jojojojo by Master-of-the-Boot
Jonathan Joestar Bio
by MadnessAbe, Jan 14, 2015, 8:13:16 AM
Occupation: Ripple Master, Slayer of the Undead, Progenitor of the Joestar Bloodline
-Has the honor of being the only person who forced the ruthless and sadistic Dio Brando into tears
-Took on a trio of armed bandits while he himself was unarmed, winning and coming out with hardly a scratch
-In his first battle with the newly vampirized Dio Brando, Jonathan defeated him using only his bare hands, a knife, and luck whilst sustaining only a broken arm, blood loss, falling through several stories of his burning mansion, and throwing himself through a wall to escape the fire
*All of this was done BEFORE he achieve Ripple Mastery
-After his training with Will A. Zeppeli over the power of Ripple, he killed the newly undead Jack the Ripper, as well as the undead knights Tarkus and Bruford, the latter of which could
Terry crews profileTerry crews profile by Master-of-the-Boot
Death Battle: Terry Crews Profile
Fiction is a funny thing. It’s never really realistic. Even so called realistic fiction still falls in line with known and less well known tropes and contrivances. But for some fiction writers, rather than pretend to be realistic they go the opposite direction and swing the crazy bar as hard as they can.
Now enter a man named Terry crews.
Master of the Boot: Terry’s origins were fairly mundane. He grew up in Flint, Michigan and thrived at both art and football; becoming both a skilled quarterback and a police sketch artist. All of that changed however when he was involved in an explo
Death Battle: Terry Crews Profile
Fiction is a funny thing. It’s never really realistic. Even so called realistic fiction still falls in line with known and less well known tropes and contrivances. But for some fiction writers, rather than pretend to be realistic they go the opposite direction and swing the crazy bar as hard as they can.
Now enter a man named Terry crews.
Master of the Boot: Terry’s origins were fairly mundane. He grew up in Flint, Michigan and thrived at both art and football; becoming both a skilled quarterback and a police sketch artist. All of that changed however when he was involved in an explosion at an Old Spice factory in South America.
Madness Abe: I'd ask what and why he was doing there, but none of this makes any sense to begin with, so I'm not going to bother asking.
Records of the incident have been largely covered up by the men in black, but from what we can gather from the only other survivor of the explosion, the Angry Video Game Nerd was spotted entering the factory with a kryptonite enhanced fertilizer bomb.
Madness: ...I'm going to guess the Nerd must really hate Old Spice or Terry Crews.
Master of the Boot: Nobody realized that Terry had even survived the incident until the factory foreman woke up from a coma, only to have a six inch tall buff black man volunteer to shave off his nasty beard.
Crew’s mind and sanity had been shattered by the explosion, but now he’d gained bizzare and often incomprehensible powers. Now he trolls the world, advocating on behalf of old spice and engaging in all manner of bug-fuckery.
Madness: And we damn love him for it.
-While working with the expendables killed eighty two bad guys
-Shut off the sun with his mind
-Created two suns to compensate for the previous feat
-Spontaneously willed his baby son into existence
-Made music with his muscles
Master of the Boot: Terry is a striking figure, remembered wherever he goes for the fact that he perpetually goes around in a tight red speedo while yelling as loud as a commercial jet engine.
Madness: And I thought only Billy Mays could yell this loud to promote products on TV.
Peak human strength—Is more or less as physically strong as an unaugmented human can ever hope to become
Above peak human speed—Thanks to his incredible muscle control and coordination, Terry moves at speeds surpassing the best Olympians
Master of the Boot: Terry’s fine motor control is beyond human, able to independently move almost every single muscle and ligament in his body. At one point he even hooked up electrodes to his muscles to play in tune over a dozen musical instruments.
Madness: Those are some, uh...powerful pecs.
This same coordination allows him to maximize the use of his natural strength; hitting harder than a person of similar raw strength and bending with the flexibility of a yoga master.
-Posesses reflexes comparable to Batman
Fourth Dimensional Punches—Terry is able to land punches on a target even when the person he’s punching isn’t near him and he doesn’t have to punch in the direction of his target. This power has a line of sight range.
Master of the Boot: Thanks to the explosion at the Old spice factory, Terry is able to interact with the fourth dimension, a feat impossible for most humans.
Now we’re not talking about time here. The Fourth Dimension is another dimension in space, just one we can’t see. So when Terry punches in the opposite direction of a target that’s forty feet away and in the opposite direction and still hits them, he’s really punching through space and time we can’t see. Sort of like if a 2D character punched through the third dimension.
Madness: My brain hurts trying to comprehend that.
Master of the Boot: Trust me it works.
Extra arms—Interacting with the fourth dimension but not actually spawned by it, Terry has been able to spawn multiple extra arms out of nowhere and pummel targets into oblivion. Terry is able to spawn up to four arms from any direction but this ability requires his concentration. Again, this is a line of sight power.
His own head—Believe it or not, Terry Crews can take off his own head and use it as a weapon.
Madness: Certainly getting "ahead" of everyone else, eh?
Master of the Boot: Basically, Terry pops off his head like a lego figure and then throws it along the ground like a bowling ball with a homing system. Anything that gets hit by Terrys head bursts into flames and explodes. Like a boomerang, his head will always return to terry when it kills his target of intent.
Voice of power—Terry has a unique ability, very similar to the Dovakin’s shout power. Merely by yelling a word Terry can transform an object or person into another object.
Master of the Boot: Yes, by yelling “power” Terry was able to turn a regular man into a Pharaoh and by yelling potato chip turned that same man into a vending machine.
Madness: Well, they do say that words are the mightiest weapons.
Master of the Boot: For the purposes of this tournament, being turned into a vending machine or a fax machine or Twilight Sparkle is considered a TKO unless the person on the receiving end has reality bending powers.
Kung Fu—Terry is highly skilled in hand to hand combat, possessing the level of martial arts finesse and knowhow that you can only find in an action hero.
Terry has a hidden third arm located in his right bicep. When battling, this arm can pop out and sucker punch an enemy who isn’t ready for dealing with a third fist.
Goodnight sun—With nothing more than the power of his mind, Terry crews is able to shut down the sun; cutting off solar powered foes, instantly plunging earth into darkness and blinding enemies long enough to either punch them in the dark or retreat.
Master of the Boot: Technically light takes eight minutes to reach the earth from the sun but somehow Terry can just turn off the light like that without any eight minute lag.
Master of the Boot: Yes, he can shut down a multi billion year old ball of hydrogen and fusion; thereby plunging the planet into darkness and cold.
Madness: Someone call the Imperium of Mankind. I think Crews might be their lost Primarch, or hell, he might be the Emperor himself, gone made through the Warp!
The God Emperor: OLD SPICE IS TOO POWERFUL FOR THESE GRIMDARK TIMES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Double Sun Power—Again with the power of his mind, Terry can create two suns to make up for shutting down the sun in his earlier power. This has the effect of causing everything within a continent to burst into flames from the intense Mercury like heat.
Dream Powers—Perhaps his greatest, deadliest and most illogical power, Terry Crews has an almost Freddy Kreuger like ability to insert himself into someone’s dreams and beat them down there. To perform this, Terry only needs to maintain eye contact with a foe for a few seconds.
In a target’s dreams, Terry is armed with a composite baseball bat and more importantly this is the only time when his sanity is fully restored. The only downside is that in the dream he’s at equal “physical” strength to his foes; though this is compensated through careful psychological warfare.
Madness: Freddy Krueger ain't got shit on Terry.
Terry: WELCOME TO MY OLD SPICE ODOR BLOCKING NIGHTMARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Size changing—In ways that are a mystery even for experts on the fourth dimension, Terry can change his size at will. He can shrink down to a minimum of the height of one o’clock shadow or grow to sky scraper sized.
Master of the Boot: When he’s hair sized, Terry has the strength of a regular sized man. When he’s Godzilla sized he’s able to kick building in half with a single blow. So expect some god of war type boss battles somewhere.
Madness: Attack on Terry Crews! That day, humanity learned the terror of Old Spice!
No red—Terry Crews does not bleed. Somehow, the accident modified his physiology so that his body isn’t dependant on liquid based oxygen and energy circulation. Even when his whole torso was destroyed by a giant flying electric razor he did not bleed or go into shock.
Magic Abs—Thanks to the fact that his abdominal muscles are sentient, Terry can actually survive without his brain. When he loses his brain due to a bullet to the head or other traumatic injury, terry cannot speak or intelligently strategize. Effectively he becomes a berserker who blindly attacks his enemies. Though his martial arts skills and other powers remain intact.
Abe: Evidently the zombie approach of destroy the brain does the opposite here. It only makes Terry even more dangerous!
Master of the Boot: You've murdered us all!
Whole body destruction—Terry has been demonstrated to survive with minimal discomfort when his entire torso was destroyed. Presumably there are no real vital organs in Terry’s torso like heart, lungs or other things humans take for granted.
Forth dimensional reconstruction—interacting with the fourth dimension in ways that even highly educated physics theorists can’t comprehend, Terry is able to regenerate wounds wholesale by stuffing himself into spaces much smaller than himself.
Terry can hide himself inside spaces as small as the inside of a Kleenex box or a spray can and when he emerges from these tiny hiding places his body is totally healed from any and all injuries. In times of duress he can even reconstruct himself inside someone’s beard, hair or even . . . ugh, armpit. Somehow without a person noticing.
Abe: That is both a cool as hell power...and disgusting.
Fourth wall slide—In a faux teleportation move, Terry can seemingly fall through the floor or rise through the “ceiling” and appear either on the same spot or another spot within line of sight; the ability takes a few seconds to activate however. This can allow him to clear distance between himself and a foe when melee or close quarters combat isn’t going so well.
Heat resistance—When standing in an environment which caused trees to burst into flames due to the intense heat, Terry just shrugged it off.
Master of the Boot: But luckily his speedo seems to be as fire resistant as his skin. So small mercies and all that.
Abe: I'm guessing his speedo is adamantium or something.
Death sequence—The only way to kill Terry crews for good is to kill his torso/abs and his brain at the same time. Or at least kill those two targets before he can cram himself into a small space and recreate all of his lost limbs/tissues.
When he loses his brain, he’s less likely to small space heal, but it’s not impossible for him; and in doing so he can disappear very quickly.
Mental state—Like one of Jonathon Joestar’s adversaries, Alexander Anderson, Terry Crews is out of his gourd one hundred percent. This may cause him to take unnessessary risks in a fight or avoid taking smarter risks in favour of bolder more insane strategies.
Master of the Boot: Furthermore, Terry doesn’t always know the extent of his powers. Like the time he accidently made all of his home appliances come to life, freaking himself out in the process.
Abe: Imagine the horrors if he actually knew the full extent!
Cold aversion—In contrast with his resistance to high heat, Terry doesn’t seem to be any more resistant to cold than an average human being.
Abe: Well maybe if he put on something thicker and more than just that speedo, he wouldn't be so weak to the cold.
Master of the Boot: Don't try to look for logic in this, it only lowers your IQ.
He’s not a doctor.
Lack of stealth—Terry almost never ninjas a foe and sneaks up on them. Like a Viking berserker he announces himself with a mighty roar and then charges at his foes
Madness: Ah, like Leeroy Jenkins! Only even more badass and insane!
Trivia: Things that don't affect the fight but are still cool
-In the realm of Youtube Poop's Terry is able to make music not just with his muscles but with his
Master of the Boot: So there you have it, we have a man with a wide variety of strange powers, brutal strength but an insane mindset that could either see an easy victory for him or a crushing defeat.
Terry is fearless but also reckless and can circumvent the normal restrictions of the three human dimensions. Any fighter who takes him on is guaranteed to be in for some bizarre times.
Madness: And all of those involve the power of OOOOOOOOOOOOOLD SPICE ODOR BLOCKER BODY WASH WITH B.O. BLOCKING POWEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRR! P-P-P-P-P-POWER! (randomly explodes)
Death Battles: Vampire Royale Epilogue
“Hi” said the woman, “My name is Seras Victoria and I want to welcome you to Death Battle.”
Across from her, the Count snarled and seemed a long hair from rending her limb from limb. She smiled, totally undeterred by his savage visage. “You probably don’t know me, but I’m very familiar with you; in fact I know everything about you. It’s part of the reason that I chose you to fight in my little tournament.”
Dracula lunged the distance between them, moving so fast it seemed he was teleporting. A clawed hand grabbed the woman’s throat and he pulled her forward. This only seemed to make her angry in turn, as she thrust out her hand and shoved the Count off her like bad garbage.
With a wave of her other hand, a red energy field formed and threw the Count back further. Standing up, he continued to drool and snarl at her, but made no move to attack.
“Control yourself,” Count, Seras assured him. “I’m not your enemy. In fact I can be the best friend you ever had. You survived my first test, now you qualify for the BFB.”
Dracula straightened, clawed hands reaching up and starting to slick down his wild hair. Anger barely under control, the Carpathian’s tone was civil as he choked back murderous rage. “And pray tell, my darling, what is this BFB?”
She chuckled, a girlish little laugh that did not match her sinister smile. “Back for blood; melodramatic but it’s a name fitting for you and the other contestants.” She explained as Dracula’s son, the Pryo, began to dance to the tune in his head. “There are thirteen other fights going on and whoever wins goes to the final round.”
“When the time is right and each fight has been had, all the winners will be gathered at Spencer Mansion in the Arklay Mountains and the final winner will be granted a wish by me.” She smirked, “Just like a genie.”
“And how does one win, Ms. Victoria?” Dracula asked as he continued to tame his hair.
“It’s to the death,” she admitted, gesturing to the slaughter and ruin that surrounded them. “To get that one wish, you have to end your fellow contestants; beyond that there really are no rules or restrictions.”
“And why would I want a wish?” The Count asked, “Any wish could be twisted against me or have some hidden loophole that not even a million lawyers could find. And frankly I’ve been building my power for years. I no longer fight for god; I fight for my beliefs.” His tone was starting to rise again, but from pride rather than rage. “These claws have killed human and vampire alike! With just a nod I can bring instruments of pain! Corrosives: CHECK! Explosives: CHECK!”
His arms gestured wildly, as he’d done with Harker back in that castle so long ago. “With my own will and heart I will possess the power of a deity! I and I alone will wake this world from its slumber! I am cursed by god, the enemy of the sacred,” he sucked in his breath and looked Seras square in the eye, “And you what? I really don’t care.” He started to laugh, “I’ve met worse times. I’ve overcome every single barrier and no little girl is going to tell me that her wishes will help.”
Seras nodded and smiled along with a sardonic smile. Her features were cool and neutral, but like a silent film actor she could tell everything she needed to tell with just a raised eyebrow or a twitch of the lip. “You’re right of course but then again you only have a year to live.”
Dracula’s smile fell off and he took a step forward, “You dare?”
“Not like you think,” she chided, “It’s just that Australium is highly ablative. Unlike Gold, which is inert, Australium breaks off tiny molecular pieces of itself in reaction with water. This can include the water in human sweat from when they touch the metal or in your case the water in your congealed blood.”
The Romanian’s eyes widened at her pronouncement.
“So right now you’ve got a certain amount of Australium dust in your blood. Gradually through weak molecular forces and Australium’s own mystic properties it’ll gather in your heart and brain where it will form a complete circuit and kill you for good.” She crossed her arms over her chest, “That’s why Sardu shed his body and took the infected heavy; Skinner’s knife had tainted him with just one knife strike. And trust me there is no arcane or technological way to remove it from your blood, Count. You either take my wish or you can gain your final death.”
She smiled and put on a cheery air, “Well, got to run, bye-bye!”
The Count tried to lunge in and rip her tits off before smothering her with them but another one of her damn energy fields held him in place as she just vanished before his eyes.
As she disappeared so did her energy field and Dracula screamed.
Bonus: Season 2 sneak peak
The bald space marine stroke through the dense woods, cape billowing behind him. Each footfall made the earth shake; birds and animals fled and even plants seemed to pull back from his impossibly broad form.
Comically small in one armoured gauntlet was an old fashioned oil lantern. The tiny, yellow light threw the space marine’s blocky features into sharp relief; particular his bulging eyes and shiny bald head. On a baldness scale that went up to ten he was a solid twelve.
Without any warning the space marine stopped, his cape wrapping around his ornate artificer armour. He sniffed the air like a Paleolithic monster and scanned for things that only an Adeptus Astartes can see.
At last he spoke, “Yehs, this ees a shuitable buriel ghround.” His bizarre accent, flat out mispronunciation and unusual emphasis on each word made him sound more like an escaped mental patient than a badass soldier of teh Emprah.
Turning around, the space marine focused on a small child dragging a corpse wrapped up in a rug. The child panted and huffed with the dead body, blood stains already soaking the cheap rug.
If the space marine had any sympathy for a underfed five year old lugging around a two hundred pound corpse in a shitty Walmart rug he didn’t show it. “MHOVE, BHOY! We have naht trhavelled teh ghlobe if naht to bhury oua shaed crime.”
The boy looked up at the space marine with a flushed face. Gasping for breath, “Please, can’t we just go to the police? It was an honest accident!”
The Space marine raised his fist before the boy, ready to punch him around those whisker like marks on his face. “Lhisten Narhuto and lhisten well! No whone must evah knoa about this. NOH! If we die this deh we die bhecause yhou sehnt us to deff roa!”
The child shrank before the booming space marine, tears streaming down his dirty face.
Suddenly, the headlights of a police cruiser illuminated the marine and the boy with whisker scars. They’d crossed the world, gone over the highest mountains in the world and stopped just ten feet from the highway.
Out of the police car stepped Chief Wiggum and his two deputies, Lou and Eddie. Wiggum immediately glared at the space marine. “What have we got here?” His voice was hard and he looked pretty serious. “Looks like I’m going to have to arrest you boys . . . for not being at the Krusty Krab enjoying the two for one Friday deal!”
Lou and Eddie began to laugh with Wiggum and the boy relaxed. These officers meant well. The lad knew them well from tourist season in the leaf village. The corrupt and inept Wiggum wouldn’t arrest them even if he actually saw them kill someone. They were good.
A thunderous boom shattered the night silence as the space marine shot Wiggum with a bolter pistol. The seventy-five caliber explosive round embedded itself in Wiggum’s fatty chest and detonated; blasting the man into thousands of gory chunks.
The gore didn’t even have time for gravity to affect it before Lou and Eddie took a bolter shot to the chest, blasting them into chum.
The boy stood there stunned as human viscera splattered all over his face and body.
The space marine, drenched in gore and grinning from ear to ear suddenly dind’t look so comical. Out from under his cape he drew a flamethrower and started to douse the care and the liquid human remains with burning napalm.
He then began to spray the surrounding area, as human blood and shit had splattered evyehwere.
As he spread cleansing fire everywhere the boy only watched in traumatized silence as the space marine began to laugh. Higher and higher, that normally goofy laughter reverberated like Satan’s lounge singer.
For some reason, Commander Boreale let Naruto live. The next morning Indrick Boreale shipped off to the Kuarava system while Naruto was sent to an insane asylum.
The wouldn’t meet again for another ten years.
There, folded nearly in half was a gigantic humanoid figure in ratty brown robes, arms folded over its chest and face obscured by a hood. The figure was still as a statue before Dracula and Skinner. Unlike the Count’s aristocratic air and Skinner’s rebellious and freewheeling demeanor, this thing looked furtive, ascetic; penitent almost. Even the multiple tarnished gold rings around its hands looked less like symbols of office and more like tawdry sentimental trinkets.
Under his hood, Jusef Sardu took in the American Vampire and the Count . . . and struck accordingly. Faster than either of his enemies, a swipe of a giant six inch long talon cut off Dracula’s head. The Romanian’s head splashed down and his sword clanked to moist sewer floor.
Another swipe of the claw went for Skinner’s neck, only to bounce off in a firework display of sparks. The force of the impact knocked Skinner off balance. Sweet spun around, trying to regain a bead on his target, only to take another claw impact to the gut. The force threw Skinner back a good twenty feet.
Sardu watched patiently, determined not to attack before the opportune moment. A shotgun blast hit him in the heart, the impact not even making him take a step back; his body’s advanced biology already getting to work on healing the buckshot strike.
Looking nervous for the first time, Skinner looked up at the hole in the ceiling and made a leap for it. Carpathians he could handle but he’d want an advantage and some prep time for fighting this big sack of shit.
As he leapt, an eight foot long tentacle tongue shot out from under the hood of Sardu and wrapped around Skinner’s shotgun, ripping it from his hands. As the American vampire landed out of sight, Sardu casually crushed the coach gun in his massive hand; bending the metal like clay before jumping after his foe.
This thing was fast, faster than anything Skinner had ever seen before. He’d no sooner got out of the hole than the diseased thing was on him. In mid-air, Sardu struck skinner with a gigantic fist and the American vampire felt his titanium ribs snap like matchwood. The impact threw him on a different trajectory and caused him to crash into the red base.
Skinner scrambled to get up, ignoring his smashed ribs and ducked his head just in time to avoid a six inch talon to the eye. Sardu’s claw embedded itself into the concrete wall behind Sweet.
Thrusting outward, Skinner scooped up a broken piece of wood on the ground and thrust it into the gigantic strain vampire’s heart. It didn’t even slow the giant monster down as Sardu grabbed skinner’s hand and broke his wrist with a mere twist.
The golden haired vampire shrieked and yanked the wooden plank out of the strain vampire’s heart; showering the hallway and skinner himself in white blood and hair thin worms with hungry mouths. He thrust the wooden stake into Sardu’s mouth, knocking out rows of rotted, blackened teeth that looked functionally useless to the master vampire.
At the same time, Skinner finally got a good look at Jusef Sardu’s face. The dude was ugly. Not just “ugly”, he was Warhammer ugly. Sardu looked like he’d been shit out by Papa Nurgle and then sculpted by Nosferatu. And the worst part of it was that even with four inches of sharp wood sticking out of the back of his head through his mouth, Sardu just looked pissed off. He didn’t even notice when Skinner cut his throat open with his own claws; he reached up with both massive hands and clapped over Skinner’s ears.
The American vampire’s eyes bulged out as his eardrums ruptured and blood shot out of his nose and ears from the pressure. The animal part of his brain was what kept him alive; an enlarged amygdala overrode his pride and instructed his body to flee and flee he did.
Sardu tore the stake out of his mouth, spitting up his own rotted teeth and white blood with it. The blonde vermin would pose no issue for the time being, there was still some time before sunrise to deal with the American.
Swooping over to a stack of crates, the vampire Sardu sniffed and picked out the wooden boxes he wanted. There in the crates were packs of transfusion blood; a tad stale but perfectly suited to the master vampire’s needs. Shrieking with primal hunger, Sardu devoured the nearly dozen bags of blood in short order; spewing out noxious waste behind him. He could already feel the strength of the fresh blood invigorating his body. Now was the time to kill.
As Sardu sped off after Skinner, he felt something stir in the background.
The strain vampire was interrupted from his thoughts as a bullet from Skinner’s Schofield revolver grazed him in the shoulder; but unlike before Sardu winced with pain at this injury, muddy red eyes twinkling with hate. A second bullet struck him in the shoulder and the thousand year old monster recoiled like a worm in sunlight.
“Well, you fat cunt, looks like there is something you’re scared of,” Skinner laughed as he took aim at Sardu’s head with another silver bullet. Six more silver bullets sat in the crate at skinner’s feet and he’d shoved as many of the precious glistening bullets into his pockets on the hope that they’d kill the monstrosity before him.
In response, Sardu bare his twin claws and hissed, his tentacle tongue waving around like a cobra. Likewise, Skinner raised his BAR, now loaded with a one hundred round ammo custom clip and laughs, “Say ‘cheese!” before unleashing a hail of bullets at Sardu.
Elsewhere, the entire base was in chaos as Sardu’s strain vampires are multiplying amongst the increasingly terrified and demoralized red and blue mercenaries. On the blue base, the two teams had finally put aside their animosity and professional rivalry to try and survive. Respawn at this point was suicide, as a legion of vampires had taken over both sides of the map; anybody who respawned at the base would be turned in an instant.
Holed up in the tower, the two Engineers had blown out the stairs with the help of the two demomen. The resulting explosions had blocked off the stairwell with rubble. The twin teams had dispensers on hand so their ammo wasn’t likely to run out soon but the vampires were not about to wait.
The slavering, howling abominations were climbing up the wooden tower; shredding their finger tips and peeling off their decaying nails to grip into the old, old wooden structure. A badly wounded strain-Soldier dragged itself up the tower with one arm before a spray of bullets from a sentry gorily chopped its head off.
A strain-Sniper went down screaming as a still human Sniper shot it through the heart with a silver tipped arrow. For the twentieth time today, Sniper was happy that he’d brought his Camper Van Hellsing kit with him. Fortunately the silver bullets shirt mod carried silver bullets as well as silver arrow heads inside the front pocket. The garlic flank steak had done nothing against these monster; silver was the only thing that killed the fuckers.
Pyro chopped the head of a strain-Demo who’d managed to survive the withering gunfire with a sharpened volcano fragment. The red hot obsidian cauterized the vampire’s neck, preventing white blood and worms from leaking out of the dying freaks. More than a few teammates had been infected tonight from splatter.
A strain-Scout and spy also climbed up the side. Pyro chopped the strain-Scout from head to crotch the two halves falling apart. A slanted chop split the strain-Spy from shoulder to hip. The masked man held up his weapon in triumph; revelling in the slaughter and thoroughly enjoying battling the vampires. Partly because in his “pyro-land” vision he was having a pillow fight with various clones of the sesame street Count.
While Pyro covered the east side of the tower and Snipes took the west side Scout was tackling the north side of the tower with the aid of Engie’s two remaining sentries. The young man was terrified out of his mind, his quips and puns too loud to mask his fear. With the back scatter he blew off the head of a strain-Scout and the arm of a strain-Medic. “Your mamma felt that! Oh you gonna cry, fag!”
Scout’s trigger finger was numb from the constant shooting and reloading. He nearly jumped over the edge out of panic when a strain-Engineer caught the red demo with a long tongue and dragged him screaming over. The sentries quickly reloaded and unleashed into the infected Engineer, though the damage was done; another member of the humans was taken.
An earth shattering bellow came, and two strain-Heavies ran for the tower. Unlike their smaller brethren, the pair of enormous creatures weren’t interested in climbing. Both infected heavies collided with the base of the tower, causing it to visibly shift on its foundation. The second demo and the Sniper fell off the tower and into the sea of monsters.
“Shit!” Scout cried out, aiming his gun at the pair of hulking beasts down below. He fired two blasts, blowing half of the skull off of the red strain-Heavy. The monster flopped down on the ground and started to spasm violently. The creature’s thrashing crushed several more of its infected kin, but the remaining strain-Heavy charged again further knocking the tower off its base.
Then for better or worse, the surviving demoman unleashed half a dozen sticky grenades onto the strain-Heavy.
“KA-BOOM!!!!” Demoman shouted right before the sticky bombs went off and took a chug of his scrumpy.
Alas, this proved to be the last mistake he’d make.
The strain-Heavy blew up like a watermelon shot by an anti-tank gun; showing literally the entire base with worms and white blood. The power of the sticky bombs had the effect of splattering the strain-vampires around that one heavy adding to the deadly aerosol. The infected monster’s brother heavy partially survived, losing an arm in the process as well as taking massive shrapnel damage.
Scout and the remaining humans screamed as hundreds of horse-hair like worms landed in their mouths and eyes; going up their nostrils and into their ears.
Then at that very moment a pentagram of blue flame appeared on the blue half of the map.
Back on the red half, Skinner had found himself a nice dispenser set up by a helpful engineer before he got his spine torn out. With the dispenser, the American vampire had a nearly unlimited ammo supply. There was just one problem; the dispenser didn’t dispense silver bullets. Those three precious little orbs nestled in brass casings were all that was holding back the physically dominant Sardu.
Chunks of flesh were blown off of the strain-Vampire’s body and his already tattered and torn cloak was beginning to look like Batman’s cape.
Skinner’s endless stream of bullets tore apart whatever hadn’t been smashed in the initial vampire melee. Sardu for his part ran, ducked dodged and weaved. He was very good at dodging bullets but for the sheer volume of them. It was almost like the air in front of Skinner had been replaced with bullets.
It was a lethal dance, a siege in miniature; Sardu was losing body mass and gradually weakening. No bones had been broken, enabling him to keep running and moving; but he did not wish to test the limits of his superhuman endurance when so much was at stake. His thermal vision however could see Skinner’s gun glowing painfully bright. The barrel was badly overheating, by now the rifling was stripping off and the weapon’s accuracy was declining by the second.
The disease vampire stood still for a moment, arms spread wide, cloak billowing in the wind and gooey and inhuman organs slowly leaking out of his multiple bullet holes.
Instantly, Skinner’s revolver was up and fired a shot right between Sardu’s eyes. The strain vampire dodged the shot, the silver round grazing the hardened skull of the gigantic abomination; the long thin surface sound sizzling.
Reacting instantly, Sardu kicked a thick wooden beam on the ground towards skinner. Skinner had no problem dodging the beam, but he wasn’t the target. Over a thousand pounds of wood and nails from a ruined building crushed the dispenser like a tin can.
Skinner cursed, he still had two bullets but the prospect of fucking off right now and killing this fucker under more favourable.
A sonic crack cut through the battle as an improvised harpoon flew through the dark and speared Sardu through his empty little heart. From the crude harpoon was a length of high tensile rope; following the length of the rope were about twenty of Dracula’s thralls. Without a single word among them, the pale faced, fanged parodies of the mercenaries pulled as one and yanked Sardu through the air.
Skinner’s keen ears detected something; a noise behind him. He spun around with both weapons raised but what he sought was tiny, maybe the size of an ant and constantly changing its dimensions. Then without warning, Dracula grew to full size in less than the blink of an eye. Teeth grinding in blind hatred, he thrust one of the Spy’s Australium coated knives right into Sweet’s crotch.
Dracula barely even heard Skinner’s high pitched shriek. All he could hear was the little voice in the back of his head shaming him for not doing enough, for not being bad enough. The Count twisted the knife in case he missed a testicle with the initial stab. Still the little voice was not pleased.
The Count shut up Skinner with an artful kick to the chin. The American vampire’s jaws slammed shut with a bone shaking clack; biting off part of his own tongue in the process.
Dracula yanked the knife out and prepared for a killing blow.
Driven by survival instinct and highly refined muscle memory, Skinner pointed his BAR at Dracula and pulled the trigger.
The BAR exploded in Skinner’s hand, throwing back the Romanian vampire. Skinner started to flee, his iron skin impervious to the exploding gun, Dracula however was not so fortunate. Rising off the ground, the Count pulled the firing bolt from out of his eye. Almost like a joke, a section of the gun barrel stuck out of his forehead. Cursing all that was good and evil, the Count ripped the largest metal shards from his face as he watched the coward Sweet flee. His hand clenched the Australium knife so hard it nearly shattered.
Other matters gathered his attention, namely the hurricane of limbs and gore that was coming from a short distance away.
The Master vampire Sardu spun like a hurricane. Dracula’s minions had armed themselves with a few silver coated axes and knives from various crates; hoping to weaken or possibly even kill the disease ridden thing. They and their master Dracula had underestimated not just Sardu’s ferocity but his pain resistance as well. He’s hardly paid attention to repeated silver axe blows to his legs or the dozen or so silver knife stabs.
It hurt but this body was just the latest in a long line of puppets; meats suits to enact his will. Pain was an illusion and Sardu was a master illusionist. His claws shredded Dracula’s thralls, limbs were ripped out of their sockets, his tentacle tongue shot out and drained one thrall, causing him to spray liquid feces all over his enemies as slaughtered them.
Sardu, unlike Dracula or Skinner was not a hypocrite or a sadist; he took no pleasure from turning Dracula’s thralls into stains on the ground. In less time than it had taken for him to get harpooned he’d murdered the Count’s servants and was upon the Count in a single leap.
Unlike in the tunnels, Dracula didn’t let Sardu blindside him. He raised his sword just in time to catch the enormous discoloured talon. The blade shuddered and almost shattered but held, though the force of the impact forced Dracula nearly twenty yards; his feet digging trenches in the earth from the momentum.
For a second he saw the damage his minions had done to the plague vampire. His face had been sliced off like some anatomy class demonstration; revealing the spoiled chicken muscle fibres, yellowish skull and all those little thin worms. Two beady red eyes stared out coldly at the Romanian and in the diseased vampire’s mind Dracula could her laughter.
The creature was laughing at him. Rage unlike anything he’d felt in centuries coursed through the Count. This monster would not only die by his hand, but it would be impaled like the days of yore and left to burn in the sun like so many lesser vampires and pretenders.
Charging with sword and knife, Dracula went for the heart but Sardu had a defense against this. From out of the last tatter of cape, Sardu withdrew a crucifix.
Instantly, the Count stopped in his tracks, hissing pushing through his teeth and foam running down his chin like a rabid dog. He waved his weapons and stamped his feet, but it was an empty display before a simple likeness of Jesus carved from wood. The crucifix itself was stained with white blood, mould already starting to grow on the holy relic; already the beast’s corrupting nature was starting to co-opt the power of god.
Sardu’s voice rang through Dracula’s mind; violating his mental defenses and making him feel small.
Kneel; your gains will be great.
The Turks had once given Dracula the same offer when he was a boy. The Catholics too, they’d made similar promises. How those white little lies made the voice in Dracula’s head grow louder; clawing at the composure and aristocratic authority he’d spent centuries building.
The cross held Dracula at bay but he did have one final advantage. Over the horizon, the first rays of the sun were starting to show. A human would never have noticed the microscopic shifts in Sardu’s posture, moving away from the first feeble rays of sun. It was still technically night, but that small shift was not missed by the Count.
Doing his best to look away from the hateful cross, the Count did his best to shift around, trying to get it so that the rising sun would be in his foe’s eyes.
Sardu shifted in turn, moving the cross to line up with his adversary.
Dracula struck; throwing the Australium knife for the heart. The blade missed and struck Sardu in the shoulder. Smoke sizzled from the wound and the giant parasitic monster shivered in pain, though it made no outcry. One massive hand flew to rip out the knife but went away just as quickly, the Australium coated handle shocking the beast’s primitive nervous system.
The Romanian lunged, going for the wounded arm. Eyes already being blinded by the minute levels of increasing light, Sardu missed his slash at Dracula with his claw; the giant yellowed talon opening up a cut on Dracula’s forehead.
The knife stuck in his flesh kept Sardu from raising his arm and Dracula took advantage of that. A swing of his sword sliced off the arm holding the cross and the invisible barrier between the two vampires vanished.
Frothing and raving until he nearly resembled one of Sardu’s mindless slaves, Dracula hacked at the larger vampire with sword and claw.
Hardly feeling Dracula’s assault, Sardu grabbed his own dismembered arm and swung it like a club. The impact struck Dracula and sent him flying. By now there weren’t many buildings to slam into so Dracula went rolling along the ground shards of wood and rusty nails stabbing into him.
Dracula looked up as soon as his momentum stopped, only to take an Australium knife in the shoulder. The Carpathian cried out in pain, fangs flaring and drool flying from the burn of the blade.
He only screamed louder however when a bizarre arrow tipped in a Christmas light struck him in the heart. Lethal levels of electricity radiated out from the Count’s heart and into the rest of his body; coursing through every one of his pain receptors and unable to burn them out due to his undead nature.
A second Christmas light arrow sailed through the early dawn and struck no more than a finger’s width from the first arrow. The electricity arced across the Carpathian’s body and Dracula’s body spasmed like a g-mod ragdoll. Smoke rose up from his electric cooked form and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
Standing atop the burned out remnants of the red base, Skinner sweet looked at the Count with cold contempt and a hatred that he reserved for very few people. Rape, torture, killing, normally these things were pleasure; but for the Count Skinner was prepared to do some serious business. Besides, he never ran, only ran to get better weapons.
Sardu stood still as a statue, unreadable and thoroughly disgusting. Chunks of his intestines continued to pour out from his multiple wounds. The wound from the Australium knife particularly nasty, looking like a festering wound days instead of minutes old; pus poured down from the opening and onto the ground.
Nictitating membranes across his damned red eyes were the only signs of life in Sardu. When an arrow from Skinner struck his heart, he didn’t try to dodge it or move out of the way. The explosive arrow struck the plague father and detonated, blowing his body parts and white worms all over the vicinity.
Skinner ran, only stopping to stuff his pockets with free money from the corpses of the dead and mutilated mercenaries.
Everything had gone wrong. The fight was not in his favour. Logically he knew that retreat was the only option but he couldn’t ignore the festering itch in his soul. Oh, he’d thrown on a new pair of pants taken from a dead soldier but the wound down below remained. The damage wasn’t healing down below and it was fairly extensive. Skinner wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to operate down there.
The American vampire gritted his teeth and clenched his fist until his fingernails tore into his skin. He didn’t like these feelings, this injury. He’d always been the survivor, the one with the last laugh. He’d been tortured in the past and hurt badly, betrayed and left for dead. He hissed in pain as his crotch wound flared up, a fresh wave of blood seeping from the injury and staining his pants. “Like I’m on my fucking rag,” Skinner raged to himself. “I’ll rape that motherfucker and pull his guts out his asshole.”
The rasping intake of breath behind him made Skinner vamp out instantly, thrusting foot long claws out to stab . . . a corpse?
The strain-Scout lay torn in half by an explosion its heart shredded by Shrapnel and all of its limbs blown off. Everything below the upper chest was totally gone; atomized by demoman’s bombs. Yet even though the thing was clinically dead, it was still biologically alive. It moved, stared directly at Skinner and danced on the tattered, but intact, strings of the puppeteer.
“Very good, gunslinger,” Came the thin, rasping voice that was as much psychic as it was verbal. The strain-Scout quivered and shook with each of its master’s words; twitching like a worm cut in half. “Harden your fear into hate and deliver it back to your true foe.”
Skinner snarled and grabbed the nearly dead strain-Scout by the throat; a rattle came out of its throat as he did. “I ain’t afraid of nothing; but you should be fucking afraid of me.”
Through is peon, Sardu spoke to Skinner in fatherly tones, “You kill with neither remorse nor pity, you scythe through the weak like straw; I need someone like that. I am prepared to make amends, for I am not blameless.”
“Maybe you don’t get it,” Sweet sneered, “I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget.”
“I am not the Nazareth, I require neither forgiveness nor do I believe in sin. Strength, not forgiveness pardons all crimes. I am distracting the Aristocrat, shoot him if you will; preferably in the back.”
Skinner weighed his options, he could not let what Dracula did go unpunished but he wasn’t just about to make a deal with the devil.
“I’ll kill the bastard. After that, no promises.”
A kind of psychic murmur of agreement came through Sardu’s puppet. “Acceptable, there is still time to make your choice.”
Now, Blue Base
The mercenaries screamed as they kept being respawned in the blue base only to be drank dry by Sardu’s diseased minions. Each time they were drained of their blood the respawn system would register them as dead and bring them back only to be drained again.
“Fuck it!” shouted the blue medic as he swung his bone saw and beheaded a strain-Medic. From inside of his jacket he withdrew a clear metal and crystal construct. Pressing the button, a powerful UV flash silently washed over the tide of vampires and blasted them all into ash.
Medic ran over the incinerated remains of his former comrades. The mission had gone fubar for him, but so far it was all working out according to his Master’s plan. The sun was now up, and he had permission to leave this hellhole.
Not stopping, Medic fumbled in his pocket for a set of car keys while working open the door of his beat up old Oldsmobile. Roaring in frustration, Medic smashed open his car window and climbed through over the sound of a raging vampire battle.
Thrusting the key into the ignition, the old, badly tuned engine roared to life. Flooring it, Medic swerved his car around, avoiding both rubble and several of Dracula’s thralls, who were running around with explosives scavenged from the dead. The creatures were already starting to catch fire in the sun, but the Count’s hold over them was absolute, and they’d jump into the jaws of Cerberus for him.
Medic looked lost hold of the wheel for a moment as he ran over a broken down old sentry. When he got control of the wheel again there was a thrall-Scout standing right in front of his vehicle. It hissed and bared its fangs at him right before it met Medic’s bumper.
“SHIT!” Medic shouted as the thrall-Scout exploded like a ripe tomato, spewing blood and guts all over his windshield and totally obscuring his vision.
Hands fumbling, the Blu medic attempted to throw on the windshield wipers. When the blood started to come off the windshield though, he saw that he was heading into the river that divided the map. He screamed as an overhanging metal beam from the toppled tower ripped the top of his car off. From there, Medic’s car ramped over the embankment, gaining altitude from a ramp made out of corpses.
The shredded, destroyed car sailed through the air and collided with a wobbling Dracula, who was just starting to get up from being shot in the heart. The high speed two ton mass of metal smeared Dracula against the destroyed street of 2Fort. His limbs were twisted and shattered until the bones became like crushed gravel and his intestines exploded out of a crushed abdomen.
With a mighty cry of twisted Metal, Medic’s car slammed into the edge of the bomb hatch in the Red Base and fell into the darkened depths.
Dracula stood up, quivering like a leaf. The once might count seemed as frail and as pathetic as any zombie; his skin an ashen hue and his clothes torn. Under the brightening light of the sun, he blinked and winced, wishing to trade away his kingdom for a good hat or some sunglasses.
In the mud, the dirt and the debris of 2Fort, Sardu’s worms had vanished and the body of the strain-Heavy was missing.
The Romanian’s eyes widened as he felt Skinner Sweet grab him in an iron grip and start to stab him multiple times with the Spy’s Australium knife. A strangled scream wormed out of Dracula’s throat as the blade plunged into his flesh dozens of times, foam spilling over his lips and falling onto the filthy remnants of his expensive suit.
Skinner threw the Carpathian to the earth and started to stomp on his face. Weakly, Dracula tried to hold back Skinner’s boot but he lacked the strength to; the arrow in his heart sucking away his strength. Blood poured from his mouth and nose as Skinner crushed his face. Up and down the boom went, driving the Count’s head into the mud he’d tried to force skinner to eat.
When he’d had enough of that, Skinner grabbed the Count by a fist full of hair and threw him against a concrete wall. There was a wet splat as the Count hit the wall falling to his knees. He had no time to recover however as Skinner ran up behind him and started slamming his face repeatedly into the concrete wall. Blood splattered everywhere
The count didn’t have the luxury of unconsciousness as his healing factor kept him awake and kept his injuries healing as Skinner inflicted them on him.
The American vampire lifted up the Count like a rag doll and held a cross before his enemy’s face. The vampire shifted and squirmed uncomfortably but made no outcry. Skinner hardly noticed that Dracula seemed to swallow something.
Sneering, skinner made to start slowly cutting off the Count’s head with the Australium knife. That was when Dracula vomited blood into Skinner’s eyes.
Sweet cried out and dropped the Count, growling in pain and anger he abruptly vamped out; giant clawed hands dropping the Australium knife.
On the ground Dracula coughed up one of his own fangs, which had been knocked out when his face was being kicked in and had swallowed. There in his throat the fang had twisted sideways and ripped open an injury big enough to get some blood going.
Seeing he had only seconds before Skinner recovered from his little surprise, Dracula reached for the arrow in his heart and pulled. Eyes bulged as he quickly and sharply pulled the wooden shaft; the pain too intense for him to even scream in pain.
Skinner was beyond livid now. His intention was to torture the Count, but how he’d just have to settle for giving the bastard a quick death and spiking his head on a fence post.
He saw across the burnt and dilapidated bridge, footsteps in mud and blood. Bounding like an enraged animal, Skinner tracked his prey by scent.
Then he caught sight of him, the man that he hated above all others. With his fine clothes nearly destroyed, he could see that under it all Dracula wore a strange black leather body suit that resembled a strait jacket. His once finely coiffed hair was wild and stuck out in all angles.
Dracula made eye contact with the rabid and deranged skinner but he didn’t even seem to recognize his enemy. He just looked at Skinner with the most detached and impersonal curiosity.
Scalpel sharp claws went for Dracula’s throat. Like their first meeting, the Count’s arm shot out and twisted Skinner’s arm around. This time Skinner was ready and was able to keep his balance, the Count though bounced back, throwing himself down low and sweeping Sweet’s legs out from under him with his leg.
Sweets legs flew from under him, but superior vampire reflexes saw him land on his feet like a cat. Swinging down with finger length claws, he slashed at where Dracula crouched. The Carpathian nimbly rolled back, the killer claws striking the concrete floor just hair’s breadth from where he’d been.
Down the darkened hallways of the blue base they went, lights shattered and power cut giving the illusion of night. It was of no impediment to either fighter, both superbly adapted to nocturnal hunting. Who was the prey and who the hunter was another matter.
As they reached down the darkened hallways worse than anything at Freddy Fazbear’s, the Count reached behind him and pulled out a Shortstop handgun, but he didn’t shoot Skinner. Instead, he fired at the fire extinguisher on the wall.
Instantly, white smoke and C02 flooded the narrow, poorly ventilated hallway. Both combatants were blinded by the smoke.
Skinner jumped back, fearful of being blindsided.
He saw it, a shadow in the smoke.
He swung a claw but hit nothing.
On his opposite side, a man shaped shadow.
A claw swipe hit nothing.
Skinner felt something behind him.
With his dominant arm, he lashed out with a claw; a fatal mistake. He felt the Australium knife stab through his wrist. Simultaneously, a foot with long brass claws shot out and kicked Skinner with full force in the kneecap. The joint buckled under the impact
The bellow of pain from Skinner’s lungs could have woken the dead or shattered glass. Fear became mingled into that scream of his when he caught a good look at the Count’s face.
He was smiling; technically smiling, as the expression on his face wasn’t anything professing happiness, joy or anxiety. The corners of his mouth were pulled impossibly tight to the sides of his skull until they almost seemed to curl up to his ears.
Skinner screamed louder as the Count kicked Sweet in the groin, driving his long, inhuman toe claws into Skinner’s still unhealed wound from earlier. A fresh wave of American blood washed over Dracula’s foot and he put all his force behind the Australium knife.
With a noise like nails on a chalkboard, Dracula’s knife wedged up from Skinner’s wrist all the way up to his elbow. As the knife cut, the Carpathian’s bulging eyes widened until his eyelids threatened to rip.
The blade snapped and Skinner threw his head forward, sinking his wide shark like jaws into Dracula’s neck. If anything, the Romanian just smiled wider; tittle trickles of blood ran from the corners of his mouth as the skin ripped.
Thrashing about from side to side, Dracula’s form dangled from Skinner’s mouth; head and limbs slamming repeatedly into the claustrophobic concrete walls. A sickening crunch was head as Dracula’s head caved in completely, pushing his nose to the back of the skull.
Skinner let go and the lanky Romanian threw down the hall and slammed into a steel door, ripping it off its hinges. Without even batting an eyelash, the Count jumped up and began to laugh. He threw back his regenerating head whooped and hollered louder than a banshee.
The count clapped his hands as he chuckled. “That was FANTASTIC! BRILLIANT! I liked personally,” his hands gestured wildly as he spoke, “No vampire has challenged me like that in centuries and you’d better not let me down now.”
Skinner gritted his teeth and held one hand over his bisected arm.
Dracs went on, “What’re you waiting for? Come at me, unsheathe your claws, bare your fangs, bring out a posse and hang me by the nearest tree!” he laughed maniacally, his laughter climbing until it reached a shrill tenure that made it almost sound like the count was afraid.
Skinner grinned at his foe, getting idea. “That’s nice. Hey, look what I got?” Agonizingly he held reached out with his bisected arm and his good one to grab two pieces of steel wooden ceiling struts off the ground. Holding the two up to form a cross, it was Skinner’s turn to laugh.
The Count hissed and threw himself back from the improvised cross.
Sweet laughed as his healing held the split arm together blood pouring all over his clenched fist. “I always win! Always!”
Slowly he moved forward with the cross, the Count backing up only to hit a wall.
He had nowhere to go and Skinner had two splintered and jagged pieces of wood to use as stakes. Dracula backed up, cowering before the cross.
Skinner was getting close. A few more paces and he’d be on him. The count ducked and weaved like a cornered animal but there was no getting around that blasted cross.
This was fine with him.
“Now” he issued psychically to one of his minions.
Below them one floor was a thrall-demo, strapped with multiple bombs. Dutifully, the undead slave pressed the button on its vest and did its master’s work.
The explosion ripped through the floor, throwing up both Skinner and the Count before causing the floor to collapse into the sub-basement; the difference was that Dracula was ready for it.
Falling through the smoke and dust, Skinner fell into the void while Dracula dug into a concrete wall with his claws. In a final insult he shouted to his hated enemy, “Enjoy the scenic route, asshole!”
Skinner fell, slamming hard into a gigantic room full of glass tubes. It took him a moment to realize that these tubes were full of bodies in varying stages of macro-embryonic development.
So these were Mann-co’s cloning vats. Where they could build literal armies of men in seconds.
It did not take Skinner long to smell the strength of death and rotting diarrhoea. Spinning around, he could see the swarm of strain vampires milling about like insects; crawling over one another and hissing.
Something moved, faster than Skinner could follow. When it landed behind him, it landed with the force of a ton of bricks.
He never could have reacted fast enough to the thing behind him. It wore a new body, that of a Red heavy. A good portion of the skull was missing, but it was the look of sombre cruelty on its face that marked this as Jusef Sardu the master, not just another strain beast.
Sardu could have forgiven Skinner for his refusal of his generous offer; but he was much too disappointed by his inability to kill the Aristocrat. Weakness was not something he could forgive.
With the Heavy’s massive hands, Sardu grabbed both of Skinner’s arms and pulled. The twin arms came out like those on a doll.
Sweet cried out as blood spewed out of his arm stumps.
Sardu watched through a single eye, the host body he inhabited having only half of a head. There was not sadism, hate or rage in his eyes but simple disappointment. Skinner met the strain-vampire’s eyes fearlessly. The knowledge that this was the final moment, that this would be his end did not in any way scare him. He’d lived a life without regret, one without a bent knee; in a twisted way he’d done what the self-help gurus had always preached. Self-determination.
Sardu could take his life, but not take his independence.
The Master vampire reached out and crushed Skinner’s head with a single hand. The American vampire’s blood and brain splattered everywhere.
Sardu shoved the corpse aside and wiped his giant hand across the front of his combat vest. Turning up, he saw Dracula.
One last target.
One last obstacle between him and his goal.
Sardu craved Mann Co’s cloning facilities. He needed this endless meat factory to breed his army with which he could produce not only a limitless food supply for a nation of vampires but to build an army as well.
Then, Dracula dropped to the ground and revealed to Sardu what he had in mind.
The master vampire’s eyes bulged open.
He moved towards Dracula than he ever had before in his cursed existence but there was no stopping it now.
Across the facility, the last thralls of Dracula faced several cut power cables across the facility. Each one reached across the gap and connected the multi gigawatt circuits.
Each thrall screamed in agony as electricity coursed across their bodies, burning, torturing them and overwhelming their brains and nervous systems but never killing them or incinerating them.
In the central room of the cloning facility, powerful UV lights went online; burning off Sardu’s skin in an instant; making it fall to the floor like bloody oatmeal.
With his enemy blinded, Dracula swung out with a volcano shard ax and cut Sardu in half.
Sardu thrashed violently on the ground, bursting open cloning tanks like they were nothing and turning the half developed clones inside into gory paste.
The screaming stopped when a fallen metal support beam was thrust through Sardu’s torso cavity and out of his mouth.
Once he’d have needed twenty men to impale Sardu, but now Dracula relished impaling his fallen enemy.
Skinner was dead but not beyond Necromancy.
The thralls, the last members of either merc team were stuck as circuit connectors; screaming for their master to release them; but Dracula would just leave them to slowly burn to a crisp under the power conduits.
Moments later, blue flame flashed and necromancy brought back Skinner; mental capacity and physical strength reduced. There was some screaming and some thrashing before Dracula thrust an Australium plated freedom staff up Sweet’s ass and out of his mouth.
He was placed right next to the thrashing and screaming Sardu.
He was very pleased to see yellow, piss coloured smoke coming out of Skinner’s mouth from where the Australium was interacting with his internal organs; slowly burning them away and liquefying them.
His work was done; Dracula began to slowly walk out of the cloning room. He hadn’t felt this tired since he was human.
The Count walked through the ruined corridors of 2Fort. His expression as he walked was somber. There was no joy in those red eyes and every so often his eyes would tighten as if fighting down some revulsion or fear.
Stepping into the bright morning sun, Dracula shielded his eyes and focused on the lone figure before him.
The red pyro.
The masked soldier stood before the Count, looking through him rather than at him; utterly trapped within the fantasia in its mind.
Signing, the Count stepped forward and put a hand on the Pyro’s soldier. “Son, I’m here for you.”
He waited and nodded, as if his son had told him something. “I know I’ve done wrong by you; I can still remember the smell from where I burned you with silver brand and I remember your screams as I cut you; but that’s over now. I forgive you for trying to keep me from hurting you.”
“Now that Mann Co has destroyed your mind and you have no free will, we can be father and son again.” He looked at the Pyro with something like fatherly affection. “I’ll turn you into a weapon, my son. You’ll not just be the envy of every dhampir, but the envy of every vampire out there. D, as long as you have no free will, you’ll do your father proud.”
Clap, clap, clap
The Count spun around as he traced the source of the clapping. Fangs bared and an expression of rage on his face, he foamed at the large chested blonde woman in a blue trench coat. “Who the hell are you? Speak now before I rip your throat out.” He growled dangerously.
The woman adjusted her lovely hair and smirked at the Count. “Hi, I’m Seras Victoria. I want to welcome you to my Death Battle.”
Current Residence: British Columbia|
Print preference: The Pen
Favourite genre of music: Heavy Metal
Favourite photographer: N/A
Favourite style of art: fan art and HR Geiger
Operating System: dunno
Favourite cartoon character: Tintin
Personal Quote: Andrew Breitbart likes to fuck children to death with cacti while fantasising about fisting his mother in the ass. Just throwing that out there.