Who the fuck is this guy?
Gideon Husker sits in a humble soth-house, trying to figure out who is sitting across from him. He has to be another brazen soul, he can sense the red iron cross branded on his soul.
"Time for me to go. Give my regards to Krow, won't ya?" says the stranger, standing up to leave. Gideon can't place him, he'll stake Krow's life on it.
Don't we have a job to do?
Not before some 'soth in my gullet.
The fuck did he talk to us about?
The day and the road.
Less dwolm, more 'soth!
Gideon stands up and saunters to the bar, where a young girl has been assigned the role of tender. She shifts her weight, a clear sign of discomfort. The light bears no tricks in here. She is clearly not happy. He walks up to her, holding raspirator in one hand, and a fistful of chrome in the other. He slams it on the counter, the seismic tremors reaching the girl's spine.
"Amp me up, darlin'." Gideon's tone is soft, a subconscious attempt at appearing less intimidating. It doesn't make the girl want to shrink any less.
A smidge too late, table slammer!
It looked really cool though.
Yeah, but-
Shhh...be cool.
She starts pouring him a nice cup of kjarnsoth. He notices her hand shaking, and the inevitable disaster comes with the clatter of drinking horns and the panicked curses. Gideon can hear her heart pounding in her chest.
She's cute when she struggles.
Down boy.
I'm no boy, I'm manly.
Yeah right.
A flood of tearful apologies pouring from the poor girl's mouth all but confirm it. She's scared and about to be shitless. Gideon pats her on the head. She's taken aback by this sudden show of kindness, half expecting the giant to crush her head like an egg. "You're not mad, bronze?" comes a meek little squeek, I wouldn't know it was a question if it wasn't for the question mark.
Whatever you do, don't laugh.
I'm going to laugh.
No, don't.
Condescending laughter, incoming.
STOP!
Gideon laughs, not too hard. He stifles some of it, but the damage is done. The young bartender crosses her arms, clearly suffering from a bad case of indignation. I fear it's terminal, may even metastasise into full blown anger. "What's so funny, bronze?" she demands, her tone a bit more abrasive than she intends. For a moment, she forgets she's talking to a man four times her size. As another apology almost makes it out, Gideon disarms her with words.
"Don't sweat it darlin'."
Forget about indignation. Bar tender girl is all flustered, turning away from Gideon sharply to hide the intense blush that threatens to consume her entire face.
What the hel is that dripping noise? Is there a sudden leak somewhere?
"I gotta get going." Gideon turns to walk away, but is stopped by small hands tugging on his arm. It's the girl, holding an amped up bottle.
"On the house for the road, bronze." she says bashfully, handing him the bottle without looking directly at him.
"Thank you, sweetie." Gideon takes the bottle gingerly, and gives the young lady another pat on the head. As he leaves, she runs to the bathroom.
There it is again.
Is there a waterfall around here that I'm not aware of?
Track it down when you have time,
some fresh water would hit the spot right about now.
Stepping outside, Gideon immediately feels something is off.
Hey me?
Yes me?
Damn, you're strong.
Thanks me ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
Also, something's wrong.
The night air is warmer than it should be. The streets of Rockminoa may be protected from the outside, but something has gone wrong. Husker can feel the warmth of struggle, and he puts on his raspirator and helmet. Safety first.
One of our own is out of the pocket.
A warm sensation in his covered nostrils. A hunch in his gut. A scent besieges his metaphysical olfactory, and he can't ignore it. He strides with haste over to his interceptor in an irregular pattern, a sudden brain froth overtaking his senses.
Where is it...?
It passes like a blush on a pog's ass. Gideon plummets like a sad meteor into the driver's seat, stuck in a deep thunk.
Trouble breeds...but where?
Tell me what you want.
I wanna break it.
Good boy.
Gideon takes a few sniffs, his raspirator bearing no obstacles. He is ready to track, ready to hunt. Wildly. Wild hunt. There is too much thrashing happening somewhere, and he is on the case. After a moment of DEEP ranging, the Runes guide him.
ᚦᛖᚻᛟᚱᛗᛟᚾᛊᛟᛉᛇᛖᛏᛣ
Kicking his car into gear, Gideon's interceptor screams towards the local whore monopoly: the Hoarmoan Society. Gideon is possessed, craving the venge, like a deviant craves skidmarks in the shitter.
Stringe isn't ready for this arbiter of vengeance. Seeing a Ragnalonian interceptor fully committed to the hunt, someone might've swooned into a coma. Godspeed, indeed.
His feverish quest is in sight. In the distance, a ziggurat is visible. A statue on its top, a dedication to the whore queen herself, Ishtar. Her sensual, yet threatening combat stance is visible even this far away. Yet the distance is closing.
Man, fuck that building.
...
That statue looked at you funny.
It did?
Yes.
That heavenly bitch!
Ram that shit.
You're on to something there.
You should get on it.
I'm going to get on it.
Don't slow down.
I won't slow down, I am turbo man.
Slam into that fucking building.
Show Ishtar who's boss!
Fuck yeah, I am boss.
Big boss.
Biggest boss.
Titanic boss.
Woah, take it easy.
Chill.
Let's not go crazy here.
That building has been a bad architecture.
Spank it!
Gideon gingerly slams his foot on the go-pedal, forcing it to the floor with a thud. The interceptor picks up speed at an alarming rate. It was going fast before, but in a cool way. The kind of velocity that makes people notice. We're getting into concerning territory, the velocity that accidents are made of. Alas, what is about to happen isn't going to be an accident. Gideon's intent is entirely intentional.
Oh yeah, that's turbo.
That's right, speed up.
Get ready to harpass on my signal.
What's the signal?
My finger in your bum.
Gideon looks at his own finger, not paying attention to the rapidly approaching ziggurat ahead of him.
Which finger?
The thumb.
Brutal.
That might hurt.
Does it?
Gideon snaps back to reality, and performs a harpass so extreme, the interceptor goes flying. The car slams against the solid wall like a splattered pie. It slides back down, and lands upside down.
Get back to work.
Who gave you permission to sleep on the job?
Gideon struggles to keep himself conscious. Everything hurts, in that special way where movement is harder than the pecks on a manticore.
My pecks are the hardest this side of the sun!
Up and at them, action man!
Gideon does not get up. He just lies there, basically a dead person. Something he can only roleplay. Death is not a permanent thing for most Ragnalonians.
Fuck it, we ball!
Gideon feels his arm reaching for something in a compartment. It's been smushed a bit, but the item his muscle memory seeks has a sharp needle. He stabs it into his throat, and feels a surge of pain all over his body. Bones crack back into place, muscles shake themselves whole, and internal bleedings cease and desist.
With that sorted; YOU FUCKER!
Gideon starts twitching, then he throws himself out of the crashed interceptor hardcore. He's a wizard of self-harm. A master of pummel-based flagellation. The hurt dancer. He even punches himself in the groin. Then one final punch against his thick head, which sends him flying backward. He lands prone on his back.
Get up.
His head tilts up, as if an invisible force lifts it by the chin. Some random vagabond witnesses all of this, and from that day forth, swears off tromatosh forever...which is next monday, funnily enough.
We're throbbing with VENGEANCE!
Gideon's punches himself in the head one last time. Impressive concussive force! Right in the kisser!
"Right," he rises to his feet, and dusts himself off, none the worse for wear. "duty doth beckon."
The building is quiet. Too quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Dead silence so great that Husker thinks he can pick up the faintest riff in the distance. This tells him that his interceptor is truly dead. He killed it. Murderer! Assassin! Hooligan! Rascally slayer!
He shakes his head, and unholsters his pistol. Carefully, he takes tactical steps towards the entrance. They won't know what hit them.
The doors are bent. They were punched open by mechanical fists. Hardly any noise. Faint tears of despair come from within.
"Over the hills and far away...Bubblebutts come to play."
He hums the tune to one of his favourite old kid-shows to himself as he braces himself for entry. The steps he takes are coordinated, the height of strategy! They might seem erratic and kind of ludicrous to the casual viewer. Make no mistakes! Gideon Husker moves with precision only seen in the most dire circumstances. Inside the ziggurat, a gruesome scene says hello.
Bodies contorted, twisted. Broken beyond belief. The security detail has the worst of it. A spine bent backwards, the head shoved where the sun never shines.
Impressive.
The sickly sweet stench of sexual deviancy mixed with the carnage penetrates Husker's raspirator. Despite its best efforts at filtering out the sweaty miasma, there is no stopping this amount of sin. Every sensual act has been committed here, and there is no taking any of it back. Noticing movement from his periphery, Gideon walks tactically to the receptionist area, and rings the bell on the counter.
A hand shoots up from behind the counter, and drags up a sorry sight. A man with an opened, fat belly, helchem pipes leaking like guts, spewing red-gold liquid all over the floor. Somebody mistook this man's pregavat belly implant for a gift wrapped up in thin, stretched out flesh and ripped him open like a balloon animal.
"Why do you ring the bell!?! Can't you see my way of life is dying?"
"You've been bumfucked dry, haven't ya?"
The man says nothing to Gideon's mastery over the obvious. He merely clutches the empty space where his hopes and dreams once gestated.
Husker nods his head towards the carnage. The receptionist starts crying. Actually, more like sobbing uncontrollably. So crying plus. S-tier wailing.
"What happened to that one?" Gideon points at a corpse frozen on all fours, like a dog. The groin has a small, round hole in it, and his cranium is completely open, grey matter and skull shards splattered all over the wall. Gideon looks back at the receptionist, a knowing look in his teal eyes.
"Let me guess...someone fucked his brains out?"
The receptionist faints, landing in a puddle of his own tears...and helchems leaked from his belly, of course.
"Confirmation."
Hello me.
...
It's me again.
Cringe.
We need to talk.
What is it?
Brains have been fucked out.
Yep.
That's good to know.
The receptionist rises up again, clumsily. He almost slips on his own wasted potential, holding on to the reception table for dear life. Gideon finishes flexing, then turns around to face the man again.
"Where is your unwanted guest?"
"Down in the dollhouse, over there...just follow the corpses." the man points to a hallway littered with corpses. Husker starts towards it, but the man puts a hand on his wrist.
"Please...if you are the real deal, heed my plea."
Husker shrugs. Of course he is the real deal. More real is not possible, his red-iron blood makes sure of that.
"He stole my sister. Ripped her right out of me. Please…promise you'll save her."
There is a pregnant pause between the two men. Gideon jerks his hand away. He stares the man down, all the way to his belly...which is no longer pregnant, unlike the pause earlier.
"The real deal doesn't make promises, he makes progress." The man fondles the devastation on his belly as Gideon leaves him to his sorrows, the helchemic gross escaping in rhythm to his tears...and his pulse. He should probably seek medical attention. Gideon sends out a ping for a paramedic just in case.
Here we go again.
The bent, violated door opens up as wide as it can with the damage it has sustained from his fists. It beckons Gideon down. On the wall is an advertisement, only a few days old.
"Want to add some spice to your blood-play? Our rigdolls now come with ethanol infused gore! Come and enjoy a new era of boozing!"
Gideon attention is snatched away from the ad by a foreboding sound coming from below...someone is squeezing fruit(?). He enters the bottom of the stairs, into the room proper.
The Rigid, a room where helchemists, junkers and psychomancers work in unison to make rigdolls. They hang in their "sleeping" bags, plastic sheaths wrapped around them until a day comes they should be needed for whatever reason.
That desperate drinking sound, now mixed with frustrated growls, becomes louder and more intense as he gets further in. Husker follows the angry noises, and finally confronts the object of his sudden metaphysical obsession.
A dwarf, his robotic claws holding the severed head of a rigdoll over his bearded face. The cadaver's neck-hole is propped over his gaping maw, and he squeezes it like it were fruit. Artificial blood drips down into his mouth. He has, evidentially, already crushed the head dry of most of its gory contents.
"I take it you saw their new ad, Duncan?"
The dwarf's teeth gnash as he put on his raspirator, holding the head by the bald scalp with his claws. Slowly, he turns around, a mad glint in his twitching, pale yellow eyes.
"Yes I did, Husky..." Duncan's voice is a lovingly hateful sneer, tinged with flanged metal. Courtesy of the raspirator. Gideon keeps his blaster trained on the dwarf. Thanks to the size difference, he has to aim down substantially.
Hey me.
What now?
Duncan isn't looking too hot.
Of course not. I am prettier than him. The jealousy must be throwing him off.
That's not what I meant!
Oh?
His berserk is loose
Oh no.
Oh yes.
"Take it easy, Duncan." Gideon says this, as one berserker to another. He can tell that Duncan's frenzy is reaching the danger zone. He knows what is coming.
"This shit isn't even forty-percent!" Duncan SLAMS his fist against the adjacent wall, creating a dent in the solid metal. There is a moment of tense, echoing silence. The two men stare each other down. For Gideon that is literal, eclipsing the dwarf in size by gigantic margins.
Yellow eyes slowly turning glowing cyan. Moisture drips down from the ceiling, and it's not water. It's sexual juice, from up high.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
"HEADS UP!"
Gideon squeezes the trigger right as Duncan tosses the severed head, which hits the much taller man in the groin. The muzzle flash is an angry flare of magenta, lighting up the dim room with a spark of violence. The shot misses.
"Motherfu-!"
Slam Duncan has already closed the gap and delivered a punch straight to Gideon's groin. The penis has been annihilated. The larger man collapses like a giant from fables, and Duncan wastes no time, leaping on to his chest and pummelling him with a flurry of metallic blows.
Gideon kicks Duncan off, and leaps up to punch him. Duncan's frenzied reflexes grab the punch mid delivery, and he uses the momentum to toss Gideon through the ceiling, out of the Ziggurat and on to the street outside.
Gideon's landing is rough. He scrambles to his feet immediately, getting his bearing as fast as he can. He sees several local peacekeepers, witnesses to his violent exit from the ziggurat. They run to his aid, which is a terrible mistake that he tries to prevent.
"X-07!"
"The fuck does that mean?"
"RUN, IT'S SLAM DUNC-"
He feels a metallic fist slam directly into his head. He flies at least a few hundred meters, directly into a feeding messy. By the time he's recovered, all peacekeepers have been ripped apart into twenty nine pieces (each) and Slam Duncan has his frenzied sight on random bystanders.
By the time Gideon manages to close the distance again, Duncan has killed eleven people. He barely manages to rescue a child who's lost his mother right before Duncan pummels him into paste. Gideon throws the child away roughly, not having any time to be gentle when a frenzied berserker is actively trying to fuck him up.
Enter a frenzy, even the playground.
No, we'll just make things worse.
Do it.
ᛊᚥᛒᛗᛸᛏ
I SAID NO!
Gideon desperately tries to fight Duncan off in savage close-quarters combat. He is no match, and it's hard to hit a target that is so much smaller than you by comical margins. Like if a child were fighting a fully grown troll.
ᚷᛸᚹᛖᛸᚾ
Damn it!
ᚠᛃᚥᚱᛣ
Not now!
ᛈᚨᚱᛏᛣᛏᛇᛗ
Fuck!
ᚠᚥᚲᛖᛗ
Tarnation...
ᚲᛸᛚᛖᛗᚨᛚᛚ
Cack...
ᛋᛖᛞᛞᛸᛝᛒᛖᚱᛊᛖᚱᚲ
Memories becomes tangled in a frenzy of emotion. Gideon is, at this very moment, lost in a sea of boiling blue blood.
It burns hot.
It feels cold.
Hatred that gives no quarter.
His berserk has fallen off.
A frenzy.
Gideon charges Slam Duncan, and the two engage each other in a brutal melee that lasts for minutes. Tendons are torn, guts are kicked and punched in, groins are destroyed. At one point, Gideon rips off Duncan's mechanical arm and hits him with it. This further enrages the dworf, and in a mad charge that almost kills him, he manages to disembowel Gideon with his other claw.
Still, Gideon keeps fighting for another minute, ripping Duncan's head off before finally collapsing. His blue blood creates a large pool beneath his prone form, and his soul shoots towards Ragnalon once more.
The shub vomits Gideon on to a cold floor. He lands face first on the metal. He's not willing to talk. Not even to himself. Nor the fay woman playing Tard Wrangler in the corner.
Man, that was something.
...
I mean, aren't bowels supposed to be inside?
...
In our belly?
...
...
...
...fine. Sulk away!
A long silence permeates the room. Only the sound of games being played at low volume on a handheld disturb the quiet. "Having a good sulk, Bonehead?"
Gideon turns on to his back, craning his head while prone. He wants to get a better look at-
"Hey Tally. Been waiting long?" his question makes one of her pointy ears twitch. He can't tell if its irritation or amusement. Her ashen grey skin glisten slightly, like his own to a lesser extent. Or maybe she's just sweating. It's rather hot inside the kongulo.
Tally turns off her handheld, and strides over to the prone Gideon. Before he can rise up to meet her, she plants her foot on his chest. He's more than her match in strength, but he lets it happen. She gently pushes him back down on the cold floor. Tendrils of slime cling to bare flesh as she lifts her foot. She lies down on top of him, laying her head on his slimy chest. Gideon, for a moment, felt a slight prick from a pointy ear before it flattened against Tally's head. There's an awkward silence as Tally listens to his heartbeat.
"There's better ways to take a pulse, darlin'."
"I'm not."
"Then what are you-"
"I like the beat. It's my jam."
They lie there for a few minutes. Gideon feels the discomfort of the hard metal floor digging into his skin, but like a cat sitting in your lap, he dares not disturb the usually reserved Tally from her resting spot. Eventually, he reaches the end of his patience, and decides to stand up. He rises without any effort, Tally still clinging to him, refusing to let go. Not that it matters, he still stands without any issue. He can feel her straining to hold on to him, so he uses his left arm to hold her in place. She sighs, content.
"You smell good, bonehead." she coos into his ear, licking the slime on her lips. Gideon turns on the shower, at which point Tally unlatches from his grip. The shower takes about ten seconds, more than enough to wash the slime off. It does nothing to remove the odours, but at this point nobody gives a shit about body odour.
As they get dressed, a familiar, one-eyed kazanjin bursts into the shubbery.
"You puke! Do you even realize what you've done?!"
Gideon has long since gotten used to Krow's outbursts, no matter how nonsensical. Tally is also unphased, taking the towel Gideon just used on his body to dry her hair with.
"The Hoarmoan Society sent you a quest reward. Behold!"
Krow snaps his black talons, and a box of considerable proportions materializes in front of him. Gideon walks up to it as he puts a shirt on. He reads the note attached to it, while Tally exits the room.
"To the melrack that didn't save my sister." Gideon's shrugs and opens the box without much hesitation. Like a jack in the box, out launches an absolute unit of a "woman".
"Lover boy~!" she cries as her ample mass plummets towards Gideon, a meteor of jiggling flesh. She crashes into him with a wet plop. Gideon is submerged beneath a Rozie model rigdoll, his reward for a job badly done.
As if on cue, Tally arrives with Omega and Zach in tow. They immediately get to work prying the rigdoll off of him. It takes a lot of work, but they finally manage to lift up the synthetic creation. Gideon gasps for air, freed from a whole lot of Rozie.
"She really took your breath away, didn't she?" Krow laughs, running out of the room from the ceiling. Tally takes a knee next to Gideon, rubbing his shoulders.
"Want something to eat?" Gideon nods, and is led out of the room. Koth and Omega look at each other, having no context for what happened. Gideon notices their confused expressions, and says "Mondays, amirite?"
