08-04-2016, 05:47 PM
The faces of the siamese monstrosity shrieked in unison as the two blades ran opposite courses across its body—Hiro's katana barely missed decollating the creature, instead slicing from bicep to bicep, while the mercenary's (much cooler, traditional) katana swept through its thighs. Black colored blood splashed over the stairwell's platform as the creature split into three large pieces and several dismembered limbs. They bounced against the walls, then tumbled passed Deadpool on their descent down the stairwell. But the upper part of the monstrosity—everything above the clavicles—stopped at his feet. Its faces still shrieked, but in a dry dying voice.
The mercenary loved to watch his victims die. It was like a rush—a high—to witness a soul leave the body. His high had eluded him earlier, when Karl 2 and Pepsiman both plummeted into the ocean, and indistinguishable flesheaters didn't get his rocks off; Mr. Siamese Hazard Suit Man would have to suffice.
Yes that's right, die slowly,” Deadpool thought. He stared into the visages of the monstrosity, observing the life retreat from their polished green eyes with amusement; he grinned as their breaths shortened, and the fog on their hazard suit visors faded away.
“You got some damn timing.” Hiro said. He eased his posture and wiped the glistening sweat from his forehead. “And you can take your kindergarten backpack back too.”
The mercenary pried his sights from the lifeless monstrosity to give Hiro a nod. ”Yeah, I tend to do that. Never know, might even pop up in the next thread you're in, after D.A.” His eyes settled on his Hello Kitty book-bag—it dangled from the handle of the hacker's briefcase—and he chortled. ”You can keep it on you for the time being, it looks cute on you.”
“Bravo, bravo.” Karl clamped his machete under his arm to give the duo an applause; the sound reverberated through the stairwell. “Chocolate Thunder and Daddy, reunited with White Lightning,” he quipped, then said, “now back to finding that bunker, boys.”
“Any idea where it could be?” Hiro inquired. He looked the sign mounted beside the doorway—covered in the monstrosity's blood, it partially read OOR 3. “Cuz I'm sure there's at least five more floors to this place, and that's a lot of distance to cover.”
“It's near the Syntech sector,” Karl replied, pointing his index upward, “one floor up, on the fourth.”
Deadpool prayed it was a coincidence; perhaps, just a writing mistake made in Hiro's second to last post. Karl couldn't be conducting business with Umbrella. He hesitated to speak, but spilled the question eating at him: “And why is there a Syntech sector inside of an Umbrella Corp. building?”
“I have my hand in a lot of industries—that's what rich people do, Wade,” the executive replied in a satirical tone. “I invest into various companies; they use the revenue to hire scientists and engineers; when things are created, the patent, in essence, belongs to me. Then I get paid from things called royalties.”
”You do know what Umbrella Corp. does, right?”
Karl grinned. “Yes, they make me tons of money; other than that, no. What they do is their business, and quite frankly, I'd like it to stay that way—it's hard to be prosecuted for misdeeds that you're technically unaware of.”
”Well, shit.” Deadpool smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. ”Your funding probably indirectly caused all of this, whether you were aware of it or not.”
“Yes, maybe.”
The executive always spoke vaguely. Deadpool imagined such a quality translated well in the world of business, where you essentially played verbal poker, but in his world it translated to deviousness. It was a quality mostly held by loophole mongers—the type of people who conducted backdoor deals, and manipulated markets.
”Ya'know, I like you and all, but you're the type of person that—back in my universe—a person like me would be hired to kill.” Deadpool said. ”Lex Luther, Norman Osborne—all of them have had hits put out on them, I'm pretty sure.”
Karl chuckled. “Well thankfully, people like you also follow their best interests—its one of the reasons I like you, Wade. Mercenaries don't pick sides unless it's convenient to them.”
The trio climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, which for whatever reason, seemed longer than any of the other set of stairs. They made it to the next platform—FLOOR 4, a clean sign read beside the doorway.
It was a sprawling office space, segregated into a grid of identical cubicles—swivel chairs, desktops, dresser drawers, and family portraits or desk ornaments as a personal items. Panes of light made up the ceiling, bathing the room in a pale yellow.
What mundane lives the workers must of had, the mercenary thought. He pictured the office space filled with number crunchers wearing thick bifocals. They stared at their computer monitors while their keyboards chattered away. Stacks of paperwork mounted on their desks, growing by the hour, and never shrinking. They were the type of individuals who worked long shifts, often staying late; the type with unfaithful spouses, who were probably fucking men of less worth, but more personality—men like himself, before cancer stuck him (housewife Becky might have been cooking for more than just her family).
“Alright,” Karl spoke, “the bunker is in the floor.”
Hiro looked perplexingly at Karl. “The floor?”
“Yes, the floor,” the executive answered. “In case you didn't notice, there were more stairs between the third and fourth floor than any of the ones prior.”
”To make space for the bunker,” the mercenary finished.
“Give the man a new car.”
Hiro sighed in annoyance. “So we gotta get on our hands and knees, and check the whole floor.”
Karl laughed. “As entertaining as it would be to watch you two assume the position, I'm relatively sure that the bunker is in the meeting room.” He pointed pointed towards the rear of the office space.
Behind a wall of glass panels, the mercenary saw a large oval table with a dozen chairs encircling it. Flatscreen monitors were tilted on the table's surface to face the chairs in front of them; at the center, a golden object gleaned under the sunset-orange lighting of the room. The casual tone of it sharply contrasted the rest of the workspace, which exuded more of a 'nine-to-five slavery' feeling (the head honchos of the organization probably stared through their glass walls, observing their lackeys do tedious cubicle work like a child would gaze at an ant farm).
They navigated the maze of cubicles and entered the meeting room. Deadpool and Hiro stood to Karl's flanks as he approached the table. The executive focused on the golden statue at the center. It was a monkey sitting with its legs crossed, and its tail coiled around itself. Two sparking rubies accounted for its eyes. The mercenary never claimed to be a jeweler, but he could tell that it was masterfully done by hand.
”So we came all this way to see your monkey?” Deadpool said.
Karl detected the underlying bawdiness of the mercenary's words and winked. “Not yet.” Tipping the statue over, he revealed a red button underneath it, and pressed it.
Suddenly, blinds dropped down from the ceiling, curtaining the full length of the glass walls. Now the ground began to tremble; dust billowed up between the clean floorboards as a hole formed itself in the upper right part of the room.
A grin spread across Karl's face. “Hiro, I give you your bunker.”
The mercenary loved to watch his victims die. It was like a rush—a high—to witness a soul leave the body. His high had eluded him earlier, when Karl 2 and Pepsiman both plummeted into the ocean, and indistinguishable flesheaters didn't get his rocks off; Mr. Siamese Hazard Suit Man would have to suffice.
Yes that's right, die slowly,” Deadpool thought. He stared into the visages of the monstrosity, observing the life retreat from their polished green eyes with amusement; he grinned as their breaths shortened, and the fog on their hazard suit visors faded away.
“You got some damn timing.” Hiro said. He eased his posture and wiped the glistening sweat from his forehead. “And you can take your kindergarten backpack back too.”
The mercenary pried his sights from the lifeless monstrosity to give Hiro a nod. ”Yeah, I tend to do that. Never know, might even pop up in the next thread you're in, after D.A.” His eyes settled on his Hello Kitty book-bag—it dangled from the handle of the hacker's briefcase—and he chortled. ”You can keep it on you for the time being, it looks cute on you.”
“Bravo, bravo.” Karl clamped his machete under his arm to give the duo an applause; the sound reverberated through the stairwell. “Chocolate Thunder and Daddy, reunited with White Lightning,” he quipped, then said, “now back to finding that bunker, boys.”
“Any idea where it could be?” Hiro inquired. He looked the sign mounted beside the doorway—covered in the monstrosity's blood, it partially read OOR 3. “Cuz I'm sure there's at least five more floors to this place, and that's a lot of distance to cover.”
“It's near the Syntech sector,” Karl replied, pointing his index upward, “one floor up, on the fourth.”
Deadpool prayed it was a coincidence; perhaps, just a writing mistake made in Hiro's second to last post. Karl couldn't be conducting business with Umbrella. He hesitated to speak, but spilled the question eating at him: “And why is there a Syntech sector inside of an Umbrella Corp. building?”
“I have my hand in a lot of industries—that's what rich people do, Wade,” the executive replied in a satirical tone. “I invest into various companies; they use the revenue to hire scientists and engineers; when things are created, the patent, in essence, belongs to me. Then I get paid from things called royalties.”
”You do know what Umbrella Corp. does, right?”
Karl grinned. “Yes, they make me tons of money; other than that, no. What they do is their business, and quite frankly, I'd like it to stay that way—it's hard to be prosecuted for misdeeds that you're technically unaware of.”
”Well, shit.” Deadpool smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. ”Your funding probably indirectly caused all of this, whether you were aware of it or not.”
“Yes, maybe.”
The executive always spoke vaguely. Deadpool imagined such a quality translated well in the world of business, where you essentially played verbal poker, but in his world it translated to deviousness. It was a quality mostly held by loophole mongers—the type of people who conducted backdoor deals, and manipulated markets.
”Ya'know, I like you and all, but you're the type of person that—back in my universe—a person like me would be hired to kill.” Deadpool said. ”Lex Luther, Norman Osborne—all of them have had hits put out on them, I'm pretty sure.”
Karl chuckled. “Well thankfully, people like you also follow their best interests—its one of the reasons I like you, Wade. Mercenaries don't pick sides unless it's convenient to them.”
The trio climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, which for whatever reason, seemed longer than any of the other set of stairs. They made it to the next platform—FLOOR 4, a clean sign read beside the doorway.
It was a sprawling office space, segregated into a grid of identical cubicles—swivel chairs, desktops, dresser drawers, and family portraits or desk ornaments as a personal items. Panes of light made up the ceiling, bathing the room in a pale yellow.
What mundane lives the workers must of had, the mercenary thought. He pictured the office space filled with number crunchers wearing thick bifocals. They stared at their computer monitors while their keyboards chattered away. Stacks of paperwork mounted on their desks, growing by the hour, and never shrinking. They were the type of individuals who worked long shifts, often staying late; the type with unfaithful spouses, who were probably fucking men of less worth, but more personality—men like himself, before cancer stuck him (housewife Becky might have been cooking for more than just her family).
“Alright,” Karl spoke, “the bunker is in the floor.”
Hiro looked perplexingly at Karl. “The floor?”
“Yes, the floor,” the executive answered. “In case you didn't notice, there were more stairs between the third and fourth floor than any of the ones prior.”
”To make space for the bunker,” the mercenary finished.
“Give the man a new car.”
Hiro sighed in annoyance. “So we gotta get on our hands and knees, and check the whole floor.”
Karl laughed. “As entertaining as it would be to watch you two assume the position, I'm relatively sure that the bunker is in the meeting room.” He pointed pointed towards the rear of the office space.
Behind a wall of glass panels, the mercenary saw a large oval table with a dozen chairs encircling it. Flatscreen monitors were tilted on the table's surface to face the chairs in front of them; at the center, a golden object gleaned under the sunset-orange lighting of the room. The casual tone of it sharply contrasted the rest of the workspace, which exuded more of a 'nine-to-five slavery' feeling (the head honchos of the organization probably stared through their glass walls, observing their lackeys do tedious cubicle work like a child would gaze at an ant farm).
They navigated the maze of cubicles and entered the meeting room. Deadpool and Hiro stood to Karl's flanks as he approached the table. The executive focused on the golden statue at the center. It was a monkey sitting with its legs crossed, and its tail coiled around itself. Two sparking rubies accounted for its eyes. The mercenary never claimed to be a jeweler, but he could tell that it was masterfully done by hand.
”So we came all this way to see your monkey?” Deadpool said.
Karl detected the underlying bawdiness of the mercenary's words and winked. “Not yet.” Tipping the statue over, he revealed a red button underneath it, and pressed it.
Suddenly, blinds dropped down from the ceiling, curtaining the full length of the glass walls. Now the ground began to tremble; dust billowed up between the clean floorboards as a hole formed itself in the upper right part of the room.
A grin spread across Karl's face. “Hiro, I give you your bunker.”
Quote:Words: 1325
[float=right]
![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q218/Aerogfx/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png)
Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
[/float]![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://s137.photobucket.com/user/Aerogfx/media/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png.html)