Corruption in Costa Del Sol

[Okor]

The ragged cloak that concealed his ceramite carapace from view fluttered around his bulk, the briny sea air billowing out the bedraggled garment, flowing through the worn holes of its hempen construction. Freshly forged of Omnillium as it was, nothing can remain pure while used in the service of Nurgle, as evidenced by the slow slide of his surroundings  into entropy. He breathed deep, a rattling breath that scarcely drew attention from the multitudinous masses before him, jaded to this oddity, Okor; reduced to nothing more but another day in the life on the fringes of the Empire’s Order.

The dying light of the sun illuminated the plaza, the burning orb slipping beneath the sapphire horizon, iridescent patterns splaying themselves across the shimmering sea. One could attest to the natural beauty of this vista, were it not for the near-parodic purgatory they were trapped in. The Chosen doubted that the sun even existed in this realm. Their jailor would hardly bother to form stellar bodies and set them in orbit, while simultaneously trapping them within an intangible cage. No, the sky was as hollow as a promise from the desiccated lips of the corpse-emperor.

The bustle of the city continued, an ever-pulsing heartbeat, a life-sustaining rhythm that Okor lacked. He remained in place, an arterial anomaly that forced the crowds to part past his plagued bulwark. Glimpses of vibrant colours and snippets of eager chatter flowed by him, an assault on his senses only made worse by the claustrophobic ceramite shell that shielded him, concealed him, trapped him. His eye darted over the teeming masses, instinctually scanning the horde for any armaments that could harm his nigh-impenetrable armour. He needed to get away, to separate himself from the swarm, knowing full well that a single cry of Alarm would bring the wrath of Coruscant down upon him.

While it would surely be expedient, there must surely be more amenable ways to locate the hacker who housed his code-born companion.

He began to move, the tattered rags that obfuscated him from recognition fluttering around his titanic form, stalking off into a darkened alleyway, attempting to dodge the attentions of the autocratic regime ruling over Costa Del Sol.

He was not entirely successful.

Kai was a stormtrooper. This was not uncommon in Costa Del Sol, by any stretch of the imagination. It was a popular profession amongst the area’s youth, the idea of serving the greater good of the Empire more appealing than the thought of serving tourists for the rest of their lives.

What was uncommon was his leg, or rather, the lack of said leg. Beneath the knee, his limb was forged of clandestine chrome, the cybernetic polished to a gleam every morning, in addition to the rest of his regulation gear. The events surrounding his loss of limb was the subject of many an evening in the bar, his dark features grinning and emerald eyes twinkling as he recounted the tale to a lucky lady, or on one very memorable occasion, three. The dangerous fugitive fighting their way through the square of Costa Del Sol, the wild shot that claimed his limb, and the return fire that burned out their eye.

What he didn’t tell them was the weeks of surgeries that had followed, prying out every last shard of shrapnel from his flesh, excising the cancer that had spread through his body during that time, the piss that stained his greaves while he laid in the plaza, wondering if anyone would ever pick him off the ground.

His dashing features set themselves into a resolute grimace, his chrome leg clanking against the cobblestone of the plaza, his visor set upon the disappearing giant, the robe fading into the shadows of the back alley. Like hell that bubonic bastard would slip away from him again.

[Hiro Protagonist]

Continued From Here

He laid on the bed, groaning quietly to himself as the ship pitched and rolled with the waves. The doctor had patched up the worst of his wounds, and being an EPD Prime agent had given him enough status to be allowed into the frigate's limited bacta tanks, which had healed up the worst of his injuries. Once he was out of immediate danger of dying though, they'd given him a cabin and some pills for the pain, leaving him to twitch in extended half-consciousness as Omnilium re-knit his body. He drifted in and out, suffering from dark, indistinct dreams and visions, voiding the contents of his stomach several times over the journey. Eventually, he had healed enough to be able to move around gingerly, although his arm still ached and he had tinnitus that he couldn't quite shake off yet. 

As the days passed, he had a routine of gentle stretching exercises, walks on the deck until his dizzy spells threatened to overwhelm him, sleep, and eating the horrible food that passed for ship rations on an Imperial Frigate. He spent a lot of time thinking too. This was the worst he'd ever been beaten. Dante's Abyss had been rough, but he'd never truly been close to actual death. Karl had patched him up rather quickly, but then again there was that fight with Carmelita. He may have felt like he was about to die, but he probably hadn't even been close. This hurt far more, though. It wasn't just his body that was damaged. His pride had taken a severe hit too. Beaten by an old man, and then forced to go on vacation. The hell was he going to do? Sit around the apartment eating junk food and coding? No. No, he'd done more than his fair share of that in his own world. He wasn't a slacker anymore. He had power, and purpose.

It had been almost a week since he'd left Cinnabar, and he could see the familiar sight of Costa del Sol's buildings and huts on the horizon. The journey back had taken more time than the journey there, since the Imperial Frigate made several stops at island outposts along the way to "show the colors" as it were, and remind the inhabitants who was the regional power around here. Fucking Cinnabar. In some manner, the hacker was glad he was banned from the island. Now he'd never have reason to go back. Fucking Pokemon. If he never had to see another one of thoe goofy creatures again it would be too soon.

The ship docked, Hiro watching from the top deck. Leaning against a railing, he finished smoking the last of the cigars he'd bought on his way to hunt the Sage, and threw the smoldering butt over the edge. He pulled his collar up around his chin, scabs and scars still slowly healing. He'd managed to summon up enough power to recreate his signature kimono trenchcoat, and to repair his glasses and reforge his tanto. He was feeling more like his usual self already, although moving at more than a brisk walk still made his joints ache and his head ring, the blood pounding in his ears. He made his way down through the bowels of the ship and disembarked off the gangplank, heading towards the heart of the ocean-side city once more.

[Okor]

Okor marched down the dilapidated passage, discarded bottles,  cast-aside cigarettes, and other detritus of debauchery being crushed under his feet. The egregious excess of this land was plain to see, with every step shattering the riotous remnants of revelry, the intoxicating lifeblood of Costa Del Sol flowing into the gutter.

“Freeze.” The voice pierced the relative silence, the ever-present murmur of the constant celebrations never entirely gone. An undercurrent of pain and rage tinged the voice, a hard core of discipline preventing it from slipping into nothing more than accusatory screaming. The Death Guard’s hulking form turned, staring down the porcelain-protected soldier before him, a blaster pistol clutched tightly in their gauntlets, keeping it level despite their frequent shuddering. “Remember me, fuckface?” Sneered the stormtrooper, a deft movement of their finger disabling the safety on the energy weapon. Coils within its construction began channeling power, building up the blast that sought to end  his life.

A crimson oculus blinked beneath the cloak, his twisted horn only adding to the imposing height of his disguise. ”Should I? Spoke the syphilitic Samson, the rusted iron and ceramite coating his visage betraying no emotion, a mirror of the pristine helm opposite him.

“You did this to me,” spat the Stormtrooper, hobbling closer on their artificial appendage, keeping their pistol levelled at the Marine’s cyclopean eye. “You shot off my goddamn leg.”

The steady hum building within the weapon approached a crescendo, the yawning black barrel staring into his eye, violent vermillion starting to form in the darkness within. Three heartbeats, two of which were irregular and faint, and a single hammering tempest, its rapid rhythm more than compensating for the deadened organs of his opponent.

There was no resolution to this conflict that ended with the Imperial Enforcer still standing. Kai’s mission of vengeance had clouded his mind, training and discipline forgotten in favour of a cathartic comeuppance. Reactions triumphed training. The ivory-clad interloper needed to be silenced.

“This one’s for the Emperor,” sneered the Stormie, depressing the firing stud as a blast of energy spewed forth from the blaster, detonating across Okor’s helmet, shards of corroded ceramite flying through the air. The trooper moved closer, firing again. “This one’s for the fallen!” He screamed, another blast carving into the Chosen’s chest, infested internal Organs charring as the cannon chewed through the dilapidated carapace. “And this one’s for my god-damn leg.” As the trooper lowered his pistol once more, a contented smile spread across his triumphant face. The gangrenous giant moved through the acrid smoke, ragged cloak flying around the colossal corpse as they drove a fist into the Stormtrooper’s helmet, the marine’s scorched heart smouldering beneath an opened ribcage. Kai fell with a crack, his skull crashing against the graffiti-coated brick wall as he slumped to the ground, a soft groan escaping newly split lips as he slipped into unconsciousness.

One problem was resolved. A dull ache spread through Okor’s body, his corpse knitting itself back together as he turned. Another issue arose: The shots would have drawn attention, calling reinforcements to the scene, like flies to a rotting carcass. It would do him no good to engage the entirety of the Empire’s forces at this juncture, miring him in a seemingly endless battle for no gain, save holy bloodshed.

As seductive as the promise of slaughter was, there were loftier goals to aspire to. He was alone, here in this shadowed passageway, with nothing but a slumbering stormtrooper and his own hunger for company. It would be a trivial matter to tear his foe’s throat out, to glut himself on steaming offal and blood. To stay the ravenous urges for but a brief moment.

The cascading rhythm of boots on stone approached, the iron grip of the Empire tightening on his position. He needed to move. There were a mere two entrances to this passage, both egresses echoing the approach of his adversaries.

Metal and meat alike began to slough off, running down his rapidly reducing form, flowing into the grimy gutter of the alleyway, tainting itself with the dirt and detritus in search of freedom. Jackboots swarmed the area as the last goblet of ooze slipped free from the scorched and sullied cloak, sliding into the sewers as shouts disturbed the peaceful evening.

Beneath the streets of Costa Del Sol, the amorphous mass of the anointed warrior paced through the sewers on plagued pseudopods, the succulent scent of blood guiding him forward. The aroma of the arterial fluid was familiar, calling back memories of the isle that life forgot, the ravening hordes of the dead that sought to deny him victory. The odiferous ooze continued along the subterranean system, flowing over the discarded detritus of civilization as it approached its destination.

The sanguine stench was almost unbearable now. Had he possessed any organ resembling a mouth at the moment, it would be watering. Gangrenous gripping tentacles reached skywards, raising the mass of the Marine upwards, the diseased distribution of cancer-ridden cells that made up his form sliding through a rusted sewage grate, slowly reforming on the surface. It was nearly impossible to tell the difference between scraps of sewage and what made up the Plague Marine, rotten fluids running over the rebuilt remnant as he reanimated himself.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Hiro Protagonist.

Translucent crimson crawled across his gelatinous visage, seeping into his newly-reformed eye socket, granting him the gift of vision once more. The samurai of silicon stood before him, a sliver of sake remaining in a bottle clutched between bandaged fingers. Gauze swaddled their torso, the telltale shimmer of Omnillium slowly knitting their wounds back together. Whether the alcohol was to kill the physical or emotional pain of their wounds was unknown. Corroded gauntlets pressed against both sides of Okor’s skull, forcing his twisted spine back into alignment with a crack, the dissolution of his corporeal form not entirely without consequence.

Their festering fangs parted with a grin as they spoke. ”Ah, Hiro… Protagonist. I was starting to fear you’d been swallowed whole by the Empire’s bureaucracy.”

The digital daimyo raised their bottle once more, draining what little remained of the rice wine, wetting their whistle and banishing lingering fears. “No such luck. Had I have been swallowed, I would have been spared the pleasure of being downwind of you again. If you’re here to kill me, I’d appreciate it if you could do it before the hangover sets in.”

A gurgling noise issued forth from the Death Guard as they stepped forward from the shadows of the alleyway, a cacophony that could generously be described as chuckling.

”No, Hiro. That’s a… Notch for another day.” Their claw unfurled as they reached out towards the master of the metaverse. ”For now, you have something of mine. And I would very much like it back.”

The dataverse device bound to Hiro’s wrist shuddered in response to the voice of its one true master, the… Unique perceptions of the two observers allowing them to witness the emaciated, rusted frame of the Machine Spirit as it crawled from its refuge, sinking claws of code deep within the atom-splitting armour of Okor, sliding back to familiar circuits.

The Plague Marine breathed a sigh of relief as the long-absent digital Daemon resumed its vigil, the comforting whispers of war and slaughter returning to the very edge of his superhuman hearing. The electronic buzz, distorted by the demented whims of the warp as it proselytized the annihilation of all that dared to stand before its mechanical might, was joined by a new voice. It spoke of destruction and flame, of the storm and its rage.

Darkshire.

Plundered pictures ran across his retina, digital depictions and oil paintings alike featuring in the data dump. The hordes of the walking dead battering against a well-worn palisade, the equally exhausted villagers manning the barricades.

Desperation, despair, and death.

Home.

It had been over ten millennia since any Son of Barbarus had dreamed of seeing his native soil once more. This was the closest he was ever going to get to a homecoming, save the sensation of stepping onto a battlefield.

A voice interrupted him from his reflection.

“Hey, I’m not going to complain if you’re going catatonic, but I figured it’s just polite to check.”

His blazing eye opened, staring at the hacker as twisted teeth bared themselves in a grin.

”Hiro, may I proposition you?

His subject of interest slowly looked up and down his blighted figure, parasites crawling underneath the leathery hide left uncovered by the ancient rusted plate.

“There isn’t enough Sake in the world.”

”There’s a village in the… Moors. Isolated, and removed from The Kingdom’s influence. The dead seek to cast it down, and a saviour from a far-off shining city might be enough to shift their allegiance.”

Coruscant’s Champion crossed their arms in front of their tattered torso as they stared down the Chosen of the Dark Gods. “And just what motivates this altruism? Don’t get me wrong, you’re certainly not the lowest life I’ve encountered, but travelling to another ‘verse, to save a backwater from a possible unstoppable horde of undead? I can’t help but suspect another motive.”

The Chosen chuckled. ”Your suspicion serves you well, Protagonist. If you must know, it reminds me of… Home.” Whether the pause was brought on by intense internal struggles to admit the truth, or intense internal struggles to breathe, would remain forever unknown.

”What say you, Hiro? Slay the villain, save the village, have your tale be recounted for years to come?”

[Hiro Protagonist]

Hiro considered Okor's words for a few long moments, pausing to drain the last of the sake from the bottle. Tossing it in a nearby trash can, he looked up and down the empty alley they found  themselves both in. He cracked an amused grin. "You know Okor, I think I know why most people are afraid of you, and why I nearly passed out the first time I met you. Everything you say sounds like a death threat."

A raspy, wet cough emanated from the embedded vox in the Plague Marine's armor. "That's no fault of my own, Hacker. Perhaps it is the rest of you, with your....weak sensibilities and gentle, easily sundered flesh that ascribe a threatening quality to my words."

 The hacker thought about everything he knew of Okor, both personally and by reputation, and came to the conclusion that he'd been avoiding since the end of their escape from Dante's Abyss: Okor wasn't really such a bad guy. In fact, he reminded Hiro of Raven.

Lifting his goggles up and watching the rusted behemoth wait for his answer, he wiped a bit of blood from his ear and spoke gently. "Home, huh? Didn't think you had the capability to be wistful, Okor." He thought again, and answered. "I did just get saddled with a bunch of administrative leave..." He blew a sigh out from his mouth, and paced a bit more. "It is kinda out of the way though....and I'm pretty beat up."

Okor sneered and spat on the ground, a mucousy wad of phelgm blackening the tuft of grass growing through the cobblestones. "Too bad. I had thought you a warrior, after our ordeal in the forsaken Abyss. But go, if you are not interested. Lick your wounds and play with your circuits."

Hiro frowned at that. He just lost a fight to an old freakin' man, and was being treated like damaged goods by the EPD. It might have been pure, bone headed bravado and stupidity, but he was not going to let people like Okor see him as craven anymore. He was a fucking Prime. And Primes ruled the Omniverse. That lesson had been staring him in the face since he got here and he had blinded himself to it, content to enjoy the luxuries of Coruscant. No longer. It was time to get serious and actually achieve something.

 "No, you know what? Yeah, sure. Why not. I'll come with you and we'll kick some undead ass. The Viral Veteran and the Circuit Samurai. They'll make a fucking comic book about us." Okor nodded silently, and Hiro guessed that he probably wore a look of confusion under his menacing and crusted helmet. The hacker shrugged, and looked up and down the alley, before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small silver case. "Here. I summoned this on the way back from Cinnabar. Was trying to do some testing on it but I need the equipment from my apartment. You like viruses and disease and stuff, right? You've got about a million of them."

Okor grunted in the affirmative. "Nurgle, the Plaguefather, spreads his gifts far and wide across the galaxy. Decay and rot are necessary for reality to function. Through his power, I am sustained long past the point of death. I am very old, Hiro." The tipsy cyberpunk nodded, and opened the case, presenting it to the marine. Inside were five glass vials, filled with white crystal powder. "This is Snow Crash, a supremely unique infection. It's a drug, a virus, and computer code. I'm sure you'll find it interesting, and I'd rather not have it on me if we're fighting undead. Think of it as as token of....well, not friendship. Let's say alliance."

Hiro gingerly shut the case and handed it to Okor, trying not to actually touch the warrior's greasy and rusty gauntlets. "Now, Darkshire, you said? Lemme work on getting us some wheels out of here...." Okor shifted on his metal boots and cleared his throat with a wet, gurgling noise. "You may want to act with some haste. I....had an....altercation with an Imperial Stormtrooper on the way here."  

Gritting his teeth, Hiro turned on his active scan mode on the googles. The local trooper chatter confirmed what the Plague Marine had said. Hiro needed to hurry the fuck up. "Goddamnit, Okor...what, did you piss off the whole Costa garrison? It's never simple when I run into you. Never just 'Oh, hello Hiro. Don't mind me, just looking for my ear' First it was the Island, now this...eh, well. At least it gives me a reason to stay sharp. Try to look inconspicuous while I summon us up a ride..."

[Okor]

The festering form of Okor leaned against the graffiti-coated wall, his acidic excretions scarring his own unique marker onto the gang sigils spray-painted onto the stone. His senses were turned inwards as he shrouded himself in shadow, oblivious to the slow degradation of the architecture and Hiro’s demiurgical design of their transportation. He was far more interested in the digital disease running rampant through every subsystem of his armour, and how it seamlessly seeped through the machine interface ports embedded deep within his fetid flesh.

He could feel it wrapping itself around his brain stem, sinking its barbs deep into a corroded cerebellum. Bloody froth ran from his mouth, flooding his helmet as jagged fangs severed his tongue, clouded crystal sludge freed from his veins. His limbs spasmed as the greatest addition to his internal ecosystem yet continued to spread, its spread unchecked as it ravaged his nervous system. There was no doubt as to the infectiousness and severity of the infection, now intractably woven into his very being. Through a maw filled to the brim with his own blood, he succumbed to Glossolalia, the incomprehensible speech of the dark Gods being second nature, his mind easily accommodating the seeming gibberish that flowed freely from his broken mind.

It was glorious.

He could see the legacy of the virus now dwelling within him, his unblinking eye forcing itself wide as his mind was immersed in an infopocalypse, an absurd amount of data being forced upon him.

The savage sands of ancient Terra, barely sentient humans wallowing in the muddy banks of a river flanked with the clay. They were unthinking, unfeeling, little more than beasts that could not yet realize the squalor in which they dwelled.

And then, they looked at the stars.

Knowledge. Power. Civilization. All stemming from a single errant signal from beyond the stars, its binary genome surviving millennia of travel as little more than flashes of light.

In at least one reality, the entirety of human history could be attributed to disease, a mirror of the blessed symbiosis that existed inside of Nurgle’s adherents. It may have been stamped out, fought against, and denied, but it was never eradicated, the cult of this Asherah surviving as it awaited its moment to infect the world.

He shuddered as he exited the ecstatic reverie, opening his eyes once more to look upon his companion. Omni’s energies gathered in his hands as he called back memories long-past, a pitch-black pistol forming in his grasp, spikes and shards adorning it, only adding to the sense of danger that emanated from its construction.

Hiro had almost finished their work, sparkling ribbons of Omnillium flowing from their nimble fingers, equally adept with both code and blade, forming a sleek black automobile, with only the occasional bulk hinting at the armoured plating beneath. The windows were tinted and undoubtedly bulletproof, ensuring that neither prying eyes nor assassins would get any satisfaction from the operator of the craft.

Nurgle’s Chosen moved forward, stepping out from the shadows he had secreted himself in as he admired the craftsmanship of the car, its ebon surface shining under the dim lights of Costa Del Sol’s dying sun. The tires upon which it sat were nearly absurdly thick, their surface hugging the ground tighter than any lover. His steel-coated skull nodded in approval, the sable spoiler shimmering into existence as the finishing touch upon the sleek sedan.

He tossed the recently forged firearm over the vehicle, his companion catching it gingerly, wary of the blades protruding from it. “The hell is this? If you’re trying to stab me from death from over there, I applaud the effort, but still…”

”Shuriken pistol. Fires mono...molecular blades at a rate faster than anyone’s cared to measure.”

A low whistle escaped their lips as they admired the instrument of annihilation. “Damn, that’s pretty sweet. How do you reload it?”

”Monomolecular blades. Reloading is a problem for your great-grandchildren.”

A single motion of his mummified arm pulled the door open, his malodorous mass sliding inside of an expanded cockpit, the reinforced seat beneath him groaning under his weight. The heroic hacker took a more dexterous approach to his entrance, leaping feet-first through an opened window, landing into the driver’s side seat as he rapidly performed a series of pre-drive checks, a veritable smorgasboards of switches being flipped as the beast beneath them came to life. It snarled like a rabid hound, a gentle rumble running through it as a digital flame alighted in its grill, illusionary flames spreading across it as its mechanical heart ignited.

A final flip of the switch filled the coal-black cabin with sound, a thick Vostroyvan accent accompanied by the steady beat of drums and guitars, the Digital Daimyo’s fingers tapping across the wheel as he moved a hand to the clutch.

”Is this racket… Wise?” Spoke Okor, the din threatening to drown out his dolorous tone.

“Two things,” replied Hiro, raising two fingers to the plague-ridden purveyor of pestilence. “First off, there’s music for every occasion. It’d be worse doing something like this without a theme song, than doing it in silence.”

”And the second?”

Their vehicle kicked into motion, tires squealing as the svelte craft careened down the narrow backstreets of the Imperial City, the orange light of the fictional flames set into the grill flickering across the brick walls. The eccentric energy of the music shook their surroundings, the vibration of their surroundings attributable to either the movement of their vehicle or the bombastic bass.

Their chariot of fire drifted around a corner, a pixelated pyre resplendent as they raced forward, the stormtroopers ahead of them scrambling to move out of the way, their barriers forgotten as they realized there was no stopping the apocalyptic vision before them. It encroached the reflective surface of the Nexus Gate, the roar of the engine comparable to the screech of the now-felled Volvagia, the heroes of the hour charging forth in a glorified Pizza Delivery car.

The day saved in 30 minutes or less, or it’s free.