slammed his head horn-first into the blade.
Sparks flew.
Brains rattled.
Bells rang a wild.
THUMP…
THUMP…
THUMP…
A Basilica tower that reached far beyond any angel's gaze sang its wailing and droning march. Andy felt as if the instrument – a giant, brass bell - had been thrown carelessly over his meek body and slammed over and over with a plethora of hammers.
His head nearly came apart from the splitting pain.
"What the FUCK are you doing?" The gun politely criticized his riposte decision. Andy had to back away from the sword to grasp his horns and dig through the thick mounds of curls to massage the burning sensation away.
But not everyone had suffered from the vicious attack. The many-armed swords-creature, for example, had finally managed to un-stick his sword from the floor. With a fierce battle cry splitting the air apart, it raised it high above its head, then sent flying towards the little angel-moron.
Andy saw the reaper's claws closing in at an alarming pace. Urged both by his tail and gun to do something but stand in place, he tore the mind-numbing bandaid off his brain and aimed both barrels at the cascading waterfall of steel.
His fingers squeezed the triggers.
A mighty explosion of ori-dust and sheer willpower shook the room awake. The poor and terrified refugees, that watched from between their shaking fingers, GASPED at the intruder that dared rattle the sound frequencies of their safe haven.
Steel met brass.
Tiny pellets peppered the surface at a velocity mostly unheard of in Kazdel. This wasn't no clash of skill or honor – this was a clash of tradition and the invasive current of progress.
Both cartridges of duble-aught buckshot dug into the steel and dampened its hunger for flesh. Stopped it entirely actually, as the blade bounced back, bent under the might of Andy's shotgun.
"Huh. Holy shit, that worked." The gun whispered, much to the boy's pleasant surprise. Death had more important matters to attend to that day. It wouldn't bore itself with scraping an angel-shaped pancake off the floor.
Even the many-armed maniac seemed surprised by the parry. His many-many-many-eyes widened, and all of his crudely stitched-on arms curled and opened in confusion.
"..."
Andy blinked. And then he grinned. Staring into the large creature's main-eyes, he felt strangely significant in that very moment.
He felt something akin to a torrent of pure championship coursing through his veins – pushing them through, unclogging any uncertainty, and filling his mind with the vision of the next two shotgun shells ripping the terrorist's brain apart. He split the shotgun in two, watched the spent shells fly out with a trail of lingering smoke, then inserted another pair. By the time he had closed the gun back up, the giant seemed to be reminded of its many, many other limbs.
Andy felt a worming sensation crawling through the lighter, less armored leather of his boots. A gentle pair of fingers.
The gentle pair of fingers had then tied a noose around his ankles and pulled him high – HIGH – up into the air.
"?!" He gasped in confusion, completely taken off guard by the unanticipated, and honestly – downright dirty move. He clutched tightly onto his shotgun, as his meek body was thrown overhead by the giant, then slammed HARD into the floor behind. The gun did not offer any wisdom or help. It sort of realized that it would've been pointless anyway. Not with THIS moron in charge.
.
"..."
.
Watching the entire spectacle from the sidelines, was W. Our W. Andy's stray.
Just now had she finished fiddling with the intricate insides of her newly acquired jacket, having laid out a plethora of parts before her in an attempt to aid the boy in some way. As Andy continued being flung back and forth, thudding emptily against the steel tiles, W assembled her newest toy – her newest piece of brutish arsenal – a tool both fun and handy, taking away the user's need to exert their throwing arm.
In her arms, lay a grenade launcher. Babel appointed. Somewhat faulty. Original owner, unknown. That had always been the case with the Sarkaz.
"... Not killing him today… 'S my job…" She murmured to herself, with her tongue stuck out halfway through her teeth. Cheek against the cold stock, she pressed her eye flush into the iron sighted optic, and sought out the arm that vined and curled around the moron's foot. Trying and failing to keep a track of the tiny twig, she instead clicked her tongue and resorted to searching for the bigger, meatier, main limb that connected all the smaller ones into this abomination of living, twitching forest of grabby fingers.
"... Bullseye~!"
THUD!
The launch made a very distinct sound. The sound of a larger projectile popping out of a metal tube at a velocity previously only heard of in Kazdel a few moments ago, when Andy had shot the blade away. The forty-millimeter-surprise rubber-hosed the air in a clear, unflinching arc, aimed straight for the giant's astonishingly disfigured main shoulder. W managed to grin in the few split seconds that separated her from victory and from a rain of blood that would've erupted along with the most anticipated splatter of flaming hot red.
But the explosion never really came. Not now, at least.
SWOOOSH!
The projectile swiftly cut the distance. Before worming itself snugly into the hunking pile of flesh, however, a certain force had forced it to conduct a quick pit-stop maneuver. One of the many hands riddling the repulsive garb had reached out to masterfully catch the grenade mid air.
W kept smiling, though. A little pale in the face, sure, but beaming all the more brightly. A few droplets of sweat ran down her forehead.
The creature turned its greasy head to glance at the 'nade, momentarily stopping its Andy-battering shenanigans. It ran its eyes over the projectile.
Then, over W.
Then, over the projectile again.
And finally, over Andy.
.
"..."
.
Very audibly, W gulped. The sound carried on through the entire hall, now overcome with silence.
.
"..."
.
The creature blinked. It seemed almost too easy at that point.
It folded the poor boy in half, then stuck the grenade inside his mouth, like a roasted meatbeast being stuffed with an apple between its teeth to humor the guest feasting on its charred carcass. Andy's eyes widened at the buzzing current of lit originium that had just entered his mouth.
They widened even further, as the creature cocked its main arm back…
… And then, they fully turned into two gray saucers, when it had flung him hard onward, sending a rapid gust of velocity-stirred wind to aerodynamically hug his body from all sides. This was the third time Kazdel had seen such velocity on display in its entire history. All three cases – all noted and recorded during the same day. What a treat for the future history books.
Andy flew through the room, desperately and frantically waving his arms, as the sight of a very, very wide-eyed W started growing larger and larger, up until a point where he couldn't even make out her facial features from the colorless coat she wore.
And those stupid stockings, too. Won't even mention the skirt.
Thud.
He made impact. A crater, in fact. The explosion wiped their vision clean off any unpleasant sights, stirring up dust and sending them both flying in a messy tangle of limbs.
Limbs, limbs, limbs…
Hands, hands, hands…
So many hands.
So many arms.
So much hatred in that gaze.
So much killing intent.
A killing machine.
Just downright mean. No way around it, no matter where you looked.
.
THUD!
.
"Ow!"
"Ow, you!"
.
The two of them hit the ground. No crater, no nothing, just the hard reality of cold steel under their cheeks.
.
Andy quickly made an effort to dispose of W's arms from around his shoulders and waist, then untangled their legs and sat up straight. His head kept ringing a familiar melody that came hand in hand with the moron's explosive battlefield tendencies, but amplified tenfold this time. He's never been DIRECTLY on the receiving end of one of her boom-devices, after all.
.
"... How are you still alive?"
"How are YOU still alive?" She shoved him away, dissatisfaction painted all over her pouty mug. The thought of one of her hand-picked forty millimeter shells failing to obliterate something as insignificant as a tiny Sankta came as a major disappointment. Or so he thought, at least. Her hands lingered over his clothes for a moment longer than necessary, as if patting the smoldering fabric down. "... Thought that would've got you."
"I thought it would've got YOU, actually. Made you shut up for once."
"You shut up. There's no shutting ME up, not even in death."
"Yeah, they're gonna need one helluva hound-muzzle for your trap in hell–"
Before Andy could finish, W raised her hand to slap him over the head. She didn't follow through with it, though.
"... I'm actually feeling particularly non-conflictual today. You think Theresa slipped us something in that tea?"
"Like what?"
"What? I dunno. Burdenbeast tranquilizer? Laxatives in your case, hopefully."
"..." Their eyes met for a moment. The hall seemed almost silent in those few seconds of quiet closure.
"... Or not." She retracted her statement. Andy didn't quite pick up which part she was referring to. "... The hell is that music?"
.
A sensation both calming and soothing. Like a river of delicate notes from the harp of a spaghetti-haired angel, the music flowed through the air with a most intimate form of grace permeating each molecule of sound. Plink, plink plink, the chorus sang a tune of a great struggle put to rest once and for all. Plink, plink, plink – it sang a saga of hurt and pain, all vanished and gently conquered by the song it had for the entire, whole wide world.
The two morons glanced at the source. Their little flight of the bumblebees had thrown them into the opposite corner of the hall, right at the feet of a not-so-noble busker that pulled this calming little tune, seemingly from his ass. Mr Newmaker sat somber, on a little bench, huddled between a distraught group of refugees that clung to his arms and legs, shoulders and ponytail, as he tugged and plucked gently at the strings of his strangely-shaped guitar. Despite there being no amplifying devices anywhere to be seen, the sound had seemingly made its way all across the hall, encompassing everything and everyone in its soothing tune. Even the raging pile of meat and arms had stopped to stare blankly at the musician's note myriad.
"..." And there he sat, quiet and contemplating – a far cry from the usual, ever so loud Mr Newmaker W and Andy had grown to somewhat, kind-of know in the past number of hours they spent together. He sat, eyes closed, ears perked down, caressing and caring for each string, tugging and worshiping the metal noodles that bent under his touch and welcomed each finger with an equal amount of loving anticipation.
No evil existed in the world. No wrong-doers dared cause their mischief and mayhem when the hymn of pure peace was being played. No more harm could Terra ever see – not when veiled by the musician's caring tone. Cradled and loved by the fingers and strings, evil had simply turned its nature upside down.
And then it all stopped.
"..."
The kids both stared at their appointed "leader."
He stared back, blankly.
"... What? What're ya two gawking at?"
W opened her mouth to speak another pearl of her unending brilliance, but Andy cut in before she could even begin.
"Were those musical arts?"
"What?" She blinked in confusion.
"Musical arts, yup." Anton sent the boy a happy little smile. "Keen eye, Drewie, point for you. Ya gotta keep up, temp op W."
Her antennae twitched at the comment. Andy felt her grip on his arm tightening a little.
"Wait, so…" Andy pointed to the guitar. "... so… so there's originium in that thing?"
"Oh, wouldn't ya just love to know?" Anton snorted, uncharacteristically unamused. "... That's between me and my guitar, temp."
"..." Andy fell silent at the sudden air of offense that had filtered through the nearest air-vent. Something prickly managed to spike his heart and soul.
W on the other hand, kept staring blankly at the guy.
"Uh-huh. Can you actually help us, though? Music's nice, but there's a terrorist monstrosity in the room."
Broken from its music-arts induced stupor, the creature threw both its massive swording arms into the air, then slammed them hard into the floor, sending shockwaves of terrified gasps waking the refugees.
"I have noticed, yes." Anton gently nodded.
"So can you kill it?"
"No." He replied, calmly.
Both morons blinked, then exchanged a glance.
"Why not?"
"Because." Newmaker shrugged, eliciting a long, drawn out, buzzed sigh from the behemoth of a blade by his side. "Because it's your test and task for today. Haven't you seen the memo I sent you?"
"What memo?" Andy narrowed his eyes, scrunching his brow.
"What's a memo?" At the same time, W asked, blankly staring into the Feline's eyes.
Newmaker sighed, then put the guitar flat in his lap. He reached into the inside of his Babel branded jacket, and pulled out a crumpled piece of squared paper. It took him a moment to straighten it out, all the while the thumps of a massive rampage approaching from behind played by their ears.
"This memo."
He showed them the paper. In a messy scribble, it said "MEMO FOR 2DAY" up top, and "KILL TERRORIST GUY" right below.
"I don't think we got that at all." Andy shook his head.
"Nuh-uh." W chimed.
"Yeah, I know. But you're getting it now, though." He smiled at the silver lining. Seeing their unconvinced eyes, Anton scoffed. "Look, It's a very short-notice typ-a deal. We live fast here in Babel. In Kazdel, in general. Fronts switch every few seconds, so ya both gotta be on your A-game at all times."
"..." They both stared. Glued to each other's shoulders, they stared up at the man, blank and empty-headed as ever. Eventually, W picked up on the awkward silence. "... So you're just gonna sit back and watch us take out your trash?"
"First of all, not MY trash, thank you. I'm sure that thing's willing to smother YOU in limbs as much as it is eager to smother ME." He paused to wet his lips. "... And secondly – yes. Yes, I'm going to sit back and watch my temps do my job for me. Tha's why yer here in the first place, no? Yer here to aid and learn from me, so please be so kind as to go and deal with the learning experience I've prepped for today. Go on. Skedaddle."
The thumping grew louder. Anton gently shushed the morons apart, making space for the rapidly approaching mass of unpolished iron. It fell and wormed hard into the floor, right between his legs. The ear-shattering clang and freezing blow of a gale directly from beneath death's rotten cloak itself worked wonders on Andy and W, waking them from their shared stupor and dispelling any sort of thoughts about unionizing and fighting for fairer working conditions.
"... Well?" Anton nudged the blade with his foot, shooting them both an encouraging glance. "... Ya gonna tear this thing to shreds, or what?"
"..." Without further ado, the morons brandished their weaponry. The blackened steel of Andy's oxidized fowl-rifle shone in the limelight of Babel's ceiling lamps, and W's newly acquired grenade launcher rattled maliciously with a river of killing intent spilling from the barrel.
"For honor?" Anton threw them a smirk. Neither returned it.
"For getting paid."
"Yeah, for fat stacks of dosh."
"Aw, ya two…" He sighed, as both Andy and W threw themselves towards the many-armed beastman. Returning to his bench, the operator politely wormed his way between two fear-stricken refugees, their Sarkaz horns poking him on the shoulders. He picked up the guitar and lovingly caressed its near black neck. Glances flew towards his seemingly casual carapace, with gunshots and explosions ringing aloud in front.
"..." He swept his gaze across the mountain of huddled-together refugees that surrounded him from all sides, pressed into the nearest surface to avoid the raging battlefield in front, and the many-armed beastman's wrath. Or W's loose grenade throws. Or Andy's stray bullets. Anton, however, remained mostly neutral, keeping his hopes somewhat high enough about the morons' skill level.
Before he could go back to idly strumming the instrument, a tiny force latched and gently tugged at his sleeve.
A tiny Sarkaz boy dug his little fingers into Anton's woolen coat. Little rocks and shards of pure, buzzing originium riddled his nails, making them far sharper than necessary for his age. Gently, he un-lodged the boy's claws from his jacket and smiled warmly.
"Yes?"
The boy averted his gaze. How much pity one could cram into a small, homeless child, Anton did not know. But they sure did put in a lot of effort when making this one.
"U-Um…" He stammered, unsure of how to even begin addressing the operator. The constant yells of W cheering on or chewing out Andrew, mixed with a cacophony of gunshots and explosions, did not help him focus in the slightest. "I was wondering, b-because I saw some other, um… some other people were getting rations? And I was wondering, b-because I'm kind of hungry, mister, a-and… and I was wondering if I can get one, too."
"You're hungry?" Anton ran his eyes up and down the stray's malnourished body. Rocks poked through the meek fabrics here and there, and it didn't take a genius to gauge that the kid hasn't ever seen a proper home-cooked meal. All skin and bone, like most of the refugees. "... I mean, hell, of course ya are."
He sighed, synchronized with Uri's buzz, to assess the situation and somewhat put on an act of trying to think, at least. The kid stared and stared, boring his droopy eyes into the Feline's twitchy ears. They swayed to the symphony of destruction playing out in the background.
"... Look, matey, everyone's gonna get their share, 'right? That, I can promise." He ruffled the kid's hair, only to accidentally cut his palm wide open on a cluster of laser-sharp originium rocks poking from his scalp, hidden by the mess of raven-black locks. He drew a sharp breath, but his tone remained mostly composed. "... But it'll have 'ta take a lil' while. I mean, I don't want ya to be gutted, yeah? But I also don't want ya to GET gutted by 'at chap over there."
He directed the kid's gaze towards the towering, many-armed beastman, now busy with holding Andrew in one of its massive hands, and beating him senseless with the other. into W dangled from the punching arm, with all her sharp teeth sunken deep into the elbow, being shaken back and forth each time Andy ate another knuckle sandwich.
Anton gloomed a little at the sight, his previous assessment curbed by the moron's unremarkable performance. Still, he tenderly cradled the child's head and led their eyes away from the pathetic display. "... Yeah, so 'at lad's gotta go. There are real, tried and tested professionals on the case, already takin' care of him."
"Are they, really…?" The kid peeked through Newmaker's fingers, eyes hooked onto the sight of W repeatedly stabbing the massive flesh-pile that kept turning Andy's face into purple-ish mush. With blood all over herself (and more constantly pouring from each little puncture her toothpick knife had poked!), she kept kicking and punching the bastard like an animal lost in some mindless, bloodlusted daze. Anton sighed sadly, then covered the kid's eyes again.
"They are. But just for ya, lad, lemme help 'em a bit, hm?"
.
He stood up. The kid, sparkling vividly from his eyes, looked up at the man and took in his entire appearance. From head to toe, top to bottom, waves of glorified amazement tumbled in surges grander than anything his pathetic little eyes have ever witnessed. Shadows bent and scurried at the sound of his footsteps, and the gentle swishing of his majestic ponytail swiped apart even the bravest of souls. Or creatures. Or monsters. Or sick, dying, Oripathy-ridden extremists.
The explosions and gunshots that once ruled the room all died down to make space for Newmaker's lazy trot. Each footstep, each ruffle of fabric, now echoed through the empty space, joined by the dexterous fiddling of fingers, and a leather strap being positioned into place.
The burnt skin hugged his shoulders tight.
The back end of his scratched and dirt-splattered guitar hit his stomach.
All downcast, downtrodden eyes in the room had turned to witness the red carpet worthy stroll – all but three pairs, still busy with brawling out their differences. Newmaker reached into his jacket and produced a tiny block, no longer than ten centimeters in length, half that in diameter. On it, lay a single button, and a messy scribble. The marker read "MR NEWMAKER'S MR NOISEMAKER" in all black, standing out like a flashing beam of a lighthouse leading the swollen hands that gripped a steering wheel through a storm both dark and cold. He pressed the button.
A distorted buzz shot through the room.
Like one of the giant's mighty sword-slam soundwaves, it gathered a chorus of gasps and a shimmer of whispers. Sarkaz eyes stilled at the sight, watching the silent performer's continuous and unbroken stride.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
A steady rhythm.
A couple beats per minute.
Maybe more.
Maybe less.
His hand rose, then fell and struck the strings hard. A reverberating boom of distorted displeasure crashed into the landship and turned it upside down, in and over its head. Even the bloodlusted clashing of interlaced Andy-W struggling, paired against the shapeless pile of limbs, ceased at the sound.
Back.
And.
Forth.
Then forward, then even higher.
The sounds swept through the hall like a tree-downing gale, somehow sparking a certain violent fervor within everyone present. As if the sound itself had wormed its way through their skin, seeped into the cells that made them be and infected each neurological receptor, turning it from blue to pure, hateful red. The color of blood. The color that their brains now required. The sight of a river spilling from the flesh that hated – for their bodies now knew nothing but unending, painstaking loathing.
The Sarkaz refugees unstuck themselves from the walls. Their feet led them up, forcing into a standing position. With each stroke of the guitar's strings, each buzz that fueled their hateful rampage, their throats and brains yearned for more – for a sense of closure that came only when witnessing firsthand the sight of a soul leaving its body, and flesh thudding mindlessly against the ground.
Their mouths came apart.
And along to the approaching rhythm, they chanted.
.
Low, high, low. Hiiiigh-into-low.
.
Wooo-OOO-ooo. WOOO-ooo.
.
Thud, thud, thud.
.
Wooo-OOO-ooo. WOOO-ooo.
.
Thud, thud, thud.
.
Wooo-OOO-ooo. WOOO-ooo.
.
Thud, thud, thud.
.
Wooo-OOO-ooo. WOOO-ooo.
.
Thud, thud, thud.
.
Wooo-OOO-ooo. WOOO-ooo.
.
Fin.
.
Each mouth closed shut, as if on command.
Only the guitarist remained – assaulting the thickest string relentlessly with his ebony pick. A rhythm previously unheard in Kazdel, never before seen anywhere outside the stuffy gore-garages of Leithanien's less-privileged musical inclusions, it bounced about the ears of everyone present, like a sweet, cathartic finisher to the deathly chant. Finishing, yet still anticipating more.
Andy and W landed on the floor, momentarily awe-struck by the overbearing creak of the instrument's metaphorical weight. It was heavy. Really, really heavy. Andy's never seen anything quite like that, not even during his long-forgotten days of listening to Kazimierzian black album records, huddled with Lemuel under a blanket. W hasn't ever dreamed of witnessing a spectacle as loud and heavy as this.
Yet, their hearts burned bright. Burned with a want that crawled up the ladder of their spines and flickered a tiny, controlled flame by the base of their brains. A flame that irritated the thinking juices and licked them clean of any reason. The many-armed beastman in front took a step back, his feet thudding hard against the floor. His many, many, many eyes kept scanning the room over and over, being met with the returned gazes of everyone present – the refugees, the idle medic operators, the starving children, the accidentally dead, the ones already subjected to the process of ori-crystallization, and two very, VERY angry temporary operators.
A pair of grimaces twisted their lips downwards. Their hands clutched the smoldering weaponry tighter.
The beastman bent under the weight of their gazes, but his many hands only latched onto the sword-shaped iron alloys with an intensity never before needed. The enraging effects of the white cat's guitar buzz had no place inside of his twisted mind. The white cat had made sure of that.
And before he knew it, the two morons were already hand in hand.
Jumping from tile to tile, their fingers interlaced and married happily, flush and stuck to each other's skin as if molten together – they were inseparable. A hulking rainfall of metal came to split their bond apart, but an equally winding scatter-shot of rapidly zigzagging pellets came to parry the attack almost automatically. With no effort, Andy broke his rifle in half and ejected the spent shell, with W gracefully reaching into his pocket to satiate the chamber's hunger. Their knees bent, as the beastman's other iron claw came to take the weight of their weary heads off their shoulders in an arching swing from the side. Andy saw his own reflection for just a split second, as the sword swooshed past his face and blew his curls back.
.
NEVER HUNGER,
NEVER PROSPER,
.
I HAVE FALLEN PREY TO FAILURE!
.
A rough-sculpted voice blew with the backwards gale, carrying the shouted words of Mr. Newmaker, who kept pumping away a wild, rapid tempo to fuel the moron's bloodust. Their knees scraped the floor, as they slid beneath the beastman to spit at his lesser-arms' attempt at grabbing their throats. W stuck her toothpick knife somewhere into his tibia, and Andy bit his tongue, taking aim within a split second. The gun, as unreasonable as it might've been, reminded him of the creature's most prominent weak spot.
As with any male opponent, a strategy for the ages.
"BLOW HIS DICK OFF!"
Andy saw a flash of red, as the creature bent in half under W's severance of knee-nerves. Open for a clear shot, he grinned like a maniac and squeezed the trigger.
.
STRUGGLE WITHIN,
TRIGGERED AGAIN,
.
NOW THE CANDLE BURNS AT BOTH ENDS!
.
dun, dun, dun, dun
.
TWISTING
UNDER
SCHIZOPHRENIA!
.
The thundering wail of the guitar mixed with the giant's unnaturally high pitched retch of effeminate pain all bent under the might of the rifle's whip-crack blow. With two empty shells flying from its chambers, the giant's entire crotch area had been thoroughly and completely obliterated – torn into shreds – or even less.
.
FALLING
DEEP
INTO
DEMENTIA!
.
A retching, near vomit-like chuckle spilled from both barrels of Andy's coach gun, dissipating into thin air along with the festering ori-smoke.
.
OLD HABITS REAPPEAR!
FIGHTING THE FEAR OF FEAR!
GROWING CONSPIRACY, EVERYONE'S AFTER ME!
FRAYED ENDS OF SANITY,
HEAR THEM CALLING,
HEAR THEM CALLING MEEEE~EEE!
.
A victorious cackle erupted from W's lungs, as she scaled the quivering flesh-mountain's side, using its stiff lesser-arms as steps to hook onto with her boots. Once halfway through the climb up the giant's back, she threw a hand out for Andy to catch and latch onto. Rifle in one hand (still giggling like an asylum escapee), W's fingers in the other, he joined the climb and made quick work of clawing a way onto the beastman's shoulders. Cold, twitchy fingers struggled to keep their composure beneath his touch, as he high-fived every other stuck-out palm for balance. The beast-man was hurting. Hurting hard.
.
BIRTH OF TERROR, DEATH OF MUCH MORE,
I'M THE SLAVE OF FEAR, MY CAPTOR!
.
At the wide open plains that were his massive, meaty shoulders, Andy and W stood on wobbly legs, their eyes scanning constantly – with not even a second to spare for any oddities or otherwise "silly" wrongdoings. The many, many, many arms that sprouted from the living floor all froze, or limped pitifully in pain. Between the sewn-on limbs, grass patches of living, rapidly blinking eyes all stared blankly in whatever direction, leaking water from their corners. An overbearing wave of sobs overtook the beastman, as he fell to his knees, desperately clutching onto the remnants of his manhood.
.
NEVER WARNING, SPREADING ITS WINGS,
AS I WAIT FOR THE HORROR SHE BRINGS!
.
The arms all bent and twisted like a flooded anthill attempting desperately to protect their queen. A cradle of limbs formed around, and veiled the beastman's wailing head, as W and Andy had finally set their sights on the prize. With one last exchanged smirk and a behind-the-back high five, they threw themselves onward, into the thick of the arm-hive. Eyes shot open like saucers, when their soles stepped onto the bouncy tear-makers and stomped them hard into the flesh floor – some of them popped right then and there, painting their boots a delicious mix of apricot orange and bile yellow, while others retracted beneath the skin to wail in solitude. Like a reaper during the final sow, W brandished her toothpick knife, now a glorious scythe, and began slicing the arms off at their base. The giant's screams of pain were drowned both by the echoing boom of Andy's constant, arm-clearing gunshots, and Newmaker's never ending buzz of distorted strings and raspy vocals.
.
LOSS OF INTEREST, QUESTION, WONDER,
WAVES OF FEAR, THEY PULL ME UNDER!
.
Dun-dun-dun.
.
A steady beat of arms being cut, like mushrooms at a mighty gathering, played along to the clown-bard's tune.
.
Dun-dun-dun.
.
The gunman's dexterous fingers made quick work of ejecting and loading the shells far faster than the hands could cover the bloated head. A pellet or two got through, finally staining the beastman's graying scalp.
.
OLD HABITS REAPPEAR!
.
A violent wave of tremors shook the breathing carcass.
.
FIGHTING THE FEAR OF FEAR!
.
Andy felt the ground escaping from beneath his feet. His arms encircled W's waist for balance.
.
GROWING CONSPIRACY, EVERYONE'S AFTER ME!
.
The feel of her loaded jacket pockets left no questions to fester. He knew exactly where the grenades were stored now.
.
FRAYED ENDS OF SANITY!
.
As she clutched onto a knife that bit hard into the beastman's impenetrable garb, both their bodies kept being flung about with each aggrieved buck of his towering stature.
.
HEAR
THEM
CALLING,
.
Dun-dun-dun-dun,
.
Andy caught a set of arms climbing the wave of the creature's shoulder, aiming to rip the two mercs off its back. At the way they all twisted and vined mindlessly towards them, his brain got struck with an epiphany.
.
HEAR
THEM
CALLING
ME!
.
One arm around W, Andy took aim with the other and closed his left eye. His tongue caught a taste of the lingering metallic in the crips, death-reeking air, as he stilled his mind on one goal, one hole between the impenetrable defenses. Enraged and deprived of what made him be, the beastman threw all his metaphorical eggs into one basket, aiming to rip the morons apart with a concentrated whip of limbs. The base of his right arm, however, remained utterly defenseless.
All the eyes scattered over his body widened and stiffened at the sight. Andy smirked, staring along the barrel of his coach-gun. A painful belch of excitement flew from the barrel in the form of a lead ball of phlegm, as the gun coughed out both shells at once.
.
BLAM!
.
The arm-whip immediately withered and fell. Blood splattered in each direction, mixed with lead and skin, with bone and marrow, bile and crushed spinal fluid, as the shotgun blast tore clean through the meat mountain's shoulder. Shattering the bone, melting the fat, cooking the meat, it cleaved the entire thing OFF, whole.
.
Andy glanced up, as a shrieking scream of pain erupted from beneath. He caught a glimpse of W's face, bursting with pure glee and excitement, her hair all over the place from the velocity of the pain-jerk that shook the giant's hide. Her little toothpick knife slipped from between the crack in his skin, as the two of them were flung hard into the floor, landing somewhat gracefully atop one another.
.
"..."
.
"..."
.
Both of them exchanged a glance. Gone was the ear-shattering music from Mr Newmaker's electric instrument. Gone was the refugees' chant.
All that remained were the pained whimpers and mumbles of the many-armed beastman, who cowered pathetically in the corner of the hall. Tears, like sweat, ran down each centimeter of his body, produced by the hundreds of eyes that poked from between the folds of skin and muscle. His only arm remained stuck where it hurt the most – desperately trying to soothe the pain – locked between his disfigured thighs.
W let out a snort at the sight.
.
"Holy shit." She threw between cackles, lifting Andy to his feet and roughly patting his back. "... You're THAT ruthless, Lawdog? To go for another dude's sack? I wasn't familiar with your game, seems like."
Andy joined her chuckles. With each beat of laughter, drippings of blood-red phlegm and bile kept spurting from the giant's shoulder and trailing down to the severed limb.
"I mean, it got the job done, no?"
"Yeah, but… still." W took a breather to calm her heaving chest. Her eyes found Andy's for the first time since their brains had been overcome with the vengeful, yet groundless bloodlust. "... Blew his load, huh? Busted his balls?"
"Oh, shut up." Andy shoved her with a playful chuckle. W retorted with her own volley of laughter, before throwing her arm around his shoulders and bending him in half.
"Really kept your eye on the ball there, huh? Balls to the wall, literally. All over the walls, actually." She kept giggling, while making an effort to ruffle his hair with the tip of her elbow. Andy couldn't really break from her grasp no matter how hard he bucked or shoved, but in all honesty, he didn't even mind this position all that much. "... Got him by the balls, yeah? Sacked his sack? Uh… Uh, the… the… got the ball in our court?" She stopped to shoot him an asking glance. Andy stared back, his brain working overtime to card through hundreds of different ball-related idioms, yet finding none.
"I don't think that one fits…"
"Yeah, that's a bummer…" She sighed, then let go. Just in time for Mr Newmaker to stroll over to the scene, guitar in hand, Uri floating by his back.
"You kids done with 'im yet?" He asked, casual as ever. It seemed that the terrifyingly inhuman wails of the beastman didn't phase him even a bit. "... Off-top, nice shootin', Drewie. And nice stabbin', W." A commending nod for each of them.
"Nice sitting back and doing fuck-all." W snorted at his praise, sizing him up with a deliciously apricot gaze. "... At least you can somewhat play that busker's wet dream. My ears haven't really withered off yet."
"Yet." Andy snuck in, which earned him a knowing look from the girl. Behind their backs, behind anyone's eyes, their tails met together in a casual embrace, wrapped like two snakes seeking comfort in the Northern wastelands of frost.
"And they won't. Believe me, sweetheart." Newmaker let go of the guitar. A bouquet of weakly orange sparks slithered through the cracks of the floor and enveloped the instrument whole, eating it up completely. When the weak flickers dissipated, there was nothing to be seen. "Don't suppose you'll be needin' any more encouragement?"
"Nuh uh." Both of them shook their heads.
"Guessin' miss Susie won't be cheesed off 'bout bein' sent back home, then." He muttered, more to himself than them, with his eyes locked on the festering smoke. "... Me poor, poor lady."
"..." W and Andy weren't too keen on ruining his quiet moment. The wallowing beastman, however, kept screaming in pain.
.
"F-FUCK'S SAKE! FUCK'S SAKE, YOU MONSTERS! YOU–... YOU SHAMELESS CREEPS!"
His not-so-mighty voice kept tumbling through the hall. Eyes turned to stare.
"YOU–... HOW DESPERATE ARE YOU? HOW BRAINWASHED DID YOU GET? IT'S NOT TRUE WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT HER, AT ALL! THAT PINK HAIRED BITCH! THE SHIT THEY SAY, HOW SHE'S SO GOOD AND LOVING? BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! NOONE SANE EMPLOYS MONSTERS LIKE YOU, YOU… YOU RODENTS…"
"That's funny." W propped herself on Andy's side. She was more interested in getting a hold of his hand to curl and un-curl his fingers for no apparent reason, than in the creature's winding mantra. "That's, um… What's it called? Hypo-... Hypo-what?"
"Hypocrisy." Andy smiled back at her, pleasantly surprised by the gentleness of her touch. "That's another big word you can use."
"Yeah, alright. Stop treating me like a toddler." She scoffed, yet refused to let go of his hand. Andy saw her antennae twitching in front of her unnaturally focused eyes – as if she were trying to read his DNA from the notches on his skin.
"I'm not treating you like a toddler, just pointing something out."
"Pointing something out to make yourself feel better. Putting me down, so you can be up."
"Okay, that is NOT–..."
.
"MONSTERS!" The many-armed beastman spouted towards the heavens again. "MONSTERS AND CROOKS! M–... Shut up, hounded imbecile. Thy blades and burning bolts may split the skin and defile my body, but what remains is my will! My will to carry out the Regent's doings! My will to shut out the weaklings of Kazdel, to weed out those UNWORTHY of bearing the mark of the Teekaz! To return the rightful king to his throne! To bring not equality, but a prosperous future for the land torn asunder by the hands of the likes of YOU! The weak! The dying! The dead! The lesser Sarkaz! The non-Sarkaz! You all!"
His many eyes swept the room. The refugees shuddered.
"You all are the plague! You are not the blood of Kazdel! You are not the oil in this machine's cogs! You are the twigs and stems that dirty its running cycle and grind down the lifespan! You!
You!
You are the reason I'm here!"
.
"..." Andy and W stood hand in hand, staring blankly at the yelling pile of meat. Anton soon joined their side, suckling on a lollipop between his teeth.
"... 'S pretty loud, 'at chap. Temp Andy, blast 'em chatter off."
"Aye-aye." Andy nodded softly, then raised his pellet rifle and took aim.
"Can't believe I'm saying this, but that won't work, Drewie." The coach gun whispered into his ear, but he remained deaf. With a soft click, the trigger hugged the metal guard, but no molten lead-phlegm sneezed from the barrel.
"..." Andy blinked. His finger went back and forth, rapidly clicking the trigger. His mind couldn't even latch onto the shells resting inside the barrels. It just felt as if they weren't even there.
"... What's the hold up, Drewie? Scared 'a recoil, suddenly?" Newmaker nudged his shoulder, then swallowed some of that lollipop-laced spit.
"No. The gun refuses to shoot."
"It REFUSES to shoot?" Anton tilted his head. "How so?"
"It said it's a bad idea."
Slowly, Newmaker disposed of his sweet-on-a-stick. "The gun said something?"
"Uh-huh."
"..." He fell back, lost in thought. "... Alright. I'll get Kal to schedule you a mental check-up."
Andy blinked.
"I don't think I need a mental evaluation."
"I think ya do." Mr Well-Adjusted threw back, now sliding his hand along the oxidized steel. He poked his head in front of the bullets' would-be trajectory and stared up the barrel. "... Both shells inside. Can you click it now? Lemme figure out what's wrong wiff' it."
Andy exchanged a glance with W, who shrugged softly. At the lack of help, he could only press the muzzle against the man's eye-hole and pull the trigger again.
It clicked.
But refused to fire.
"Drewie, stop giving me ideas." The gun whispered. Anton stuck his tongue out and went on to check the second barrel.
"Aaalright, this one's swank. Didn't really get the reason, though. Pull the other?"
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why? Why not?" Their eyes met, viewed both ways through the rough iron-sights. "What, the gun told ya somethin' again? C'mon, Drew…"
"Yeah, come on, Drew." W parroted the guy, snickering to herself. "Press the muzzle to his brain and pull the trigger, come on, Drew. You heard the man."
From behind, the giant's golden voice flowed once more.
"Pathetic wenches! Void of honor! Void of the spark that makes us, US! Void of what makes one Sarkaz! That's what you pissants are! Slaves to a system that thrives on submissive acceptance of foreign policies, hell-bent on vivisecting Kazdel into NOTHING! With a cloak on one's back, a scepter in the other – that's how this country should be ruled! Not by adhering to someone else's, made-up game rules! Not by–..."
"Drewie, I'm gettin' mighty sick of 'at chap's effing and blinding. For cryin' out loud, just try to put 'at lead through the barrel. Think it might be a firin' pin jam." Newmaker stuck his eyes flush against the muzzle to admire the rifling. Andy gulped and hesitantly put his finger on the second trigger.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure, for Gawd's sake! Pinch the trigger in a jiffy, or I'm losin' me damn head."
W nudged him encouragingly on the back.
"Law, alright…"
"Law won't help ya, Drew. Just squeeze the trigger."
"Yeah, Lawdog, just squeeze it." W joined in, all giggly and eager.
"FACELESS, FAITH-LESS, WITH NO LAND TO STAND ON! YOU'RE DROWNING IN A SEA OF SERVITUDE, AND YOU'RE TOO DRUNK ON YOUR OWN SICK DELUSIONS OF PEACE TO EVEN NOTICE!-..." The beastman's more sophisticated side kept yelling.
"Law-bot on a cross, will 'at guy ever shut his trap? Think I see the pin movin' in there, Rew." Newmaker let out an exasperated sigh. Uri floated somewhat still behind his back. The eye-gem twitched nervously. "... Yeah, like that. Like that. You gotta squeeze the trigger full. Oh yeah, that's moving. Yeah, that's moving alright. Pedal to the metal, Rew."
.
Andy gulped. His eyes sought W's, but all she offered was a shit-eating grin.
.
The door to the hall slid open with a metallic buzz. No one seemed bothered in the slightest. All focus was pooled into the gun-maintenance session.
.
"Pedal to the metal, Rew. Pedal to the m–..."
.
Click.
.
BANG.
CLANG.
THUD.
.
A thunderstrike of lead shook the hall awake. Along with the sound, a wide-arced plume of dark crimson spilled and splattered all over the shared breathing space. The blast tried guzzling it all, but alas the human spirit proved undefeated in that regard. An explosion of orange, followed by an imploding plume coated in red, threw a shade of a darker tint onto the siphoning atmosphere and flipped it over onto its back. From there on out, silence ruled the air.
Silence.
Nothingness.
The soft squirting of blood.
A gentle shiver in their hushed breathing.
But other than that, silence.
.
Andy dropped the gun. The rusted rattle stained the stillness of the moment, but the pellet-spewer itself had nothing to say. It remained just as shocked as the rest.
.
His eyes were left wide, wide open. Two plates – two bullseye targets, peppered with bullets of pure and utter shock. Some stray shots of terror and disbelief had also managed to sway from their original designation and lodge themselves into his gaze.
.
To the left, W stood completely motionless. Andy hadn't even noticed when her smile had turned into a completely symmetrical and still line. The blast had ruffled her antennae and splurted some red onto her face, but it was her expression, so eerily similar to a startled, bristling cat, that really broke Andy from his own daze.
.
She couldn't move. Her hands remained frozen on his back, fingers drawing blood from the intensity at which they had gripped his shoulders. The blood slowly trickled down his arms and chest. His arms and chest were covered in a massive splurt of foreign hemoglobin. There were some pieces of brain there, too. Some skull shards found their way into his messy curls. An eye tumbled around the floor, seeking its owner.
.
It rolled and rolled. From the corner of the hall, a hundred equally lost eyes stuck to the many-armed beastman watched its floor-journey as well. They all remained wide, WIDE open. Wider than they had ever been allowed before.
His jaw hung equally wide open, actually. The beastman was left silent. Awestruck. Rebuilding Kazdel and ridding it of any fake-Sarkaz seemed to shift in priority roles. The future of the Teekaz race had to wait.
.
In the middle of the hall lay the object of attraction of each awe-struck refugee's eyeballs. The headless corpse of Anton Newmaker, with the bare remnants of his jaw still attached to the blood-spurting neck.
The body kept twitching, however. The fingers tapped and licked at the hefty pool of warm crimson that he found himself in, and his legs bucked gently back and forth, as if trying to crawl away from the reality of having literally lost his head.
.
Smoke poured from the upper barrel of Andy's coach gun. His eyes trailed along the snaking worm made of pure, ori-fueled hatred that slithered and vines towards the nearest air vent. He turned to glance at W again.
.
"..."
.
He saw terror in her eyes. Utter terror. He did not know why.
.
"...?"
.
He wanted to ask, but a glimmer of white and green flashing through her eyes told him everything he would've ever needed to know, and more.
.
Someone had entered through the door.
.
Someone had been standing behind the poor chap when the shell blew his brain apart.
.
Her shoes now soaked up Anton's blood.
.
The soles were bloated, like sponges.
.
Her bare legs, wet with red, had droplets sliding along her unnaturally smooth skin.
.
Her pristinely white, surgical jacket – now turned to an abstract piece of modern art. "Newmaker On Canvas", one might've called it.
.
Pieces of brain riddled her tweedly lime dress. That alone had proven to her that the dear departed Mr. Newmaker's head had in fact NOT been empty prior to the incident.
.
All over her skin – her cleavage, shoulders, neck and face – the remnants of Mr Newmaker remained in liquid form. Some of his smooth, dreamy hair – now wet, more akin to spaghetti bolognese than anything – found its way onto her cheeks and stuck itself there flush, refusing to leave.
.
Her own hair remained mostly thoroughly coated. Caked with brain-batter, bile and blood, as one would have expected. Her Feline ears twitched, knocking a piece of the poor man's upper jaw from her head.
.
And her gaze, lest be painted anything else but judgmental. Her eyes weren't even directed at him, yet Andy felt an overbearing wave of sudden "smallness" that had overcome his very being – his soul, body and mind – the second she made her presence known. Or, rather, the second he's noticed her being there.
.
He felt like nothing. Light as an ant, but heavier than the twin moons orbiting Terra at the same time. Like a miniscule speck of dust, chained to the floor, to this very moment, frozen in time and unable to do anything but stare at the Head of the Medical Department, Doctor Kal'tsit herself in the flesh, as she judged the ever living shit out of the dear departed Mr Newmaker's corpse, that reached out and clung silently to her ankles.
.
Once her eyes connected with the corpse's floating sword, Andy heard Uri let out a choked buzz. He swore it couldn't have been anything else but a gulp of fear.
.
Slowly, she reached for a pocket within her jacket. The entire world sat suppressed by her presence – sat and watched, as she produced a handkerchief from within and gracefully (nearly robotically) wiped her face somewhat clean.
.
She sighed, then took a half-lidded glance over the entire room. Wherever her eyes went, heads sunk deep into their shoulders and begged for the Law or any other deity to let them disappear beneath the metal floorboards. Finally, she settled on the cowering, many-armed excuse of a man that cowered in the corner. It took her but a moment to size the enemy up.
.
Step, step.
.
Her heels echoed through the entire room. Anton's rigor mortis ridden hands fell from her ankles, as she positioned herself in a front-facing manner towards the would-be assassin. The cowering hide, teeming with bulging arms and fear-stricken eyes, returned her gaze.
.
She parted her lips.
.
And just one, soft command slithered from between them.
.
.
"... Mon3tr."
.
.
The earth rumbled.
.
Uri'zen buzzed with unease.
.
A bright flash of green burst through her lab coat.
.
And something else had followed.
.
Something big.
.
Something dark.
.
Something very, very sharp.
...
.
.
"Holy shit…" W whispered.
.
Andy couldn't even find his tongue.
.