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The Old Man had a sense of humour.
Kefka hadn’t stopped giggling in hours. True, he’d been, stabbed, slashed, bitten, burned, bludgeoned, and not to mention freezing in an endless blizzarding hell, but it was pretty funny.
He’d just blinked into existence in a cave amidst a bunch of mutilated, violent, corpses. Some had too many arms, or knives for hands, giant claws, teeth, or entirely the wrong configuration in the case of the horrifying crab lady whose one remaining eye dangled about attached to its nerve stem, just… bobbing and wobbling.
Gross.
They swarmed him, and truly, he thought he was about to die a second death. Just for a moment, of course. But he could stand and they couldn’t. So that was that.
“I’m going to die of exposure, like a peasant,” he moaned. There hadn’t been a tree or bush or even a single twig since he’d left the terrible horror cave he’d been blinked back into existence in.
He supposed he could set the clothes he wore aflame, but then he’d have nothing to entertain in if guests suddenly showed up.
His lips were purple, his fingers a gray blue. His breaths came short, weak. He felt hot, in spite of the freezing wind buffeting his bare face.
Kefka kept stride, in spite of it all. He’d kept stride when he’d be sent to the Program, and he’d kept stride when the Program broke his mind. He’d kept stride when he calculated his move against Gestahl, and he sure as the murdered Goddesses themselves, he’d kept stride after he mysteriously ended up in this new situation.
As if a little hypothermia or widespread frostbite was going to stop him.
Another hour and a long list of various other obstacles over which he’d kept his stride later, and Kefka found himself staring down the muzzle of his madness. He stood taut, hunched forward, legs bent, his arms curled toward his hips like an Old West gunslinger.
It had been a while since he’d had to stop and work out whether what he was looking at was real or just a manifestation of his damaged …everything.
A large cavern mouth opened up in a frosty crag up ahead, of that there was little doubt. But it was well-lit. It burned against the freezing dark like a furnace. He rubbed his eyes and decided that was that; a hallucination shouldn’t be able to hurt your eyes, right?
Probably right.
Fuck this gig.
Jack Harrington was 35. Goin’ nowhere. Shiverin’ in a half-heated shack on some dumbass planet in the middle of bumfuck nowhere making practically nothing an hour after all the bullshit fees and the cost of everything way the hell out here.
He could see his breath, illuminated by the shitty little touchscreen computer installed in his little booth.
At least you have a booth.
Yeah, okay hotshot. Not like we couldn’t just install a camera and monitor this fuckin’ wasteland from indoors. Y’know, where I don’t have to freeze my ass off in two jackets and god knows how many sweaters.
Needed a live patrol outside. Presence was important.
What the fuck presence is a man shivering in a booth?
Jack looked out on the vast nothing he was in charge of protecting. Fuckin’ monsters out here and the only thing covering his ass from the tin can he worked in and the safety of the shelter was the auto-guns. And those things were breaking down in the cold all the time. Not to mention, opening the shelter doors takes time.
You ever seen a xenomorph break into a dead sprint? I haven’t, but, y’know, I’ve heard.
He struck a match, dropped it, went down to pick it up, bashed his head on the counter in front of him, and cursed. Instinctually, he looked around to see if anyone’d seen him.
“What the Tennessee apple fuck?”
He looked out, squinted, leaned closer to the glass, gave up, and grabbed his binoculars to get a bead on whatever he’d just seen.
He set the binos down and struck another match. This time he succeeded, lit his smoke, and took a long drag, before thumbing a button on his panel.
“Go ahead Perimeter 1.”
“Yeah, Rog, uh, I got a guy approaching the main entrance.”
“A ‘guy’?”
Jack could hear cameras swiveling to pick out the figure.
“Yeah, looks like. Lone figure, I dunno. About a klick east a ways?”
“You think it’s a threat?”
“I think it’s crazy, is what I think. How is he not dead?”
“Does seem odd. We’re sending up a team just to be safe. Standard engagement applies.”
“Alright,” Jack replied, puffing on his cigarette, watching the figure trudging toward him. Guy was making good time. ‘Course, that just made it more likely that this was some fuckin’ necromorph or something coming at him.
“Shit,” he grumbled, snubbing out his cig before hefting up his gauss rifle. If whatever was out there turned out to be something other than human, he had a superhot graphite ball to the dome for ‘em.
“Come on, you crazy bastard. Get closer,” he settled the stock up against his cheek and took a deep breath. Best eta for backup to the surface was 3 minutes, 16 seconds. How much time had passed so far?
One minute? Maybe two?
Kefka hadn’t stopped giggling in hours. True, he’d been, stabbed, slashed, bitten, burned, bludgeoned, and not to mention freezing in an endless blizzarding hell, but it was pretty funny.
He’d just blinked into existence in a cave amidst a bunch of mutilated, violent, corpses. Some had too many arms, or knives for hands, giant claws, teeth, or entirely the wrong configuration in the case of the horrifying crab lady whose one remaining eye dangled about attached to its nerve stem, just… bobbing and wobbling.
Gross.
They swarmed him, and truly, he thought he was about to die a second death. Just for a moment, of course. But he could stand and they couldn’t. So that was that.
“I’m going to die of exposure, like a peasant,” he moaned. There hadn’t been a tree or bush or even a single twig since he’d left the terrible horror cave he’d been blinked back into existence in.
He supposed he could set the clothes he wore aflame, but then he’d have nothing to entertain in if guests suddenly showed up.
His lips were purple, his fingers a gray blue. His breaths came short, weak. He felt hot, in spite of the freezing wind buffeting his bare face.
Kefka kept stride, in spite of it all. He’d kept stride when he’d be sent to the Program, and he’d kept stride when the Program broke his mind. He’d kept stride when he calculated his move against Gestahl, and he sure as the murdered Goddesses themselves, he’d kept stride after he mysteriously ended up in this new situation.
As if a little hypothermia or widespread frostbite was going to stop him.
Another hour and a long list of various other obstacles over which he’d kept his stride later, and Kefka found himself staring down the muzzle of his madness. He stood taut, hunched forward, legs bent, his arms curled toward his hips like an Old West gunslinger.
It had been a while since he’d had to stop and work out whether what he was looking at was real or just a manifestation of his damaged …everything.
A large cavern mouth opened up in a frosty crag up ahead, of that there was little doubt. But it was well-lit. It burned against the freezing dark like a furnace. He rubbed his eyes and decided that was that; a hallucination shouldn’t be able to hurt your eyes, right?
Probably right.
Fuck this gig.
Jack Harrington was 35. Goin’ nowhere. Shiverin’ in a half-heated shack on some dumbass planet in the middle of bumfuck nowhere making practically nothing an hour after all the bullshit fees and the cost of everything way the hell out here.
He could see his breath, illuminated by the shitty little touchscreen computer installed in his little booth.
At least you have a booth.
Yeah, okay hotshot. Not like we couldn’t just install a camera and monitor this fuckin’ wasteland from indoors. Y’know, where I don’t have to freeze my ass off in two jackets and god knows how many sweaters.
Needed a live patrol outside. Presence was important.
What the fuck presence is a man shivering in a booth?
Jack looked out on the vast nothing he was in charge of protecting. Fuckin’ monsters out here and the only thing covering his ass from the tin can he worked in and the safety of the shelter was the auto-guns. And those things were breaking down in the cold all the time. Not to mention, opening the shelter doors takes time.
You ever seen a xenomorph break into a dead sprint? I haven’t, but, y’know, I’ve heard.
He struck a match, dropped it, went down to pick it up, bashed his head on the counter in front of him, and cursed. Instinctually, he looked around to see if anyone’d seen him.
“What the Tennessee apple fuck?”
He looked out, squinted, leaned closer to the glass, gave up, and grabbed his binoculars to get a bead on whatever he’d just seen.
He set the binos down and struck another match. This time he succeeded, lit his smoke, and took a long drag, before thumbing a button on his panel.
“Go ahead Perimeter 1.”
“Yeah, Rog, uh, I got a guy approaching the main entrance.”
“A ‘guy’?”
Jack could hear cameras swiveling to pick out the figure.
“Yeah, looks like. Lone figure, I dunno. About a klick east a ways?”
“You think it’s a threat?”
“I think it’s crazy, is what I think. How is he not dead?”
“Does seem odd. We’re sending up a team just to be safe. Standard engagement applies.”
“Alright,” Jack replied, puffing on his cigarette, watching the figure trudging toward him. Guy was making good time. ‘Course, that just made it more likely that this was some fuckin’ necromorph or something coming at him.
“Shit,” he grumbled, snubbing out his cig before hefting up his gauss rifle. If whatever was out there turned out to be something other than human, he had a superhot graphite ball to the dome for ‘em.
“Come on, you crazy bastard. Get closer,” he settled the stock up against his cheek and took a deep breath. Best eta for backup to the surface was 3 minutes, 16 seconds. How much time had passed so far?
One minute? Maybe two?