08-20-2016, 12:57 AM
The somber tone of the above posts fit the mood of the setting. Deadpool and company returned to the census building's lobby to discover a handful of survivors mourning over their fallen comrades. Each corpse had one or two people hunkered over it; some of them had tears welding their eyes; a large armored man ate his loved one (enticing a contorted look of disgust from Hiro)
The mercenary went to make a light remark—something to ease the thick atmosphere—but bit his tongue, deciding to let the survivors finish their goodbyes in solitude. He still had a sense of humanity, and could still recall how overwhelmingly painful it was to lose someone you had grown affection for. It felt like a rush of pressure crushing you from the inside; like narrowing walls squeezing your bubble of happiness, not to the brink of bursting, but enough to permanently misshapen it. In that moment, even the mercenary would punch a smart-aleck in the face, if he dared to interject his mourning with gabby rhetoric.
“What the hell happened to them?” Hiro asked. He focused on the chunks of meat scattered across the once pearly marble floor—now it served as a canvas for puddles and smears of black and crimson blood. “They must've gotten into one helluva fight. Makes me glad that we weren't involved—that fox gave us enough of a hassle by herself.”
”Some monstrosity created by Alex,” Deadpool replied, ”influenced by one of his favorite horror video games, I presume.”
Hiro shot him the usual look of bewilderment, but brushed the outlandish comment off with a shoulder shrug.
As the two swordsmen followed Karl out of the building, the rest of the survivors slowly joined them.
Karl looked over the horizon of buildings, and raised a finger to the south; the gold in his Rolex's wristband twinkled. “We have to make it to the docks. There should be a tugboat there, strong enough to hold all of us.” He glanced back at the heavy man cladded in armor, and furrowed a brow, as if referencing to his weight.
The trip to the dock was quiet. While the other survivors spent the journey trudging their feet, thoughts of loved ones still water-logging their brains, the mercenary had noted the lack of obstacles in their way. Things were too peaceful; unless killing omega-zombie ushered in some sort of fleasheater rapture, the creatures were still roaming somewhere.
His eyes darted towards every intersection they passed, anticipating a horde of flesheaters to barrel out, and encircle them like an army of ants swarming a cookie. He saw nothing; he thought he heard the squeal of a flesheater coming from one of the alleys, but when he turned to look he realized it was just the gate to a metal-wired fence crying in the breeze.
Karl looked at Deadpool while wrapping a street corner. “Antsy for a fight?” A smile curled his lips. “I’m sure that this island won’t let us go so easily, so perhaps you’ll get one.”
”I just want to get you outta here, and get my prize,” the mercenary answered. ”Quickly, if possible. I’m tired of killing zombies; I feel like if I kill any more of them they’re gonna congregate, and start a ‘hashtag UndeadLivesMatter’ campaign.”
A gurgling screech slashed the air. Deadpool peered over a collection of rooftops to see a winged humanoid get struck by a radiating beam of red energy. The mutated harpy paused in the air, convulsed like a vibrating phone, and then plummeted into a nonrespondent nosedive. When the creature vanished from sight, the mercenary witnessed two more swoop in to replace it.
“The docks are close—maybe a few blocks,” Karl said, gazing in the same direction. “And it seems like more survivors may be there.”
Hiro stripped his arm from Deadpool’s shoulders to press one of the bottoms on the side of his goggles; his other hand still gripped around his aching manzone. “Less than one hundred yards,” he added in a cracking voice. “If people are there they’re probably cornered, and might need help”
In a weird way, the hacker reminded Deadpool of Sasuke—both of them always felt the need to help those who couldn’t help themselves. It was an admirable trait, but one that often got you killed; Sasuke had to learn that the hard way, last year, when he couldn’t save Gilgamesh.
Deadpool didn’t necessarily care for saving anyone’s life other than Karl’s sweet ass.
They traversed a couple more blocks, then stopped when the pier came into sight. The harpies seen before outlined ellipses in the sky while orbiting around the rusty tugboat roped at the end of the dock. Two individuals took refuge on the vessel; they shot different forms of projectiles into the sky, illuminating it like a Fourth of July firework show as they tried to down the flying beasts. Shambling towards them from the shore, a congregation of flesheaters choked the wooden pier.
Deadpool’s eyes raised when he caught a glimpse of giant flesheaters amongst the horde, towering over their brethren. They had eerie similarities to a particular large green individual from his own multiverse; if they were anywhere as near as strong then the mercenary wanted no parts of them—he still shuddered every time he thought of the how badly Hulk had whipped him in their last fight.
“I intend to show these worms how a son of Barbarus dies,” one of the survivors called, drawing a series of ill sounds from his voice between each word as he struggled to speak; the mercenary smelled him before he heard him—something akin to indian food regurgitated into a dirty diaper. It was the large armored man. He stepped out from the group and stared into the sea of flesheaters; his red eye glowed an unfaltering red; his tarbard represented the chaos he had already endured in a collage of enemy blood. “Who will stand by me?”
Other survivors began to join his call, including Scar from Lion King, who exuded the type of passion that his fallen psychopathic partner would have been proud of.
Deadpool stole a moment to admire the ragtag group. He found it oddly cute how they persisted to ram their collective heads into wall after wall of horde bashing—futile, but cute. It made him pity them. They’d rather schedule their own suicide than form and conduct a solid plan. Perhaps he would have to save them from themselves.
For the third time since he arrived on the island, the mercenary beamed his eyes towards the Furby dangling from his hip; he smiled, as he knew it was time. Originally, his intentions were to save his ultimate weapon for whatever poor fool wished to challenge his claim to Karl’s reward, but it had become abundantly clear that no one else truly cared about it.
While surveying the wall flesheaters, he acutely noticed how most of them flocked to the entrance of the pier—the congested it so tightly that they packed themselves in like canned sardines. The rest of the land creatures were more loosely assembled, and meandered in place as if waiting for a purpose to strike a cord within them.
Deadpool snatched the Furby from his waist, pulling it inches from his face.
Hiro widened an eye at the mercenary. “You ok?”
But Deadpool didn't answer. He stared into the visage of the Furby and smirked. Ready to be used forreal, and not just in dream scenarios and bluff situations? His finger looped around the ring stringed to its hindquarters and gently tugged; the doll's eyes lit up, and it opened its beak to talk: “I love you.”
I love you too.
He pressed the button between its cheeks, then cranked his arm back and hurled the Furby as far as his 1 ATK permitted. The doll cartwheeled through the thin fog, arching over the beginning of the flesheater wall, and soaring towards the center.
A harpy turned in time to see the bomb. It tried to swoop down like a hawk hunting fish to grab the explosive, but a projectile erupted from the tugboat, ripping through its left wing, and sending it on a corkscrew descent into the ocean.
As soon as the Furby landed it exploded. The bomb rang a hollow bang throughout the area; Deadpool felt the sound and vibration roll towards him like an imaginary bowling ball crashing into a set of pins. He shielded his face from the wave of air that followed.
Flesheaters shrieked as their bodies flung in the air—some were missing limbs, others their entire lower halves. The ones fortunate enough to be at ground zero were either scorched to ash or melted into black figurines. The explosion had engraved a circle into the horde, opening a gap that led directly to the boat.
“I see you finally used it,” Karl said. “I don't know if I should be thankful, or if I should be compelled to sue you for copying an item from my competition.”
”In that case, David Hampton should be suing both of us,” the mercenary quipped; he looked upon the rest of the group, who had taken an intermission in the rah-rah to marvel at the damage caused by the explosion. ”Now, if you want to live more than you want to chase personal vendettas and sideplots, follow me!”
Deadpool unsheathed his katana—hopefully the last goddamn time on this island—and charged forward.
The mercenary went to make a light remark—something to ease the thick atmosphere—but bit his tongue, deciding to let the survivors finish their goodbyes in solitude. He still had a sense of humanity, and could still recall how overwhelmingly painful it was to lose someone you had grown affection for. It felt like a rush of pressure crushing you from the inside; like narrowing walls squeezing your bubble of happiness, not to the brink of bursting, but enough to permanently misshapen it. In that moment, even the mercenary would punch a smart-aleck in the face, if he dared to interject his mourning with gabby rhetoric.
“What the hell happened to them?” Hiro asked. He focused on the chunks of meat scattered across the once pearly marble floor—now it served as a canvas for puddles and smears of black and crimson blood. “They must've gotten into one helluva fight. Makes me glad that we weren't involved—that fox gave us enough of a hassle by herself.”
”Some monstrosity created by Alex,” Deadpool replied, ”influenced by one of his favorite horror video games, I presume.”
Hiro shot him the usual look of bewilderment, but brushed the outlandish comment off with a shoulder shrug.
As the two swordsmen followed Karl out of the building, the rest of the survivors slowly joined them.
Karl looked over the horizon of buildings, and raised a finger to the south; the gold in his Rolex's wristband twinkled. “We have to make it to the docks. There should be a tugboat there, strong enough to hold all of us.” He glanced back at the heavy man cladded in armor, and furrowed a brow, as if referencing to his weight.
The trip to the dock was quiet. While the other survivors spent the journey trudging their feet, thoughts of loved ones still water-logging their brains, the mercenary had noted the lack of obstacles in their way. Things were too peaceful; unless killing omega-zombie ushered in some sort of fleasheater rapture, the creatures were still roaming somewhere.
His eyes darted towards every intersection they passed, anticipating a horde of flesheaters to barrel out, and encircle them like an army of ants swarming a cookie. He saw nothing; he thought he heard the squeal of a flesheater coming from one of the alleys, but when he turned to look he realized it was just the gate to a metal-wired fence crying in the breeze.
Karl looked at Deadpool while wrapping a street corner. “Antsy for a fight?” A smile curled his lips. “I’m sure that this island won’t let us go so easily, so perhaps you’ll get one.”
”I just want to get you outta here, and get my prize,” the mercenary answered. ”Quickly, if possible. I’m tired of killing zombies; I feel like if I kill any more of them they’re gonna congregate, and start a ‘hashtag UndeadLivesMatter’ campaign.”
A gurgling screech slashed the air. Deadpool peered over a collection of rooftops to see a winged humanoid get struck by a radiating beam of red energy. The mutated harpy paused in the air, convulsed like a vibrating phone, and then plummeted into a nonrespondent nosedive. When the creature vanished from sight, the mercenary witnessed two more swoop in to replace it.
“The docks are close—maybe a few blocks,” Karl said, gazing in the same direction. “And it seems like more survivors may be there.”
Hiro stripped his arm from Deadpool’s shoulders to press one of the bottoms on the side of his goggles; his other hand still gripped around his aching manzone. “Less than one hundred yards,” he added in a cracking voice. “If people are there they’re probably cornered, and might need help”
In a weird way, the hacker reminded Deadpool of Sasuke—both of them always felt the need to help those who couldn’t help themselves. It was an admirable trait, but one that often got you killed; Sasuke had to learn that the hard way, last year, when he couldn’t save Gilgamesh.
Deadpool didn’t necessarily care for saving anyone’s life other than Karl’s sweet ass.
They traversed a couple more blocks, then stopped when the pier came into sight. The harpies seen before outlined ellipses in the sky while orbiting around the rusty tugboat roped at the end of the dock. Two individuals took refuge on the vessel; they shot different forms of projectiles into the sky, illuminating it like a Fourth of July firework show as they tried to down the flying beasts. Shambling towards them from the shore, a congregation of flesheaters choked the wooden pier.
Deadpool’s eyes raised when he caught a glimpse of giant flesheaters amongst the horde, towering over their brethren. They had eerie similarities to a particular large green individual from his own multiverse; if they were anywhere as near as strong then the mercenary wanted no parts of them—he still shuddered every time he thought of the how badly Hulk had whipped him in their last fight.
“I intend to show these worms how a son of Barbarus dies,” one of the survivors called, drawing a series of ill sounds from his voice between each word as he struggled to speak; the mercenary smelled him before he heard him—something akin to indian food regurgitated into a dirty diaper. It was the large armored man. He stepped out from the group and stared into the sea of flesheaters; his red eye glowed an unfaltering red; his tarbard represented the chaos he had already endured in a collage of enemy blood. “Who will stand by me?”
Other survivors began to join his call, including Scar from Lion King, who exuded the type of passion that his fallen psychopathic partner would have been proud of.
Deadpool stole a moment to admire the ragtag group. He found it oddly cute how they persisted to ram their collective heads into wall after wall of horde bashing—futile, but cute. It made him pity them. They’d rather schedule their own suicide than form and conduct a solid plan. Perhaps he would have to save them from themselves.
For the third time since he arrived on the island, the mercenary beamed his eyes towards the Furby dangling from his hip; he smiled, as he knew it was time. Originally, his intentions were to save his ultimate weapon for whatever poor fool wished to challenge his claim to Karl’s reward, but it had become abundantly clear that no one else truly cared about it.
While surveying the wall flesheaters, he acutely noticed how most of them flocked to the entrance of the pier—the congested it so tightly that they packed themselves in like canned sardines. The rest of the land creatures were more loosely assembled, and meandered in place as if waiting for a purpose to strike a cord within them.
Deadpool snatched the Furby from his waist, pulling it inches from his face.
Hiro widened an eye at the mercenary. “You ok?”
But Deadpool didn't answer. He stared into the visage of the Furby and smirked. Ready to be used forreal, and not just in dream scenarios and bluff situations? His finger looped around the ring stringed to its hindquarters and gently tugged; the doll's eyes lit up, and it opened its beak to talk: “I love you.”
I love you too.
He pressed the button between its cheeks, then cranked his arm back and hurled the Furby as far as his 1 ATK permitted. The doll cartwheeled through the thin fog, arching over the beginning of the flesheater wall, and soaring towards the center.
A harpy turned in time to see the bomb. It tried to swoop down like a hawk hunting fish to grab the explosive, but a projectile erupted from the tugboat, ripping through its left wing, and sending it on a corkscrew descent into the ocean.
As soon as the Furby landed it exploded. The bomb rang a hollow bang throughout the area; Deadpool felt the sound and vibration roll towards him like an imaginary bowling ball crashing into a set of pins. He shielded his face from the wave of air that followed.
Flesheaters shrieked as their bodies flung in the air—some were missing limbs, others their entire lower halves. The ones fortunate enough to be at ground zero were either scorched to ash or melted into black figurines. The explosion had engraved a circle into the horde, opening a gap that led directly to the boat.
“I see you finally used it,” Karl said. “I don't know if I should be thankful, or if I should be compelled to sue you for copying an item from my competition.”
”In that case, David Hampton should be suing both of us,” the mercenary quipped; he looked upon the rest of the group, who had taken an intermission in the rah-rah to marvel at the damage caused by the explosion. ”Now, if you want to live more than you want to chase personal vendettas and sideplots, follow me!”
Deadpool unsheathed his katana—hopefully the last goddamn time on this island—and charged forward.
Quote:Words: 1631
Furbypool: -2 SP
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Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
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2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
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