Corruption in Costa Del Sol

[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?”