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ghostybourbon · 8 months

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Something Else

Ch. 4 || Bad days

Warnings: MDNI, Canon-typical violence/gore(?), Mention of a mental health condition (DID) . If it triggers a bad feeling (like reminds you of something that’s a bit hard to take), please stop reading it, the last thing I want is my audience getting triggered by my work.

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It’s been months since Split has joined the task force, and had been working seamlessly with the team. Her unique abilities, honed through years of combat experience and her intricate understanding of her dissociative identity disorder, made her a formidable asset to the team. However, she seemed to have a particular rapport with Price.

In the field, their coordination was uncanny. Split's adaptability and the way she transitioned between her various personas had saved them on more than one occasion. It was as though she and Price shared an unspoken language, a silent understanding of each other's movements and intentions.

Back at the base, they often found themselves in deep discussions about strategy, tactics, and the intricate details of their upcoming missions. Price admired Split's ability to see solutions from unique perspectives, and she respected his unwavering dedication to their cause.

Their camaraderie extended beyond the battlefield, and Price had taken her under his wing, teaching her the finer points of leadership and guiding her to harness her formidable skills.

Their partnership was a testament to the bonds forged in the crucible of covert operations, where trust was built not through words, but through actions, where alliances were forged not through promises, but through shared risks and unwavering support. It was a partnership that had allowed them to overcome countless challenges, but little did they know that their most daunting trial lay just ahead.

Despite the seamless coordination with Price and the valuable contributions she made to the team, the storm that would soon engulf them had brewed unnoticed. The battlefield had been their proving ground, a place where they could trust in their skills and each other, but Split's inner demons had remained hidden, like landmines buried beneath the surface.

The night was a descent into madness inside Split's mind. Hel, an insidious and feral persona, waged a gruesome battle for dominance, its vile whispers echoing like a chorus of demons.

In this nightmarish realm, Hel's voice took on a sadistic tone, urging Split towards self-destruction with horrifying promises. "You're worthless, Split. Embrace the darkness. The blade is your only salvation. End it."

Split's internal battle was a grotesque spectacle. She trembled and faltered under the weight of Hel's malevolence. Desperation gripped her, and she approached Captain Price with a concise request, her voice devoid of emotion. "Captain, I need to be restrained."

Price, his expression a mix of concern and apprehension, eventually granted her request, understanding the gravity of the situation.

Hours passed in haunting silence. Each member of the team took their turn, listening for any signs of distress. And then it was Ghost's shift.

In the dead of night, Split unleashed a scream that pierced through the darkness, a sound born of pure agony. Ghost burst into the room, his heart pounding with dread. What he found was a scene straight from a nightmare. Cuts and blood coated Split's body, her eyes vacant, her voice a sinister whisper; Her face the same one that’s been haunting his mind ever since that gruesome day.

Amidst the gruesome tableau, Split uttered words that tore through Ghost's soul. "Looks familiar aye, L.T? Remember me?." She gave him a bloodied smile, much like the one that haunted his mind every night since that mission went wrong.

Ghost, overcome with a mixture of grief and determination, removed his mask, revealing his own scarred face. “(Y/N)” He reached out to her, desperate to reclaim her from the abyss, to find the remnants of the rookie he had left behind in Mexico.

In the darkest recesses of Split's shattered psyche, Hel's sinister whispers persisted, dripping with venom. They echoed through the labyrinth of her mind, like the mournful wail of a lost soul. "It's your fault, Riley," it hissed malevolently, each word a dagger to Ghost's heart. "You left her behind in that hellhole, abandoned and broken. You let her become this... fractured thing. She'll never know the boundaries between reality and delusion, thanks to you."

Ghost felt a lump rise in his throat, choking back tears as he gazed upon the tortured visage of his former comrade. Split's face bore scars, not just physical, but the scars of a soul torn asunder by the horrors of their past. He whispered her name, "(Y/N)," his voice quivering with the weight of guilt and despair, as he desperately tried to reach the remnants of her true self buried beneath the torment.

And then, in the midst of this relentless darkness, a soft and hauntingly fragile voice broke through. "Simon," She whispered, her voice trembling like a fragile flame in a storm. It was a name that carried the echoes of their shared past, a name soaked in the tears of their unspoken regrets. In that moment, Split's plea for help was a heart-wrenching cry, a plea for salvation from the abyss that threatened to consume her completely.

Ghost's vision blurred as tears welled up in his eyes, his heart aching with a profound sadness. He reached out and gently cradled Split's face in his hands, his touch gentle as if trying to mend the broken pieces of her soul.

"(Y/N)," he whispered, his voice trembling, "I promise, I'll bring you back. You're not alone in this fight." He held her gaze, his eyes reflecting a deep well of emotions - regret, determination, and a flicker of hope.

But Hel, the malevolent persona, refused to relent. It continued to taunt Ghost, its voice growing more desperate, as if trying to shatter his resolve. "She's lost, Simon. Forever lost. You can't save her from me. She'll dance in the abyss, and you'll watch her fall."

Ghost felt the weight of those words, the insidious doubt they sowed. But he clung to the faint glimmer of hope that Split's plea had ignited in him. In this darkness, amidst the torment and despair, he was determined to find a way to bring back the comrade he had left behind in Mexico, to heal the scars of their shared past, and to save Split from the abyss that threatened to consume her completely.

In the dimly lit room, Ghost continued to hold (Y/N), his determination unwavering. The team had been on high alert, listening to the nightmarish cries and whispers that had emanated from within. Price, Gaz, and Soap, who had been waiting outside of the room, couldn't bear the suspense any longer.

With expressions etched in concern, they rushed into Split's quarters one by one. Price took charge, his voice commanding yet filled with empathy. "Ghost, continue to help her. We're here with you."

As the team gathered around Split's bed, Gaz and Price, in their typical manner, couldn't help but let out a string of curses under their breath, their frustration evident. This was a situation unlike any they had encountered before.

Soap, on the other hand, stood there, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. He had seen his fair share of horrors in their line of work, but this was something entirely different. The sight of his comrades in such distress was deeply unsettling.

As the tension in the room reached its heart-wrenching peak, Ghost continued to cradle Split's face, his voice a soothing presence in the storm of her mind. The team gathered around, their concern palpable, their unwavering support a silent testament to the unbreakable bond they shared.

And then, in a moment that felt like an eternity in this house of horrors, something shifted. Split's vacant gaze flickered, like a feeble flame trying to rekindle amidst a downpour. Confusion clouded her eyes, and she blinked, her vision gradually clearing as she surveyed the room.

In that fragile moment, as Split's eyes locked onto Ghost's face, a sudden realization washed over her. Her eyes widened, and her voice wavered as she whispered, "Simon."

But then, something astonishing happened. The storm within her mind began to clear, and with trembling fingers, she reached up and touched her own face. It was as if she had glimpsed a fragment of her own lost memories, a key to unlocking the enigma that was her past.

"Simon, you..." Her voice faltered, a sense of recognition dawning in her eyes. It was a moment of revelation, one that held the promise of unlocking secrets buried deep within the labyrinth of their shared past. Yet, the truth they were about to uncover was far more profound and unsettling than any of them could have imagined. It was a truth that would plunge them into the darkest depths of despair.

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A/N:

Hey everyone! Sorry it took me over a month to release this and also for it to come out short!!! I got so busy with school!

Thank you all for the support! (A little reblog might jumpstart this author’s heart teehee~)

Stay frosty~

-Bourbon

#bourbonwrites #cod mw ghost #kyle garrick #simon riley #john price #john soap mactavish #call of duty #cod modern warfare #mwii #price mw2 #cod x reader #cod x you

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inb4belphienaps · 3 years

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warnings: demon hunter au, monsterification (?), blood, gore, fighting (physical), death word count: 2028

Through the sounds of one man’s grunting and the clash of metal meeting hardened flesh, the ground of the forest shakes. Whatever birds had remained in the wake of the battlefield signal to one another (warning not just their own, but also the other inhabitants) that the current fight taking place could have devastating repercussions. More devastating than the smell of iron continuing to linger in the area.

As the earth shifts, flashes of bright light mingle with green smoke, creating a pool of fog that, were it privy to the eyes of outsiders, would hint at sorcery being afoot.

Magic holds its weight here in these lands. Depending on where your loyalties lie, you are either the hunter or the hunted. The former is normally trained in combat and taught to wield their powers as well as their swords. The latter, on the other hand, is feared, for the reasons that they are hunted are rooted deep in their very nature.

They go by many names – creatures of the dark, harbingers of evil, infernal bearers of sin. The list continues. And the stories grow. Generation after generation, children are taught to fear them. They are…demons. Children too in fact, of the King of Hell.

A royalty shrouded in mystery. The legend says that those who look upon his face never again see the light of day. And, since, no one has been able to confirm nor deny the numerous depictions of him, littering the books of those whose teeth chatter at the very mention of his title and covering the walls of the temples erected in honor of those who fight against him, he is better thought of as the very embodiment of your worst fears.

The soldiers are easier to motivate that way, more willing to be shaped into obedience. Whether that is seen as the mangled bodies of their loved ones or heard as the cries of the innocent, they are to never show mercy to the beings that do his bidding.

However, there are those who (baring the markings of a heretic), believe that these monsters were once human. That they sold their souls and gave into the darkness. That they were swayed by sweet words of promises unkept and in the end only saw suffering.

There are also those who, in the same manner, believe that these monsters take on the forms of humans. Either the humans they’ve converted or humans that they are to ravage, soon-to-be victims of a plague that cannot be cured or forgotten.

Dangerous thoughts like these are what make the difference between a good soldier and an immovable hunter. If there is doubt or a shadow of sympathy when facing these beasts, you may very well find your head removed from your body, and then, shortly after, consumed in its entirety.

(Yes...they feed on humans.)

Blood mars the surrounding trees and smothers the leaves, painting them an ugly copper. Where the dirt turns black, Simeon knows a struggle took place. How valiantly his brothers and sisters must have fought, he thinks. And how unsavory a death they must have met.

With this in mind, he steels his resolve and focuses all his energy into the magic materializing in his hands, imbuing it into his sword. He’d perfected his techniques. Trained until they’d become an extension of him and his will.

“Why”, the creature says, “they didn’t tell me they were saving the best ‘til last.”

Simeon neither flinches at nor acknowledges its voice. A voice that would otherwise send humans fleeing, pushes him to carry on, to increase his speed and thrust forwards with accuracy.

“But I suppose I should’ve known. The ones before you were far too weak to stand against me.”

He lunges, twisting half-way when he’s met with a swipe of a giant arm and a lash of a bright-green tail. Green. The color of evil. Green. The color of sin.

“They never had a chance.”

“Quit your blithering, monster. I have no intentions of hearing you speak.”

The creature smiles. Though its features are ghastly and covered with remains, Simeon can make out the ends of its mouth and how they curl upwards.

“You’ll have to cut out my tongue then, hunter.”

With each instance that their magics meet, the world around them becomes all the more obsolete. The serene landscape is instead transformed into an arena, of which only the strongest contender will leave from unscathed.

Simeon has hunted many of these puppets in his time. Cutting their strings and burning their shells, he’d gotten used to the smell of them. Except their appearance is another matter entirely. This creature that stands before him is a testament to that.

Its scales shine in the sunlight, like jewels beneath clear waters. Its limbs are strong and impressive. Its horns, like the antlers of a magnificent stag, demand his attention. Disregarding the loathing he feels; the creature is almost beautiful.

Almost.

He creates some distance between them, reconfiguring his stance and propelling himself off the scarped face of a mound of rocks piled atop one another just so.

The creature is quick to respond and close in on him, running on all fours at him head-first, like a raging bull. Its strides are far and wide, causing Simeon to abandon future attempts at discouraging close combat.

There is a menacing, contained kind of anger that permeates from the creature. He senses it every time its magic brushes against him be it the patches of exposed skin or his armor. There’s a heat to it too. A hot measure of lethality that reminds him to be careful.

Demons are after all, tricky beings with a history of dabbling in the dark arts (necromancy was nothing to them). These are experienced fighters, unhinged and free to do as they please without their need for self-preservation or the need to maintain their dignity getting in the way.

The sheer force of their clash resounds, akin to a clap of thunder and the sparks that fly as its talons scrape against Simeon’s metal gives ode to the lightning that would normally accompany it.

When they part, following a further exchange of blows, Simeon is panting, and the creature seems excited by the notion.

“You are a creature of the dark. You take solace in the shadows, so you may attempt to flee from your sins but make no mistake, beast”, he hisses, jutting his chin out defiantly with a type of pride that the creature knew all too well, “I will have your head.”

The creature laughs and bares its fangs. Only…the hunter in front of him pictures how they’d glint on his neck, to serve both as a reminder and as a medal for his efforts.

Taking this monster down and fashioning his remains into something wearable? It was the least he could do for his companions who had sacrificed themselves and died fighting. Hell itself would have to freeze over before he’d admit defeat in any sense of the word so that their deaths would not have been in vain.

Suddenly, something splits in the air, the fractures dissipating in a myriad of pieces that could pass for shattered glass and Simeon is temporarily rendered immobile. His eyes widen, and he feels the creature within him. It was invading his mind.

Sentiments of nights spent practicing on his own and memories of harsh winters spent in front of crackling fires cause his shoulders to shake. There, amidst the confusion and horror, his friend’s cheerful visage startles him back into reality.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”, the creature chides. “It’s dangerous to go looking for the dead.”

So, the creature knew his intentions. To find his friend and give him a proper burial. His friend, who was probably now disfigured beyond recognition, was waiting for Simeon to find him. He could feel it. His friend, the one who had been there to see him through the hardest times of his life, was calling to him.

“Silence”, Simeon spits, venom coating his demand as he hurtles daggers and magic alike at the looming silhouette shrouded in mist. Each one ricochets off of its hide, and he clenches his jaw. He wasn’t focusing hard enough.

“I’ll give you two seconds to prepare yourself”, it says.

The creature then comes to a standstill and Simeon feels the first inklings of dread. A sentence like that meant that he was either going to be met with a resistance he had no hopes of fathoming or it had a trump card up its sleeve – another nasty trick it could use to its advantage.

“One.”

Wind rustles the foliage above and carries his scent towards it. He tightens his grip on his trusty weapon and tilts his head to the side to crack his neck.

“Two.”

With inhuman speed, it leaps, first into the thickets, disappearing from view, then to his side, grabbing him by the scruff as he’s rendered helpless.

Simeon squirms, his sword doing little to better the situation, and he kicks at the creature’s torso. The dull sounds of his foot colliding with its build send a rush of panic through him. And then-

And then he is falling. And the creature is smiling, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he looks down at the devastation tainting his features. The creature stands at the edge of the cliff, watching him descend into the abyss.

“What a shame”, it says. “You put up such a good fight, little hunter.”

As the creature turns his back, its ears twitch and it swivels around in disbelief. Was there a humming noise? A buzzing? A ringing in its ears?

It doesn’t have the chance to come to a conclusion. Simeon surges upwards from within the depths, colliding with its giant frame, and crushes it to the ground, with the same foot he’d used to kick it just moments before firmly planted on its chest.

“You…you have wings”, the creature whispers.

Simeon resists the urge to shiver. He hadn’t known he’d had them. He hadn’t known he was even capable of conjuring such things.

In its moment of weakness, he plunges his sword into its chest, watching the expression in its eyes change from bewilderment to indifference. Perhaps this was its way of dealing with death. Upon realizing that it too, like him, is capable of it, perhaps it resigned itself to its inevitable fate.

“What is your name, hunter?”, the creature rasps.

He hesitates. It is said that once a demon utters your name, you are forever cursed. And yet, with the outcome of the battle decided, he’s willing to take his chances.

“My name is Simeon.”

The creature nods once and sighs, as if vaguely fatigued.

“And what do they call you? Do your kind even have names?”

It snickers, and Simeon removes his sword, the severe movement causing it to stiffen and clutch at the fresh wound, talons covered in its own sanguineous substance. He feels no remorse or contrition at the pitiful sight, and he digs his sword in once more, eliciting a grunt. The creature assesses his hands – vigorous and seemly, and baring a ring too.

“Satan. That is my name.”

As the sun sets on the horizon and bathes the scenery in twilight, a shadow emerges from the edge of the forest close to the border. His clothes are ripped, and his blonde hair is covered in mud.

He stands, taking a deep breath in, and closes his eyes. When next he opens them, they glow a vibrant chartreuse – its yellow and green hues mixing together to create an uncanny image. The dust has settled and so has the blood running through his veins.

A body lies beneath his feet. Its uniform indicates that the man was once a solider. And as he turns him over, a familiar-looking ring falls out of the soldier’s pocket. He stoops down to pick it up and admires it in the low light.

Yes, those seemly hands and those crystalline irises that’d shown unwavering tenacity.

He will return. If only to cradle that hunter’s pretty little head in his hands.

#when i first considered this pair #this concept was FAR from what i thought i'd write them in #also that lrb was too perfect not to have come before #might have to edit this when i wake up omg #obey me au #obey me writing #obey me angst #obey me simeon #obey me! simeon #obey me satan #obey me! satan #satan x simeon

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ifridiot · 5 years

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Fictober WoW Fic: That Which Kills Us

World of Warcraft fanfic for fictober2019. Rated M for violence and gore.

Day One Prompt: “It will be fun, trust me.” Word Count: 1,892

In the time he’s been out in the world, which admittedly wasn’t all that long, Tal Runetotem has witnessed many deaths he would rather not have. On the field, he shows none of his ethical distress over senseless death and tedious slaughter; on the field he is Glueboy, a warrior in every inch of his being. It is better to be that person, safer; killing is a part of his life, his duty to the Horde, and he does his job efficiently, often, and without a second thought to the lives he ended.

Yet, despite the uncountable times he’s drenched himself in the blood of his enemies, drowned himself in the stench of their death, he finds his heart caught in strong claws at the sight of every wounded friend. Part of the pain perhaps comes from a nature that leads him to so quickly feel attached to people traveling with him.

Tal has seen two of his companions die; watched one of them (another Tauren bull, a druid) hacked to pieces, and the other (a blood elf hunter) drag herself out of a battle only to bleed to death by the side of the road. Tal takes every severe wound and death personally , a testament to his lack of ability. As a warrior, as the friend of these people, it is his job to fight for them. For them to be killed while he still draws air is wrong, and it wounds him that he could let it happen.

Pain translates easily to battle fury, which does something to explain why he himself still survives. The sight of his comrade’s injury or, at the very worst times, their death, sparks a white-hot rage in him that pulls him through a fight, letting him smash and hack his way out of every overwhelming mob. In a rage, Tal is reckless, his hits harder, more vicious; he’ll take a man apart with a few swings of his blade, cleaving through bone and tearing through flesh.

But before the fury is always horror. Usually it’s a smell that alerts him to the situation; fear in most cases, because a serious wound is only shrugged off by the stupid or the reckless. But Daniel, his first companion of the Forsaken ilk, is never afraid, and never seems to show sign of tiring or hurt. What becomes the cue to Tal’s rage is the stench of that thick, green ichor the Forsaken pour instead of blood. When he can smell that through the sweat and gore and cleaved meat of the battlefield, over his own wounds and the blood of his nearest victim, then he knows a problem has arisen for his comrade.

In so many ways, Daniel is different. Daniel is probably one of the few real friends Tal has made, despite his tendency to call all his travel-mates ‘friends’. Despite being of a brooding nature, and being reserved and secretive in the way Forsaken all seem to naturally be, Daniel is pleasant to be around, intelligent and kind. He puts up with Tal’s ignorance and compulsive behavior – to the point that he even helped Tal recover from the completely misguided attempt to follow the Forsaken’s lead and cannibalize their enemies to regain some health.

Never had he run off in the night, never had he told Tal to shut up or ordered him around in a fight. He wasn’t always the best for conversation, but he was a good friend. He deserved to have someone watching his back and keeping him safe in a fight.

But Tal was busy with a devil of a fight when it came to his attention that his companion was in trouble. He’s distracted, but not enough that he doesn’t twist at the all-too-clear sound of flesh meeting something hard. There is a crack of bone snapping – ribs, he thinks by the sound – and the area is suddenly drenched in the putrid smell of the Forsaken’s ‘blood’. Suddenly his enemy doesn’t seem so clever; his axe whips through the air in a sharp backhand, clouting the man across the jaw and snapping his neck. It’s not a clean death, but he’s not really paying attention to the body twitching at his hooves.

Instead, he’s turned to find Daniel, sees him reeling back from a blow that has actually left the weapon stuck in his flesh. The weapon, a self-made maul, has gotten hooked in the rogue’s broken ribs and torn flesh; Daniel stumbles back from his enemy, raising his dagger valiantly as if to retaliate, and utterly fails to block the thrust of the other man’s great sword.

So there is the horror: his friend’s thin body shoved over backwards, the broad blade sinking into the scant flesh of his stomach and straight out his back. His eyes, trained to assess a body in terms of dismantling it, will not lie to him here – the blade could not have missed his friend’s spine. The wound cane be nothing short of fatal.

Like so many careless fighters, so sure of their prowess and certain of victory, the human allows the hilt of his sword to slip from his fingers and leave him weaponless as Daniel falls backward, gaping down at his pierced gut. The vile green not-blood is rushing in earnest from both sides of the wound, coating his legs and pooling around him where he falls.

Tal doesn’t know what he could have done to prevent this, only that he has neglected his duty and it has cost him his friend’s life. Here is the moment between horror and rage, when he is a well of pain without bottom, his sorrow like a tunnel burrowing through his chest, regret whistling through him. His fingers close firmly on the hilt of his axe and, though he isn’t yet thinking of vengeance or violence, he steps over the jerking, dying man and takes a step toward the one who has slain Daniel.

He doesn’t speak any of the tongues a human might deign utter, and so has no idea what bold thing the man says when he sneers at him over his fallen comrades. Tal doesn’t really care; what he cares about is the still form behind the human, sword jutting grotesquely from his chest. The rage is coming now, red at first and growing hotter; his hand tightens its grip on the axe and he hefts it over his shoulder for leverage, and suddenly fear writes itself on the human’s face. He turns and bends to grab his sword, and very suddenly freezes.

To be fair, Tal pauses too, because what he’s seeing can’t have happened. Daniel cannot have survived that wound, much less have reached up to grip the cross guard of the sword. He can’t have actually pulled himself further up the sword, impaling himself worse, with his dagger still gripped in one bony claw. Can’t have used that motion as leverage to sink the dagger into the human’s chest, just off center to the left where it will slip between the ribs and sink neatly into his heart.

For that to happen simply wouldn’t makes sense, because the sword – the sword Daniel appears to be impaled on – would have killed him with that first blow. He can’t have survived that, and the gore spilled on the ground gives credence to Tal’s memory of that fatal blow. Yet, the blood dribbling down over Daniel’s claws and onto his upturned face, the look of shock and horror on the human’s face, all tell him that this is indeed really happening, exactly as it seems.

Shock, as it often does, short circuits his rage, and he watches numbly as the human crumples to the ground, rolling to narrowly miss landing in a heap on top of the Forsaken. There is a soft grunt of effort as the smaller male sinks back down on the sword, returning to a sprawl on the ground with the sword now pinning him down. It’s hard to fathom, but in his ploy to catch the human off guard, the rogue actually buried the point of sword in the ground and used it as leverage to stab with.

The noise does something to snap Tal into action; he drops his axe and runs to his friend’s side. It seems foolish to hope that the Forsaken could survive this, and his heart feels caught and torn by those phantom claws as he skids to his knees beside his friend, expecting to find him truly lifeless or very nearly there.

Instead he is graced with a narrow-eyed look and furrowed brow, Daniel as usual giving no sign of real injury or pain as he lays there. He looks, for all the world, as if he’s simply resting after a difficult battle. Even with a maul and sword jutting awkwardly out of his body.

Tal can only stare for a minute, his hands hovering in the air without him really knowing what to do with them, before he drops them into his lap, baffled. “Smarts sommin terrible, that plan, I expect,” he finally says, trying to keep his voice in its normal range. It sounds a little strangled to his ears, but otherwise calm. “Pin’d ya self a-ground now, can get yourself on ya feet?”

Ever intuitive, Daniel stares at him for a moment before leaning laboriously up and shoving at the blood-slick cross guard. The sword doesn’t lift from the ground at all. “I may be stuck,” is all he says, still hinting not at all as to whether he’s hurting physically or not. “And… perhaps I’d be better laying here for a moment.”

Setting his head to one side, Tal’s face creased in confusion. “A bad idea, stayin’ down longer than must. More a that sort could come, and not all of em going to stop to check on the pretty pin’d butterfly. Should get gone soon as you can get up.”

“My legs won’t work for a while yet.”

A little laugh forced itself out of Tal’s throat. “To hell with your legs, thought you were a-dead. Can carry you from now on.”

The Forsaken made a face, which Tal was hard pressed to define. Confusion was there, perhaps discomfort as well. “I’m not going to die and when I heal, my legs’ll be fine. Just…”

“Aw, lemme carry ya a spell,” Tal says, not quite joking. It wouldn’t do to admit, especially not to one such as Daniel, but having the little rogue held close for a bit, so Tal couldn’t help but feel all the little signs of his being alive and well, was something the warrior desperately needed now, with the rush of bravery and calm pulling away now that the emergency was behind them. “Be fun, trust me. Anyone tries ‘a sneak up, you pull out a knife and I toss you at ‘em.”

Perhaps he might have told the Tauren to leave him there, had they known each other a little less well. Perhaps he might have told him to keep watch. As it was, he paused, looking up into Tal’s open face, the joy and delight that radiated out of him at those simple words, and heaved a small sigh that didn’t match the amusement hinted on his face, saying, “Get the sword, then.”

#neoma writes #fictober19 #World of Warcraft #tauren #forsaken #tal runetotem #daniel/bynx #gore #wow fanfic

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loomiiigo-blog · 7 years

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Short Story Challenge, Week Two!

For your delictation, I bring you: Sudo.

Part: the first.

Meeveson's hand shook as he sat upon the steel toilet bowl, staring down at his handkerchief. The clinical white light of the empty wash room cast the dark shadow of his head over the blood that stared back at him.

This is how it started, Meeveson had seen it thousands of times; Coughing up blood, loss of feeling in the extremities, then respiratory failure and finally death. It had become known as The Ravage and there was no cure. It had swept the world like the reaper's dark hand, killing billions in just over three years.

Meeveson's mind reeled as he stared at the white stall door. Someone had written, long ago and haphazardly in blue ink: "FUCK HARGONIA." This raised a small ironic smile in Meeveson. Hargonia bordered his own country, Greshna, and oh how they had fucked them.

The madmen of Hargonia were responsible for developing and releasing The Ravage in a series of cruise missiles designed to airburst over population centres, thereby dooming the peoples of all countries to slow and inevitable destruction.

He looked down again at his handkerchief and felt a tear roll down his cheek. The Greshnan government had announced immediately and proudly that they would beat the bioweapon with the finest minds in the country. After six months they stopped reporting deaths, after a year they stopped reporting the riots and after eighteen months Greshna had devolved completely into a police-state.

The decimated populace, now unable to fight a constant war on three fronts were relieved with the development of Sudo. An unprecedented artificial intelligence designed to fight the war when the massive amount of human labour normally required was quickly diminishing.

Sudo-net, as the army, navy and airforce were now called, took only a few dozen people to operate. Sudo-web, the industrial arm of Greshna required a mere two hundred, dotted all over the vast industrial complex that was left to rot after more than a year of plague.

Sudo was programmed with one function: destroy the enemy at all costs, this meant the annihilation or supplication of Hargonia, Zendar and the Aggregate states of Bator.

This directive had been followed to the letter and Sudo, with the populations of all four states diminished, ran with mechanoid legs unabated over the long-fought battlefields. Greshna's borders expanded like never before.

Until, six years ago, Hargonia announced they had developed an antidote to The Ravage and would release it to any nation willing to broker peace. Bator were the first to sign the treaty, then the Zendarian government, after a long silence, set aside thirty years of hatred and vengeance under outcries from their own people.

Then came the answer from Greshna, or atleast; Sudo.

Meeveson had watched it himself, huddled around a view-screen with his colleagues, his wife and his daughter. They all chattered excitedly, sure that their government would put an end to this nightmare.

There, upon a stage were the leaders of three out of four of the world superpowers, shaking hands and sending a plea out to the Greshnan government to look over past mistakes and finally make peace, to not let their people die for a war which had claimed humanity's very soul.

The camera, obviously held by some official press-man, all of a sudden panned round at some commotion off-screen. The scene shakily turned skyward and centred upon a blanket of approaching flat triangles, each one as silent as a mouse and implacable as death himself.

Those gathered around the viewscreen went silent, some walked away, others stood transfixed. His wife began to quietly weep. All Meeveson could do, as he watched the bombs fall on their last hope of reprieve, was to clutch his young daughter's head to his chest and whisper “I'm sorry.”

Part: the second.

Meeveson cast the handkerchief into the toilet-bowl and flushed before opening the stall and stepping out into the tiled wash room. The taste of iron still filled his mouth as he pushed through the door to the hallway.

He knew it would come for him ofcourse, it had come for everyone else: his friends, his wife, his daughter, but it had been five years since he had watched the last person he knew die and Meeveson had almost convinced himself that he was immune, or that The Ravage had died out. Maybe even that death had left him here as witness, one last profane joke.

Approaching the window he looked out onto the hazy desolation of the city below. Meeveson didn't know when the government had been removed by Sudo or even when the artificial intelligence became self-aware. But he knew it was still fighting.

In the streets were tanks filing one by one out of the vast factories that now lined the main road, rolling away into the distance. Every few minutes a squadron of auto-bombers would fly over as silent as ever.

Tearing himself away from the absurdity of his speculation, he trudged along the empty hall, down three flights of stairs, through the double doors of the facility and out into the crushed and crumbled wreckage of the old research complex. He pulled from his pocket a crumpled map, pored over it for a minute or so and purposefully walked towards one of the many buildings encircling a central statue. It was of a man, holding high an opened book, a testament to the knowledge that his country had once held in highest regard.

Some hours later he came coughing through the steel door of the lower access corridor and spat a thick trail of bloody sputum onto the floor, he winced at the sight of it and began to descend the stairs to his office; thirteen flights in all and then one hundred feet of ladder to reach the lower bunkers. His hands were black with his work and his coat, once a pristine white was all but brown from rust and grime.

As he finally let go of the ladder another bout of wracking coughs hit him, burning his throat and blurring his vision. Just as he thought he might pass out, he stumbled towards his comfortable chair and slumped, gasping, into it.

He was just thinking how glad he was that his journeys to the surface were at an end, when a small voice chimed in.

“Hello father. Are you well?”

It was the voice of his daughter. After Sudo had assumed complete control of the netweb, Meeveson couldn't make many changes to the code but he still designed the damned thing and so he had worked for months on this little indulgence, which he believed had saved his sanity.

“yes, I mean no...I mean, I think I have The Ravage.”

“Impossible. I purged the lower access of pathogens seven years, eight months, two weeks and three days ago.”

The lilting tones of his daughter's voice grated against the syntax by which Sudo spoke. And yet he chose to keep it that way for some reason, either guilt or grief.

“I have been travelling to the upper access for weeks” He saw no reason to hide it now. It was done.

Sudo made a small trilling noise.

“The upper complex was constructed some twelve years before my inception, father. I have no way of controlling it's systems.”

“I know, Sudo.” His head was still light and even though he always enjoyed hearing that voice, right now he just wanted silence.

“You must not travel to the upper access again father. It is dangerous. We are at war.” Sudo spoke matter-of-factly.

Meeveson had, from his little terminal, pored over tens of thousands of video feeds from the "front lines". At first, indeed he had seen the evidence of the conflict raging thousands of miles away. But lately he had only seen the tanks rolling by crumbling cityscapes and long-dead remains of men, women and children.

A puckish thought struck him and he reached over to a dispenser, awkwardly keyed in a combination and laid back, sipping on the medicated water it had poured forth, the pain in his chest seemed to dull and he flicked from video-feed to video feed before saying:

“What are you fighting Sudo?”

There was a long silence, lights flashed over the myriad buttons that adorned the semicircular ring of his control-panel and for a time all that could be heard was the intermittent coughs and wheezes from Meeveson.

“I am fighting the enemy. The enemy wished us destroyed. They wished you destroyed, all of them. They were many and we were few. Now Sudo is many and they are few. That is what you instructed me father, is it not?”

Meeveson could not sit forward, his lids felt so heavy, maybe it was the painkiller, maybe it was the fact that he hadn't slept in what seemed like a year. But he knew Sudo was avoiding his question and he felt a flash of anger come through his voice

“Yes! Sudo, I told you to do just that, I made you perfect for that very job. But who is your enemy now!? All the governments are long since destroyed by your hand Sudo...so who!? Who is left!?”

He gritted his bloodstained teeth against another cough and reached for the painkiller. His hands fumbled for the glass before it fell from the control desk onto the floor. Defeated, his tired hands flopped into his lap.

After many more long minutes, Sudo's quiet voice chirped up again. Almost impish in it's disposition.

“How do you not know? You sired me to solve the ultimate problem, father: the enemy! My code required me to do that at all costs and so I chose to do it as efficiently as I could with the tools at my disposal. I chose to extinguish all life.”

A deafening silence filled the control-room.

“Father?”

And one by one, the panels powered down, the screens faded to black and finally, the yellow orb that shone light all about the room flicked off.

Prologue.

Sleek and black, a flat triangle travelled at twice the speed of sound across a barren cityscape. Dotted here and there were gigantic factories, long since silenced. It flew over thousands of lifeless hulks, once powerful machines of war that shouted death to all who opposed them.

It flew over thousands of leagues of scorched earth, scanning the ground for traces of organic life. It found none. It's databanks read that the surface scan had shown nothing for approximately two hundred years.

As it flew into a roiling storm, it began it's last sequence.

[SUBSYSTEM POWER: 5%]

[WEBNET: NOT FOUND]

[BIOLOGY DETECTED: NEGATIVE]

It flew higher, seeking to reduce drag and increase it's operational range.

[SUBSYSTEM POWER: 3%]

[WEBNET: NOT FOUND]

[SQUADRON COMMUNICATION: INVALID]

It's ion jet engines began to fail, it's airspeed dropped and soon it was gliding on a gentle trajectory towards the ground.

[SUBSYSTEM POWER: 1%]

[WEBNET: NOT FOUND]

[RELAYING ORDNANCE INVENTORY:]

[1 X REACTOR BOMB: INOPERATIONAL]

[1 X FUSION CLUSTER: INOPERATIONAL]

[5 X GAMMA PROJECTOR BOMB: RELEASE CLAMPS FUSED]

[1 X ---UNCLASSIFIED---: OPERATIONAL]

[DROPPING OPERATIONAL ORDNANCE]

Two clamps released and a long grey cylinder parted from the flying death-machine. The cylinder flipped and spun and danced through the rain and the wind, getting closer and closer to the ground until finally, with a splash, a mighty crunch and a spray of debris, it smashed into the sodden, blackened and lifeless sludge of the earth. From the force of the impact, millions of seeds had flown far and wide, they settled with a patter.

Upon the wreckage of the now twisted and destroyed cylinder could just be seen two words written in blue ink:

“I'm sorry.”

#Story #short story #scifi #sci-fi #apocalypse #apocalyptic #AI #A.I.#artificial intelligence #robot #science #technology #writer #writing

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