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Author Topic: The Lasts  (Read 541 times)

Call me Arty

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The Lasts
« on: January 31, 2018, 03:18:10 AM »

   "You're not going anywhere." Marty spoke through gritted teeth, putting the last granite brick in the wall. He leaned onto his bionic leg as he said this, his other cut wherever bullets hadn't gone through. His mechanical heart - which had set the colony back about half a quadrum in the silver it cost to purchase - was working double time to try to replace all of the red that was leaking out of him. His gun was left in the burning remains of the dining hall, where it was dropped as some dumb sunnovabitch carried a pain-addled Marty off in an attempted kidnapping. Through the tears, he saw his friends fighting for their lives. Poor Karen never changed her vow of pacifism, not even during that slaughter, and was beaten to death in an attempt to rescue the animals from the inferno that was once the barn. It took him a good ten minutes to gather all of his strength to wiggle out of his captor's grasp, and crush his throat with the machination of plasteel and circuitry that was his right arm. . . and now, his only arm.

   The monster before him, Smith, was staring at him with a look in his eyes that only go-juice abuse and cruelty could craft. There was something behind that look, however: Desperation. Marty knew from the many raiders he fought with, that go-juice could only last so long, and it looked like Smith was down to the minutes. He must not have brought more doses than what he needed to get high before starting the siege, which was enough to allow him to ignore the ramping loss of blood for nearly two days.

   The two locked eyes. Marty wasn't getting to his friends and life-saving bandages unless he went through Smith. Smith wasn't making it back to another fix and a doctor unless he went through Marty. Of the two, Smith moved first. If he didn't, he'd lose the high, succumb to the pain, and die in last week's snow that was only beginning to melt. Smith lurched forward, like some sinister puppet, and began his march towards the bleeding cyborg in front of him.

   Marty wasn't a fool. It was poor fortune that gave him his reliance on bionics, not a lack of knowledge. Based on the smoke that was pouring out of the front of his base. . . no . . .his former home, there was no chance he'd get to the medicine, and anybody inside was in no condition to ever leave the carved-out mountain that now doubled as a mass grave and cremation urn. Marty, as a not-fool, also knew what the bright, red pill that had sat in one of his pockets or another for months would do to him if he swallowed it. There was no cure, no program, no hope for salvation. Even if he was brought back from the void, the Devil would still want his end of the bargain. There was no denying it, though; he was dead, and there was no getting out of it. It was his choice to end it with a couple final bruises and some semblance of revenge. His dented robotic limb clumsily entered the inside pocket of his Thrumbofur duster (the same Thrumbo that cost him that arm in the first place, karma's a bitch. ain't it Cassandra?), and brought out his single dose of Luciferium: Likely the last one he's ever taking. He put it into his dry mouth, and with all the mix of saliva and blood from who-knows-where he could muster, swallowed it.

   The two started at each other. It was not a valiant charge, nor was it even a heroic jog. No, the two men were in a slow and determined death-march. Each boot print in the light snow was accompanied by red droplets, and dragged even than the one before it.

   The two met, and fell against the other. The only thing keeping the other from falling was the man in front of him. From here, they took their aim. Smith wound his fist back, and missed the side of Marty's head. Marty's fist, however, landed hard enough against Smith's torso to break a rib with a sickening crunch! This did not phase the recipient though, who retaliated with a fist to Marty's knee, almost buckling it.

   Fighting continued for around ten minutes. Whenever Marty's fist landed, it devastated, though most missed. Smith landed a great many more punches, though most met with a resilient metal plate. Eventually, however, the cruelty left Smith's eyes, leaving only the desperation, and eventually, pleading. He slumped to the ground, having bled-out the only thing keeping him standing. Marty stood over the man, covered now in fresh bruises and dents. Perhaps, in another life, the two would've made great friends. Not in this one, however. Marty fell to one knee, and brought his mechanical fist back, and proceeded to mash Smith's body until it no longer twitched.

   The feeling should have come. Marty was waiting for it. "You did it Marty," the ghosts of his friends would say, transparent and looking the best they ever had. No more failing, mortal bodies to hold them back. "You got revenge, you can die now! Just let go, they'll have golden bionics in heaven! They won't cost you a cent! There's no more hunting, no more killing your fellow man and woman or trying to keep the same from happening to your friends! No more taking the shitty chair Stewart made when he was drunk because Angela's having a hard time after her dog died and needs that bit more comfort!" It didn't come, though. It wouldn't. Every last person in that town was dead while this sick, disgusting band of pirates was still around, picking off those somehow even less fortunate than a group of glorified space debris.

   Maybe. . . maybe if he had been outside when it happened, maybe if he had landed a few more shots, maybe if they had more than five turrets guar- wait. Though his eyes were failing him, along with the rest of his perforated organs, he counted one. . .two. . .three. . . four. Four turrets destroyed in the courtyard. They had five, where was the . . . that's it! Marty shakily stood, sending pain throughout his body, it didn't matter though, it wasn't going to be the pain that stopped him. He moved as fast as he could with all he had through the snow, back into his husk of a home. The fire had ravished the dining and entrance hall, and was working through the rec room to the North and the hospital wiring to the South. It didn't matter though, he knew where he was going, and it was deeper into the mountain. The charred wood floors gave way to stone tiling and blood. Friends and foe alike lay still or close to it. There was nothing he could do now. He didn't have enough life in him to hold a hand or spit in an eye, he still had a chance, one shot of ever having his vengeance. Was it slim? Hell yeah, it was slim - impossible even, but only impossible if he didn't. Keep. Moving. Eventually, the corpses of his loved ones and rivals ended, and he faced a pile of pirates, and beeping. The smooth limestone walls gave-way now to rough granite. . . and slate brick, which was odd, as there was not a single pebble's worth of slate in the whole valley. What lay before him was. . . was. . . much like him, ruins. Marty collapsed, lifeless, to the floor, amongst pirates and dark, insectoid blood alike.

Three Days Later.


 Katlynn was hungry, and cold. She had been wandering for days when she happened upon an odd sight. Walls. Really, really damaged walls. These weren't mossy or overgrown either, these were recent, not ruins. . . well, possibly ruins, just not of the ancient variety. It took a short sidelong glance to notice she wasn't entering through the Northern side, so she began to circle around. She was rewarded by picked-apart carcasses of dead pirates who, from the looks of it, had been nearly sawn in half by a barrage of bullets after opening the wall, which had been hastily sealed after the fact. She took her shaking fingers, and looked for a loose brick. Luckily, she found it, which loosened another. . . and another. Finally, she was through.

   Before her was the scene of a previous chaos. Dry blood, weapons, destroyed turrets and burnt carcasses. Beyond all that though? A place with a roof, and if she was lucky, a bed and food, and she had been told she was pretty lucky. . . when there were those around her to call her lucky. She stepped over a body that looked close to roadkill, and proceeded to enter the fortress under a mountain. She was surrounded by ash, yet more bodies, and statues. They depicted a great many things, though one caught her eyes. It was a fairly handsome man who -unlike those around him- was sculpted from steel, rather than marble.  Well, supposed she, Perhaps it makes all his robo-bits seem all the fancier. One could say they had more care and detail put to them than his face or what must have been a rather extravagant coat.

   Katlynn stood for a few minutes more, taking in her surroundings. The place was dead, it seemed, but not without it's uses. Move some bodies out into a mass grave, fix some wiring, sell what wasn't to her taste, maybe make a friend of a trader and get someone to help rebuild the place. So, she began an inventory through the grim place. Hospital? Charred. Shame too, she saw a few soot-covered logos from Glitterworlds known for their medicine. There was one room that was completely charcoal and collapsed stone, save for one card table, made of solid plasteel. Hopefully, that would sell well. The kitchen was intact. . . ish. The meats, meals, and hardware? Not so much. The vegetables and booze? Salvageable. A couple store rooms even seemed intact, as were various goods she could still sell. She then began down a hallway, either side having three rooms, then a hallway, then three rooms again. It was a (crusty) bloodbath all the way down. She finally thought she found a break before seeing yet another pile of dead pirates. . . and a cyborg. The tinman was lacking a pirate insignia, and was atop the pile, in a rather sorry shape too, certainly no "cherry on top."

   Speaking of the color red, her eyes were drawn to his coat, which though spattered in it, was familiar. It was the very same coat as she saw upon the statue in the dining hall, the same tinman! More importantly, it was Thrumbofur! The tinman was obviously a proud man, and she remembered seeing no horn in the storerooms, so he must have it as a trophy! She went room-to-room, trying to see which was his. Some still had carpet, there were two rooms with awful concrete floors and no art. None had anything that stood out. Finally, she found one. A bloody "M" was shakily written outside its metal autodoors, which were a pain to open without power.  She was greeted, though, by a shelf adorned with that priceless treasure that was a Trumbo horn! She picked it up, then looked up. There was a 'board of missions', some marked "completed" others "incomplete." There were daring rescues that made her question the possible upon the board. Surely, the only type who would take it upon themselves to venture on one of these would have to be some sort of fool. . . a respectable one. Her eyes were drawn to one in particular, however.
"Bloody Axes Outpost - 1 Res Serum. Incomplete. "

   Bloody Axes. . . those were on the jackets and armor of half the corpses in this place. They single-handedly wiped the place out. Huh. . . even such a great guy like. . . what was the name of the hero she was posthumously robbing? She went back to entrance hall, and wiped soot from the base of the steel statue. "This depicts. . . Aprimay. . . Marty." Marty. Marty. . . M. The letter outside the room. That couldn't have been some kind of accident, these people seemed pretty civilized before being wiped out. Someone must have put it outside his door. . . wait, why would he be all the way in the back of the base? A hero would have been at the front-lines! Katlynn jogged back to the pile or corpses. Marty was flat on his face, pointed towards. . . a tunnel leading to some excavated ruins, ancient ones this time.
 Synapses began firing. As a treasure hunter before her crash, she knew what could lay in these tombs. She jumped over the pile, past a disabled turrent, and into the tomb. There they were, between the dead Megaspiders and skeletons with bits of synthread still attached: Cryptosleep Caskets. The things could keep a body fresh for hundreds of years.
 Wait a second. She realized what the scene before her was. . . and she didn't like it. She looked at the bodies before her. . . and gulped. She knew what she should do. She didn't have to, though. She could just dig the graves, throw the bodies inside, make a few calls once the comms are up, strip the place, and try to find some faction with a ship off this rock. She couldn't, though. Not while being able to sleep with herself. She stepped out of the tomb, prepared to retch, and grabbed Marty's bionic arm, retching. She dragged his corpse down the rough hallway and to a pod, before flopping him in and closing the hatch before she could freeze him in her own vomit.

   It was hard work burying all the bodies, especially since she knew that revenant was going to be cross if all the non-piratey types were buried with the pirates. She needed to make the place presentable. She got the heat back on, cleaned the nicest bedroom, and worked on the place for a while. Finally, she booted-up the comms console. At least the last people in this place had the decency to put a familiar name in the call logs. "Hey" said Kate, "It's Kate. You don't wanna know. Yeah, I'm going to need a slave, a loyal one. No, you aren't going to want to give me one of yours for this job, trust me. Yeah. They need to be able to shoot well. Yeah? Screw-you I know it's not smart, tell them they're free if we get through it, and I'll give them. . . 3,000 silver once it's done." It hurt her to give such a large number, but the ghosts wouldn't mind, they could afford it.

   Two days later, the convoy arrived. They left with a Thrumbo horn and a card table, and left Kate with a bulky man in rags with matted brown hair. Katelynn locked eyes with the man, and didn't blink until she could no longer hear the hooves of the beasts of burden.
   "Did Armstrong tell you what was going to happen once you helped me, Abruno?" She asked, quizzically.
   "Yes." Came his curt reply.
   "Good. There's a room with red carpet. Fourth on the left. All of the silver is in the room next to it. We're leaving tomorrow. You're getting a rifle tomorrow. You die, you die free. You live, you live free. You kill me before we take out those good-for-nothing pirates, you will die one day, and you will die a guilty son of a bitch, and a bastard. You got that?"
   Abruno stood for a moment longer. "Yes."
   "Good. Hope you like pemmican, I can't cook and that's the only thing not covered in dirt or soot. Also, the last person in that room really had a thing for statues of women vomiting, you can move those out if you want to. Sleep tight, we've got a big day tomorrow."



 Hope you guys enjoyed. Let me know if I screwed-up somewhere and didn't notice, even little typos will irritate me twice as much as they would you. Oh, also feel free to let me know if you liked it.
 This is based on an actual run I had. I just shaved-out some finer details so I wouldn't have to break flow with "(from this mod)" every couple of lines, and embellished where storytelling required it. And yes; There is an ending. I'm not going to tell it though, because the one here is satisfactory.
 As a final note, Thank-you Tynan Sylvester and everyone who contributed to this game - whether through working on it or supporting it - to allow this to happen in the first place so that I could write it here. You're all awesome.
« Last Edit: February 01, 2018, 01:13:15 AM by Call me Arty »
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Slimy_Slider

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Re: The Lasts
« Reply #1 on: January 31, 2018, 09:44:43 PM »

Just a friendly suggestion, maybe put an extra space between paragraphs. Right now it looks a bit too much like a very intimidating wall.
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Call me Arty

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Re: The Lasts
« Reply #2 on: February 01, 2018, 01:12:13 AM »

Alright, I'll do that.
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Names are for the Weak

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Re: The Lasts
« Reply #3 on: February 01, 2018, 01:19:50 AM »

Wow. You are a great storyteller. I can both imagine this happening in-game and in a movie or something.
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Call me Arty

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Re: The Lasts
« Reply #4 on: February 02, 2018, 11:25:16 AM »

Wow. You are a great storyteller. I can both imagine this happening in-game and in a movie or something.

Story re-teller. Sure, I enjoy writing, and I'm writing a book that's going to make me millions that I'm never going to finish or publish, but all of the credit should go to the game's team. I played their game and failed pretty hard. It's not any of my doing that made that ending and restart so compelling.
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Cloud Breaker

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Re: The Lasts
« Reply #5 on: February 04, 2018, 12:20:10 AM »

Great story, thanks for sharing.
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shayame

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Re: The Lasts
« Reply #6 on: February 16, 2018, 09:10:38 AM »

I enjoyed that. Thanks!
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