02-20-2018, 04:48 PM
Deep within the bowels of the massive scrap-recycling facility, the commander of Nebula's operation in the Deeps was busy at work. In his clawed fingers, tools of all sorts were grabbed, put to quick use, and haphazardly discarded. Computer terminals arrayed around him, their monitors cracked and encrusted with soot, ash and grime, flickered weakly with schematics and blueprints. The entire room was lit only by the reddish glare of molten steel, bubbling in vats around the edge of the room, and the erratic sparking of exposed wiring and poorly-tuned machinery.
"Gah! Blast it all, it isn't working!" he snarled, bashing aside a horrid amalgamation of twisted parts and wreckage on his 'operating' table. "Useless, all of it! Broken scrap! I can only do so much with this garbage! I need the DNA, not just the fucking WRECKAGE AND PIECES!" His snarling was interspersed with an angry smash on the table, denting and horribly mangling it beyond any use. "Worthless, utterly damn useless, ALL OF IT!"
His raging was interrupted further by an alarm going off. "WHAT THE FUCK IS IT NOW?!" His snarling visage turned toward a mostly-functional monitor as it crackled to life, displaying the face of one of the so-called foremen of the salvage and reconstruction efforts.
"Uh, sir, we've...got intruders. Those Liberators or whatever they're called." An explosion sounded in the background, and a shower of busted, molten scrap went sizzling past him. "They're wrecking the place."
"Yeah, I can SEE THAT!" the Darkling fumed. "Where the hell are those two mercs we hired to keep those fools busy?"
"They flew the coop, boss. Eleven Ninety-Five saw them headed for their ship, just a couple minutes ago. Right before these goons showed up." The foreman ducked under a stray bolt of energy. "We...could use some backup here."
The eyes of the darkling blazed red in his rage, and he swung his head in a frenzy, reducing the console to flaming scrap as his hammerhead smashed into it. "GAH! IMBECILES!" He stormed off, snatching up a huge anchor laying near at hand as if it was made of paper. Resting it on his shoulder, he loped off, hopping among and over the scrap and molten vats of slag, to an upper level. "Command terminals, online!" he snapped, and all at once the scene lit up. Lights flickered on overhead, numerous consoles and terminals came online. "Security feed from salvage warehouse Zero-Nine-C, viewscreen three." The monitor in question flickered and fizzled, before the static gave way to a live feed of the scene at hand.
"Hrmm...only two of them inside so far...this could work..." He grinned, his mouthfull of razor sharp scrap-chompers glimmering and sparking as they raked against each other. "Yeah, this could REALLY work!" He turned aside and smashed a button, activating an intercom to broadcast his voice through the entire facility.
"Attention, everyone! We have some guests! Make sure to tend to their every need!" he barked, before trailing off into a cackle. "And as for our guests...please, do make yourselves right at home! And don't hesitate to get torn apart and leave bits of yourself all over the upholstery. The more DNA you leave around, the more copies I can make! Gahahahaha!" He slammed the button again, terminating the broadcast, and turned his attention to the computer terminals again. "Now, let's see here..." A rapid onslaught of typing, the manic strength in his frenzied key-clicking cracking and outright shattering a few keys, soon brought up the security features for the plant, and filled several more of the monitors with additional security feeds, from inside and outside the plant itself. "Three more still outside...good, good."
"Heeeere we go....sending in the Scrappers!" And he slammed down a fist on the Big Red Button.
Swarms of robots and workers of the factory flooded the room to try and just slow down and stall the two who had breached the walls. Some of them living flesh and blood, others the completely mechanical mass-produced troops of Nebula, still more of them the frenzied, cobbled together monstrosities of scrap and spare bits of broken creatures. Their only advantage was numbers; they lacked even proper weaponry. Industrial tools were all they had. Huge drills, saws, even laser cutters and torches were all mixed in with chunks of scrap, oversized wrenches and lengths of pipe.
Amid all the clamor, the entire room was suddenly bathed in noise and flashing light. Bright, pulsating golden light, and a harsh klaxon screeching from unseen speakers. Panels and doors in the far walls slowly began to grind open, hinges caked in rust and soot straining to move, and gears which had nearly fused together groaning and crying in protest at being ripped from their stationary rest. Within the resulting openings could be seen countless eyes, flickering and gleaming bright red, set in just as many countless faces, hooded and cloaked.
Skeletal-thin bodies of rusted scrap bolted out into the light, leaping and lurching with arachnid quickness. Jumping from scaffolding, to wall, to the rim of a vat of slag, to the ceiling, back to the ground. Like a tide of vermin they bolted and surged forward. Toward the pre-teen robot and the quincy, already inside. Toward the windows and doors, crashing and slashing through them to swarm outside, for the three still yet to make an entrance. Even for their own comrades, cutting them down if they didn't move out of the way. Covered in ragged cloaks of something, stained everywhere with splotches of oil, blood, and who knew what else. Far too many claws and teeth glittered in the pulsating lights, and they screeched in wordless voices, brandishing tools hanging at bandoliers wrapped and spiraled around their gaunt bodies. Tools for ripping, tearing and holding; claiming limbs and pieces of foes, torturing and flaying, taking samples back for study.
To a madman bent on recycling anything he set eyes on, everything was scrap once it was disassembled, after all.
"Gah! Blast it all, it isn't working!" he snarled, bashing aside a horrid amalgamation of twisted parts and wreckage on his 'operating' table. "Useless, all of it! Broken scrap! I can only do so much with this garbage! I need the DNA, not just the fucking WRECKAGE AND PIECES!" His snarling was interspersed with an angry smash on the table, denting and horribly mangling it beyond any use. "Worthless, utterly damn useless, ALL OF IT!"
His raging was interrupted further by an alarm going off. "WHAT THE FUCK IS IT NOW?!" His snarling visage turned toward a mostly-functional monitor as it crackled to life, displaying the face of one of the so-called foremen of the salvage and reconstruction efforts.
"Uh, sir, we've...got intruders. Those Liberators or whatever they're called." An explosion sounded in the background, and a shower of busted, molten scrap went sizzling past him. "They're wrecking the place."
"Yeah, I can SEE THAT!" the Darkling fumed. "Where the hell are those two mercs we hired to keep those fools busy?"
"They flew the coop, boss. Eleven Ninety-Five saw them headed for their ship, just a couple minutes ago. Right before these goons showed up." The foreman ducked under a stray bolt of energy. "We...could use some backup here."
The eyes of the darkling blazed red in his rage, and he swung his head in a frenzy, reducing the console to flaming scrap as his hammerhead smashed into it. "GAH! IMBECILES!" He stormed off, snatching up a huge anchor laying near at hand as if it was made of paper. Resting it on his shoulder, he loped off, hopping among and over the scrap and molten vats of slag, to an upper level. "Command terminals, online!" he snapped, and all at once the scene lit up. Lights flickered on overhead, numerous consoles and terminals came online. "Security feed from salvage warehouse Zero-Nine-C, viewscreen three." The monitor in question flickered and fizzled, before the static gave way to a live feed of the scene at hand.
"Hrmm...only two of them inside so far...this could work..." He grinned, his mouthfull of razor sharp scrap-chompers glimmering and sparking as they raked against each other. "Yeah, this could REALLY work!" He turned aside and smashed a button, activating an intercom to broadcast his voice through the entire facility.
"Attention, everyone! We have some guests! Make sure to tend to their every need!" he barked, before trailing off into a cackle. "And as for our guests...please, do make yourselves right at home! And don't hesitate to get torn apart and leave bits of yourself all over the upholstery. The more DNA you leave around, the more copies I can make! Gahahahaha!" He slammed the button again, terminating the broadcast, and turned his attention to the computer terminals again. "Now, let's see here..." A rapid onslaught of typing, the manic strength in his frenzied key-clicking cracking and outright shattering a few keys, soon brought up the security features for the plant, and filled several more of the monitors with additional security feeds, from inside and outside the plant itself. "Three more still outside...good, good."
"Heeeere we go....sending in the Scrappers!" And he slammed down a fist on the Big Red Button.
* * *
Swarms of robots and workers of the factory flooded the room to try and just slow down and stall the two who had breached the walls. Some of them living flesh and blood, others the completely mechanical mass-produced troops of Nebula, still more of them the frenzied, cobbled together monstrosities of scrap and spare bits of broken creatures. Their only advantage was numbers; they lacked even proper weaponry. Industrial tools were all they had. Huge drills, saws, even laser cutters and torches were all mixed in with chunks of scrap, oversized wrenches and lengths of pipe.
Amid all the clamor, the entire room was suddenly bathed in noise and flashing light. Bright, pulsating golden light, and a harsh klaxon screeching from unseen speakers. Panels and doors in the far walls slowly began to grind open, hinges caked in rust and soot straining to move, and gears which had nearly fused together groaning and crying in protest at being ripped from their stationary rest. Within the resulting openings could be seen countless eyes, flickering and gleaming bright red, set in just as many countless faces, hooded and cloaked.
Skeletal-thin bodies of rusted scrap bolted out into the light, leaping and lurching with arachnid quickness. Jumping from scaffolding, to wall, to the rim of a vat of slag, to the ceiling, back to the ground. Like a tide of vermin they bolted and surged forward. Toward the pre-teen robot and the quincy, already inside. Toward the windows and doors, crashing and slashing through them to swarm outside, for the three still yet to make an entrance. Even for their own comrades, cutting them down if they didn't move out of the way. Covered in ragged cloaks of something, stained everywhere with splotches of oil, blood, and who knew what else. Far too many claws and teeth glittered in the pulsating lights, and they screeched in wordless voices, brandishing tools hanging at bandoliers wrapped and spiraled around their gaunt bodies. Tools for ripping, tearing and holding; claiming limbs and pieces of foes, torturing and flaying, taking samples back for study.
To a madman bent on recycling anything he set eyes on, everything was scrap once it was disassembled, after all.
Quote:The Darkling has taken (slightly) direct action, and unleashed his Scrappers on you. They are extremely fast little terrors, and their primary goal is to rip you apart, and take any pieces of you or any blood they spill from you they can get back to their boss for analysis. They have all sorts of nasty 'collection' tools, things designed to cause as much damage and spill as much blood as possible, so feel free to get creative. They are surprisingly durable despite their skeletal appearance, but not particularly competent or strong, relying more on savagery and speed to do much of anything.
Unfortunately, by letting them free the boss man has also opened the doors deeper into the recycling complex, making a fairly straight path right to him, with just the obstacles of the incredibly unsafe working environment here and all the workers that operate it in the way. Should be easy to get through, right?
Everyone has one week, with no word limits. Go nuts.