A NEW TERROR( STAR WARS CROSSOVER)

[sonofccn]

Well bad news out of the way I won't be able to do this week's chapter. I'm not ashamed to say it was due to pressing needs which couldn't be avoided. What I am ashamed to admit is that's a lie, and I stole that joke from Married with Children, and it was completely my inaction, short attention span and inability to focus which kept me from managing even a half arse update. So far that I apologise to my two(2) readers. As a bit to make up my lethargy here is something I cooked up over the weekend instead of doing the chapter like I was supposed to. In short its acidic drippings from my brain and why you shouldn't watch Expendable 2 , Watchmen and Heavy Metal while spazzing out on way too much sugar, caffine and pizza then get it in your head to write some kind of Extreme verse. And yes I realize my characters are flatter than even my gross standard and are trivially easy to see from whom I stole them from.

Needless to say it has no actual relation to my previous work, exists in a total seperate universe and to half arse justify it and make it slightly less apparent I, in panic, grabbed a random scribble from my hardrive present it as a bit of in-universe fiction. So enough preamble let's do this.

"...was the embodiment of the then fledgling "counter-culture" with its stark depiction of brutal "heroes" the likes of which even EC wouldn't be able to rival for another ten years on and stood in heavy contrast to the "pulp tales" which proceeded it on the American scene. Such narratives of "Doctor Courage", a scholarly man of medicine who battles eldritch horrors during his off hours, or "Action-Valor", a rotating anthology depicting servicemen and women defeating the insidious forces of the Imperium as well as fiendish aliens, which featured straight cut flag waving protagonists "doing their part" to ensure American Democracy were wholly unlike the 12 issue "DeathRide" with its almost malignant perversions. Indeed so great was its irrevelence towards "greater principals", as well as abundant uses of words and phrases obtained from texts declared illegal within American territory and the European Alliance, and so strident were it opponets that it wouldn't be until '77 when the story set was first published legally in America and only after thriving in the European Alliance sphere for so long. A monumental occansion we here at Arkham Unlimited publishing are pleased to pay homage too with this leather bound collector's edition, reprinting the original 12 issues nigh unchanged from the writer's, Allen Miller, original vision with only minor censorship to conform with public hygiene and conscious such as the removal of the tawdry "tentacle rape" scene in issue # 8. And without further ado we present:

ISSUE#1: All the agents assemble

I. Samuel “The Bear” Upton
Notable quote: “A soldier’s best friend is his entrenchment shovel followed by a forty-five and a bottle of JD…”

Making a mockery of the fiery cascade of lead tracing around it the Harpy fighter swam beside the larger, more ponderous bomber, the fighter’s rotary cannons revolving in their under slung turret housing and firing on the larger craft peppering it with “pellet-fire”. Spherical ordinance, propelled by accelerating magnetic fields, designed to perforate an aircraft’s thin hull then ricochet inside it and through the mushy constructs who dwelled within her. As what occurred with two the two side gunners, bodies vanishing beneath streamers of crimson and scarlet, who convulsed and fell slacken from their posts. Above the top gunner screamed out, ending in a wet gurgle, and then loudly slumped against the back wall of his narrow alcove dangling his legs growing red stripes loosely from the lip of his crevice. Swinging, threatening to fall completely, as the bomber rolled and pitched trying to evade the circling Harpy. Rocking the heavy set man seated on a narrow strip in wall as he leaned out to one of crumpled gunners and wedged his bottle into its ravaged face and pried until the cap broke off. Leaving that deposit as a present, along with several foamy suds, he leaned back palming the neck of the bottle with the center of his fingerless glove then tilted it back for a swig.

“Can’t you keep this crate stable?” He belched banging his bottle down beside him, spilling more out over its lip, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.” I’m fracking spilling my beer here.”

The craggy salt and peppered specter a craggy mountain of calmness amid a chaotic gulf, lowering his hand from his face and interlocking his fingers with thumb and cracking them in sequence as he waited for a reply from the screaming, manic individuals manning the forward portion of the plane. Harrowed figures who twisted and jumped about controls clenched with white-knuckled terror or who crouched over his charts and maps dragging thick blotted lines over their surface, wholly absorbed within their own drama. Screaming to themselves in cracking tones to be heard over the “pinging” of the “pellets” rebounding to and fro across the bomber’s length.

“Lost another engine…Frack it we’re too heavy…” The pilot screeched prompting his stern faced, and colorless, copilot to cease his ministrations on the sluggish controls and turn towards the gargoyle like hunched navigator.

“Get back to your original heading…frack we’re nearly on top of it. We’re-“He cried turning to a high pitch squeal as the wall erupted in a shower of metal consuming him.
What remained of him, and not caked upon the wall behind or vomited onto his precious maps, sliding off to the floor to be joined beside by the top gunner whose body at last broke loose from his narrow confines. Bodies, all of them, shifting and sliding past the nonplussed Upton whom lifted his boots out of the way and turned his third filled bottle to the other hand to crack the former one. As well fleck of bits of metal shavings and sparring occurring from the endless barrage of Harpy fire, catching sight of the sleek craft periodically through the increasing number of blast holes through the bomber’s skin.
Undaunted of its limited success so far the devilish fighter reckless continued its swooping of the stricken aircraft culminating with a sweep across the flight deck, crystalline shards taking flight propelled by freezing midnight air and colored by the lifeblood of the copilot whose torso and ribcage dissolved into a chewy pulp. A copious mist which froze and crystallized in the whipping air, hellish snowflakes which pelted the remaining pilot. His body arched, blinking trying to see through his own hardening blood rapidly spinning dials and arrest the plummet.

“Frack it! Mickey! Can you hear me Mickey! Fracking drop it!” He screamed flipping on the plane’s intercom while outside came the choking clanging warning that his engine and a half he was keeping them aloft on was about to reduce itself further.

“Confirmed…just hold her steady a moment…” Mickey, their bombardier, whispered with a dry, flat rasp.”Unlike the usual…”

A dried husk of a voice, drained out drop by painful drop from years of running these kind of missions, but one even through it all had its corners curl up into a frayed smile. And despite the twirling of phantasmal lights he knew weren’t there and the increasing laboring of his burning lungs on the gruel thin air the pilot found his facial muscles pulling into a similar expression on the half of his face that hadn’t gone numb.

“You can switch over if it’s that bad for you-fly home for all I care…” He grunted leveling his bird out again when he caught the twinkle of light in the corner of his vision.

Thinking first it was the Harpy, left behind when they’d dropped, making another run when the sickly glow didn’t change or veer away nor could the bomber in the time he realized. Only adding to the hard shock and jarring concussive of the missile as it plowed through the nose beyond the canopy, the pilot’s headset capturing in flawless quality Mickey’s startled gasp as the roof above him was torn open and then nothing. Leaving the pilot alone save for, perhaps, the brooding hulk in back. Their other passenger besides ten thousand pounds of arsekick, and in the pilot’s opinion as useless as twice the weight of ordinance.

“Jesus…” He murmured, unsure if the sounds of the engine grinding to a stop were real or not, lifting a shaking hand to push his headset’s mike closer to his frosty blue lips.”If-if anybody’s left…hit the silk-we’re going down.”

His final commitment executed the pilot turned over the controls to the automatic, locking them in place and hopefully keeping her semi-airborne for the next few seconds, and undid the straps locking his self down pushing himself up from his rickety seat. Turning towards the emergency hatch, checking his own chute, in order to follow his own command when he felt an iron grasp encircle his wrist. Steely fingers creating an unbreakable band that crushed his limb and brought a whimper from him even before he was twisted towards the owner of that infernal clasp. A whine that turned into a bloody scream as his copilot, chest excavated and dripping half frozen sludge, leaned towards him with a mouth stretching open becoming a black abyss which swallowed him whole. A shriek which even Upton, nursing his beverage, heard as he undid the single leather belt from his waist and stood up stretching his cooped up muscles.

“Thought you ordered an evac…not some sissy singing competition.” He queried with a laugh stepping towards the front half of the plane just as a blood smeared palm coiled close around where his foot had been.

Laughter dying a slow crawling death through at the deck scraping he heard rise behind him, the commando halting and rubbing his thumb over the mouth of his beer bottle first looked over his shoulder then turned to face the gunners hefting themselves up off the floor. Bones sawed in half cracking as they were wedged against each other, sinew writhing as if infested with maggots and limbs which sporadically and fiercely jerked or stuttered like some poorly strung puppets. Their faces chalky, peeling in places and growing blisters in others, with eyes that glowed a dull filthy yellow.

“Zombies…it’s a joke…a joke right?” He asked, raising his bottle to drain the last of it away, the closet bumbling towards him.

“WE ARE LEGION. WE SHALL FEAST UPON YOUR BONES…” Each of them screeched in an oily black tongue deeper than the darkest ocean depth.

“So that’s…that’s a no then.” Upton remarked lowering the empty bottle and smashing it against the wall.” Fine. Have it your way.”

Then slashing the jagged remainder across the Gunner’s face, right through those filthy yellow eyes which popped turning to black ooze, causing its gait to become that more dysfunctional its grasping arms that much more desperate for Upton who stepped back. Saluting the creature, with a smile, before he kicked it through the gut, rancid flesh ripping revealing steaming hot entrails dripping in pus, knocking it into its comrades toppling them all.

“And…strike.” He announced turning on his heels and leaving the helpless spawns to their fate.” Still got the old magic.”

Stepping past the jammed and locked ball turret’s hatch which rang out with the frustrated pounding of its undead occupant he headed towards the door dividing the rear section from the bomb bay which opened prematurely revealing a far less encumbered copilot. The staggering fiend reaching out towards him, sinking its dagger like fingers the shoulder guards of his armor scraping hairline scratches through its finish, grabbing him and pulling him towards its yawning mouth. From which rose the fetid breath of the decaying ages, the festering rot which sank mausoleum like cities into the abyss, as well as that same sack cloth voice that rang with the polluted ages.

“NO ESCAPE…”

“Escape…huh. It would funny if I had the time but I’m late.” Upton remarked with a chuckle, sliding a utensil from off of his side and swept it catching and wedging the beast’s neck against the frame of the door until he heard the tell all snap.” Business to attend to…you understand.”

Drawing the spade away, slinging black pus, and hooking it back through its loop he set the head careening to the deck plate where it still managed to scream and shriek without its lungs. A bewildering occurrence he kicked down the breadth of the bomber which, shoving it’s still struggling and dripping corpse-body to the side, he followed after. Halting midway between upon the gangplank raised over the nestled bombs, slumbering their twilight before their fateful flight, and drew his service pistol. Not towards the twitching remains of the pilot whom clamored out from the front cabin nor the Gunners fumbling through the hatchway or even the copilot’s body dragging itself on hands and knees towards him but down the brooding ordinance. Freeing them to the cold night’s embrace with a single shot, hydraulic spraying and the bomb bay doors squeaking open, which he followed after wrapping one meaty arm around the chassis of the dreadful munition with only a pause to holster his weapon and playfully pull from his chest pair of grenades which he tossed to either side of him.

“Happy trails…” He shrieked into the ethers of the slip stream rustling his black hair stripped with gray.” Now then do I remember how to disarm one of these babies…”

II. Joseph “Spotty” Charlton
Notable quote:” …must investigate further…”

The splitting of the finger’s bone was louder than the deathly shriek of artillery shells whistling overhead in vain to the respective camps, above the demonic howl of machine guns which scoured along the churned, lifeless ground endlessly. Joseph’s voice conversely was a hoary, half hearted scrape of breath one might strain to hear in an empty theater and yet delivered so close to the being’s ear and its attention was attuned to such an extent it heard all the same.

“Your ninth finger, not good.” The man, kneeling over his victim, crooned.” Have to switch to hands next.”

Raising its blood encrusted head up from the equally tainted sod the piggish apeiod, a genetic abomination with a tenuous and distant link with humanity, bared its broken and pink coated fangs and offered a slurred growl. One which broke into a wet yelp as the tenth and final digit was bent backwards at the base which once finished Joseph let drop to the ground. Not even bothering to bound the beast’s wrists together as he slide across the dusty forsaken ground and raise the rust colored surgical saw he’d “borrowed” from a medical unit.

“ I grow tired of asking, where will the commander caste arrive? What section? When?” The hunched man demanded

“Go Defile yourself small thing…” Was the only reply he received before he laid metal to thick, knotted flesh.

Diligently severing through the thick chords of muscular, dense fibers by which a human skull could be crushed to fine powder, with expedient and precise strokes. Hitting the bone the enemy creature shrieked out with fresh vitriol and when the limb’s end began to sag and break from the weight of the forearm the cries reached an even greater and incoherent fervor. Through it all Joseph listened with a pallid and unmoving face sawing until with a wet plop the meaty palm dropped into the growing crimson glade forming beneath it. Fed by scarlet rivulets the interrogator was quick to dampen and clog, first wrapping then binding medical gauss h’ed borrowed with the saw over the open wound. Tying it tight before he spoke again, being sure to dig the cloth into the raw end, his voice like before the faintest of whispers.

“What did you say about my mother?” He asked, tilting his head as the beast repeated itself along with thick strands of ichor laden drool.” Hurm. Probably true…still its indecent for you to say that. We can’t have that.”

So saying Joseph lifted a hand up from the darkening bandage up to his holster hanging underneath his arm, carefully removing the revolver there and flicked the chambers around in a slow circle checking to be sure they were filled. He then pressed the muscle against the shaggy shoulder and squeezed gently, the night adding the gun’s retort to the already copious amounts hanging on the night’s air as well as the beast’s scream which was hardly in isolation as well.

“ Hush, wound is a nonfatal injury. The bullet is lodged within the craggy bone, a complete failure to perforate with limited bleeding. A complete and total shattering of the ball-joint through…likely fuse but it is very unlikely you will ever be using that arm again in any event.” Joseph chastised putting his gun away.” Now then, the leader strain. Tell me where I can find it.”

“May Regunh tear at your innards you filthy omitted-sucking fracker!” The beast screamed drowning out the rhythmic scratching of the saw as it went to work on his remaining arm.

Halfway through the creature began crying…turning to unmolested pained sobs when his tormentor shifted to his legs only to at last in gasping, stuttering speech reveal what was asked as the blood caked surgical instrument began to track back up its body. Satisfied Joseph stood up, dusting himself off as he walked over to the creature’s exhausted and panting head.

“A bargain is a bargain.” He remarked tugging his revolver free once more and firing twice in rapid succession splitting the thing’s head open.” As I promised.”

Finished he carefully unclasped the breech plate and delicately down turned the empty shell casings before loading the next three in and closing the weapon back up. Then he picked up his long coat from where it lay, unfolded it and slipped in on followed by his hat beside. Tugging it snugly down over his cranium and bending the leathery flap of its brim so that it shielded the splintered crater etched in his forehead where the bullet had struck him those years ago.

So adorned he retrieved his surgical saw once again and a filthy rag which he ran over it removing much of the muck before he deposited both to their respective pockets in his battered coat and then made to the edge of the cramped observation foxhole, clamoring up over the wooden plank ladder to the pockmarked landscape beyond. Laying off to the side and a little ahead of the insufferable pit, ensnared in rusting barb wire, was “Fred” the ripening and bloated marksmen whom had been his companion since being put on the outer edge of the defensive perimeter. A neither-realm easily overtaken by the frequent raiding parties or crushed by massed armies ultimately bled out through the interior of mines, kill fields and wire. Not that Joseph minded, finding he had time to truly think out on the edge not like what you could do in the trench line or stuck back in one of the cities. Too many people, all around you.

“Our friend said the Commander should arrive in section G somewhere between O’three hundred and four.” He announced in his deathly whisper, flattening down in the sod and wriggling beside the corpse of “Fred”, drawing out a pair of spyglasses and sweeping them across the enemy’s perimeter.” I don’t believe him either, likely disinformation meant to throw us off the trail. I know…we’re going to have to get inside their lines if we are to find the truth.”

He paused there, listening to the bang of exploding shells and the chatter of machine guns, panning his binoculars over the opposing mesh of interlocking defenses. Nodding his head from time to time to some ungiven response and then, when it had finished, resumed his hoary voice.

“Yeah…I figure we might need some kind of diversion to slip inside. Just too many of them for a straight assault.” He reasoned turning his gaze skyward as a new sound split through the constant static of flying shells.

The trench coated figure then dunking down, unlike “Fred” who steadfastly remain peering through the encrusted scope of his rifle, as the first of the explosive laden anvils raining from heaven went up. It in turn of a larger formation which swept across the rearmost ranks of the enemy camp, mere flickers of light while those which landed had heralded the bombing run seemed to split the Earth to Joseph huddling in their wake. Pressing his face down in the mud and grime, hand curled over his hat protectively, until it had subsided. New smoking craters cooling from the fiery cataclysm of their birth when he peered past the brim of his hat, part of a chain of destruction which walked back from the middle of no man’s land to the outer edge of the enemy’s line.

“Yes…I agree.” Joseph said in encouragement of “Fred” placing his spyglasses back over his eyes.” That run was wholly out of alignment and off target. Reckless endangering our lines…perhaps intentional. A possible alliance between the Sky Marshal and the Cythiods?”

“Fred” through didn’t answer, too busy staring with his dissolving eyeball on that which Joseph’s binocular’s tracked over, an undetonated bomb casing impaled through a machine gun nest killing the operators. This in it self wasn’t truly unusual or noteworthy, factory defects crept up despite all attempts to the contrary, but the taunt spieling armored figure whom had leapt off of it was.

“Intriguing.” Joseph said at last watching the figure began to cut towards them, discharging his shotgun at the unruly mob which had began to form after him.” Think we should help? Oh…okay…I’ll do it while you cover.”

Rising he..." Extended excerpt Arkham Unlimited publishing tenth anniversary collector's addition.

[Praeothmin]

Weird, and it brought back the Heavy Metal bombing animation to mind... :)

Nice... :)








Is it too much to say that you seem to have a healthy obsession with the Undead? ;)

[sonofccn]

Okay conclusion of the Last Chance arc as well as the first part of my two part finally, Can't forget Kilgore, before I take a brief intermission and start the next segment.

“…and lo did he speak and thus the bodies, contrary to HIS design, did rise. Their mottled, pus shrouded bodies endowed with a sickly unnatural light of which I have seen no equal…immune to slings of pain or hardship…subsiding only after I, with grace of the Lord and the assembled guardsmen, slew the necromancer…”Chronicle of Pious

Last Chance, Upper berths-

I. I just want to celebrate-Rare Earth

Above, descending like a lecherous angel dipped in soiled crimson, Harrow saw a flash of yawning gums and felt the hot, rancid breath roll across his ichors streaked skin. His hand sliding off the foregrip of his rifle to the knotted knife handle clinging about his side, sliding it free from its sheath and thumbing the vibroblade’s activator which he plunged into side of the Corpse-fiend’s temple. Its skull fracturing apart into a gory torrent spiced and colored by the atomized residue of another’s face the Sergeant discharged his rifle into, swerving the gun’s barrel like a baton against a third while pulling his dagger free from the churning remainder of the ghoul’s mashed head and drove it over his shoulder splitting another to the oily cretin within.

Oscillating tremors coursing through the soldier’s arm at the Corpse-fiend’s head puckering open, stray dollops of brain and blood staining him as the vibroblade dug deeper. Into the squirming, squelching onyx mass which had taken root, the noxious thing who’s cry pierced the air at its own body’s disintegration. Adding a black gel to the viscera swirling about Harrow’s form as he sunk down grabbing at the waist and torso of the latest kill, pulsating with the burrowed spawn, and flung it into the gnashing crowd. Following it with a rapid salvo of plasma bolts, charred bone revealed boiling flesh, and a jaw shattering strike with the end of his rifle as he dared a glance behind him to the soldiers he’d commandeered for his section. Nameless souls, pimple faced kids willing to do “their part” for service to the Empire, whom given actual direction and the firm resolve of a leader waded into the breech with the agusto of only the inexperienced could muster.

That preceding image, unleashing thunderous barrages of incinerating pulse fire into the ravenous horde with faces hardened by zeal of their immortality, lingering for the first scan millisecond or so before the snorting of fresh, vibrant blood snapped the Sergeant to the feeding frenzy. A loose heap of bodies, a shifting blood soaked ball, which tore furiously at the scarlet central mass like half starved Nexus. Tearing grisly chunks out with their teeth or ragged fingers which they partially pulled away with rearing up to devour the morsel away from the greedy clutches of their cohorts. Repeating the process, diving back for another mouthful, once the repast had slid down their misbegotten gullets.

“Emperor have mercy…” Shifting his vision and entire body around to counter another Infected which jockeyed through the undulating ranks of the famished missing Harrow’s tender flank by millimeters and taking his knife with it into the back of its skull.

The barest curse escaping the Sergeant’s lip at the loss, his own self a blur inside the closing cocoon of once human flesh, the things darting up, down or directly at him with the tenacity of charging Reeks which he avoided, blocked or found himself shorted by a few milligrams of cloth and flesh. The dark, viscous fluid which flowed from each successful passing drawing the fiends that more eagerly, including ones pushed away from the in the process of being stripped corpses, through few survived wholly intact to make a second attempt. Facing not enthusiastic naivety with Harrow’s flippant and on spur reaction but harden sinew tested against the anvils of desolation and destruction, even the Brood-Leeches which belched or ruptured from their pummeled and broken hosts were not quick enough to escape a crushing grip of iron or a steely blow that sent them hurtling like munitions. The Sergeant would survive…
*
II.Rolling Stones Paint it black

Gaunt, its features twisted with unbearable rage and scarred nearly beyond recognition, the face parted it mouth open revealing blood caked gums revealing a yawning gullet and from it oozed the first bubbling note of Reaper’s warcry. The noise over taking the prattle of the leaping Corpse-fiend whom the thick slab of his forehead, snapping forward, met and swatted away. Flicker of pain darting across his face but fading, washed under the warm sticky throes of exhilaration of the naked and bare act, the pounding of his heart within his knotted chest. A feel of surging adrenalin as well as the finest Chems he could get his hands on, a feeling of life.

“Hit the fethers again!” He screamed to his cohorts, boys in uniforms for the most part, swishing forward to the spiraling blood chunk of one who’d been too slow.

Ripping the man’s carbine from his clenched hand, turning it against its former owner when the gnawed thing stirred and lurched at him, holding it alongside his rifle as he trekked it in a circle. The twin barrels firing in succession into the crowding things sending them flipping when a shoulder was torched or an leg, the things comically flailing trying to right themselves before their more able kindred gripped and pulled them away from the wanted prize. That hot blood coursing with vigor and adrenaline as well as the meat which marinated in it, they wanted Reaper. And he would give them it, all of it no holding back.

“ They’re all over!” One of the puke young kids screamed, Reaper couldn’t tell them apart and didn’t care too, hot and fast like a blaster about to overcook.” We can’t hold them…their going to kill us!”

To which the Veteran, driving his knee up through an Infected’s twitching stomach pinning it against the ranks of its brethren, the turn curved towards the angle of the frantic, frightened voice. Seeing three indistinct and utterly interchangeable pale face warriors against which he greeted one with the hollow end of his carbine. The youth having time to register surprise and open his mouth in what was sure to have been a tear induce plea for his life before those words, and much of his face, were vaporized into the hot air.

“Every man who isn’t fighting them is just bait for’em. Your choice maggots.” Reaper laughed, splattered head to toe in the sizzling flecks of the Corpse-fiend exploding under his rifle’s efforts, turning back to the blood soaked fray.

Taking a delicious, indulgent edge as he felt a shooting pain bite through his side followed a creeping which stitched up along his ribs. Sliding up over his shoulder, near half a dozen other lateral and horizontal crimson marks, where he ambushed it. His knife again, carbine tucked under his arm, tasting of his flesh as he speared the offending worm and plucked it from himself. Tossing it back at its offending hosts and slipping his knife back through its sheath but not before holding it up in front of his face and darting his tongue out across its edge. Ecstasy popping off inside as he tasted the warmth, the vitality…the very excitement. Reaper would survive…
*
III.animals-we gotta get out of this place

A thousand-thousand thoughts cascaded through Stiles’s mind as he heard the faint bark of his pistol firing, saw the scarlet pulse-beam flare from the muzzle. Like the crystallized aspects of winter’s frost they fell about him without apparent reason or purpose threatening to drown him. Some merely primal fear screaming out for his own mortal self others tantalizing mirages of the future he expected, willed for with all his being. Mixed along with those were bitter edged memories of his father, sweeter memories of Lenore on that warm summer night walking home their hands entwined and far more acidic washed ones as he explained to her why he was leaving. About what he wanted to be.

“ Something…more. Something grander.” He’d informed her mimicking words he’d spoken to his father during one of those fierce and volatile arguments they had at the end.” To be part of Mankind…its promise among the stars…”

Yet strongest of all of the discordious impulses darting through his skull dealt with the hungry fiends whom swarmed around him like Rancors. Looking past their haunted, empy eyes or their stretched open salivating jaws to the person beneath. Nondescript fellows wearing the filthy strips of coveralls from the primitive station’s work crews as well as lantern jawed warriors clad in the attire of the Stormtrooper Legions. Valiant fellow travelers in the cause of the Empire. All sons, siblings and fathers and with a squeeze of a firing stud he blotted another one away.

The skull fragmenting, the face erupting into ionized gases and burning embers, revealing a broiled mess as the body flopped backwards into the churning hands of its comrades only to vanish. The pallets of the corpse’s contemporaries far from discriminating nor the slightest bit inhibited. Even some of the squirming, squelching black masses which vomited from the body were fallen upon. Things which had once been mind stuffing the twisting leech like creatures into their jaws with ghoulish delight.

“What now sir?” One of the youthful soldiers behind the Lieutenant asked banefully flailing drunkenly into the arms of his comrades clutching at a blood drenched shoulder.

A mouth sized fragment plucked from it and seeping heavily from beneath his pale, trembling fingers. The others sporting similar traces about their body, either from the hectic retreat to the room or the cage of ravenous death which surrounded them.

“ Do?” Stiles echoed kicking up out of the way of a Corpse-Fiend and veering behind it ramming his blaster against the nape of its neck.” We do what the Emperor expects from us, we do our duty and make these…things… pay dearly for it.”

Pulling the trigger he erased another member from the Brotherhood of Humanity, that noble fraternity of the stars, feeling the hot specks of bone and meat pelt him as he flipped off of the still sailing figure. Training his weapon to its rippling black, roasting the foul vermin before they could rupture, as he coasted back towards his tiny knot of soldiers. The crackle of their rifles and carbines a most needed reassurance to the Lieutenant as his eyes sought and found fresh quarry in the churning surroundings. Stiles would survive…
*
IV.Sunshine and lollipops and rainbows

Through the telescoping tunnel of his anticipation tinged vision Lucius slowly watched one of the plodding beasts react to his wordless challenge and shamble through the ethers with hand outstretched. The bloody terminating end points of the creature’s hand, more closely called a claw for all the dexterity it displayed, creeping millimeter by millimeter towards the expectant Swordsman whom took some solace in the thing’s kindred who flanked, descended or reared up after him from every axis. Feeling a tingle of the elusive thrill, that rarified elixir far more potent and refined than the crude swill Reaper bathed himself in.

His first taste of it had been on Oceania but only the tiniest lick, he’d been too disoriented and drugged. The event happening too quickly to be savored and his longing unidentifiable for the days he sat suspended in a Bacta tank being nursed to a semblance of health. It had only been later, once returned to alleged civilization where he began to probe instinctively after what gnawed at him day and night. Sights and sounds which even the hardiest Chem-dog would have given ponder but without relief. That only came later at a yawning black pit of misery and despair where for the jingle of credits or a few pinches of illegal spice reckless souls battled for the amusement of Xeno and human onlookers. The damned souls pitted against each other as well as exotic beasts and horrifically twisted mutants of every description and among that innumerable menagerie Lucius found a male Megarachnid. Chained and latched to its blood soaked charnel pit luckless or arrogant fools where shoved in after it with only the most primitive of weapons.

Most of whom, The Swordsman had witnessed, perished before making the slightest dent on the creature’s carapace misjudging both its reach as well as how heavily the thick chains weighed against the creature. Then it had been his turn, sent down with a crude slab of metal sharpened and stuck on a pole-arm as an ax more fitting a gamorrean than a human. Into that dank pit stinking of refuge and fear with the scarlet stained monster at its center, the two closing with each other without trumpeting boast or cry but frenzied of blurred actions. An eerie silence which was only broken an hour later with the Megarachnid’s throttled deathscream. Decapitating it with a lucky stroke Lucius, bleeding and broken, was hauled up to a wailing crowd but to him it was merely a whitewash of noise.

His only thoughts that of what he’d experienced, the nirvana of the parries and counter strokes he and his foe had shared. Recognizing at last what he craved, what no joygirl, Chem or mere debauchery could give him. The next day he purchased the first of his many blades and set to work with it.

And through it making the elixir all that much more fleeting but purified, tasting the slightest trace of the elusive feeling as on the final moment before the Corpse-fiends collided his knotted muscles spurned into action. Childishly lopping off the arm outstretched towards his face as he spun about and curved beside the Infected shooting up towards him. Bisecting its waist with a leisurely swipe, one which picked up speed only after it cleared and darted up through the dumbstruck creature he’d stolen the arm from. Its fossilized brain still processing the changing scene as everything up from its guts to its throat were slashed open releasing foreboding clouds into the atmosphere.

Seething tendrils which had barely began to spurt from their thrashing progenitor then Lucius darted away from it driving his saber up through the skull of another of the plodding Corpse-fiends and wrangling the entry point to revolve behind and around it kicking the side in of an occidentially placed creature bemusedly pawing the empty patch the Swordsman had been. Its lifeless face twisting around to bite after him as he playfully leapt off piercing through another of the horrors and slinging it after the former sinking both like a rock towards the deckplate. Lucius would survive…
*
V.two steps from hell-Immortal

Colonel Kratz, destined to be tread upon a world as Lord among men, hesitated not or allowed clemency towards the broken wretches which swarmed in loose spirals towards him and his protective shimmering pillar of blaster fire rained down from supportive riflemen above. They were hellspawn, perverted by the insidious presence of alien presences and had to be dealt with accordingly as Trysh no doubt would have approved.

“Onward! These knaves shall yield to us!” He screamed to his subordinates above him and ringing the room itself.

His brutal, commanding voice enough to grant caution to the most reckless gamorrean warband and even draw notice from the hate filled minds of the Megarachnids but the undulating mass of raw hunger might not have heard him at all. Drawn equally as much by the burning remainders which fell away from each overcharged thud of his twin handguns, which were greedily scavenged, than by his bellow. The horde equally unbridled to keep fighting, their numbers washing haphazardiously over the perimeter and the nestled warriors beneath them like ocean waves. The embodiment of fury long to go before it would naturally be spent out.

But that was how things were not as how they could be made to be, Kratz having faced this time and time again on the battlefield. Be it the assault of the under siege fortress-city Trembla to the mass horde of Megarachnids and always in such straits turned back to the honed words of Trysh.

“ When in doubt attack. Show strength and watch as your enemies alter themselves in accordance to this perception.” He’d whispered to Kratz during one of the isolated rebellions which sprung up over their acquaintance.

The Planetary Governor throwing his forces headlong into his foes with a relentless display that whatever the actual disparity of strength his enemies concluded they were the inferior and faltered accordingly. And so it had been for Kratz whether facing the cunning stratagems Jundop or the armored acid bleeders of R’ylth all were crushed beneath the iron-shod heel of the Colonel. And so it would be with the current abominations, his men forming the ring of the cordon advancing in a unison of rallying cries and shouts while above him riflemen alternated scouring fire and leaping to join their master.

Forming up behind him like tapered, undulating wings made of flesh and bone as the protective pillar of pulse fire died away and Kratz led the charge. A glistening god, reflecting the spark of each and every blaster bolt, whom cleaved a path through the festering horde like a strike of lightening the men behind him wedging the gap open and widening it as the Colonel put one carbine away. Sliding forth his battle saber from its sheath the blade, catching the light of the ongoing battle, appearing to immolate itself like God’s fury itself nor was it any kinder to the wretches it parted open with a stroke of its honed edge.

“This day is ours! Let us but take it lads and caste their rotten bones to the abyss of time!” He bellowed swatting a Corpse-fiend away from him with a strike of his elbow to its chin, shattering it, before shoving onward.

Trusting his armor to protect him from the worst of the swirling, oven hot ash of those claimed by his barking firearm made and stern discipline for his proud and noble visage . Bodies left and right of him bursting apart in star shaped patterns of incinerated powders, charred silt which congealed and mingled with the vibrant slush loosened by the cold touch of his tempered steel. Splitting chorded muscle, leathery flesh and hard bone with the same contemptuous ease by which he carved through the very air, the Colonel’s armorers knowing he demanded nothing less, as he plowed his way through the ranks as he’d done on countless battlefields before.

Colonel soon to be Lord Kratz would survive…
*
With the swift violence of maelstroms and tempests the chaotic battle with all its vicious participants erupted into a stagnate calm, the grim mortals overlooking the defeated remains of the Brood-Wyrm and their hosts. And on the ashes of that great pyre Harrow began to collect and organize the survivors while lost in the etherals of his own greatness Colonel Krats applauded himself for his valiantly and Reaper basked in the warm afterglow of conquest. Perpetually apart Lucius strummed withered but powerful fingers across the side of his sword merely relishing the barest taste of what he so desperately sought and shaken Stiles drifted unmoored through the room his mind still locked within the battle.

Leaving only pieces to be picked up, new crews to be dispatched to work the mines and new soldiers to garrison the dismal station. Unwittingly preparing the the cataclysmic clashes which were to come, the might of the Vraen as well as eon old hungers beyond comprehension which were glaceriously becoming aware of the tresspassing Imperials...

[Praeothmin]

Reaper is a savage, brutal asshole...





But don't tell him I said that... :)



Hectic and stressful, as always...
It's a wonder anyone is still alive... :)

[sonofccn]

“Entity was death resistant, impervious to small arms fire. I therefore rammed it with a “borrowed” automobile, temporarily pinning it, ruptured the fuel tank and immolated said entity.” Agent Smith describing the destruction of the Guardian encountered during a Cultist raid.


Krona, Denerio-

I.Queen Don’t stop me now

The ferrous ax-head scythed through the tunnel’s moldy air after Killgore’s head, the Defender looking up in time from the hybrid he was locked in grapple with to release and droop down on one knee. His serpentine opponent, its tubular mouth peeling open revealing a circular rim of thorny teeth, squeaking in surprise before the blade caught and sailed through before embedding into the craggy and broken wall of the Vraen tunnel. Its owner soggily grunting both towards the mistake and the exertion as its scabby muscular arm wrenched the weapon free once more and bringing it towards Killgore who, looking up at it through the ichorous sheen of the serpentine hybrid’s two falling parts, jabbed the end of his pulse rifle up into the mutant’s guts while jamming a ripping fresh ammo magazine into the weapon.

His sand jumping to pull back the bolt when the bulbous, scaly maw and head of the ax wielding hybrid dissolved in a burst of rancid pus followed in rapid succession with the other shambling denizens of the passage, voluminous fountains of tainted lifeblood sprouting from their forms. The source of the affliction Killgore saw, as he joined in, Thyde crouching against the warren’s side panning his rifle from edge to edge.

“Told you to wait for me reload but do you ever listen?” He cracked over the whistle of each dart launching into the air.

“I listen all the time but it doesn’t make you right.” The first Atune shouted back rising and evading the searing plume of a flame-cannon wielder.

Stepping to it he place his weight behind into slamming the side of his weapon against it, a soft and squishy abomination, knocking it off its feet and freeing him to bulls-eye a tentacled fiend attempting a missile lock. The creature, its head rupturing, falling backwards firing its unguided munition into the ceiling detonating which loosened great stones of debris which only added to the suffering of the mutants which had been standing beside it.

“If I had waited these things would have been all over us.” Killgore, smugly, explained turning back to the squelching thing at his feet and shooting a thrice-round burst through its torso and head.”Now then, with us having a breather for a split-second, are you ready to continue?”

“Are hybrids ugly?” His partner quipped appearing at the side of the first Atune.

“Both before and after you scrape them off your boot.” The squad leader added in agreement as the two in unison picked their way forward through the rubble.” Come on, let’s end their misery.”

Advancing towards the battered remaining creatures who cowered from the encroaching warriors and then were engulfed by an incandescent glaze of light. A blinding aura which when it receded from the mongrel troop revealed a fresh faced cadre and towering above them a stooping savage clad in bits of blood soaked fabric and rusted metal stitched around his massive girth.

“Dreck. They have a beacon!” The Atune screamed opening fire, Thyde following a heartbeat after.

Cutting down equally well the bedraggled stragglers who’d retreated and the forward most ranks of the new additions who surged forward without abandon, a living manifestation of bloodlust. All except the uncouth giant, the lithe Cephalopodic mutant reaching up towards the roof which was collapsed open and pulled himself through.

“Your struggle’s in vain.” Its dark, oily voice rang out before it vanished.” The Progenitors have claimed this world and we will drink deep from the last of the marrow from you children’s bones before we leave.”

Following after the oversized mutant with his eyes Killgore nodded towards Thyde who, with an air of reluctance, nodded back then watched his superior bolt forward towards the masses of Xenos. The Atune’s world shrinking further from the dingy tunnel to a festering nebula of leering, cowled faces and grasping claw-hands. Barely registering within him as he caught and turned away a scaly paw or shattered a collar bone with a hard rap with the edge of his rifle. Mere reaction, involuntary responses like his breath which drew in the blood tinged musty air, as he charged forward in a wake of torn bodies. Piercing darts shooting above and around him through the determined rabble, Thyde’s efforts to thin the cancerous herd as well as confusing the simple minded hybrids. Murderous indecision gripping the hellish mutants their number alternating between the vibrant visage cutting a bloody swathe through or the greater threat of the Defender rifleman.

Hesitancy Killgore didn’t share, his every step carrying him towards his objective, wading forth then when a sharp fanged hellion cut across him with twirling sabers dropped to the blood slick floor and skidded beneath the warrior. Twisting his pulse-gun and perforating up through the beast’s back into his jaw then brain as he scraped across and snatched the squat alien transponder. Pitching it into the air above the hybrids and exploding it with a rifle slug, sparking fragments raining down upon the confused Xenos. Wet oozing voices calling out, to each other to their departed leader or merely as blustering challenges as the horde stalled. Panning their stygian vision from Thyde, reloading, to the first Atune and the dashed promise of reinforcements.

“Think we have enough party crashers. What do you think Thyde?” Killgore asked rising up.

“Think? I think I can handle these two bit reprobates. So go ahead, go after that oversize squidface and be the hero.” Thyde, taking a step back and beckoning the hybrids on, relented.” Like you weren’t planning to do that anyway.”

II.The Blasters-Dark Knight

“I’ll bring you back something nice then.” Killgore laughed holstering his rifle and leaping up to the jagged hole.

Waggling himself through it to the musically anguished cries of hybrids and his partner’s voluminous fire, the most wondrous sounds, into the brooding cavern of a commercial complex’s sub-basement. An immensely grimy and ancient one, the rusted wrought iron beast of a furnace likely could be dated back to the colonization, but one even under the bleakness of shadows he recognized as Trader not Vraen trash. Implications of which were popping into existence in Killgore’s forefront when the shots rang out from above him, shots followed by a scream. And not the soggy bilge of a mutant either, the Atune’s heart notching up as he scrambled up from his knees. Shoving past the hanging silver tendrils of drooping air ducts and insulation to the partially collapsed doorway and stairs leading up to the next strata.

The path laid out for him from there, embroidered with the bodies of mutants who carpeted the drum shaped staircase and entrance into the barricaded basement/storage chamber. Grungy fold out tables, meant to easily facilitate conferences and meetings of clients renting office space, had been over turned and lashed together with rubber bands. Behind them flimsily cardboard crates had been spooled, bulging with canisters of paperclips and printing papers, acting as an impromptu obstacle course and past that a Defender had crouched.

Dozens of the fiends had fallen either scurrying over the plastic tables or fumbling between the burdened boxes but not the leathery brown thing which now stood triumphant in the room. Strong enough to burst forth through the tables without hindrance, the biting shards of plastic slivers harmless against its dense hide, yet swift of foot enough to evade the obstacles and the Defender’s fire until it reached him and tore his throat out with one of its barbed tentacles.

Hearing the thunderous drumbeat of Killgore’s approach the elder mutant’s tendrils, sprouting from his left side like mottled snakes, snapped to frenzied motion once again. Shooting out to the darken edges of the room where the survivors huddled, catching one and yanking her against its rancid breast before it turned to face the Atune.

“Foolish mortal…crawl back to some crevice and await the inevitable.” It hissed wetly, its words punctuated but bubbling pops adding a gross crackle, toyingly buoying the hostage it delicately held.

“I’m not the one hiding…frankly I’m tired of killing you things. Each of you is more ugly and arrogant than the last.” Killgore snapped gesturing with the point of his barrel towards the woman.” So why don’t you put her down and we can settle this once and for all.”

“This?” The giant asked raising the hostage up to peer at it with a salty, ebony eye.” She isn’t a hostage…she’s an appetizer.”

She didn’t even have time to scream, the retracted claws catapulting out through her tender flesh turning it to ribbons. Soaked strips marinated in blood which the puckered pustules carpeting the underside of each tendril happily sucked down, voraciously draining all it could from her falling pieces as the elder beast fixed the Atune with its eye and winked at him.

“Your move.” It squawked in a laughing tone, the sounds blending with the scream of the pulse-rifle as it fired.

Only to hit the wall as the creature vanished, seemingly flickering from existence to reappear with the sound of breaking shelves clutching to the wall. Then appearing on the floor when the gunshots tracked after it, rolling across Killgore’s path as he felt the long, slimy appendage of a tentacle track and tear across his legs. His world swimming, pulling him down towards the floor, as the creature’s laughter rang out. Coming off to his side which he glimpsed before a scything tendril struck his visage turning his vision red.

“Don’t worry.” The thing crooned as the Atune felt the steely fingers of its right hand pierce through and lift his back.” Your not going to die yet, I still got a few more of your friends to play with…and by the progenitors you will envy their deaths when your time comes.”

“That’s the mistake all of you dreckers make.” Killgore wheezed leering through his stinging eyes to the elder hybrid’s lumpy, misshapen head and its solitary lidless black eye.” You act like war is some kind of perverse game…is not. You have an opening use it.”

So said, and against the backdrop of the beast’s laughter, the Defender propelled his gnarled, claw like hand out through the soft, porous membrane of the thing’s eye. Releasing a noxious smell and worse pus from the orifice as it popped, the tentacled monster’s cries turning to pained shrieks as it released him to grapple with its affliction. The Atune hitting the floor with a crunching sound, rolling after the memory of his dropped rifle reaching out for it and feeling his fingers scrape rough cement. A wordless moan escaping him as, through his burning eyes, he saw it laying still a meter away from his groping fingers. A distance as great as the gulf of space itself for his wincing body, attenuated drugs in his depleting bloodstream unable to spur him further he realized with sickening dread. Twisting back towards the recovering hybrid, twisting its head about wildly to discern the subtle sounds of his continued existence from his labored breath to the beating of his heart.

“I’ll make you pay for that.” The monster cried, tentacles snapping like whips across the ground, as it shambled forth a step then paused and tilted its head at a new sound.

The source, the trooper in the doorway, following it with the bark of a piercing dart being ejected from a rifle’s muzzle. Stitching it and the ones which followed across the beast’s torso and up across its bleeding face, showering the crumbling far wall in the ichorious swine blood of the tainted hellion.

“See…they talk too much.” Killgore gasped looking up as Mnorel stalked into the room, radioing in for help, clearing it of any other potential threats.

“We’re going to get you all out of here, transport in bound.” The younger Defender consoled the remaining survivors before turning his attention to the man on the floor.” That goes for you too sir, I’ll be caste into the abyss before I let First Atune Killgore perish. How could I face my brothers and sisters after letting their hero down?”

“Ah well…can’t have that…guess I got to live then. Terrible thing to disappoint children.” The Atune chuckled.” Beside I doubt those fishiod creeps are going to stop here…and I can’t let you and Thyde kill all of them.”

Necromatis Plagues, bridge-

Monitoring sensor readings, as well as fully tapped into the planet’s communication networks, Ixan allowed the purely pantomimed action of a breath of relief and ceased the over charge to the alarming sensor nodes. An act , as he was quick to remind the security algorithms governing his behavior, which conveyed no knowledge in and of itself causing merely an overproduction of ion particles and could not threaten any secrecy or stealth of the vessel due to the direct and savage methods the current rulers of the vessel had engaged the world in question. That the caste off byproduct acted as interference to the inhabitances communication systems and that the exact sequence, dictated by a corrupted subroutine, happened to match exactly one of their codes-languages was a coincidence he belabored to keep separate and distinct from the “loyalty” protocols his original masters had inducted to his programming.

The span of untold years, the misery of watching his creating race perish and the naked intellect which had been their other gift to him allowing him to differentiate as needed the various clauses and encoded litmus tests from their letter of inscription to the spirit. He merely hoped to he did his “progenitors”, ethereally superior to the crude and crash hybrids’, justice in some small, minor way.

[Praeothmin]

Killgore is a bad ass, but as all bad asses find out, even they sometimes need help... :)

But I thought he had lost an arm?
Or did I miss the replacement somewhere?






On another note, I shall resume my story, I simply was preparing the setting before starting to write it...

[sonofccn]

But I thought he had lost an arm?
Or did I miss the replacement somewhere?

Whoops. I completely don't remember Killgore loosing his actual arm and I beg your indulgence for any and all continuinity errors due my inattention. But in my defense the Atune has basicly suffered injuries to every part of his body with only bailing wire and spit holding him togather.

On another note, I shall resume my story, I simply was preparing the setting before starting to write it...

Goodie. I hope there's no harm in me asking for a hint on what the next Verse is going to be?

[Praeothmin]

Goodie. I hope there's no harm in me asking for a hint on what the next Verse is going to be?

Nope, no harm at all...

























Oh, you were expecting an answer?
Oh, well, the next verse will be... different... :)

[sonofccn]

Cpt. Jackson gives an interview! Hope you enjoy. Krevin and maybe Tyler coming up before intermission is over and we kick the second half of A NEW TERROR off.

Intermission:

“Object is point five meters in length, perfectly round with a thickness of seven point four millimeters and composed, to the extent of our ability, solely from a silver metallic. My team finding, despite much effort, any vents or other known engines of propulsion and yet the “pie plate” can and has been intricately measured generating a constant velocity of 1 meter per second with two point three kilograms of force.” Excerpt of Dr. Karl’s report on the, believed, propulsion unit recovered from a Martian “Vault-room”.


"Hansen: Could you please introduce yourself for the people back on Earth.

Jackson: Absolutely Ma’am. Captain Robert Jackson of Soth Thejas and the Imperial Star Fleet.

Hansen: I see, and you are a veteran officer of this agency correct?

Jackson: Ya’ might call me that. I reckon I’ve had nigh on a thousand confrontations. Wee bit more if ya’ want to talk personal duels and such.

Hansen: Your (laughs) your dossier excerpts I’ve been permitted suggest slightly higher number of “military altercations”. By several thousand, comment?

Jackson: (Laughs) Oh shucks those old boys count just about anytime I get in a wee bit of a tussle. Just learning a few high spirited fellows what for is all most of those are I reckon.

Hansen: Well I’m sure people back home would be curious about it, if your able would there be any such instance which sticks to your mind?

Jackson: Oh I reckon I might be able to oblige. (Laughs) Through I warn ya’ Ambrose typically troubles himself in keeping me from overly reminiscing about these here troubles.

Hansen: I’d imagine he or anyone would have trouble keeping you from doing what you want.

Jackson: Ya’ don’t know Commander Ambrose then Ma’am. Harder than durasteel and meaner than a Nexu when he wants…I tell ya’ he’s my right arm…couldn’t fight without him. Got it from his father…fought alongside him oh I reckon more than twenty years ago…

Hansen: Fought beside Ambrose’s father?

Jackson: Yes Ma’am. We fought together…ya’ wouldn’t believe how many campaigns. The number of worlds we all liberated for mankind. But I reckon I’m dragging ya’ from your original question. To the point ya’ wanted to know, about a particular engagement which is stuck in my old head I would have to reckon it was the time I wrestled with a Cytherian War-Master.

Hansen: You mean a Venusian…oh I imagine that must have been difficult. There what seven…eight feet tall?

Jackson: This fella was nigh three meters with ebony scales harder than yer battletank. Ya’ better believe he had an even tougher spirit. Bloody hell he was a feisty one…ya’ can not imagine the sight we must have been. Two warriors…intertwined…rolling across the room trading blows…the advantage ebbing between from moment to moment…it was wondrous.

Hansen: (Laugh) You won I presume.

Jackson: Eventually. Took a might spell, couple of hours, but I managed to hook this here arm over the fella’s neck and managed to crush it a wee bit. War-Master didn’t stop, even choking he kept up fighting…tarnishing that was the second hardest fight of my life. Right after the Overfiend Skaros. (spit) Pardon me Ma’am but that lowly Cur I’m glad got put down.

Hansen: Its okay. (Laughs) Seem to have a bit of poor blood with this…Skaros entity. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell the people of Earth-

Jackson: Ma’am I reckon nothing more needs to be said about that creature then I sent him down to Hell where he belongs. That’s all I got to say on the matter.

Hansen: Okay…that’s fine. Well moving on to current matters I’d be interested in hearing your opinion on my President’s statement referring to your Confederacy as an “Evil Empire”. How did it grab you when you first heard it, what do you want to say in your Confederacy’s defense?

Jackson: Well I first reckon I’d show your President the wilds of the galaxy. Let him see if his high faluting notions and ideas hold up in a cosmos with yer Vraen, Cultium, and Cytherian. I don’t pretend we ain’t a trifle harsh at times but the galaxy is rough and Man gotta be tougher if he expects to survive.

Hansen: So you think the President’s views are too soft? (Laughs) I’m sorry. It’s just that…during the campaign he came down farther right than the Grand Old Parties candidate. I’m just having a hard time collating the man who pushed to close our “battlecruiser gap” as weak on foreign policy.

Jackson: I can respect your efforts to improve your naval forces but how you use them is a lot more important then what ya’ have. Take yer home system, ya’ keep a vestige Cytherian colony on ya’ second world and the remnant of a second old civilization on your fourth. Ya’ should be moving onto them in force not piecemeal like ya’ been doing and ya’ certainly don’t negotiate with their governments if ya’ don’t have to. Foolish notions, ya’ keep those Xenos on thar loose leash and they’re come a reckoning.

Hansen: Ah. Didn’t expect to find a politician underneath. {Laughs}I have to admit your full of surprises Captain Jackson.

Jackson: Plum don’t pretend to be anything fancy Ma’am, just a little old soldier. From where I stand yer people seem a touch…naïve. I don’t mean to fret you none but there are dangers out there, only recently we subdued a mighty ornery race…we call them Jadhunds. Honor less jackals but strong, nigh dozen planets clutched in their talons. Hundred maybe two of warships, ought to have seen the campaign. Months of hard slogging both in the depths of space and on the planets’ surfaces…at times the skies would just grow dark with thar bombers or the ground shake with the rumble of thar tanks.

Hansen: Well we of Earth obvious thank the Confederacy for the eliminating any threat to galactic stability and offer our condolences for the losses suffering in the endeavor. It appears through that we’re running short on time and in light of your expressed opinion I was wondering if we could leave with your thoughts on any Earth politician you might look more favorably upon.

Jackson: Well the life of yer Theodore Roosevelt has always intrigued me through ya’ space policies (Laughs) were trifle anemic at the time I must say. And make no mistake I like many things of Earth...its a good world. With, if ya' pardon the fussing, honorable peoples.

Hansen: Well thank you, and further thank for your time Captain.

Jackson: My pleasure Ma’am. Anything to convince the people of Earth the Confederacy of Man means them no harm." Transcript of Annika Hansen's interview with Confederacy represenative

[Praeothmin]

Nice interview...

I like Jackson, he's like "an old Texas Ranger what just does what needs ta be done"... :)

[sonofccn]

More interviews! Because clearly that's better than gripping action against foul, ichor dripping eldritch beings from forbidden tombs.

Intermission:

"Well as much as I may find having my head shoved up my rectum disheartening considering I'm in orbit aboard a Super Star Destroyer and you are in a wretched dung heap of a fortress below I doubt we'll have much chance to put that to effect." Lord Protector Jack Krevin responding to the audio message of the Warlord of Nephelia
"Hansen: Is it sir or your honor or-how should I address you?

Krevin: Well my birth scandoc says Jack Krevin if that’s simpler. Through you can call me Jack if you wish Ms. Hansen or may I call you Annika?

Hansen: Ms. Hansen will suffice Ja-Krevin. Now then you are the Lord Protector of the Confederacy of Man correct?

Krevin: I think so (Laughs) but in truth I’m always the last one to know these sort of things. I have to- I have to gossip with the indentured servants to get any idea what is happening across the realm.

Hansen: Well I can’t say I imagined you saying that. I mean I don’t know if your aware of this but on Earth its commonly depicted you essentially hold each world of the Confederacy in your (Laughs) iron-fist.

Krevin: Oh Emperor no. Each world largely self-governs local matters. Really I find the elevation to “Lord Protector” not so different from my time as Commodore. And in truth I think that is where my heart and soul still remain, aboard this ship plying the stars-

Hansen: The Judgment is a marvelous ship, a floating city in the isles of darkness. I can understand becoming attached to her.

Krevin: A vessel without equal but, I find, even more than that is merely to stride upon her bridge. Too look out through her onto the verdant world we’re orbiting…to see the whole of creation condensed as if to fit inside the palm of your hand…to let your gaze sweep across sun drenched deserts, frigid ice lands and sweltering jungles with but a breath…truly captivating. Its-I’m sorry? I’m boring you of course, going off like that, aren’t I?

Hansen: No…no far from it. I was just trying to imaging it…that vista…

Krevin: Hardly have to imagine it. If you wish we can go after…I can show you Imperial Center in all its glory and you can show the people of Earth that the tenders of Judgment are not some motley collection of interchangeable bogeymen as some media depicts-yes I’m actually a bit of a glutton where it comes to Earth media, some of your speculative-fiction works is quite…imaginative. But…my crew, as I hope you no doubt observed, are flesh and blood beings just like you and me. People with hopes and dreams…struggling to make their way in the cold desolation of the universe.

Hansen: I’ve noticed through some seem more flesh an blood then others. (Laughs) And I hope to capture this, their humanity, for everyone back home. So if you indulge me could you perhaps…make your case? For everyone on Earth…the sales pitch so to speak.

Krevin: Certainly Ms. Hansen, consider me at your service. To return to earlier metaphor we of the Confederacy see the galaxy as this cold, lonely void. Cruel and at times utterly pointless with the words of humanity like individual people…shuddering in the darkness. Afraid, of what is around them…of themselves…everything. Knowing all too well their vulnerability…how the slightest mistake can spell disaster…we feel, that is we of the Confederacy, that this fear is holding us back. That it keeps us from reaching out…to shrinking the islands of isolation which surrounds us…divides and weakens us. And what we do is offer a hand, just a simple gesture and the promise that no matter what your not alone out here. That there is warmth and joy if you wish it. And who doesn’t want that?

Hansen: Indeed. (Laughs) You make it sound almost like a family.

Krevin: We like to think of it like that yes. Humanity coming together…overcoming our shared obstacles. Through obviously it isn’t always seen like that.

Hansen: No. I…I asked this of Captain Jackson who came before you but I’d like your take on the matter as well. My President, during a broadcasted speech, publicly called your Confederacy an “Evil Empire” and I was curious just how you perceived that.

Krevin: Deny it and threaten the President’s life. That’s how the stereotypical evil overlord deals with such assertions correct? {Laughs) In truth your President is as entitled to his opinion as any of my citizens are to criticize or public harangue me. You wouldn’t believe some of the letters I receive…barely a week doesn’t go by that a Farmer on Soth Karalinah doesn’t accuse me of poisoning his crop via sorcery. I tell you-

Hansen: No…you a wielder of the dark arts? How could he?

Krevin: True I’m afraid…nice guy like me and he still thinks I contort with the elder gods merely to destroy his harvest of radishes. At least I think its radishes…see I mean all this logistical and clerical work isn’t me. I’m much happier with a simple military objective to run my mind over.

Hansen: Here again I’d like the distinction between Earth conception and hard fact. On Earth its common to depict you hunched over shadow veiled campaign boards plotting out intricate battle plans. And-

Krevin: As well as a bit…shall we say worse for wear? I believe that filmmaker…it was a Mister Lucas I think…recently depicted me as a wizened old specter growling orders from under a darken hood. I’ve taken a few blows to the face but, I hope, I’m not quite that far yet. But (Laughs) I’m obviously not an unbiased opinion.

Hansen: No-no your not even close to that Jack. Your very warm…and heartfelt. Miles from the creature portrayed in film “Space Marauder”.

Krevin: Thank you…not to heap any scorn on the creator…I actually quite enjoyed the theatrics of his “Historical-drama” but when I saw “myself” I was well-

Hansen: Surprised?

Krevin: Yes, thank you Ms. Hansen. Through understandable. But to answer your original question far from it. As much as I may wish it and how much I feel I belong in the command pulpit…I am not a strategic genius by any stretch of the imagination. Couldn’t survive without the layer of talented generals making the day to day decisions leaving me free to focus on “Crisis points”. And most of that is me merely giving shape and focus to our campaign goals with intermediaries to actually burden the weight.

Hansen: Well I hope you don’t mind if I don’t take you fully at your word, I’ve talked to some of your people…I could fill books with the exploits…

Krevin: Embellishments. Oh I’ve slain a few monsters in my day. Rescued a damsel or two but really I’m a quiet man merely making his way through the galaxy. Not the deified creature some are wont to exaggerate me to.

Hansen: Still…these embellishments as you call them, I would cherish hearing first hand some of them. If you would oblige me of course.

Krevin: I am always at your service my dear. Lets see…maybe the time I killed the Warlord of Nephelia? That was a bit rousing, at least for me because I hadn’t intended in the slightest to fight him.

Hansen: He got the drop on you then?

Krevin: A bit so I’m afraid. Had a form of conveyance which allowed him to appear on my bridge and-now to fully understand the peril you must know of the Satyr and their dreadful affliction. They are loathsome creatures there merest sliver of which can fester and rot within you if given half a chance so naturally having a two meter tall snarling beast-man appear from a pillar of light and start a rampage was not how I wanted the day to go. They are most unhygienic race and their saliva and “fur” fly everywhere when they move…each cell of which a germ of future threat which can devour men alive.

Hansen: A despicable race indeed then…go on…

Krevin: The Warlord came after me of course, the whole point of his being on my ship to begin with, firing his twin heavy repeaters in all directions making a horrid mess. Now…like I said he was two meters if he was a millimeter and built as solid as a Star Destroyer and I’m just…well I’m me. Now he comes at me, trekking his assault carbine across my wake which I just navigate beneath and roll spilling my tea all over my self in the process. Breaking the saucer and cup too I have to add when I tucked on hitting the deck plate, blood streaming down my palm as I reared up behind the Xeno. He of course wheeled around an elbow which seemed bigger than my whole torso which I jinked aside from, stepped up and slashed the broken shard of porcelain through the beings neck. I think I nicked an artery but regardless that sucker started bleeding and distracted the wooly beast long enough for me to break with it and bring my blaster to bear. Which I’ve learned to keep at full discharge, first bolt turning the Warlord’s head to rancid confetti followed by most of its chest before I was done with it. Then of course I and everyone else had to spend the rest of the day in quarantine being scrubbed and prodded while the bridge was sterilized of foreign particles. Not that it delayed our bombardment of Nephelia…Tyler in the secondary controls proved most effective…

Hansen: And you don’t think that’s heroic…or worthy of praise except through embellishment? You took down a charging monster, in part, with a beverage.

Krevin: Wouldn’t be the first time for that. I just wish Shanulas saw it your way, he’s never trusted me with his personal teacups again.

Hansen: Well thank you but it looks like your out of time…

Krevin: It was pleasure and Ms. Hansen-

Hansen: Annika please Jack.

Krevin: Annika…I know this great little Cantina down on Imperial Center. After we tour the bridge, if you want, I have some pull with the government (Laughs) and I thought you might like to accompany me…" Transcript of Annika Hansen's interview with Confederacy represenative

[sonofccn]

Nice interview...

I like Jackson, he's like "an old Texas Ranger what just does what needs ta be done"... :)

Jackson, Thejas Ranger. ;)

But yeah pretty much what you said. He's one of the few genuine good guys in the whole story, in my opinion which isn't impartial, which is why I think I like writting him.

[Praeothmin]

Oh my, Lord Krevin the Seducer...

I wonder if his "sidearm" will still be at full discharge? ;P

[sonofccn]

Final tangent before we resume our regular schedual and pick up after a small time skip, roughly 30 days, which I apologize doesn't involve Tyler. He wasn't available as it turned out, being Arch-Servitor is a busy job, so instead please enjoy Jek's War story instead.

“Facility is thrice divided into individual research areas, yours will be the bio-organic sector. Tiers 1-3 involve developing drought and pestilent resisting crops, health supplements and the like. Tier 4-5 deals with the creation and testing of more controversial items such as the engineering of flesh-devouring pathogens or forging serums that will artificially enhance a soldier’s performance in combat. Tier 6, yours, simply put makes nightmares.” Unnamed Administrator’s description of Union Industries’ “Fort Kharon” research base on Cerberus colony.

Intermission-

I.WAR

"Jek: What the…what happened to the blonde?

Anthony: Sorry, Ms. Hansen…become indisposed. I’m Mr. Anthony I’ll be taking over the last of these interviews. If you would take your seat we could began.

Jek: Sure no problem chief. It’s not like I’m going anywhere anyway.

Anthony: Thank you. Now if you could state your name for the record?

Jek: Master Sergeant Malcolm ” The Kid” Jek of the Imperial Stormtroopers Legion.

Anthony: An elite division I take it?

Jek: You could say that. We drop into Hell and wreck the joint. Regularly.

Anthony: Well that’s a bit graphic but doesn’t really say much to me. I was hoping to get…I don’t know something more visceral? I’ve been checking some of Ms. Hansen’s earlier work and I don’t know…seems too sterile to me. Too basic.

Jek: Want a War story huh? Well I got a few…Valor squad has served as the tip of the spear more times than I care to count. I’ve stood on radioactive baked worlds, ruins of bombed cities, churned killing grounds of razor-wire and slugthrowers and absolutely every terrain in between. Pick one.

Anthony: I wouldn’t begin…perhaps maybe one you found challenging or unusual in some manner?

Jek: Challenging? That kind of goes with the territory. Bad intel, harsh drop or some scaly bantha excrement eater gets a lucky shot off against one of your friends…every mission is challenging. If it wasn’t we wouldn’t be there, they’d drop the Army in.

Anthony: I didn’t mean to impugn your work…is there any mission you’d like to talk about?

Jek: Sure…ever hear of a world called Nephelia? Yes? Good. Valor squad was part of the first wave onto that cinder. Now this was after planetary operations, Judgment spent a day shelling that rock then we waited another twelve hours to let the firestorms abate before we went in. As per OP we had all been informed this would be a cake walk, straight up verify everything was dead. Yeah if you believe that I have an asteroid to sell you.

Anthony: Saying you found survivors?

Jek: We found hostiles. Buggers has some contraption…I don’t know what the gear heads were quick to cart away what we recovered… which allowed them to just appear out of thin air. Never a lot…usually only one or two…but that’s all you need to take down a shuttle. Right off the bat Landers are coming down from sky like rain as we’re disembarking, fething atmosphere so polluted with smog and ash you couldn’t see more than half a dozen meters and through it these things are just swarming up from tunnel hatches that went down to underground warrens. Bellowing nearly as loud as their noxious slug throwers through how the feth they managed to breath that toxic brew is anyone guess, by all rights their lungs should have been seared away the moment they popped their hatch covers. We-

Anthony: I’m sorry-if the atmosphere was so destroyed…how you able to breathe?

Jek: A Stormtrooper’s tactical armor is fully insulated and can seal against fluidic or atmospheric conditions, which is why we were chosen to perform this mop up instead of the Army regulars. The hostile environment as well as the natural infectious nature of the alien spawn. Now exiting our Lander We, Valor squad, immediately broke for cover heading for some rock outcroppings Specs picked up through that pea soup of atmosphere. Now by that point, we not being the first shuttle touching down, there were already a quite a few of the mangy mongrels between us and those rocks but leading the way with my Z-6 cannon we punched a hole through and set up a bastion on those rocks. Enough to clear out the immediate area and bring out the mortar teams…which I left Specs to direct them down upon our foes heads while I took Lucky and Ever-Ready to link up with Glory squad whom had taken the left flank of the Lander and were getting mauled.

What was left was pinned down about…three maybe four meters from the shuttle’s edge eating dirt and trying to avoid getting their head ventilated by the lead being slung about from the shaggy demons which just appeared and vanished through the sheeting cauldron of ashy wastes. Just a mound of dead or wounded peppering the landscape with blaster bolts, a little further out was their NCO, still breathing but he wasn’t giving any commands, and a ruinous mess which could have been another couple of troopers. Fragmentation bomb, the Devils like launching them from rocket tubing and they cut through armor like no one’s business. Glory squad’s Sergeant, from what I could make out through the shifting canvas, had lost a leg plus had been punched through in several places along torso which combined with his girlish screaming acting like juicy bait for his Cadre to risk their necks to pull him back.

Dreadful business and suicidal without sufficient force which wasn’t about to arrive. First and second platoon of our Company had been chewed getting down the gangplank and our feth for brains Captain refused to commit further. Frankly I’m glad a Satyr materialized and vaped the fether. As well Specs was still setting up our mortar teams so for the spell my fireteam were all the help Glory squad was going to receive. In such absence of better options I and Ever-Ready led a direct charge towards our comrade in arms position while Lucky repositioned himself to deliver more precise punishment to the wooly Curs. Using his scope’s lens in addition to his helm’s system to pick off their heavy weapons teams, leader types and any odd sod whom we struck who didn’t stay down.

His bolts cracking over my head as I dove beside the knotted hill of perforated flesh which was Glory squad, Ever-Ready pushed off past screaming his head off duel wielding his carbines in scything half circles through the half glimpsed specters of the Satyr. Trooper has a little of ’19, utterly fearless, valiantly drawing their fire as I checked our battle-brothers. Many of whom were in a sorry shape, all of them had been wounded with maybe half critical. Their Corpsman was patching them up but they needed real medical aid…which meant getting them back to the shuttle. Barking commands to their jittery Corporal do just that I plucked the two healthiest looking specimens among their number and giving a war cry a Colonial would have been proud off made to drive a fiery wedge down the center of those furry {CENSORED} widening the gape Ever-Ready and Lucky had already forged. As well my sharpshooter was gently whispering to my ear that the Satyr were drawing their own cannon teams out from their subterraneous warrens. So if we hadn’t given them something else to bark at they’d have smashed as to bits.

Not that they didn’t give their best attempt regardless, the ground shaking with the cloven foot falls as they galloped into our charge. Some sprinting hunched on three limbs likes Beastials, others on two to more properly wield their assault carbines which spewed leaden death through the toxic air. If they recognized their mortality as each in turn was cremated by my cannon or the fires of my compatriots those things never showed it. Just kept throwing themselves in messy, ragged waves against us as we pushed off towards those gunnery posts, fething bait drawing those {CENSORED} off of Corporal Krup as he Evaced his men back towards the shuttle and-

Anthony: I’m sorry…but how were you able to push towards the guns? If everything is so choked with this nebulous clouds as you described…wouldn’t the horrendous visibility hinder you?

Jek: Each Stormtrooper’s helmet is fully equipped with a wide spectrum visual system enabling us to navigate and operate effectively from environments as diverse as under water to the middle of a sand storm. In addition each helm can log and “paint” coordinates which is what Lucky did guiding us in towards the gun posts, holding the rear echelon of our little feint covering us as well as Krup’s men from his position.

I myself keep in sporadic and chaotic contact with the Corporal via radio chatter as we broke down upon the cannons being erected out across the burned silt flatlands, Splitting Ever-Ready along with one of Glory troopers to flank the site and crews while I took the other. Both I and Ever-Ready laying down an intersecting barrage, firing with sharp angles to keep from bisecting each other of course, while either team-mate rushed past to lob thermal grenades into the Xenos midst’s. Ever seen one of those cook off? They just incinerate everything around them, turning the whole site into a smoky haze and a bad memory. Dealing that, and getting the attention of every Satyr whom we’ve somehow managed to elude, I gave the command to fall back towards the shuttle and, hoped for, renewed firing line of Glory squad.

Barely made it half a meter of our mad scramble back, with the virtual hounds of Hell on our tracks, before the air shimmered in front of me like a gem catching sunlight. Which was my first and only warning before the mongrel fether collated into being in front of me, twin-linked flechete launcher kicking off against where my face had been a hair of a moment earlier. It, along with the rest of my body, bending towards and diving onto the ashy ground the moment my eye spotted the disturbance by which I had already deduced a collation with the beasties appearing, and wouldn’t be my last time I was treated to such a close experience, and only then as I rolled onto my back trained my weapon back up at the drooling monster. The monster, discarding its weapon turned after me pulling…well we call it a Ripper. A short, compact weapon with no accuracy beyond point blank but it fires with the fury of Hades. The little bugger drew that from off its filthy hide, stretching the leather tongs by which it was suspended, and began squeezing off a volley of shots after me as my rotary cannon whirred to life. Feeling in my gut the hot, stabbing pain as one bullet pierced through me, later I’d recover about half a dozen slug throwers either embedded or loose inside my battlesuit, before the blaster bolt struck across the thing’s shoulder vaporizing a healthy chunk along with its raising arm sending the weapon to the wayside.

Undaunted in its remaining millisecond of life as the other hundred or so bolts sough it the Satyr was pulling free a battered looking gladius from a chorded thigh before it dissolved away into rank offal. Rancid bits of which pelted me as I fumbled over to my knees, crimson droplets raining from my underbelly, and swung up my upper body and gun to meet the thunderous stampede of enraged alien scum just as the first mortar shell arched down into them consuming a copious amount of their green, shaggy hides with its immolation. Others following like bolts of lightening into their densely packed and uncouth formation scattering the wretches if not actually driving them back into their pits freeing me to rise shakily to my feet and make an about face towards the Lander. Which with the aid of Ever-Ready, appearing from the broiling mists like a demonic angel, I set out for. By which time the fething Air Corps had finally fething figured out we were in a bit of hot water and were coming down to make strafing runs further helping to clear the landing fields for the additional shuttles bearing battle tanks and other heavy ordinance which were descending into the maelstrom.

Anthony: They were still landing shuttles? Even after they realized the enemy had survived…they didn’t resume bombardment?

Jek: They didn’t cease for days, began unloading Army soldiers fitted with rebreathers once we secured the LZ. Partly because by then the gear heads wanted a look at that conveyance contraption and partly because the buggers were too deeply entrenched for a bombardment to be optimal. We called in tactical strikes from time to time over the following weeks but mostly we fought our way into their warrens, placed a proton bomb on a timer and retreated. Boom, goodbye rat nest."

[Praeothmin]

Finally, words from a ground-pounder...

Ah, the voice of experience from this side of hell... :)