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shadows-and-science-gone-mad · 4 years ago

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Containment Breach

Trigger Warnings: gore

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*ALERT*

*ASSET OUT OF CONTAINMENT*

*ALL SECURITY PERSONNEL REPORT TO LEVEL THREE IMMEDIATELY*

*ALL OTHER PERSONNEL EVACUATE TO DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES*

Hawkins groaned as he heard the alarm. Of course 003 broke out. If any Asset was going to try to make a break for it, it’d be that one. 001 wasn’t even animate, and 002 was smart enough to know that escaping was a waste of time. 003, though? Hawkins had seen a lot of strange and dangerous things in his time, but he’d never seen a living thing express that level of sheer, unbridled hatred until he’d locked eyes with 003. He’d warned the lab-coats that it’d be safer if it was euthanized on the spot, but they hadn’t listened.

And, now, it was loose in the facility. And he had to get it back in its cage.

He stepped in the armory, finding Burke already there, loading up her tranq rifle. She looked up as he entered, giving a small smirk when she recognized him. As Hawkins grabbed his own rifle and began loading it, she spoke:

“So, 003, huh?”

“I’d noticed,” he responded tersely.

Burke finished loading her rifle, cocking it once in an overly dramatic fashion. “I bet the lab-coats are wishing they’d listened to you now, don’t they?”

“I can imagine.” Hawkins was too preoccupied with getting his gear together to feel like much of a conversationalist. He knew that Burke wanted to be his friend, but years of working in security had taught him that close relationships were a bad idea. You never knew when one of your friends would end up eviscerated by some monster, or thrown out an airlock, or forcibly converted into a robot, or countless other possible gruesome fates.

Luckily, it seemed that Burke had taken his hint that he didn’t want to talk, and the two went about suiting up in relative silence. Soon enough, they had set off for Level Three. They didn’t know what exactly was waiting for them when they arrived.

But they knew it couldn’t be good.

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“Help me!”

Burke’s cries echoed through Level Three’s narrow hallways. Some bizarre aspect of the facility’s architecture resulted in her desperate screams reverberating for far longer than they would have in any normal structure. The echoes took so long to fade that they were interrupted by her next screams of pain.

“Hawkins, help me!”

Hawkins barely registered his surroundings as he ran through the corridors. They’d only been on Level Three for ten minutes, yet they had already gotten separated and, by the sound of things, Burke had encountered 003. Fortunately, her tracking bracelet was still functional, and Hawkins was able to use its link to his HUD to find her in the maze-like facility. If he survived this experience, he’d have a serious word with the architect who designed this floorplan.

“Oh god, Hawkins, help!”

He was getting close now. Just another 10 meters, and he should be right in front of her. Nobody had to die today.

8 meters now...

5 meters…

3…

2…

1…

“Hawkins!”

He turned the corner, his rifle primed to fire on the monster that was attacking his coworker. But, when the scene of carnage before him stood fully revealed, he suddenly found himself unable to act.

Hawkins’ path was blocked by 003, its 3-meter body filling the cramped hallway. Its body, an oily black patchwork of humanoid and reptilian parts, shimmered in the flashing alarm lights. Its jagged yellowed teeth protruded from its bulldog-like jaws at grotesque angles. Hawkins could see that they were stained with blood.

Clutched in one of its thin clawed hands was a severed human arm. The skin-tone matched Burke. A tracking bracelet beeped softly around its blood-stained wrist.

As Hawkins tried to process the flood of information, 003 opened its jaws. Its long neck shuddered as a strained sound escaped from its lipless mouth.

“Hawkins! Help me!”

Then, with a swing of 003’s clawed arms, Hawkins met an untimely end.

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#my writing #horror #alliance space #aorf #oc: AO-003 #gore tw #tw: gore

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shadows-and-science-gone-mad · 3 years ago

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[CONTENT WARNING: scenes of graphic violence, gore, death, & cannibalism]

Talos 1193-7-E. October 6, 3738.

Thirdborn stalks through the jungle, making almost no sound as his clawed feet gently meet the soft ground. His piercing eyes flick from side to side as he scans the underbrush for prey. So far, his hunt has been unsuccessful, only managing to find a few meager scraps of flesh on a long-desiccated carcass. Plenty to sate his own appetite, but not enough. His clan is counting on him to return with enough food for everyone.

A sound in the brush causes him to halt. His head snaps toward the source of the noise. As he stares intently into the vegetation, waiting for another sign to strike, the sound repeats. Thirdborn raises his reptilian head skyward and inhales deeply. The scents of the forest seep into his brain, mixing with the thousands of memorized odors he has gathered from countless hunts. He filters out the ambient background scents until he identifies the specific odor associated with the noise he heard.

A blade-snout.

Dangerous and difficult to take down, but more than enough to feed him and his clan.

He resumes his hunt, now moving in the direction of the blade-snout’s foraging. Slowly, his quarry begins to come into view. Its body is about the size of a rhinoceros, with a dark-grey coloration leading into a brilliant red on its face. It is facing away from Thirdborn, but he can still see the meter-long serrated cranial crest that gives the beast its name. He’s faced this sort of prey before, but he will have to be extremely careful if he is to successfully kill it. He crouches even lower, his belly almost touching the forest floor. He silently slinks towards his quarry, inching ever nearer. His leg muscles tense, and he prepares to spring on his unwary victim.

Suddenly, the foliage across the clearing explodes. Thirdborn’s carefully focused hunt is ruined as another reptilian leaps from the brush, snarling as it collides with the blade-snout’s great body. The intruder’s long claws sink into the rough hide, anchoring it in place as it begins to bite and slash at its quarry. The blade-snout bellows in surprise and pain, and begins shaking its body, trying to dislodge its attacker.

But, the predator was anticipating this.

As the blade-snout rears onto its hind legs, the predator reaches under its neck with one of its muscular arms. It grabs ahold of the blade-snout’s head, steering both hands clear of the deadly horn. Flexing its powerful muscles, it quickly twists the head at a sharp angle. A snap of bone, and the blade-snout’s struggling body goes limp, its neck broken. The predator drops its deceased prey to the ground, grabs ahold of its hind legs, and begins to drag it off into the brush.

As Thirdborn’s surprise at the sudden attack begins to fade, he truly notices the identity of the interloper. It looks almost exactly like him, only around 30% larger, and with a much blunter muzzle. A soft growl emits from his throat as he recognizes it: Firstborn, his older brother.

The rudimentary society these reptiles have begun to develop places an enormous value on physical strength and hunting prowess. As such, the oversized, powerful Firstborn seized control of the pecking order almost as soon as he reached breeding age. Meanwhile, Thirdborn, while still plenty strong, grew to be smaller-than-average, so occupied a slot near the bottom of the clan’s hierarchy. As one of the clan’s few males, he was still made to venture into the forest daily to gather food, but his meticulous planning and stealth skills were looked over in favor of his brother’s raw power.

This has fostered a deep-seated jealousy in the younger reptile. One that is certainly not helped by his brother’s current commandeering of his kill.

Thirdborn lets off an annoyed snort before turning back into the brush and stalking away. By the time he returns to his clan’s camp, he is not surprised to see his brother gloating over his accomplishment, as the others feast on the blade-snout’s flesh, utterly enthralled by his story. Thirdborn slinks over to the gnarled tangle of roots serving as his bed, drops to the ground and curls up. He has no desire to partake in celebrating an accomplishment that his brother stole from him. He closes his eyes, places a clawed hand over his head, and does his best to ignore the revelry around him.

Orbit of Talos 1193-7-E. October 6, 3738.

Floating weightless in the uppermost reaches of the planet’s atmosphere, the ancient dark matter entity known as Pulse watches the reptilian drama playing out below.

When one is nearly as old as the universe itself, one’s options for entertainment exhaust themselves fairly quickly. And this is certainly the case for Pulse. It has spent a veritable eternity wandering across the universe, doing little more than passively observing the goings-on around it. It hasn’t been totally idle — many a culture throughout the universe has depictions of angels or devils that resemble its rough outline of a form. But, it’s been millions of years since it last interfered directly with a developing civilization.

Something about these reptiles, though, has captured its interest.

Perhaps it feels some sort of connection with them. Perhaps their acts of joy and jealousy remind it of a simpler time, when it too felt such things. Perhaps these raw unfiltered emotions reached out to it across time, and drew it here to their source. Or perhaps it’s just really, really bored. Whatever the reason, Pulse feels an undeniable urge to interfere with their development.

But, rather than the grand gestures it usually performs — arriving in broad daylight in a flash of lightning and fire, trying to inspire fear and awe in its observers — today it plans to employ a much more... subtle method.

As the daylight sky blackens into night, Pulse descends through the atmosphere, landing gently on the outskirts of the reptiles’ camp. It surveys the sleeping creatures, most of them piled around the mutilated carcass of the blade-snout. Though it is an immensely-powerful being, trying to single out one individual among the tangle of bodies and limbs is too risky. It could accidentally wake them all, making this whole ‘stealth’ endeavor a waste of time.

Instead, it glides over to a lone reptile, curled up amongst the roots of a tree, some distance from the rest of the pack.

It crouches, and places an amorphous hand onto the sleeping animal’s head. Due to the unique nature of its physiology, its entire body is an exceptional conductor of electricity, and is able to transmit electrical impulses through mere physical contact.

In this case, it is transmitting brainwaves.

It imparts the sleeping creature with a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of its billions of years of experiences.

This sort of knowledge is not meant to occupy the mind of an organic entity, and even such a trace quantity is enough to fundamentally rewrite such a being’s identity, down to its very core.

Its work done, Pulse releases the reptile from its grasp. It then silently rises from the camp, returning to the upper reaches of the atmosphere, resuming its role as passive observer. It has set these events in motion, and now intends to simply watch them play out.

This should be interesting...

Talos 1193-7-E. October 7, 3738.

The morning sun illuminates the alien jungles of Talos, burning the nighttime darkness away with brilliant pink light. The nocturnal denizens of the forest retreat into their dens, as their diurnal counterparts take their place in the sun.

In the reptiles’ camp, the clan begins to stir. The females tend to the nests, distributing fresh meat to the elders and hatchlings who were unable to participate in the previous night’s feeding frenzy. The smaller males root through the dirt, searching for insects, small mammals, and tubers that can be added to the clan’s food stores. And, of course, Firstborn rises from his slumber, his shortened jaws stretching wide as he yawns away the night’s drowsiness.

He stretches his powerful limbs, and looks around his domain. As the largest male in the clan, all of the females mate with him, and him alone. All of the hatchlings, and even many of the young adults, were fathered by him. As he gazes upon his family, he can see all of his children, mates, and siblings going about their morning routines, exactly as they should.

All except for one.

With a snort, Firstborn stomps across the clearing to the huddled body of Thirdborn. While every other member of the clan has awoken and begun their work, his younger brother is still nestled up in his resting spot. Of course, this scrawny pariah would be so useless as to not even wake up when the morning comes.

Firstborn hisses at Thirdborn, trying to rouse him. It seems to have no effect; Thirdborn just continues to lie there, hands over its head, trembling softly. Firstborn responds to this lack of action by roaring, a loud scream that should be more than enough to wake him. Still nothing. Now seriously annoyed, Firstborn uses his powerful forelimb, and delivers a swift smack against the lout’s muzzle.

Thirdborn’s eyes snap open, and roll up to lock with Firstborn’s. But, something seems different about them. Instead of the cold amber gaze of the day before, his eyes are deep red, bloodshot, and are staring at his brother with an expression of blind, pure contempt.

No, not contempt.

Hunger.

Empty, meaningless, all-consuming hunger.

In a flash, Thirdborn erupts upward from his resting position. He impacts Firstborn square in the chest, fast enough to offset his reduced mass, and knock the larger reptile to the ground. Pinning his brother with his claws, he unhinges his jaw and clamps it around Firstborn’s throat.

Firstborn lets out a hellish scream, and tries to free himself from the smaller creature’s grip. In previous squabbles, he has never had problems overpowering Thirdborn. But now, his attempts to wrench his arms free only causes his attackers claws to dig in even deeper. Eventually, the claws break the skin, tear through muscle, and wedge themselves deep between the bones of his wrist.

His mind overwhelmed with confusion and agony, Firstborn attempts to cry out once again. But, his own bellows are cut off as Thirdborn tightens his grip around his neck. His breathing grows swift and sharp, and his mouth fills with the taste of his own blood, as his weaker sibling mercilessly crushes the life out of him.

When Firstborn finally stops struggling against his attack, and his body goes slack as the last flickers of life escape his brain, only then does Thirdborn release his grip on his throat. Dislodging his claws from the shredded tangle of tendons and muscles that were Firstborn’s arms, he raises his head skywards and screams. As long and as loud as he can. Blood fills his mouth, a mixture of his prey’s and his own, as his body seemingly fails from the extreme over-exertion of his violent act. As the air in his lungs finally runs out, he takes a step back from the still-warm body of his rival. He begins to rake his claws against Firstborn’s chest, carving long deep gouges into the flesh. He pries open the chest cavity, and begins to gorge himself on the entrails of his victim.

Naturally, this display of excessive savagery has attracted the attention of the rest of the clan. They have gathered around the cannibal’s brutal feast, and watch him with apprehension and fear. One of the older females, Firstborn’s favorite mate, slowly approaches Thirdborn. In an instant, before anyone has time to react, he whirls around and slashes her across the throat. She collapses in a heap, her body twitching as blood pours from the gaping hole in her neck. Thirdborn abandons his first kill, and shoves his muzzle into the open wound, beginning to consume the female’s body before she has even died.

The rest of the clan moves away from the bloodthirsty killer, but their movement draws his attention away from his feeding. He lets out a guttural hiss, unlike anything their species should be capable of producing, and charges at the creatures that were once his family.

Firstborn was only the beginning.

Talos 1193-7-E. June 16, 3739.

It has not even been a full year since Pulse visied this world and toyed with the mind of Thirdborn. And yet, if one had not seen the transformation occurring in real-time, one would never guess that the current Talos was the same planet it had visited.

Where once there were lush, vibrant jungles, now there is nothing but death. The great trees lie in ruin, the vegetation trampled into sludge, the rotting bodies of the planet’s myriad creatures baking and blackening in the sun, turning the once pink skies black as they slowly dissolve into nothingness. It would appear that, in the span of less than a year, the planet has completely died.

But, such an assessment wouldn’t be entirely accurate.

Talos didn’t die. It was killed.

From out of the mammoth carcass of a tusked grazer, a reptilian figure emerges. Its skin is caked with dried blood and flaking tissue, its claws drip with the putrefaction of its innumerable prey, and the decaying remains of the grazer’s entrails dangle from its rotting jaws, the lips completely deteriorated, revealing a tangled array of blackened teeth. It is almost recognizable as its former self, but twisted and broken beyond comprehension, its jagged body as fractured as its mind.

It scarfs down the fetid organs in a few swift gulps, before burying its snout once again into its victim’s broken thorax. This is all it has done in nearly a year — all it’s even capable of doing anymore. This basic act of consumption has completely overwhelmed its very being. What began as mere jealousy has evolved and warped into something far darker. Its metaphorical hunger made harshly, cruelly literal.

The creature once known as Thirdborn looks to the skies, spying a glimmer of starlight through the putrid clouds. And the spark of hunger flares once more in its shattered brain.

The murder of its sibling was nothing.

The massacre of its clan, a mere trifle.

Even the total annihilation of its homeworld is no longer enough.

It now hungers for existence itself.

It will consume it all.

And it will never, ever stop.

#my writing #alliance space #my ocs #pulse #ao-003 #science fiction #short story #violence tw #gore tw #death tw #cannibalism tw

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shadows-and-science-gone-mad · 4 years ago

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70-100, Pulse. Have at it, fucker ;D

thankyousomuchcalumyoureamazing

You guys seem to really want to know more about Pulse lmao

70. What about your oc’s lifestyle would they change if they had the ability? Why?

Well, first of all, it’d probably like to not be in a prison cell all day.

71. What is your oc’s go-to for offense? What weapon, what style of fighting? Or are words more their weapon of choice?

It can psychically manipulate electromagnetism, so it generally tends to default to that in any combat situations.

72. What is your oc’s ideal environment like? Urban or natural? Fancy or rustic? What’s the weather like?

It likes floating in the void of space, just watching the universe pass it by. It’s one of the few things that actually seems to calm it down.

73. If your oc were to be arrested, what would it most likely be for? Is it justified? Have they actually been arrested before?

Wrecking that brouscari freighter kinda drew a lot of attention, which led to the AORF capturing it and containing it within their facility. It’s currently being held in a cell within the Facility, monitored by security cameras at all times.

74. How would your oc act when drunk? What about when really, really tired?

It doesn’t need to drink or sleep, so probably the same. Maybe a bit grouchier (if that’s possible)

75. What would your oc’s dream home be like? How big would it be? What sorts of rooms would be in it? Where would it be located?

It isn’t really a “home” sort of being. As I said, it actually prefers just floating aimlessly through the emptiness between planets. So, I suppose its “dream home” would be unrestricted freedom to do that for as long as it wants (which, given how ancient it is already, is probably a really long time)

76. What is/was your oc’s relationship with their family like? Was it happy, tense, or abusive? What living family does your oc currently have, if any?

It doesn’t have a family. It just sort of...coalesced out of the nothingness one day.

77. Does your oc like to wear any particular accessories? Hats, jewelry, scarves, etc.?

It wears a collar to dampen its electromagnetic abilities, but it doesn’t particularly like wearing that, it just has to.

78. How socially skilled is your oc? Are they good at understanding social cues? How charismatic are they?

It talks a lot, but it doesn’t particularly enjoy talking. Mostly, it only talks when it really has to. It understands social cues enough to exploit them into making everyone else uncomfortable. It is super charismatic in the worst possible way: it commands attention and you can’t stop listening to it, but GOD do you want to.

79. For what reason would your oc turn into a villain? And if they’re already a villain, vice-versa?

I think the only thing that would stop it from being a complete jackass to everyone it encounters would be if it came across someone it genuinely enjoys speaking to, and establishes a degree of mutual respect that it feels comfortable with.

80. What is your oc’s handwriting like? How easy to read is it? Can they write/read cursive?

Very scratchy and difficult-to-decipher.

81. How good is your oc at drawing? What is their preferred art medium, and what is their artstyle like?

It doesn’t really have any motivation to draw, so it probably isn’t very good.

82. What would be your oc’s ultimate dream vacation? Where would they go? Who would they take with them? What would they do?

Currently, its big goal is to just get out of the Facility. Once that’s taken care of, it’d probably find some dying star to watch collapse by itself. When you’ve been alive for as long as it has, “vacations” kind of lose all meaning.

83. What is your oc’s favourite trait about themselves? What about their least liked? What would others like and dislike the most about your oc?

It has such a monumental ego that it refuses to acknowledge any personal faults whatsoever. Though, of course, everyone else hates how much of a jerk it is.

84. Is your oc more masculine, feminine, androgynous, or something else entirely?

It identifies and presents as neutrally as possible.

85. What would history remember your oc for? How would they become famous? Or are they the sort that would really only be appreciated long after their death?

I mean, the aforementioned brouscari incident was a pretty big deal. It was pretty much the first time anyone had ever successfully attacked the brouscari, and the fact that it was an individual entity that caused such havoc was especially noteworthy.

86. What would someone assume about your oc based on their appearance? Would those assumptions be correct?

Given that it looks like a charred skeleton with glowing eyes, most people would probably assume that it’s crazy evil. Then, they’d start talking to it and realize that it’s not evil, just a dick.

87. What are some of your oc’s physical weak spots? What about emotional/moral ones?

Physically, those scrawny little legs are probably fairly easy to knock out. One good leg sweep should at the very least disorient it. And it takes so much to damage its ego that nobody’s really managed it yet.

88. Does your oc hold grudges? For how long? Does your oc have any rivals?

It knows the name of every single person who has ever wronged it, and it will. Not. Forget.

89. What does your oc’s laugh sound like? How often do they laugh? Are they easily amused?

idk, a mix of condescending and maniacal maybe? I haven’t really thought about this one too much.

90. Does your oc have any objects they could never give up? Why is it so important to them? Do they have any family heirlooms?

It likes that rubber ball, but only because that’s pretty much the only thing to distract it from the mind-numbing boredom of life in the Facility.

91. What is your oc’s typical posture like? Do they slouch, or stand straight? How much space do they usually take up, both physically and figuratively?

It stands about 6’6”, though it does slouch a lot. It will utterly dominate any conversation it partakes in.

92. What trait does your oc appreciate or admire the most in others? Why?

Keeping quiet. Because it doesn’t like having to talk about itself too much.

93. What is your oc’s preferred learning style? Observation, hands-on, instruction? Do they take notes or memorize?

Definitely hands-on. Why just read about something when you can experience it firsthand?

94. Does your oc rely more on a logical or emotional mindset? What situations would this be the opposite?

It is a being almost purely driven by emotions. Mostly spite.

95. How is your oc about keeping someone else’s secret? Are they the gossiping type, are do they hold true on their promise to keep things quiet?

If it respects the person enough, it will not relay their secrets to anyone. Otherwise, it will keep the secret until the end of that conversation, then broadcast it as loudly and widely as possible.

96. Describe your oc in three words. What three words would they use to describe themselves?

“Rude Void Person” and “The Fucking Best”, respectively.

97. How old is your oc physically? How old are they in mental maturity? When are they most mature, and when are they the least?

As it is hewn from the very fabric of the cosmos itself, it is at least 7 billion years old. Possibly older. It behaves as if it were 16 or 17, for the most part, though it has shown some moments of greater wisdom or empathy.

98. Is your oc the type to have a lot of fairly good friends, have a small group of close friends, have one or two best friends, or have no friends at all? Who are they closest to?

As I’ve mentioned throughout this and the last post, there is one other person who it likes and respects, but I’m still working on what her deal is.

99. What is your oc’s morning routine usually like? What do they eat for breakfast (if they have breakfast)? What time do they usually get up in the morning?

Pace around its cell until the lights come on, practice tricks with the ball, answer any questions the scientists want to pester it with, repeat until AO-003 decides to escape again, at which point listen to the screams coming from the floor above it.

100. Does your character ever swear? How often? How vulgar is their swearing?

Oh, it curses like a fuckin’ sailor.

#asks #ridiculouslyphotogenicsinosaurus #my ocs #oc: Pulse #aorf #alliance space

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