07-12-2016, 01:46 PM
Everything seemed to be going okay.
The fish tasted great. The fire felt wonderful.
Although he should have known better, Hiro was a little startled when a couple of the old lights turned themselves on and bathed the area in a sickly yellow light. In the new sources of light, the two men looked around to see that the camp had aged nearly a century. Wooden buildings had been rotted through by years of rain- and insect-damage. The sign that bore the name of the camp had collapsed into a heap of fetid wormwood, and the metal posts that held up the lights were rusted and crooked like the spines of the elderly.
“Fuck.”
Somewhere, there was a crackling sound not unlike feedback from a sound system, but before Hiro could trace whatever speaker was trying to speak with them; one of the cabin doors was literally thrown off its hinges. Both men were on their feet and brandishing weapons, but their stances softened when they saw that it was a person-shaped figure stumbling out from the dark of the cabin.
“Hey, wait a second…” Barry furrowed his brow as someone very familiar to him stumbled out into the pale light by their campfire. “Mr. Jak?”
Although he was dressed in a vintage camp counselor’s uniform and coated in a blend of sweat, blood, wood fragments, and bruises, it was clearly the executive producer of Dante’s Abyss bent over in front of them with his hands on his knees. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Karl lifted his face up and stared at the two men. Despite his mangled appearance, the executive put on one of his perfect little grins and tried to smooth his hair, which had lost its gel and become an unkempt (yet shockingly stylish) mop on his head.
“Hello, Mr. Sanderson…” Karl spoke, his voice still out of breath before turning to look at Hiro. “Mr. Protagonist. I’d like to recommend that we leave.”
Hiro glanced back at the shadow-covered cabin before turning a scowl to Karl. “What the fuck are you doing out here, and the fuck is that outfit?”
For a moment, there was a flash of confusion on the producer’s face as he glanced down at his short shorts and form-fitting t-shirt emblazed with a ‘Camp Crested Loon’ logo and a picture of a bird soaring over a mountain. “This isn’t…”
Chh chh chh … ahh ahh ahh…
The sound, which seemed to echo from the darkness all around the trio and their pool of pale light, caused Karl’s pupils to widen and his pulse to race. Stepping forward, he clasped a hand around Hiro’s wrist. “It’s too late, he found us.”
“How is your grip this strong?” Hiro asked as he wrenched his hand free and shoved the panicked man backwards. “Who are you talking about?”
CHH CHH CHH … AHH AHH AHH
“I’m sorry, Mr. Protagonist,” Karl spoke, his voice a frail whisper as a shadow befell the two men. “Good luck, my little ebony samurai,” The Syntech executive paused just long to blow a kiss toward Hiro before turning and fleeing into the darkness. For a moment, Hiro started after him—before he suddenly realized that Karl had been looking over his shoulder. The samurai swallowed deeply as he heard Barry let out a horribly scream.
Hiro turned just in time to have something warm smack him across the face, blinding him momentarily as a weight struck him in the chest. The man caught the mass with one hand as he stumbled back and tried to wipe his face clean. After clearing most of it away from his eyes, he opened them to see that his forearm was stained with blood.
Oh. Oh no.
Hiro’s eyes dropped down to the heavy weight that had smacked into him just after he had been blinded. His own blood ran cold as he realized what he was holding in his hand.
The severed head of Barry Sanderson.
With a yelp, Hiro stumbled backwards and dropped the head. He immediately felt like an awful person, but before he could dwell on that, he realized that something was still standing five feet away from him. Scanning across the ground, Hiro moved passed the twitching, headless corpse of his companion and saw a pair of water-logged leather boots. Those massively large pieces of footwear were connected to legs hidden behind stained, worn-out jeans. Patches of missing fabric revealed sickly, half-rotted flesh underneath.
Up from the jeans was a hugely broad chest draped in a rag-like white shirt and a heavy leather coat. The fists were clenched into the gloves of someone who worked as a gardener or a carpenter and held inside one of those too-large fists was an oversized machete stained red with Barry’s blood. Hiro swallowed once more as he looked up at the seven foot man’s visage. The bald figure’s face was concealed behind a vintage hockey mask that sported a few faded red triangles and what seemed to be a crack from an axe wound.
“…fuck.”
The fish tasted great. The fire felt wonderful.
Although he should have known better, Hiro was a little startled when a couple of the old lights turned themselves on and bathed the area in a sickly yellow light. In the new sources of light, the two men looked around to see that the camp had aged nearly a century. Wooden buildings had been rotted through by years of rain- and insect-damage. The sign that bore the name of the camp had collapsed into a heap of fetid wormwood, and the metal posts that held up the lights were rusted and crooked like the spines of the elderly.
“Fuck.”
Somewhere, there was a crackling sound not unlike feedback from a sound system, but before Hiro could trace whatever speaker was trying to speak with them; one of the cabin doors was literally thrown off its hinges. Both men were on their feet and brandishing weapons, but their stances softened when they saw that it was a person-shaped figure stumbling out from the dark of the cabin.
“Hey, wait a second…” Barry furrowed his brow as someone very familiar to him stumbled out into the pale light by their campfire. “Mr. Jak?”
Although he was dressed in a vintage camp counselor’s uniform and coated in a blend of sweat, blood, wood fragments, and bruises, it was clearly the executive producer of Dante’s Abyss bent over in front of them with his hands on his knees. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Karl lifted his face up and stared at the two men. Despite his mangled appearance, the executive put on one of his perfect little grins and tried to smooth his hair, which had lost its gel and become an unkempt (yet shockingly stylish) mop on his head.
“Hello, Mr. Sanderson…” Karl spoke, his voice still out of breath before turning to look at Hiro. “Mr. Protagonist. I’d like to recommend that we leave.”
Hiro glanced back at the shadow-covered cabin before turning a scowl to Karl. “What the fuck are you doing out here, and the fuck is that outfit?”
For a moment, there was a flash of confusion on the producer’s face as he glanced down at his short shorts and form-fitting t-shirt emblazed with a ‘Camp Crested Loon’ logo and a picture of a bird soaring over a mountain. “This isn’t…”
Chh chh chh … ahh ahh ahh…
The sound, which seemed to echo from the darkness all around the trio and their pool of pale light, caused Karl’s pupils to widen and his pulse to race. Stepping forward, he clasped a hand around Hiro’s wrist. “It’s too late, he found us.”
“How is your grip this strong?” Hiro asked as he wrenched his hand free and shoved the panicked man backwards. “Who are you talking about?”
CHH CHH CHH … AHH AHH AHH
“I’m sorry, Mr. Protagonist,” Karl spoke, his voice a frail whisper as a shadow befell the two men. “Good luck, my little ebony samurai,” The Syntech executive paused just long to blow a kiss toward Hiro before turning and fleeing into the darkness. For a moment, Hiro started after him—before he suddenly realized that Karl had been looking over his shoulder. The samurai swallowed deeply as he heard Barry let out a horribly scream.
Hiro turned just in time to have something warm smack him across the face, blinding him momentarily as a weight struck him in the chest. The man caught the mass with one hand as he stumbled back and tried to wipe his face clean. After clearing most of it away from his eyes, he opened them to see that his forearm was stained with blood.
Oh. Oh no.
Hiro’s eyes dropped down to the heavy weight that had smacked into him just after he had been blinded. His own blood ran cold as he realized what he was holding in his hand.
The severed head of Barry Sanderson.
With a yelp, Hiro stumbled backwards and dropped the head. He immediately felt like an awful person, but before he could dwell on that, he realized that something was still standing five feet away from him. Scanning across the ground, Hiro moved passed the twitching, headless corpse of his companion and saw a pair of water-logged leather boots. Those massively large pieces of footwear were connected to legs hidden behind stained, worn-out jeans. Patches of missing fabric revealed sickly, half-rotted flesh underneath.
Up from the jeans was a hugely broad chest draped in a rag-like white shirt and a heavy leather coat. The fists were clenched into the gloves of someone who worked as a gardener or a carpenter and held inside one of those too-large fists was an oversized machete stained red with Barry’s blood. Hiro swallowed once more as he looked up at the seven foot man’s visage. The bald figure’s face was concealed behind a vintage hockey mask that sported a few faded red triangles and what seemed to be a crack from an axe wound.
“…fuck.”
Quote:End of Round 6
Barry Sanderson is Dead.
Hiro may elect to Flee or Fight this mini-boss.
http://img04.deviantart.net/ef58/i/2015/...8x4axb.jpg
![[Image: KarlSig.jpg]](http://omniverse-rpg.com/images/KarlSig.jpg)