~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
Undisclosed Location.
Night Rogue sat upon his throne, and idly watched the latest experiment.
It was one that he'd seen repeated countless times before. It had gotten to the point where, every time he closed his eyes, he could visualise the steps in front of him as clear as day. From the selection of the specimen, to dragging them into the tank, to the pre-test checkups to determine their physical health... The only differences would be in whom they had selected for that day's experiment - their age, ethinicity and appearance, wherever they struggled and screamed or went with quiet, defiant dignity. And even now, that variation was starting to get a little stale as far as Rogue was concerned.
But then again, science was based on repetition. And all were necessary for Faust.
This one, the scientists had assured him, showed promise. Initial tests had given a possible Hazard Level of 2.7 or 2.8, and therefore a high resistance to the Nebula Gas - the foul substance they pumped into their tests subjects. There had been poor batches in recent days, dragged off the street or abducted as they took ill-advised shortcuts from work to home or wherever, and few had reacted well to the gas. Some had perished immediately, the husks of what was left being carted away to a now well-used incinerator, and others had simply undergone the standard mutations. But Faust were so close now, and they couldn't afford to waste a chance that was given them - a Two-Point-Eight just might be what they wanted.
The figure in the tank, a middle-aged man with sparse curly hair who screamed into his oxygen mask and tugged at his restraints, didn't look like a Two-Point-Eight. He looked more like he belonged on evening television, driving expensive cars and spouting slightly racist remarks. But the men buzzing around him in their gas masks and white hazard suits seemed eager to see what would come of this one. And as much as Night Rogue wanted to have just shot him in the head, he couldn't ignore the possibility that this man would survive the tests. Who knows? Perhaps they could finally achieve what they had been searching for all this time...
One of the men, holding a clipboard, looked up at Night Rogue and threw a thumbs-up at him.
By way of answer, the armoured being nodded in idle acknowledgement.
That was the signal.
Switches were thrown, levers were pulled. A mechanical whining sound began, signalling the activation of hidden generators and fans initiating their unique and dreadful function. Most of the men crowded around the glass tank, watching in fascination as the sickly green gas was poured into the confining space, enshrouding the man within. The muffled screams rose in pitch, but none took notice, more interested in the readings and measurements relayed via dials and gagues on the side of the apparatus. A familiar scenario, yet one with it's own appeal of morbid mystery - would would emerge from the awful, genome-altering fog this time? And would it need to be disposed of or coralled, like so many others?
The whirring of the machines grew louded. The shouting protests of the victim grew more frantic, often bordering on agony. The scientists flitted their attention from the dials to the tank and back again, never leaving the side of their unfortunate test subject. The one with the clipboard began hastily taking notes, but the
scratching of his pencil was drowned in the hissing of valves and hum of
machinery. The bat-armoured figure in his throne didn't move, but seemed to watch expectantly.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, a light flared within. Bright blue, shimmering, radiating with an almost cosmic brilliance. It flickered like the errant fire of a dragon, or perhaps St Elmo's Fire over a swamp, coiling and lashing this way and that as if trying to find some avenue of escape. The scientists gasped, and one of them pointed at a particular gague and measurement that, up until now, hadn't been acknowledged by anyone at this moment in time.
All of this caught the attention of the seated Night Rogue, who leaned forward, eyes fixed intently on this new incandescance.
For some reason... it seemed familiar to him. Something in the dancing, flickering flame seemed to stir something within him, something that he thought he'd cast aside long ago in the relentless pursuit that lead him here. Where, he wondered, had he seen this before, if not in a long-forgotten dream? Where had he seen this light in the past that he had long discared before taking up this new identity? Where did it come from, this light, where-?
And then the tank exploded.
For a moment, the air was filled with evil-smelling smoke, and the choking, acrid scent of burnt flesh filled the air. By the time the air conditioning units turned themselves on, filtering the foul smog out of the room, two of the scientists were writhing in agony on the floor, pierced by glass shards. The remainder were staring in horror at the blackened, gurning skeleton that remained of their subject, half-melted flesh still clinging to it. A greenish, watery slime slopped in the tank around the corpse.
Night Rouge, after a moment of silence, slumped back into his seat. The only outward sign of emotion was a tightening of his grip on the pistol-like weapon that he always carried. He was quicker to respond to this development than his subordinates, who stood frozen as if they'd glimpsed some terror from beyond the void.
"Burn it," he commanded. His voice, modulated into a deep and almost iron rumble, was loud enough to startle his scientists into action. As one, they began to scurry, looking for the tools they required to safely dispose of this latest failure, whilst the wounded began to drag themselves away so as to not impede their comrades. Medical attention would eventually be supplied, but it was not on the forefront of priorities here at Faust. People died here all the time. It was a fact of life.
And in his throne, Night Rogue sat like a silent and watchful gargoyle, consumed in his own thoughts.
Thursday, 18 January 2018
Thursday, 21 December 2017
Carol's Christmas Caper
The hardest part of Christmas, as far as Carol was concerned, wasn't the dinner. Nor was it getting the decorations up, or the cards written. This was mostly because, like any sane technopath, she cheated and used machines to do all of that for her - on the off chance that they worked correctly, of course. Daniel still wouldn't let her forget the time that the AutoTree had decided it wanted to be a rocket ship and left a huge hole in the ceiling, way back in 2015.
No, the hardest part was trying to get Sine a present.
Cauren was easy. Cauren hadn't seen half of what modern human civilization had to offer, and thus would be happy with quite a lot of things. It was basically like shopping for a kid all over again. But Sine... Sine was the sort of person who'd already been mostly everywhere, had already had everything at least twice and was most certainly not wanting for anything. And Carol was pretty sure that a Netflix subscription wasn't going to cut it.
No, this present had to be special. Because when one went gift-hunting for Sine, one had to go to some very great lengths.
And so it was that, one night, Carol borrowed the Sifter and began her search.
No, the hardest part was trying to get Sine a present.
Cauren was easy. Cauren hadn't seen half of what modern human civilization had to offer, and thus would be happy with quite a lot of things. It was basically like shopping for a kid all over again. But Sine... Sine was the sort of person who'd already been mostly everywhere, had already had everything at least twice and was most certainly not wanting for anything. And Carol was pretty sure that a Netflix subscription wasn't going to cut it.
No, this present had to be special. Because when one went gift-hunting for Sine, one had to go to some very great lengths.
And so it was that, one night, Carol borrowed the Sifter and began her search.
Tuesday, 19 September 2017
Red
Grandma's Cottage, the locals called it. It's proper name was The Down, because it sat on the edge of the woods and overlooked the chalk downlands before it. But the locals knew than when a kindly old woman moved into any old house to live on her own, you called it Grandma's Cottage. It was just what tradition demanded. Tradition also usually demanded that you were suspicious of any old woman who lived in a remote cottage by herself, but since Grandma was too old to do most things herself, there was little to be suspicious of. Her strawberry jam was quite excellent, and her chickens always laid healthy eggs, but then you could say that of anybody's jam or eggs and nobody would bat an eyelid.
What was suspicious was the fact that, despite the cottage being fairly isolated, it was never disturbed. It seemed like such an obvious target - a defenseless old woman on her own, with it's back to the dark woods... But no burglar dared set foot near the place, and the majority of the beasts and birds of the wild seemed to keep a wide birth from it. It wasn't anything wrong with the place itself, people agreed from a safe distance and with a cup of tea to keep their minds off it. No, it felt more like there was something lurking about the place, something ominous that watched and judged those who came and went. And it seemed to get worse during the winter months, tho nobody knew why.
The wolf who pushed his way into the cottage was new to the area, and either didn't know about the local whispers or didn't care.
It should be explained that the animals of the district were a lot smarter than most, and aside from being able to speak in rare cases, were more given to careful planning and thought. It had been three days since this particular wolf had last eaten, and in most circumstances he would have eaten the old woman up there and then without much thought. But he'd heard other rumours - about the granddaughter who came up from the village through the woods to deliver groceries, and tender young meat sounded much more appetizing. And he thought he knew a trick or two that would enable him to get close enough.
There were a lot of difficulties that came from having paws and no opposable thumb. Tying the old woman up was a bit of a struggle, since he wasn't very good with knots, but it was made easier by the fact that, for whatever reason, she didn't struggle much. Locking the broom cupboard was a little better, since he could just twist his jaws to turn the key, but keeping the old door shut with one paw proved an irritating business. And then, after fighting for at least ten minutes to get the nightgown and shawl on, he still wasn't sure if he had it right. Oh, well. Can't win them all.
He'd just crept into bed when he heard the knock at the door.
What was suspicious was the fact that, despite the cottage being fairly isolated, it was never disturbed. It seemed like such an obvious target - a defenseless old woman on her own, with it's back to the dark woods... But no burglar dared set foot near the place, and the majority of the beasts and birds of the wild seemed to keep a wide birth from it. It wasn't anything wrong with the place itself, people agreed from a safe distance and with a cup of tea to keep their minds off it. No, it felt more like there was something lurking about the place, something ominous that watched and judged those who came and went. And it seemed to get worse during the winter months, tho nobody knew why.
The wolf who pushed his way into the cottage was new to the area, and either didn't know about the local whispers or didn't care.
It should be explained that the animals of the district were a lot smarter than most, and aside from being able to speak in rare cases, were more given to careful planning and thought. It had been three days since this particular wolf had last eaten, and in most circumstances he would have eaten the old woman up there and then without much thought. But he'd heard other rumours - about the granddaughter who came up from the village through the woods to deliver groceries, and tender young meat sounded much more appetizing. And he thought he knew a trick or two that would enable him to get close enough.
There were a lot of difficulties that came from having paws and no opposable thumb. Tying the old woman up was a bit of a struggle, since he wasn't very good with knots, but it was made easier by the fact that, for whatever reason, she didn't struggle much. Locking the broom cupboard was a little better, since he could just twist his jaws to turn the key, but keeping the old door shut with one paw proved an irritating business. And then, after fighting for at least ten minutes to get the nightgown and shawl on, he still wasn't sure if he had it right. Oh, well. Can't win them all.
He'd just crept into bed when he heard the knock at the door.
Thursday, 4 May 2017
White Eyes Part 2/2
~KUWAHAWI ISLAND~
"-tensions continue to mount. The self-procliamed Snowmad Territories have so far refused to communicate with ambassadors of the United States or related territories, and all military presence has been forcibly repelled. With Inkopolis still under occupation, the question arises as to what, exactly, these invaders are-"
Click.
Robbie blinked, staring at the now-blank television screen. Then he cast his blind eyes down to the outstretched white tentacle, still clutching the remote control.
"I was watching that," he complained, morosely.
"Only because there wasn't anything else on," came the retort - a female voice, and with an odd, bubbly quality, as though the speaker was under water.
"There was Shinobiman." It wasn't really so much as whine as it was a cajouling wheedle, an attempt to reverse the situation without coming off as needy or demanding.
"On repeat." Something beneath the blond boy's clothes rippled in an irritated manner. "Which it has been for the past month."
Robbie was about to reply, something about the other speaker not really caring, when the phone rang. Forgetting the argument, the adopted son of Carol, Cauren and Sine stood up and wandered over to where the device was kept on the coffee table, just next to the sofa-bed. From the way he moved, it was almost impossible to believe that this was the same child who, escaped from the nightmare that was Rutledge Asylum, had to use a cane and psychic scrying in order to find his way about the world. Yet here he was, walking as though he'd done it his entire life and found nothing odd about it.
"I've got this." Another tentacle, longer and thicker than the first, emerged from the sleeve of his t-shirt and snatched up the reciever. The tip depressed the recieve button with an audible click, before lifting the device up to Robbie's ear, which was immediately barraged by the sound of raucous partying, making both him and his unseen companion wince.
"Hello?", he asked, once he'd recovered.
"Hey, Robbie!" came the familiar voice of Carol from the other end - a little too loud. "You alright in there?"
Robbie rolled his eyes, needing no other information as to what was going on. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"She means you're getting some independance," Carol translated. "Now, I just want to set down some rules before I hang up, so you know what's going on. The dinners are all in the fridge, and I've left a list on the kitchen table, so you can see what's to be eaten on what day. Don't touch any of the bottles on the top shelf - they're mine, and they might make you or Charm sick."
The rest of that exchange was mostly the usual conversation that they would have at this time. Carol would run through the checklist to make sure he was doing everything he was supposed to be doing - brushing his teeth, taking showers, doing what homework he had and so on. But with her being gone for the weekend, there were extra instructions - don't stay out too late, make sure you take your keys if you go out, ask a member of staff if you get lost... Robbie was less concerned about remembering all of this himself, and more surprised that his foster mother could remember any of it at all, considering how much she sounded like she'd had.
No sooner had the receiver been hung up, however, then Charm went right back to her previous demeanour.
"Man, I am seriously bored!" protested the Symbiote. "We come all this way to Kuwahawi, Tropical Holiday Capital of the World, and there's nothing to do!"
"That's because I'm not old enough to do all the stuff you want to do," came Robbie's retort. "I can't go drinking or clubbing, or stay up as late as most of these other people do. And I don't want to get into trouble with Carol or Aunt Cauren for trying!"
He felt a ripple across his body - Charm's equivalent of rolling her eyes. "Fair enough, but there's only so many times you can go swimming or to the arcade."
There was a pause as the duo considered the conundrum before them.
And then Charm seemed to hit upon an idea.
"Why not go and see the Kobbers?"
Robbie blinked. "What?"
"Come on, man! Your moms used to be among them, right? And Carol always talks about how awesome they were, doesn't she, after she's had a bottle or two? Why don't we go to the lounge where they're staying and pay them a visit or something? I'm pretty sure they'd be happy enough to see someone from the old days show up again, and see how you've changed!"
The boy hesitated, as he often did when the Symbiote suggested anything. "I don't know..."
"Look," Charm butted in, "what are you afraid of? You've got your psychic powers, right? And you've got me, too - that's more superpowers than anyone should rightly have! And even if you don't want to get involved with their adventures, it'd better than being cooped up in this boring ol' hotel where you can't even do half of the cool stuff! Pleeeaaase~?" she whined, in the best wheedling voice she could manage.
In most other circumstances, Robbie would have refused. As much as he relied on Charm in order to see, and how much easier she made life for him in general, he also considered himself the anchor of the duo. And he had lived with the Symbiote long enough to recognize when she was getting one of her crazy ideas, and do everything he could to reign her in. But on this occasion, he had to admit that she was right - something was clearly wrong with their vacation if the both of them were bored out of their minds.
In the end, his kinder nature won over. As much as Charm could annoy him, she was, for all intents and purposes, his best friend. And he hated to disappoint his friends.
"All right," he said, at last, "I'll go. But no eating people, promise me. You know what happened last time."
Something akin to a snort. "Please, if it's food I'm after, I'd want characters more fleshed out than half the people there!"
But Robbie still had his doubts, even as he grabbed his bag and made his way to the door.
"And I was hoping this vacation would be a quiet one..."
"-tensions continue to mount. The self-procliamed Snowmad Territories have so far refused to communicate with ambassadors of the United States or related territories, and all military presence has been forcibly repelled. With Inkopolis still under occupation, the question arises as to what, exactly, these invaders are-"
Click.
Robbie blinked, staring at the now-blank television screen. Then he cast his blind eyes down to the outstretched white tentacle, still clutching the remote control.
"I was watching that," he complained, morosely.
"Only because there wasn't anything else on," came the retort - a female voice, and with an odd, bubbly quality, as though the speaker was under water.
"There was Shinobiman." It wasn't really so much as whine as it was a cajouling wheedle, an attempt to reverse the situation without coming off as needy or demanding.
"On repeat." Something beneath the blond boy's clothes rippled in an irritated manner. "Which it has been for the past month."
Robbie was about to reply, something about the other speaker not really caring, when the phone rang. Forgetting the argument, the adopted son of Carol, Cauren and Sine stood up and wandered over to where the device was kept on the coffee table, just next to the sofa-bed. From the way he moved, it was almost impossible to believe that this was the same child who, escaped from the nightmare that was Rutledge Asylum, had to use a cane and psychic scrying in order to find his way about the world. Yet here he was, walking as though he'd done it his entire life and found nothing odd about it.
"I've got this." Another tentacle, longer and thicker than the first, emerged from the sleeve of his t-shirt and snatched up the reciever. The tip depressed the recieve button with an audible click, before lifting the device up to Robbie's ear, which was immediately barraged by the sound of raucous partying, making both him and his unseen companion wince.
"Hello?", he asked, once he'd recovered.
"Hey, Robbie!" came the familiar voice of Carol from the other end - a little too loud. "You alright in there?"
Robbie rolled his eyes, needing no other information as to what was going on. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Great! And Charm? Is that coolant device I made working out?"
The boy's t-shit shifted in response to that, giving a glimpse of something like a form-fitting white undershirt or cycling suit underneath it. Another tendril emerged and poked at the silvery, belt-like apparatus that was hooked around Robbie's middle, the design of which would have made a Doctor Who prop maker double-take.
"I'm just great, Miss Carol!" trilled Charm the Symbiote. "This thing works like a- er, treat!"
"You were going to say Charm," deadpanned Robbie.
"No, I wasn't!"
"Stop it, you two," laughed Carol, sounding more tipsy than before. "Now, listen - Cauren and I are gonna be out for the weekend, and we're not coming back to the hotel until Monday afternoon. And whilst I'd normally hire a babysitter or get Aunt Sine over, I think the both of you are sensible enough to look after yourselves. But I'm trusting you to stay out of trouble until I get back, alright?"
Charm seemed to light up a little at this. "You hear that, Robbie? You're finally getting to wear the trousers around here!" Too late, she realised what she'd said, and mentally cursed herself as Robbie's forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"...but I already wear trousers," he protested.
"She means you're getting some independance," Carol translated. "Now, I just want to set down some rules before I hang up, so you know what's going on. The dinners are all in the fridge, and I've left a list on the kitchen table, so you can see what's to be eaten on what day. Don't touch any of the bottles on the top shelf - they're mine, and they might make you or Charm sick."
Charm muttered something about "vintage, my tendrils", but went unheard.
The rest of that exchange was mostly the usual conversation that they would have at this time. Carol would run through the checklist to make sure he was doing everything he was supposed to be doing - brushing his teeth, taking showers, doing what homework he had and so on. But with her being gone for the weekend, there were extra instructions - don't stay out too late, make sure you take your keys if you go out, ask a member of staff if you get lost... Robbie was less concerned about remembering all of this himself, and more surprised that his foster mother could remember any of it at all, considering how much she sounded like she'd had.
"Alright, look after yourselves!" the technopath cooed at last. "Love you~"
"And you," was the usual response.
"Byeeeeee~! Hey, Cauren, pass the-"
No sooner had the receiver been hung up, however, then Charm went right back to her previous demeanour.
"Man, I am seriously bored!" protested the Symbiote. "We come all this way to Kuwahawi, Tropical Holiday Capital of the World, and there's nothing to do!"
"That's because I'm not old enough to do all the stuff you want to do," came Robbie's retort. "I can't go drinking or clubbing, or stay up as late as most of these other people do. And I don't want to get into trouble with Carol or Aunt Cauren for trying!"
He felt a ripple across his body - Charm's equivalent of rolling her eyes. "Fair enough, but there's only so many times you can go swimming or to the arcade."
There was a pause as the duo considered the conundrum before them.
And then Charm seemed to hit upon an idea.
"Why not go and see the Kobbers?"
Robbie blinked. "What?"
"Come on, man! Your moms used to be among them, right? And Carol always talks about how awesome they were, doesn't she, after she's had a bottle or two? Why don't we go to the lounge where they're staying and pay them a visit or something? I'm pretty sure they'd be happy enough to see someone from the old days show up again, and see how you've changed!"
The boy hesitated, as he often did when the Symbiote suggested anything. "I don't know..."
"Look," Charm butted in, "what are you afraid of? You've got your psychic powers, right? And you've got me, too - that's more superpowers than anyone should rightly have! And even if you don't want to get involved with their adventures, it'd better than being cooped up in this boring ol' hotel where you can't even do half of the cool stuff! Pleeeaaase~?" she whined, in the best wheedling voice she could manage.
In most other circumstances, Robbie would have refused. As much as he relied on Charm in order to see, and how much easier she made life for him in general, he also considered himself the anchor of the duo. And he had lived with the Symbiote long enough to recognize when she was getting one of her crazy ideas, and do everything he could to reign her in. But on this occasion, he had to admit that she was right - something was clearly wrong with their vacation if the both of them were bored out of their minds.
In the end, his kinder nature won over. As much as Charm could annoy him, she was, for all intents and purposes, his best friend. And he hated to disappoint his friends.
"All right," he said, at last, "I'll go. But no eating people, promise me. You know what happened last time."
Something akin to a snort. "Please, if it's food I'm after, I'd want characters more fleshed out than half the people there!"
But Robbie still had his doubts, even as he grabbed his bag and made his way to the door.
"And I was hoping this vacation would be a quiet one..."
INTRODUING
Robert Watson Pathan and "Charm"
Saturday, 8 April 2017
Saturnz Barz
The house was clearly old. It was the sort of house some rich, colonialist toff would build as a summer home, a chunk of old Victorian England admist the quaint backdrop of sea breeze and coconut oil. Apparently there had been murders, occult rituals and other nasty things going on in here, which is why the place had been left to rot and gather cobwebs, heavy with rumours of strange noises and sightings. The fact that it was still standing was a miracle, not a testament to the quality of the building material or the workmen involved.
In short, it was pretty shit. But the Gorillaz and Stephen needed a place to stay, and there had been whispers of a basement perfect for recording music. Which, honestly, was all you needed as far as a band who hadn't made new music for six years was concerned.
It was the usual balmy, tropical Kuwahawi weather when the band pulled up outside - perfect for sunbathing, swimming or very alcoholic drinks. So when Murdoc rang the doorbell, expecting to meet whoever the landlord of this place was, the sudden crack of lightning followed by rain was a little odd. But then again, the gang all together had seen odder things in their lives, so nobody did much more than duck under the overhanding porch roof for protection, assuming this to be just a freak tropical storm.
"Loudest doorbell I ever heard," Murdoc observed, staring intently at the button.
The door opening by itself, however, was a new one. Nobody had quite expected that.
In short, it was pretty shit. But the Gorillaz and Stephen needed a place to stay, and there had been whispers of a basement perfect for recording music. Which, honestly, was all you needed as far as a band who hadn't made new music for six years was concerned.
It was the usual balmy, tropical Kuwahawi weather when the band pulled up outside - perfect for sunbathing, swimming or very alcoholic drinks. So when Murdoc rang the doorbell, expecting to meet whoever the landlord of this place was, the sudden crack of lightning followed by rain was a little odd. But then again, the gang all together had seen odder things in their lives, so nobody did much more than duck under the overhanding porch roof for protection, assuming this to be just a freak tropical storm.
"Loudest doorbell I ever heard," Murdoc observed, staring intently at the button.
The door opening by itself, however, was a new one. Nobody had quite expected that.
Sunday, 26 February 2017
White Eyes Part 1/2
WARNING: The following contains themes and scenarios that certain viewers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
~RUTLEDGE ASYLUM AND FOSTER HOME FOR THE GIFTED~
Warden Jones should have remembered to lock that door. But he was old, and fed up, and the crazies in Section Zero were getting on what remained of his nerves. He'd spent half an hour trying to persuade the juting collection of limbs and heads called Ricardo to eat it's damn food, and that had been the last straw. Now all he wanted to do was get out, go home and get his own dinner - what amounted to it, anyway. He knew that, sooner or later, his vegetables would cease growing altogether, and then he'd have to move out before the ice reached him.
It also didn't help that he was drunk. He'd been indulging himself from his looted stash prior to his rounds - his method of coping with the screaming, jabbering and God knows what other noises he'd have to deal with. The only reason he hadn't been fired for this was because he was really good at his job, and in any case management knew they wouldn't be able to replace him. And, in any case, alcohol didn't impair him enough to stop him doing his job, although the stink of it made the freaks howl even worse.
At the time of writing, he'd just had to cart Patient Zero back to its cell. The Water Tests had been producing nothing new, except that the kid was surviving longer and longer, and what that was supposed to tell anyone, Jones had no clue. He didn't see how it was supposed to help them survive in this damned hellhole, where wolves and spiders and much worse prowled around and got those who didn't pay attention. But then again, Patient Zero was just another crazy to his mind - a quiet one, and much easier to manage, but not worth shedding tears about.
It was a little odd that they gave it this particular cell, though. A lot bigger than the others, and with more facilities - running water, an actual bed, a few board or puzzle games. Jones often wondered why this was necessary, but on this occasion he was drunk and fed up, and so didn't give it much thought at all, more concerned with bundling the shivering, whmpering thing into its bed than pondering the mysteries of life.
He slammed the heavy iron double-doors shut with a grunt of irritation, causing some of the rowdier monsters to start jabbering.And then, in a freakish, thousand-to-one chance, forgot to draw the sturdy, iron bolts that locked the door. Experience taught him that there should have been a beep to confirm if they were closed or not, but irritation and alcohol shoved that aside, and he simply assumed that it had already happened instead of double-checking. Who was he to doubt himself, after all, if not the best Warden in the entire asylum?
Taking his trolley and doing his best to shut out the noises of the other inmates, Jones turned and made for the exit door as fast as he could.
~RUTLEDGE ASYLUM AND FOSTER HOME FOR THE GIFTED~
Warden Jones should have remembered to lock that door. But he was old, and fed up, and the crazies in Section Zero were getting on what remained of his nerves. He'd spent half an hour trying to persuade the juting collection of limbs and heads called Ricardo to eat it's damn food, and that had been the last straw. Now all he wanted to do was get out, go home and get his own dinner - what amounted to it, anyway. He knew that, sooner or later, his vegetables would cease growing altogether, and then he'd have to move out before the ice reached him.
It also didn't help that he was drunk. He'd been indulging himself from his looted stash prior to his rounds - his method of coping with the screaming, jabbering and God knows what other noises he'd have to deal with. The only reason he hadn't been fired for this was because he was really good at his job, and in any case management knew they wouldn't be able to replace him. And, in any case, alcohol didn't impair him enough to stop him doing his job, although the stink of it made the freaks howl even worse.
At the time of writing, he'd just had to cart Patient Zero back to its cell. The Water Tests had been producing nothing new, except that the kid was surviving longer and longer, and what that was supposed to tell anyone, Jones had no clue. He didn't see how it was supposed to help them survive in this damned hellhole, where wolves and spiders and much worse prowled around and got those who didn't pay attention. But then again, Patient Zero was just another crazy to his mind - a quiet one, and much easier to manage, but not worth shedding tears about.
It was a little odd that they gave it this particular cell, though. A lot bigger than the others, and with more facilities - running water, an actual bed, a few board or puzzle games. Jones often wondered why this was necessary, but on this occasion he was drunk and fed up, and so didn't give it much thought at all, more concerned with bundling the shivering, whmpering thing into its bed than pondering the mysteries of life.
He slammed the heavy iron double-doors shut with a grunt of irritation, causing some of the rowdier monsters to start jabbering.And then, in a freakish, thousand-to-one chance, forgot to draw the sturdy, iron bolts that locked the door. Experience taught him that there should have been a beep to confirm if they were closed or not, but irritation and alcohol shoved that aside, and he simply assumed that it had already happened instead of double-checking. Who was he to doubt himself, after all, if not the best Warden in the entire asylum?
Taking his trolley and doing his best to shut out the noises of the other inmates, Jones turned and made for the exit door as fast as he could.
Tuesday, 14 February 2017
Short Horror: Just Add Water (NSFW)
WARNING:
The following post contains horror themes and material that certain
readers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
I was seven when Sea Dragons first became a "thing".
It was Christmas, and I'd done the usual seven-year-old thing of running downstairs too early in anticipation of what was under the tree. My parents, of course, made me sit down and eat breakfast first - thankfully, it was early enough that the single piece of toast wouldn't ruin the massive dinner they always had planned. But the wait was like torture to my young mind, the orange juice and peanut butter a physical barrier between me and the brightly-coloured gifts. And once I'd eaten, I dived upon them like a peregrine falcon swooping on an unsuspecting pigeon.
The Sea Dragons were the first thing I opened. My fitness fanatic Aunt had discovered them whilst browsing the internet for healthier alternatives to soya milk, stumbling upon the website of their owner, the Ursa Foundation, by accident. The logo of a bear's roaring head was prominent in the corner of the packaging, but I was more fascinated by the pictures of strange, arrow-headed creatures on the steel-grey box. For someone who had always wanted a pet, but knew the family could never own something like a dog, this was the best present ever.
As hackeneyed as the phrase is, if I knew anything that I did now, I would have thrown the things away as soon as possible.
Setting up the little, plastic egg-shaped tank was more complicated than it sould have been. The type of water didn't really matter, but first one had to break these little tablets called "purification pellets" into the water, to create the right conditions. After twenty-four hours, the eggs were added to the water, where they were supposed to hatch an hour or so after touching the watter - mine took a little longer, about two hours. Then the creatures that hatched had to be first fed with a powdery substance twice a week, five days after hatching, followed by strange pink pellets after the first five weeks...
What I'm saying is that it was a lot to throw at a small boy of seven. But it was worth it - with the tank in my window so that the Dragons could get enough sunlight, I soon had a small horde of strange animals swimming about in the egg. They weren't like anything I'd ever seen before, almost like tadpoles crossed with lizards, and it was fascinating to just watch the things swim around in the tank, chasing each other and doing loop-the-loops. It was almost surreal, like staring into an alien world.
According to the instructions, one sent off for more food and other items by signing the enclosed order form, stamping the logo of the Ursa Corporation onto the letter to ensure it reached the right place. On top of this, there were three major rules that simply had to be followed. These were spelled out in block capitals in the back of the booklet, giving something of a sense of desperate urgency.
I would later learn just how bad it was.
I was seven when Sea Dragons first became a "thing".
It was Christmas, and I'd done the usual seven-year-old thing of running downstairs too early in anticipation of what was under the tree. My parents, of course, made me sit down and eat breakfast first - thankfully, it was early enough that the single piece of toast wouldn't ruin the massive dinner they always had planned. But the wait was like torture to my young mind, the orange juice and peanut butter a physical barrier between me and the brightly-coloured gifts. And once I'd eaten, I dived upon them like a peregrine falcon swooping on an unsuspecting pigeon.
The Sea Dragons were the first thing I opened. My fitness fanatic Aunt had discovered them whilst browsing the internet for healthier alternatives to soya milk, stumbling upon the website of their owner, the Ursa Foundation, by accident. The logo of a bear's roaring head was prominent in the corner of the packaging, but I was more fascinated by the pictures of strange, arrow-headed creatures on the steel-grey box. For someone who had always wanted a pet, but knew the family could never own something like a dog, this was the best present ever.
As hackeneyed as the phrase is, if I knew anything that I did now, I would have thrown the things away as soon as possible.
Setting up the little, plastic egg-shaped tank was more complicated than it sould have been. The type of water didn't really matter, but first one had to break these little tablets called "purification pellets" into the water, to create the right conditions. After twenty-four hours, the eggs were added to the water, where they were supposed to hatch an hour or so after touching the watter - mine took a little longer, about two hours. Then the creatures that hatched had to be first fed with a powdery substance twice a week, five days after hatching, followed by strange pink pellets after the first five weeks...
What I'm saying is that it was a lot to throw at a small boy of seven. But it was worth it - with the tank in my window so that the Dragons could get enough sunlight, I soon had a small horde of strange animals swimming about in the egg. They weren't like anything I'd ever seen before, almost like tadpoles crossed with lizards, and it was fascinating to just watch the things swim around in the tank, chasing each other and doing loop-the-loops. It was almost surreal, like staring into an alien world.
According to the instructions, one sent off for more food and other items by signing the enclosed order form, stamping the logo of the Ursa Corporation onto the letter to ensure it reached the right place. On top of this, there were three major rules that simply had to be followed. These were spelled out in block capitals in the back of the booklet, giving something of a sense of desperate urgency.
- NEVER CHANGE THE WATER IN THE TANK.
- NEVER FEED THE DRAGONS ANY OTHER FOOD.
- NEVER TOUCH THE DRAGONS WITH YOUR BARE HANDS.
I would later learn just how bad it was.
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