Bespoiled Nippur (Challenge Zone - Completed!)

[Karl Jak]

The fleet group paused a few knots from the beach. A thick veil of obscuring mist hovered over the ‘challenge zone’, preventing any real radar or scanning technologies to give the group a better idea of what may happen when they made landfall.

Nevertheless, the three robotic Bonds were prepared, and the soldiers that accompanied them had, thus far, no real reason to doubt that this would be anything more than yet another routine operation.

***​

Characters Involved: Thundercracker, the Red Baron, Skywarp

Notes: This first component is ‘the landing phase’, where you’ll have to beat back the relatively minor that inhabit this zone and secure a literal beachhead. You’ll be fighting on beaches and in the shallows for the most part. After 24 hours, you’ll face what I’ll just call ‘the beach boss’.

Enemy NPC Characters: None, but you and the troops will be confronted with a number of parademons and unmade zombies

Length of Scene: This Scene will last for 48 hours
Post Count/Size: 2 Posts max / 2000 words max
Other Stuff: Others MAY join this scene if they move along this path.

Good luck.

 

[King Shark]

He could see the sand vibrate with each step he took, which was unnerving. Sand and robotics didn’t mix. That was a known fact. He could practically feel the microcosm of particulate damage accumulating in his joints like mechanical arthritis… he suppressed a shudder, clambering through waist high water that sloshed about his core. Beneath the surface, the ripples and spectrum defying light effects of the sun on the sea warped and distorted his blue pedes - the colors mixed in such a way as to suggest that he might belong in the water as much as he did the sky.

Though, that just wasn’t true.

He turned his optics back up towards the horizon, scanning the beach.

It looked as if someone had burst a pen over an otherwise beautiful painting. Chunks of unmade terrain and their accompanying footmen marred what would otherwise be a picturesque beach, the kind of place you’d expect to see on a postcard with a smiling family in the foreground. Instead, it was a strange combination of sun, trained lines of Unmade pitdemons, khaki colored sand, and an overhanging mist that hung in a foggy mantle over the scene.

They approached in groups, each Bond separated by a hundred yards as the crow flies. They boasted individual squadrons who motored along in landing craft that looked like toys when scaled against the ‘mechs.

Skywarp led the Vanguard, a position of honor appointed by leaders who had confidence in their subordinates… or who had something to gain by offering the position. His troops were the closest to landfall, and ready to fall into a tight phalanx to support the Bond at their head, who struck an impressive figure in dark palette, Decepticon heraldry proudly displayed on each wing. He drove back the first wave as he approached the beach with loping, predatory steps; each servo peppered arm-mounted machine gun fire across the fleshy line of dilapidated Unmade zombie footmen at the closest point at the beach.

He drew attention first, and was swarmed by parademons.

Behind him, but angled off towards the center, was Don Isaac in his grandiose ‘mech of unorthodox design. It didn’t look the way a Cybertronian might, though it functioned on similar principles. It didn’t look crude, either, Thundercracker had to admit. He cut a striking portrait, moving in that silver machine, who dazzled even in the absence of crimson paint.

On limber cabling, the Red Baron swept towards Skywarp’s position, leaping out of the water and shaving clean through a trio of parademons who’d been harassing Skywarp. A flaming bottle arced away the silver behemoth, erupting over another parademon nearby.

Skywarp paused, turning gratefully towards the noblemen. ‘Cracker was too far away to hear their exchange, but thinking about it made his oil run cold. More gushing pageantry, he was sure, and a beautiful blossoming relationship stained black by Warp’s falsehoods.

Don Isaac’s squadron fanned out in a crescent, supporting the phalanx of Skywarp’s own troops with a thin, aggressive line.

It was a tactic tried and true, pulled from the mind of Isaac and passed along the battlefield. Skywarp’s troops, the centerpiece, boasted heavy mortars on the decks of their carriers, which would allow them to punch a hole in the enemy’s flank. Isaac’s troops, the support line, would clean up the encroaching lines with heavy machine gun fire while the mortars did their work.

The Bonds themselves would act as a shieldwall, tanking their way through the bulk of the enemy, and defending the troops behind them with raw melee prowess.

Thundercracker, granted no position of honor, was on cleanup duty. He’d sweep behind them, his troops a horizontal line like a streetsweeper, and eliminate any lingering Unmade behind his companions to ensure no surprise attacks from survivors might curtain their storm of the beachhead.

Thundercracker sighed, gunned down a parademon that struggled up to its feet in the water, its claws jamming in the black snakes of its intestines, then stepped forward and crushed the beast under a heavy stomp.

Clambering ahead, he stayed in the center of the line of landing craft.

“Keep a sharp eye,” commanded Thundercracker, watching the beach with sharp, red optics. “If they falter, we’ll have to step in to clean up the mess. It might seem like we’re relegated to the back because we’re, uh… not respected, or whatever. But we’re actually positioned to… save the day. You know? If things go south, they’ll need us to step in and save them.”

Up ahead he saw Isaac cleave through a particularly nasty looking throng of shamblemen, the whirring propeller blade at the end of his servo cleaving through multiple Unmade per rotation, which prompted Skywarp to throw back his head in laughter.

“Trust me. Somebody needs to save them. It’s like Saving Private Ryan, really. Where they’re Private Ryan. And we’re Tom Hanks and a bunch of other commonly recognized supporting actors, who’ve gotta sweep in to save them. You know that guy that played the sniper? He’s in like, everything. I even noticed him playing a side character in that remake of True Grit, where he rides up in a posse of…”

While he rambled, he shot down Unmade stragglers who’d survived the initial assault, and droned on and on for the groundlings; for their part, they endured him, and he began to feel closer to them as a result.

 

[Don Isaac]

With fine liquor in his veins and a fresh pep in his step, Isaac's blade carved through a boneless behemoth, the shambling mass of tentacles banished back to the dark waters as a burst of his machine gun spilled even more black blood into the morass.

"Onwards," he howled, voice distorted and amplified by the radio system bolted onto his chassis, mechanical feet crushing mangrove roots beneath his feet. Behind him, groundlings clad in dark armour followed in his wake, wading through the shallows as they snapped off shots, lancing beams of energy scorching whatever deranged mutants the shores vomited forth.

"Onwards, to glory!" He called out again, the waters staining his steel legs slowly starting to abate as he made another purely mechanical chop through a gibbering mass of teeth and tendrils. There was no grace to this conflict- simply raw brutality pitted against a noble strength. He thrust forwards with his off-hand, the spinning blades mounted to his forearm shearing through what was left of its integrity as it fell back into the murk.

Around him, men fought, and men died. Tentacular abominations slithered their way out from underneath the morass of dead mangrove trees, twisted tangles of roots seemingly containing no end of abominations clutching rusted rifles. Bullets clattered against his armoured cockpit, slamming into the steel next to his skull as he sneered beneath his helmet. It was bad enough to be trudging through the mud, brought to the same level as these beasts- but to have them think that they could spill his noble blood into the same foul bog that spawned them?

It wasn't long before a burning bottle was lobbed from his cockpit, countless toothy maws screeching in agony as the tree that sheltered them turned into a pyroclastic prison, black wings of fouler creatures scything through the smoke.

Ah, lovely, Isaac mused, rearing back as his machine gun chattered upon his shoulder, sending one of the sleek figures crashing into the murk, impaled on a twisting root rising up through the shallows. Just like skeet shooting.

More of the flight descended, bony claws and black wings falling upon the soldiers moving in his wake, shadowy forms punched through by beams of light that scorched his retinas, even from this distance. He couldn't help- not now. His blade was as long as a man was tall, and strafing an infantry formation with machine-gun fire was… well, not ideal, he had to admit.

"Fight on!" He screamed, trudging forth through the mud. They'd have to free themselves from their entanglement- there were more troopers fighting to reach solid earth all across this coastline, led by men and 'mech alike. The tangled morass of mangroves made a mockery of ordered battlelines- it was only will and strength that mattered here, rather than any tactics. But it was still necessary- he'd recognized the tangled treeline of mangroves that grew along the beachhead for what they were. Countless beasts could be lurking within its depths, simply waiting to launch a flanking attack and fall upon them at their most vulnerable. Let Lady Watari and her eagerness carry the day on the front- he was certain of his own self-control and his strength. The funeral pyres he made of the mangroves would serve to announce his victory to those not so fortunate as to glimpse it with their own eyes.

Ahead of him, a mass of rotting bodies shambled through the bog, great reptilian creatures adorned with bone talismans herding the decrepit horde. Ah, the Ambush, he grinned, silently praising his insight for pre-empting this assault. He squared the shoulders of his great machine as he trudged through the swamp- on foot, he was hardly graceful, but he was no less unstoppable as the gator-folk snarled at his approach, manoeuvring out of his path as they readied their skull-tipped staffs, eyes blazing with dark fire.

The unliving horde was not so fortunate. Bodies burst like balloons of blood, pus, and foul effluent underneath his mass as he ran, trying, and failing, to outrun the stench. He leashed out with both arms, pulping bodies with fist, foot, buckler and blade as a steady tide of brass cascaded down his chassis, rounds chewing through bloated bodies. They still ambled on, ignorant of the machine in their midst as they followed the commands of their masters.

Said masters, sadly, lacked the legs of the Red Baron, scaled limbs struggling to cover the distance as gurgling gator-chants sent baleful flames arcing through the air, setting mangroves alight with sickly green fire, and giving a few unfortunate corpses a long-overdue funeral pyre. Of course, several pyroclastic projectiles burst against his chassis, the unearthly blaze scorching the metal black as it raged in fury, striving to find flesh to burn and faltering.

Still, it would hardly be proper to burn alive. Isaac's 'mech lurched into a roll, pulping more corpses beneath his weight as he somersaulted through the brackish water, crashing through unerringly sharp roots, splintering them beneath his armoured weight. He sprang to his feet, nimbly leaping through a break in the forest, skidding to a halt in the sand as he turned, raking the undead morass and their monstrous masters with machine gun fire- only to find his efforts joined by another 'mech at his side.

"Ah, Mister Racker," Isaac said as the pair of them turned the foiled ambush into a shooting gallery. "A pleasure seeing you enjoying yourself," the don said, savouring the sight as a hulking, crocodilian monstrosity's torso was hollowed out by his companion's laser.

"You're flirting with disaster here, man," the other 'mech said, some twist of his mechanisms causing the mechanical face atop his shoulders to express- what? Exasperation? Dread? Annoyance? "You really ought to step away from Skylar before you get hurt."

Isaac laughed in response, stepping forth and cleaving through a massive gator-beast's skull with a two-handed blow from his sabre. "Of course I'm courting calamity, my friend," he said, only laughing louder as he kicked the creature's corpse back into the bog, crushing the shambling dead beneath its bulk.

"What's the point of living, if you choose to be terrified of the world! I'll be long dead and remembered in song before I have cause to complain about my back- and if that end comes because of a beautiful woman, then I daresay the poets will owe me a favour for giving them such inspiration."

 

[Arthur Morgan]

The beach was wreathed in a shroud of fog, dark and thick. It billowed up from the shoreline in sinister tendrils, like a roiling specter. Through that dense curtain marched an army of the undead, zombified footmen and faceless horrors emerging from the swirling miasma.

They came in droves, stumbling down the sanded dunes and into the waves in an inexorable march. A pall of death clung to their wretched forms, sunken eyes staring blankly outward, like the windows of a house with nobody home. Tattered clothing hung from their shriveled, gaunt limbs, shuttering with each step as bullets carved through the dried husks of their bodies.

But to be completely honest— Skywarp wasn't really paying attention to any of that. Instead, his attention had been ensnared by a scene further down the beach, tucked away behind a strand of gnarled mangroves. It was Thundercracker and Don Isaac De Metralla, talking, without Skywarp there to act as a funny, devastatingly handsome buffer.

Pulverizing a creature with far too many teeth and sucker-lined tentacles beneath his pede with a meaty squelch, Skywarp racked his processor for what they could possibly be saying to one another. Even partly hidden behind a strand of half-submerged trees, it was plain to see that Thundercracker's face-plates appeared oddly serious, whilst Isaac's own were indiscernible from within the cockpit of his lumbering mech.

It stirred up a certain dread within the violet seeker’s spark. Would Thundercracker let Isaac in on the truth about Skywarp's true identity? Would he try to scare him off? Would he relate some embarrassing story, like the time they all got overcharged and Skywarp flew nosecone-first into the ground?

Without a second thought, Skywarp opened a comm-line to TC.

SW: what are you 2 talkin abt???? [>GLYPH :uncertainty-intrigue:]

Across the battlefield, Thundercracker's wings twitched in annoyance. A devastating hail of bullets fired from his arm-mounted machine guns, the encroaching monstrosities buckling under the intense blaze.

TC: That's none of your business. Also, kind of busy right now!

SW: ok well WHATEVER i didnt want to know anyway
SW: also can you ask isaac somethin for me

TC: Warp...

SW: its real simple i promise
SW: just ask him about how long his bloodline tends to live on average and any genetic conditions he might have

TC: Wh...

Thundercracker looked up from mowing down a row of Unmade soldiers clad in ragged, bloodstained regalia, his weaponry rattling madly. Even still, his optics blazed bright with indignation, piercing through the fog of destruction to connect with Skywarp's own.

TC: Warp. He is NOT a slagging purebred poodle!
TC: Now pay attention to the battle! And DON'T step on anyone who doesn't deserve it.

And with that, he forcibly severed their connection.

Skywarp pouted. Spoil-sport.

Clenching his dentae, Skywarp cast his gaze back to the shallow waters as he slowly sloshed through the warm, churning sand. His optics glowed with fury at any loathsome beast that had the audacity to impede his storming of the beach, either blasting them with a surge from his cannons or crushing them beneath his heavy steel pedes.

As he trudged forward through the salty marsh, fighting against the thick mire that clung to his every move, a series of nearby gunshots drew his attention. Turning his helm, Skywarp spotted a small flat-bottomed skiff bobbing in the shallows. Five humans clad in green Kevlar vests shoved it forward, their grime-covered uniforms adorned with an unfamiliar emblem— S.T.A.R.S. —right between their shoulder blades.

At the boat's prow, a blonde-headed woman with dark eyes rained down gunfire upon any Unmade that dared challenge their course. Her voice cracked like a whip as she barked orders at her comrades, her laser-rifle spitting fire into the churning waters around them, sweat and saltwater streaking her brow in glistening strokes.

A vague recognition stirred in Skywarp as he recalled this particular unit advancing with him for some time now; whereas many other soldiers had fallen and tumbled beneath the waves in a riot of blood-stained foam, these five had persisted, struggling to remain within his shadow every step of the way.

Abruptly, Skywarp's processor blazed with a sudden and terrible brilliance. A sinister smirk crept across his face-plates; an unsettling sight for those who knew him well, and downright terrifying for those who didn’t.

With one swift swoop, he scooped up the fair-haired woman from the bow of the boat as if she weighed no more than a feather. Her shrill shriek drowned out the surprised cries of her soldiers, who hastily scrambled to make their weapons ready for either firing upon Warp or the onrushing Unmade horde.

Crouching beside their boat with a huff, Skywarp shot them a withering look. His massive metal wings hung low, shielding them from an incoming barrage of frenzied gunfire like a lioness guarding her cubs.

Iron-hard talons curling up into a more secure position, he delicately cupped the woman between his servos, gaze shifting back to her. “Hey so— stop screaming, please —I need your help. What's your name, squish?"

The woman stared up into the Cybertronian's burning crimson optics, her brown eyes blown wide with the shock of her predicament, chest heaving in great shuddering bursts. Fear left her trembling; her lips opened and closed but no sound came out.

Finally, however, she managed to speak. "It's... Captain Spears."

"Right," declared Skywarp, optics glittering. "Here's the deal, Captain Spears. You guys wanna get up to that beach, right? Me too. How's about I go ahead and transport you and yours up there, then come back for the rest of ya?"

Captain Spears swiveled her head, her blonde tresses blowing in the salty breeze. Her sharp eyes followed Warp's gaze to the beach. A few monstrous rocks lay amidst the shallow waters leading up to the shoreline, creating a small and hidden refuge; a secluded bay, a shelter where they could set up camp for the foreseeable future. In other words, it was the perfect foothold.

Jaw clenching with determination, the captain faced Skywarp and gave a stern nod. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"Fan-fraggin'-tastic," Warp chirped, and then promptly hoisted the woman onto his shoulder like a prized parakeet.

Not expecting this motion, Spears flailed as she fought to steady herself on the broad expanse of metal, the jet-black plating slick with sea spray and Unmade guts. Gasping sharply, she clasped one of the turbines embedded into the seeker's shoulder, gaining a much-needed foothold.

Recovering her wits, the captain's body tensed, her reflexes flicking on like a light bulb as she whirled around. She felt high-speed winds rip past her face, the acrid stench of sulfur assaulting her senses as a parademon descended from above. But by then her rifle was already in position— aiming straight for its heart even as the vile creature's razor sharp claws made to rend her flesh.

The force of the shot jolted through her bones as she unleashed a flurry of laser-fire. Brilliantly burning trails of energy cut through the darkness like white-hot blades, striking their target with an almost surgical precision. Shrieking as a spasm of electric agony cleaved across its torso, the creature dropped from sight.

Still crouched in the shallows and largely ignorant of her plight, Skywarp's claws dug into the edges of her unit's skiff. His wings lifted and went taut with a mechanical whirring sound, poised to launch them into the broiling skies above.

"Hold onto your fasteners, fleshlings," he warned with a fanged grin, violet energy sizzling across his plating. "It's gonna be a bumpy ride!"

Wordcount: 1,262/2,000

 

[Karl Jak]

Update:

You are confronted by your boss, a Size 3 Sand Golem.

Everyone here has the opportunity to post over the next day combating this creature.

 

[Don Isaac]

Further along the beach, the sands that stood sentinel between the shoreline and soil roiled- dunes flowing like waves as they crashed together, countless individual grains piling atop each other as they reached for the distant heavens. "Bother," Isaac grumbled, pulling himself away from the almost-pleasant shooting gallery he shared with Racker.

"How the hell do you shoot sand?" The 'mech next to him grumbled, pointing a wrist-mounted cannon towards the amorphous creature as it slid across the beach, a false hand extending towards an unfortunate squad of soldiers as a blistering sandstorm raked across them, stripping flesh from bone as men died screaming.

But that wasn't enough. Syntech had deep pockets, and no end of reserves. More figures took cover, the percussive impact of bullets striving to hold back the tide. "How indeed," Isaac quipped, striding forwards as the curved tip of his great blade ran through the sand at his side, leaving a furrow in his wake. Sand- there was, truth be told, little a blade or a bullet could do to a shapeless mass of particulates that even now swept across the land, arms outstretched as a toothless maw bayed for the desiccation of its foes.

Just how did one kill something that could not be killed? Isaac pondered that philosophical quandary as he let loose with his machine gun, punching holes clean through the formless foe, barely slowing the monster's mindless pursuit of another gaggle of soldiers in full retreat. Unfortunately, his efforts were not quite enough as it poured over them, strangling their screams as sand poured down their throats. Ah, a shame.

More important than those men was the monstrosity, its flow unceasing as it turned its attention towards Isaac. It was almost beautiful as it leapt and bounded over the beach, an expression of perfect, inhuman rage, a fury birthed from an era before man, and one that would last long after these jumped-up apes faded into memory.

It reminds me of home, Isaac silently considered as he slashed through a grasping arm, a shower of grit abrading the chassis of his 'mech as the whirring blades of his buckler warded off a strike striving to strangulate him.

The glittering dunes of the vitreous wastes, glassy waves forever rendered resplendent by the bombs that failed to erase glorious Santagria- he furrowed his brow in thought as he stepped backwards out of a hammer-like hand that descended from on high. Glass. Yes- this foe was invincible, but it wasn't unchangeable.

"Fire!" He shouted, pacing backwards, giving ground as he desperately tried to fend off the monster, slashing through boneless limbs with his sabre, the spinning blades of his buckler turning grasping hands into sprays of sentient sand. "Bring flame," he demanded, radios booming and crackling with static as his orders echoed across the battlefield.

Racker stood at his side not long after- a tank of napalm in one mechanical hand, and a hose in the other. Isaac did not have the time to inquire where he had pilfered the pyroclastic projectile weapon from- especially when the roar of burning flames drowned out all other sound.

The sand-thing screamed in pain, a sound like a broken hourglass emptying out an eternity. Burning, it lashed out at the two of them, great mauls of shifting sand slamming into their chassises, leaving globules of ill-formed glass as the reeking chemical flames ate away at its very being.

The Red Baron crashed to the sand, joined by the sprawling form of Racker. Dazed by the sudden impact, Isaac could only watch as the monstrosity flowed across the sands, making a desperate escape towards the waves, crushing another fireteam beneath its mass, heedless of the small-arms fire they directed into its shapeless form.

"Lady Watari," he rasped out, slowly struggling his way back to his feet, watching the golem disappear into the fog of war. "Incoming."

 

[Arthur Morgan]

"Look out!" Captain Spears barked, her shrill warning mingling with Don Isaac's shout of alarm.

Having just finished warping a third skiff full of soldiers onto the beach, Skywarp glanced up just in time to get clobbered across the face-plates by a colossal sandy fist. It struck him like a runaway train, sending his hulking metal body staggering backwards and tumbling into the lapping waves with a ferocious splash.

He rolled with the impact, twisting up into a crouch like a tiger poised to strike. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the behemoth of sand looming before him, crimson optics blazing bright with calculated rage.

Three angry gashes gouged their way across his face, snaking down from his nasal ridge to his lip-plates. Wincing, Skywarp reached up to gingerly swipe at an effusion of vibrant pink fluids dribbling across his mouth, flicking them away with a mechanical thumb.

"I've met dust bunnies that hit harder than that!" the seeker spat, dentae bared in a fierce, energon-spattered grin. "C'mon, give it another go, Sandman!"

The sand-creature hissed, a dry, guttural sound not unlike a desert wind rasping through a tomb. Its fluid body frothed and swirled with fury, unleashing its anger in a flurry of fists that shook the earth. Sand and debris whirled in its wake, billowing up into the air like a great, choking wave.

Skywarp swerved under the blows, wings sweeping wide as he leapt backwards to avoid another punch. His movements were slowed by the weight of the water dragging at his limbs like a leaden shackle, but he still managed to narrowly evade the strikes— swaying nimbly backwards, as if locked in the throes of a frenzied dance.

"Why are you antagonizing it?!" demanded Spears directly next to the seeker's audial, clinging onto his neck cabling like a limpet. She inched her rifle up, firing into the golem's face, the searing lance of laser-fire only succeeding in giving it a slight face-lift. "We need to kill it, not do— whatever you're doing!"

"I'm working on it," Skywarp sniped back, vanishing in an electrical flash of violet light. He reappeared dozens of yards away within the golem's sight-line, taunting it with a dazzling game of cat and mouse. "Gotta be quicker than that!"

*VWORP!*

"Can't catch me!"

*VWORP!*

"Are you even trying?!"

The sand-creature bellowed as it twisted and lurched across the foaming surf, desperate to catch its elusive prey. Not one to be outdone, Skywarp hissed right back— rattling his armored plating in a classic threat display.

Meanwhile, Captain Spears clung feverishly to his shoulder, looking a little green around the gills from their repeated teleportations. As the dripping-wet golem swung back its arm for an almighty swat of sand, Skywarp unfurled himself— capturing her within the protective embrace of his cockpit.

Sand crashed into him like a raging tsunami of granulated blades. An acrid sneer twisted Warp's face-plates as he felt tiny pieces of grit worming their way through the cracks in his armor, slithering along his wiring like thousands of sharpened, coarse snakes, blinding and stifling him in their wake.

From his cockpit, Captain Spears watched in horror as the sand's relentless assault cracked the yellow-tinted glass dome sheltering her from harm— a spiderweb of tiny fractures splintering across its surface.

Skywarp convulsed, wracked with a sensation unlike anything he'd ever felt. He was completely swathed in sand, systems infiltrated by choking dust as sparks ignited across his frame, hopelessly trying to cool down his internals.

A thunderous violet zap split the air, and in a blinding flash, Skywarp disappeared— rematerializing at the far edge of the battlefield, his body blanketed by the pungent smoke of the scorched mangroves.

Tremors shook the seeker's metal body, streaks of purple lightning dancing across his chassis. Scrubbing at his optics, he attempted to scan the infernal landscape around him, fighting against the blanket of sand and grit obscuring his vision and silencing his hearing. All around, flames from the burning trees roared ever higher, scattered cinders licking at his midnight-colored fuselage. Within his cockpit, Captain Spears felt rivers of sweat like fiery napalm pour down her face as she desperately clawed for freedom.

*VWORP!*

Skywarp flashed into existence, a death-defying apparition emerging just beyond the broiling inferno of the swamp, free of the golem's grasp at last. With wings splayed aloft, he pivoted to face his battle-weary brethren and gestured triumphantly at the gnarled, blazing mangroves lurking behind him, the sand golem left thrashing confusedly about in their midst.

"LIGHT 'EM UP!"

Wordcount: 2,026/2000 TOTAL

 

[Karl Jak]

Update:

You have taken the beach, and you have the option to enter the Zone. Once "inside", you'll have to win at least 3 out of the 5 subzones, which will unlock the Boss Zone.

I'll have some details in a little bit -- trying to figure out my work day right now.

 

[Karl Jak]

Subzone 1 – “The Sepulcher” – An important site of worship and veneration for the dead (so we imagine). The Sepulcher is host to a variety of maddened monsters, many of whom display telekinetic powers to numerous extents. The mini-boss here is the ‘The Priest’, a unmade religious figure who displays psionic powers at a scale beyond any of his minions. While he speaks mostly eldritch gibberish, his voice itself can inspire madness in those folly enough to not distance themselves.
Characters Involved: Skywarp (@Arthur Morgan)

Subzone 2 – “The Salt Flats” – This may have been royal gardens at some point, but all that remains is rotten, corrupted earth. The mini-boss here is referred to by your observation men as ‘The Spark’. A lithe, humanoid creature who wields a sword and the powers of lightning as it darts around the landscape.
Characters Involved: The Red Baron (@Don Isaac)

Subzone 3 – “The Academy” – One of the larger buildings within this chunk of city, the Academy likely served as a training institute, but all of its students and staff have long since been lost to the corruption. The mini-boss here, dubbed ‘The Diplomat’, is humanoid creature that thrives in the shadows. It makes its home in the dark and can kill from anywhere, at any time, lashing out with concealed daggers.
Characters Involved: Thundercracker (@King Shark)

Length of Scene: You each have 3 days to write
Post Count/Size: Your word count limit is 3500 words

 

[King Shark]

The Academy itself seemed to swallow sound. Electricity had long since abandoned the structure and left only darkness in its wake, which didn’t serve to brighten the spirits of Thundercracker or the soldiers in his company.

He’d begun with many men, lost some to death, and then parted with several more whose time and duty belonged to the security of the beach in the wake of the sand golem’s defeat. The men that remained had been split up into thirds: a third to TC, a third to Skywarp, and a third to Don Isaac. Something akin to a bastardized Team Captain system left Thundercracker with the dregs of the manlings - while Warp and Isaac had chosen their men based on merit, ferocity, and imposing demeanor, Thundercracker had made his choices based on a system of reverse meritocracy whereupon he scooped up the most pathetic of the lot like a woman adopting a horde of elderly dogs from the shelter to take home and care for in earnest.

So it was that the seeker led forth his apprehensive squadron of Infirm Dogs through the darkened halls of what had once been a place of learning. They hadn’t loved their new squadron moniker, but…’Cracker had insisted.

“It’s…really creepy in here,” murmured Dexter, a thin recruit who’d scraped through the initial conflict more by luck than anything else.

Dexter had a thin face, a pinched nose, beady black eyes obscured by thick bottle-bottom eyeglasses, and a shock of red hair that kept spilling out of his helmet when it slipped off of his skull. TC surmised that he may have plucked the helm from a dead man in the fury of the fray back on the beach.

“And gross,” TC agreed. “I mean…look at that.”

He pointed his ruby red optics at an upturned desk, beside which rested a writhing pile of rats.

“I think that’s a ‘rat-king’,” he informed his men matter-of-factly. “It’s where a giant group of rats just start really going to town on each other. I can’t remember if they fuse into one massive rat, or if they’re just like…a squirming pile of rat sex. It’s pretty fascinating, really. Maybe we should take a closer look.”

“I’d rather not,” a burly man to Dexter’s flank stated, covering his mouth. “That’s really gross.”

“It is, isn’t it?” ‘Cracker replied, stepping closer to the Unmade rat orgy. “It’s unnatural. It’s like when your best friend starts courting some pompous windbag, then takes a cheap shot at your dog, pretends nothing happened, and starts getting crunked up at the bar for a stupid dance pageant. It’s that kind of unnatural.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly-HRK!”

One of the men behind him shouted, then made a guttural noise.

“Well, actually, it is kind of HRK,” thought TC aloud, leaning forward towards the rats. He prodded the wad of rodents with a finger. They squirmed, extra wriggly. “It’s way HRK.”

“WAAAAUUUGH!” screamed a soldier behind him.

Several of the men were shouting, now, waving flashlights around.

“Yeah. ‘WAAAAUUUGH!’ is right. It’s like they don’t even respect me. They just play around with this stupid little facade of theirs. Warp knows just as well as I do that it’s-”

“HOLY SHIT! OH MY GOD!”

Two thuds, like sacks of meat hitting the ground.

“...I mean, yeah, but don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”

TC turned around slowly, optics blazing, then felt shock roll across his faceplates. Four of his men lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath them in a growing puddle, while the rest of the squadron frantically searched the darkness with rifle mounted flashlights.

“Wh…what happened!?”

“Sir, there’s something in the shadows! It’s picking us off with knives!”

A glint of silver burst from the end of the hall, emerging from darkness, heading straight for a point between Dexter’s eyes. Thundercracker whirred into action with a quick swipe of his hand that batted the blade away before his red headed underling had even gained the chance to blink. A cold sweat broke out on the man’s forehead, he shuddered visibly, mouth dropping open - then he didn’t move. Shock, maybe.

Thundercracker’s optics crawled over the bodies, and his faceplates morphed into a mask of regret chased with anger. He let out a moan, stooping towards one of the corpses, and picked up the crumpled soldier in a servo. The body drooped limply, seeping blood. He was still warm, but growing cool.

“Sir!” one of the men shouted.

A flash, then a ping as a blade bounced off of one of his pauldrons, ricocheting harmlessly to the floor at an angle. The velocity of the blade sent a shower of sparks through the air. The spotlight of the men’s rifles zeroed in on the cavernous hallway, long and dark, and managed to illuminate fifty or sixty feet of its depths, but no further. No target was visible.

“Moving up,” stated one of the men, gesturing curtly.

The other soldiers, save Dexter, padded silently behind him in formation.

Dexter stood, quivering, mouth agape. His hand had gone to his forehead. Fearing the worst, Thundercracker reached forward and cupped the man in his large robotic servo - something about this place had diminished him in stature, some sort of dark magic, he suspected, but he was still large enough to pick up the scrawny soldier. His cockpit opened with a hiss, and he crammed the shocked man inside, then resealed it.

“Not on my watch,” TC murmured.

He stood up to his fullest height, head nearly scraping the vaulted ceiling, and began to march forward behind the men.

“Fall back!” he yelled, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

He did not want to lose anymore men.

And yet, another body dropped, a knife blossoming from the back of his neck with a spume of dark blood. ‘Cracker lurched forward into a run, yelling something indiscernible, just as another of the soldiers fell.

Something was picking them off from the shadows…something silent, but deadly.

Word Count: 1023/3500

 

[Don Isaac]

Isaac's steel stride carried him across the salt flats, cracked earth covered with a rime of crystal that shattered with each step, spiderwebs spreading between each impact crater left in his wake. While the brutality of these frontal assaults necessitated his presence on the ground, he had to admit that taking to the fore in this warmachine was no penance. Power thrummed through piston-driven limbs, the weight of a sword palpable through what little haptic feedback the taut cables wrapped around his hands offered.

He was more than a man to the soldiers that followed in his wake. He was an avatar, and so he had dubbed this merry band his Crusade. A holy expedition into the depths of this cursed land, to reclaim what was lost to the Unmaking's corruption.

His legs shifting within the cocoon of cabling that wrapped around his limbs, Isaac pressed on, flexing the bare steel fingers of his mechanical hand around the oversized blade as another hand raised itself to his mortal brow, eyes squinting beneath the heat of an unrelenting sun. It had been what felt like an age since the battle to secure a beachhead, and every step since then was taken beneath the merciless light of a burning sun.

He cast his gaze to the side, great ruins offering no shade as scorched stone sat dilapidated, the vegetation that had once overgrown their vibrantly painted masonry now dead and brown. What marvels they must have been, in a past age! He could have spent weeks touring this architecture, in happier times, attempting to immortalise this all-too temporary marvel with the aid of pen and paper.

"Sir?" Asked one of the soldiers following behind him, sweating beneath the sun's cruel light as they shouldered a rifle, a beeping, bright green screen held in his off-hand.

Ah, yes. He had taken the time to familiarise himself with the team of men who had descended with him into these ruins, staking their lives for a chance at glory and gold alike.

"Sarjeant Gregory," Isaac called out, adjusting his stride slightly to allow the groundling to catch up to him. "What news?"

Sergeant Jeffery silently bit his tongue. Nonetheless, he carried on. "Commandant, we have no contacts," he said, war-weary eyes scanning the horizon.

This good news brought Isaac to a sudden halt, turning his mechanical frame to face the officer.

"No contacts?" The Don queried, surveying the massive ruins that dotted the desiccated plains. "That can't be right," he mused, raising a piston-driven hand to gently stroke against the underside of his helmet. "It's hardly fitting to abandon the field before giving battle," the Don posed.

"Right, Sir," Jeffery said, going through the familiar motions of guiding a superior officer through the reasoning that the enlisted men had figured out several minutes prior. "Even if they weren't here, we'd be seeing scavengers- some stragglers left behind the main force," he frowned, tightening his grip around his rifle. "This is all the birds going silent while the wolves close in," he affirmed.

Isaac was in the middle of opening his mouth to request a clarification, given that every forest within his demesne had been reduced to blackened spears, when a throwing knife laden with rune-scrawled paper thudded into the shoulder of his chassis, and promptly detonated.

Reeling backwards through a cloud of ink-black smoke, the carefully disciplined line of the advance was assaulted on all sides. Black-shrouded figures apparated atop trundling personnel carriers, pressing their palms together as they shattered their unliving fingers, twisting their digits into a rapid succession of arcane glyphs. Reactionary bursts of fire carved through their funerary shrouds, clouds of dust blooming through the far side of their rib cages- to little avail.

The Infantry Fighting Vehicles went up in clouds of black smoke and purple, coruscating arcs of lightning, barring the scant few who had gunners attentive enough to turn larger calibre weapons upon their attackers.

"Look outwards," Isaac barked, whipping around and letting loose a salvo of depleted uranium into the salt flats, sending up clouds of sodium- the glittering mist of broken crystals settling on the rapidly encroaching forms of more undead assassins. Each one sprinted across the parched earth, bent at a ninety-degree angle, arms outstretched behind them, desiccated hands clutching an assortment of esoteric blades.

The Don scowled as he stepped forwards, marching to meet the impending assault, scything down a mummified minion in a hail of bullets as he set his sights on the next. "Geoffrey!" He cried out, his buckler spinning up to speed as he raised it to deflect another thrown knife, sending it careening a dozen paces to the side where it detonated in a plume of dead earth.

"Sir," Jeffery calmly replied, slowly pacing back to the flaming wrecks of the IFVs, burning bodies still crawling from the remains as they screamed in agony towards the hungry sun hanging far overhead. That baleful star was gluttonous, shining all the brighter as it drank in the burnt offerings the Unmade set alight.

"Stagnation is death, dear Sarjeant," Isaac advised, flinging a bottle onto the dead earth as a pool of pyromaniacal excess ignited, denying a swathe of lifeless soil to the enemy as he started to back pedal. "Forget the convoy- they've planned for this," he reasoned, lashing out with his sabre and bisecting a sprinting assassin, scroll-scraps falling to the ground and blasting what remained of its mortal form to shreds.

"Into the ruins then, Sir?" The Sargent asked, his own rifle barking death into the onrushing horde of unmade.

"Quite," Isaac agreed, smoking shells cascading down his chassis in a waterfall of brass as he thinned the ranks of mummified monstrosities. "I'll hold them here- take cover and establish a good firing position. There's nothing here that can trouble me," the Don assessed, whipping his buckler to the side to turn a leaping assassin into a fine mist of dead flesh.

"About that, sir," the NCO risked- contradiction was hardly standard operating procedure for handling superior officers. "There's an energy signature on the scanner- something should be inbound in a- uh, now."

And just like that, lightning struck.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Weaponry bristling and at the ready, Skywarp and the five remaining members of S.T.A.R.S. peered at the rectangular opening they'd found in the ground— an inky black maw that silently beckoned them down into its depths. It had a hunger about it, devouring even the faintest of glimmers of sunlight with a profane glee and daring them to step closer.

All around them the crumbling ruins of a colossal wreck loomed, a sepulchral monument eroded by the hot, dry desert wind. A staircase, carved from stone, spanned out in a great spiral in front of them— winding downwards into the crypt that stretched far beneath their feet, thin rivers of disturbed sand spilling into the darkness.

"Urgh," Skywarp groaned, wings drooping low in resignation. "I hate underground missions."

Step by step, they trudged down the stairwell. Cobwebs hung in ancient, ragged tapestries upon the crumbling stone walls, stirred by a cold draft from below. The soldiers hastily switched on their night vision equipment, filling the darkness with an electric whir, supplementing the crimson-hued glare cast by Skywarp's optics.

The warm embrace of the desert gradually loosened its grip as they ventured further beneath the surface, a bone-deep chill settling in. Though it brought a welcome reprieve from the merciless sun beating down on them, it was far from a pleasant experience; a sense of unease filled their hearts and minds like a fog, bringing with it the sensation of being sealed inside some long-forgotten mausoleum.

With every step downwards, Skywarp's wings hitched higher and higher as his restlessness grew. He stalked like a jungle cat, each step light and precise, as if anticipating the ground to crumble away under his pedes at any moment.

"This place gives me the creeps," he muttered softly, helm swiveling this way and that, scanning the area ahead of them. "It's all... cold, and stuff."

One of the accompanying soldiers— a man named Freddy, of all things —snorted softly as he carefully paced down into the gloom of the stairwell, pistol drawn and keen eyes glittering in the dark. The drooping caterpillar mustache adorning his lips curved upwards into a knowing smirk. "I thought machines liked the cold."

Skywarp rolled his optics and shot him a sideways glare. "Yeah, well, duh. But I'm talking about that bottomless, spark-chilling kinda cold— y'know what I mean? Spooky cold."

"Yeah... I know what you mean," whispered another soldier, the words trembling faintly as they passed her lips. Tessa, if Skywarp recalled correctly. "It feels like someone's just walked over my grave..."

"Quiet," Captain Spears hissed suddenly, her tone firm and unyielding as they cautiously weaved around a new curve in the winding stairwell. "I can see a light up ahead."

They crept down the remaining steps in silence. When they finally reached the bottom they spotted countless rows of flickering candles dimly illuminating the gloom of a decrepit hallway. Shattered stone tiles and crumbled masonry lay strewn across the floor, while towering pillars rose towards a distant ceiling. Tomes and manuscripts filled the alcoves and recesses that lined the passage's walls, and looming at its end stood a door, cloaked in darkness.

Much like a winding catacomb, the corridor was strewn with the ashen shells of pale devotees entombed in worship. They lay hunched in the shadows, the desperate contortions of their brittle bones sealed inside pale sacks of mummified flesh, strung together by sinuous ropes of vile, crimson-streaked ichor.

The fire team slunk cautiously down the murky hallway, wan flickers of candlelight reflecting off the cold steel of their guns as they inched towards the door at the far end. Each step squelched wetly underfoot as the stone flooring gave way to thick slime, rendering stealth impossible. Yet even as Skywarp's mechanical bulk trudged past, the huddled figures remained still and bowed in their silent reverie, seemingly oblivious to their presence— or perhaps aware, but too rapt in worship to act.

Warp's steely gaze narrowed as he surveyed the literal fleshbags with palpable disgust. The steady reverberations of his arm-mounted machine guns hummed in the air, seething with a suppressed heat and poised to unleash a stream of destruction at any moment.

"What's their deal?" the Decepticon growled, words steeped in malice. "Why aren't they attacking?"

Captain Spears shuddered, giving the heaps of mangled corpses shrouded in sallow, tattered flesh an even wider berth than before. The stench billowing around them was horrid, and offered a vision of suffering so great that it made sour bile rise up in her throat. "Let's not find out. Steer clear."

Freddy huffed derisively even whilst the acrid odor smarted his eyes. "Aw, they ain't doing nothin'. We sure these things are even alive?" he drawled with a marked effort to remain unphased as he strode towards the cowering creatures with his rifle angled low, morbidly eager to test his curiosity. He jabbed at one of the fell things with the butt of his gun, cocksure mirth tugging at his lips as it quivered and recoiled from the contact. "See? Completely harmless—"

Crrrck. Whatever misbegotten creature that dwelt within the taut membrane lifted its head with a gruesome crunch of twisted vertebrae, each millimeter an eternity as its faceless visage angled to meet Freddy's own. No features adorned the warped expanse of skin stretched over its face, and yet still an unshakable terror ran deep and palpable through the offending soldier’s veins; even without eyes it stared straight into Freddy’s very soul.

"Oh," whispered Freddy, his normally swarthy olive skin draining of color. A sliver of fear punctuated his wavering voice. "Uh, sorry—?"

Suddenly Freddy was flung backwards by an invisible force, unable to finish his apology before he was sent tumbling through the air. He landed hard against the stony ground, his rifle skidding just out of reach. Paralyzed in shock, Freddy feebly reached out a hand to ward off whatever had just happened— only for a heap of rocks to crash down upon him from above, crushing him beneath their weight with a sickening, wet sqrrrnch.

Dust rained down like snow from the ceiling in the aftermath, the motes dancing in the dim candlelight. A pool of crimson blood flooded the jagged stone floor, seeping from beneath the rocks; creeping outward like the grasping tendrils of a nightmare.

"Whoa," Skywarp remarked in genuine surprise, whistling low under his breath. His optics cycled with a mechanized whir as he stared at Freddy’s unfortunate fate. "Tough break for that guy..."

A deep rumbling followed his words, coming from somewhere high above before the candles flickered and blew out with the brush of a ghostly wind, snuffed out one by one, as if an invisible hand extinguished them. The trembles grew louder until the ceiling gave away with a terrible force, buckling and splitting apart. Large jagged rocks and minute debris alike rained down on the group, threatening to smash them under the rubble’s merciless weight not unlike their hapless squadmate.

"Run!" cried Captain Spears, and yeah, that sounded like a pretty good plan.

Wordcount: 1172/3500

 

[Don Isaac]

An eye-searing burst of light blinded Isaac, the roaring boom of thunder deafening him- the only sensations left to him were the tang of ozone on his tongue, and the feeling of falling.

When his senses returned to him, he was on his back, his ears ringing as he blinked away the agonised iridescent afterglow that still burned in his irises- revealing the harrowed figure standing atop his chassis. A porcelain death-mask clung to its face, a shock of ashen black hair held back by a steel-plated head-band, whatever spiralling sigil originally adorned it replaced by an eye-searing algebraic assembly.

More pertinent, however, was the slightly curved blade the Unmade champion held in both hands, preparing to plunge it downwards into the Nobleman's throat.

Isaac's practised hand moved faster than thought- ripping its way free of the control armatures, his heavy pistol already in his hand as the barrel barked a retort towards his attempted assassin, the lead careening towards that pale, perfect, passive face.

The masked swordsman moved, abandoning their killing blow as they leapt backwards, the shell blazing through the empty air they once occupied. The Don struggled within the control mechanisms of his suit, instinctively lashing out with his buckler to meet the blurring, black blade that came for his mortal throat. It bounced off the whirring propeller, carving a deep, dusty furrow through the earth as the Commandant made his way to his knees, teeth gritted as he kept pulling the trigger.

He needn't have bothered- every high-calibre round scythed through the air as the man danced around his aim, his sword held low, not deigning to raise it to match Isaac's own, still limp inside a fixed mechanical grip. Damn this thing, Isaac scowled beneath his helmet as he lurched forwards, careening in a desperate lunge towards the swordmaster in an avalanche of several tonnes of steel.

He's hardly expected it to work, the anonymous assassin simply stepping to the side, that black blade lashing out and carving a furrow through his armour plating, sharper than any mortal weapon as a spray of sparks accompanied the almost lazy cut. He swiftly relegated whatever damage had been done to the mechanisms beneath the armour plating as a problem for maintenance technicians or, failing that luxury, the Isaac of tomorrow- for now, what mattered were the few seconds his headlong charge bought him, his gauntlet sliding back into the nest of cabling that mimicked his motions through the 'mech.

With his sword-arm live again, he resumed his offensive, delivering an overhead chop as he stepped inwards, back straight as a traditional fencing form permeated through his chassis. It cleaved naught but air, but that was expected- his foe moved like a black blur, the blades of his buckler only barely knocking aside another strike, forcing Isaac to step backwards as that cursed sword seamlessly swung again.

The world faded around him- the shouts of his soldiers around him, the din of battle as undead assassins dodged around lethal trajectories, more classical combatants issuing battlecries in challenge as they stepped forth, swords in hand. He'd chosen men who could handle themselves- those with as keen a hunger for glory as his own, balanced by Geoffery and his cadre's measured brutality.

It was a pristine form- hardly one of the classical duelling stances that Isaac had learned, but it was effective nonetheless, and decidedly beautiful. The murderer moved like a biting river of oil, flowing from one form to another as his blade lashed out again and again, the nobleman desperately parrying as he traded ground for time against that midnight-black sword.

He twisted his blade, trying his best to wrench the slender sabre from his opponent's grasp- against any mortal warrior, the sudden hiss of those pistons would have shattered that slender wrist and sent the sword tumbling to the dead earth below. Instead, the black bastard flowed around his blade, its baleful edge carving into the wings folded against his body. He could feel the coldness of that edge, even through the thick panelling that kept his form safe.

Bastard, Isaac cursed, gritting his teeth as he lashed out, impassioned- a steel fist shattered the porcelain mask and sent the assassin stumbling backwards, shards and black tar falling from their face as a dessicated hand clasped itself to that suddenly struck visage. A triumphant laugh came from the Don's lips- only for an inhuman shriek to pierce his ears, the swordsman's rotten face revealed, black lightning arcing between tombstone teeth. Beneath that now-absent pristine mask, the swordsman's flesh was foul, stagnant blood running from the shards buried in his ruined face, even further disfigured by the inhuman rage of an alien god burning through his features.

And now, he struck. With the mask shattered, all pretence went with it. Cursed lightning coursing through undying limbs, the unmade assassin hurled himself forwards, an ululating wail leaving swollen lips as the grounding rod of a blade crashed against the chassis of the 'mech, sending coruscating waves of corrupted power arcing across Isaac's frame.

He could smell cooking meat. He chose to ignore the reminder that he hadn't enjoyed roast boar for several weeks, and, perhaps more pertinent to this situation, the searing pain arcing up his limbs.

"That's how it is, then, is it?!" Isaac howled, sweeping his sabre downwards as the creature leapt over the blade, already ducking beneath the salvo of uranium-tipped shells that he spat from his machine gun. His face was a tight web of pain and righteous fury, crackling arcs of dark electricity still burning against his personal crimson plate armour.

How dare this beast, Isaac snarled, lashing out with his buckler in a precise punch, a perfectly executed jab that sent those whirring blades scything into the creature's side, a splatter of rotting blood irrigating the dead earth beneath them as he chased the nimbus of corrupt energy. There was more power within it than its body could contain- crackling energy arcing to his chassis, pipes and cabling screaming in indignation, matching Isaac's own fury at this assault.

Somewhere out there, his men were fighting and dying- but here and now, he was going to re-kill this undead, ground-bound upstart.

2083/3,500 words.

 

[King Shark]

He was struck, not for the first time, by the oddity of monster warfare. Countless decades of more traditional robot on robot combat had left him used to a certain type of tactic. Sure, things weren’t always straightforward, there were maneuvers, feints, deceptions, ebbs, and flows to an Autobot on Decepticon struggle; but there was predictability to that kind of fight. Some Cybertronians would fly, some would remain on the ground, and almost always the fight would conclude in a grueling slug-fest. Blow for blow, shot for shot, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d watched Optimus Prime and Megatron go toe to toe in a raw endurance contest. When the motors started churning, most fights transformed into a battle of wills.

These Unmade skirmishes? Not the same. The Air Elemental - that had all been one prolonged tactic, a sort of cat-and-mouse game that had resulted in him throwing his cards on the table, all in, ready to do or die to end the fight.

And now?

“How can I fight something I can’t even see?” pondered Racker aloud.

He traipsed down the hallway with his men at his back, flashing his optics here and there. The entire width of the hall wasn’t even that impressive, though, its height and length were admittedly intimidating. Every once in a while a knife would shoot from the inky depths, and he’d have to swat it out of the air to prevent a casualty. Three more times he’d failed, and the cost had been steep. The men left in his wake wouldn’t return home.

“I can’t see my anxiety,” quavered the voice of Dexter from his cockpit. “...though, to be honest, I don’t do a very good job fighting it, either.”

“I don’t know if this is a good time to talk about your anxiety,” whispered Thundercracker, bemused. “We’re in a tight spot, you know.”

“It’s never a good time to talk about my anxiety,” moaned Dexter, shrinking back into the pilot’s seat in TC’s cockpit. “Anxiety isn’t a prized quality in a frontline soldier.”

“You know what is, though?”

“...what?” asked Dexter, cautiously curious.

“Stealth. The way you stayed quiet in my cockpit in this mission will be the talk of the squadron!” urged ‘Cracker.

“Yeah!” stated one of the men from behind him, the burly fellow from earlier. “I’ll buy you a drink, Dex!”

His voice echoed down the chamber, bouncing off the walls. Thundercracker halted, cringing visibly, and plunged a hand forth to snatch another dagger from the air. Its trajectory was perfect, nearly silent save a hiss of air, but his optics were honed, ready to zero in. It had been directed at the skull of the burly fellow. Almost another casualty among the Infirm Dogs - Thundercracker let out a breath of exhaust in relief, questioning his ability to choose soldiers, but bolstered in his resolve to protect them to a man.

“Boy, that was close!” the ID recruit announced, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. He flicked sweat to the ground, which splattered audibly. “I saw my life flash before my eyes! It reminds me of this thing my Grandma used to say-”

“I don’t think this is a very good time to hear about your Grandmother,” cautioned TC, staring apprehensively ahead into the darkness.

“It’s never a good time to talk about my Grandmother,” complained the man, a frown forming a bow on his jawline. “She was a good woman, you know. Loose with her morals, and with her libido, but prolific with her sexual liberty. She told me about this one time when she’d stripped bare in the streets of Arcadia and prostrated herself overtop a piece of street art-”

“Not. NOW!” commanded Thundercracker.

A glint, a spark, then a blade rebounded at an angle across the brow of his helm and circled in the air tip over end in a carousel before toppling to the floor with a clatter. ‘Cracker watched it fall, then flicked an incredulous gaze at his recruit, one of their manliest. Chest hair sprouted haphazardly from his uniform, and a long beard flowed from his chin. He looked proud.

“I’d be happy to die talking about my Grandmother,” he stated, puffing out his chest. “Happy.”

“But why?” pleaded Thundercracker. “Can’t you guys just, like, get your shit together for a couple of minutes? Just long enough for me to figure out a way out of this? You’re making this so much harder.”

“It sounds like you might be suffering from anxiety,” chimed in Dexter, tapping on the window of the cockpit.

The sound echoed.

“One of the counselors back in camp recommends that you take a deep breath into your lungs and concentrate on something that-”

“I don’t. HAVE. LUNGS!” bellowed TC, clenching his fists.

The sound echoed down the hall. This time there was no knife to punctuate, like a shush at a library.

There was only the sound of his voice bouncing further down the halls of the Academy.

“You know what? That’s it. I am not following you chatterboxes into the Pit, tailpipe belching between my legs, while some oilspill of an Unmade picks us off one by one.”

He felt a well of energy in his core, angry and bubbling, seized on that feeling, and let it flow through his circuitry. His sectioned joints, still aching with the crunch of sand like an arthritis, felt suddenly cool and invigorated. His optics glowed red, and the machine gun mounted servos he boasted lifted to level at the dark hallway beyond.

“I’ll mow down the whole thing. That’s the tactic. If you can’t see ‘em, destroy every gosh darn thing they could hide behind.”

“Gosh darn?” demanded the hairy man behind him. “What, have you been binge watching movies from the fifties?”

Thundercracker’s optics narrowed ominously.

“Yeah. I have.”

His guns whirred into motion, and he felt a thrill. The thrill. He wasn’t just some footman subject to the whims of his enemy - he was a Decepticon, a Cybertronian, and a fucking war machine.

His field awareness heightened, he zoned in on the end of the hall, and began to unleash a spray of artillery, combing the darkness. He had a dog to go home to, and his best bet was that some of these men had dogs of their own they’d rather be home with. He’d see them all there, one burst of bullet hail at a time.

Word Count: 2119/3500
Thundercracker is expending 1 use of Focus. 2 uses of Focus left.

 

[Don Isaac]

Again and again, their swords met. Both of them had lost some degree of nobility as they traded savage strikes- one blade wreathed in unnatural lightning, the other swung with steam-powered limbs. Neither of the two tired, their duel propelled forth by fell sorcery and engineering that was simply too stubborn to surrender.

Within his haphazard cockpit, Isaac grinned. The ends of his moustache were scorched beneath his helmet, baleful energies surging up the frame of his 'mech with every strike he parried. His foe was faster, far more so than he was- but he'd not survived his time within the courts of Santagria by admitting defeat. With a confidence and knowledge earnt through years of honourable combat, he forced his foe to adapt his strategy, those plunging strikes that the undead swordmaster had favoured were replaced by opportunistic cuts that flowed around his own blade.

He lumbered forwards, the half-dozen sharp edges he wielded forcing the unliving assassin to leap away, ducking and weaving around his weapons, even stepping around a salvo of machine gun fire. Good, he thought, shaking his broad steel shoulders as a strap fell loose, something rattling against the back of his great machine, the sound only widening the smile beneath his helm.

That smile, however, was perhaps somewhat pre-emptive. That blackened blade levelled itself at him once more, and as rotting bile seeped between mouldering teeth, the assassin grinned back as the crack of thunder filled the air.

A lance of ebon energy surged out from the blade's tip, hammering into the chest of Isaac's mech- which was, unfortunately, where the Don himself hung, suspended in a web of cabling that now served to arc electricity into his every limb. He spasmed within his steel cocoon, blood seeping into his mouth as he bit back a scream, refusing to give this creature the satisfaction of hearing his pain. The damned thing was grinning at him, that skull-face eternally smirking at the mere mortal's efforts as the 'mech started to tip backwards, rocked back on its heels by the impact of the lightning bolt.

Mortal though he may be, Don Isaac was an heir to the eternal glory of Santagria. That flame of faith and fury had blazed for centuries, through war, turmoil, and even atomic fire- and no carrion thing was going to steal that prestige from him. Bloodied teeth parted in a roar as the Commandant seized the spear hanging behind his chassis in his off-hand and lunged forwards, time slowing down as maggot-eaten eyes widened in surprise as that malpurposed munition moved inexorably towards the swordsman's torso.

Almost comically, the tip of the missile gently came to rest against the assassin's stomach, brushing those black robes aside as it pressed itself into that hollow with a gentle tink.

Detonation.

Shrapnel, scraps of burning fabric, and fragments of rotten flesh and bone filled the air, tailed by a blossoming fireball. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight, purifying flame cleansing the monstrosity from his vision. The iron taste of his own blood slipped past his lips as he offered a prayer of thanks for seeing his shell strike home, even as he fumbled to steady himself with his now empty hand, the broken shaft of his makeshift spear discarded.

His thanks were perhaps given too early, as the smoke cleared. The swordmaster- most of him, at least- still stood. A hole the size of his head had been blown in the abomination's stomach, a yellowed spine briefly visible before a sheet of black blood oozed down from the wound. For but a brief moment, both combatants surveyed the damage, as if the two of them were in equal disbelief that the assassin was still standing.

That shared moment of reflection swiftly passed as both fighters, wounded in body and pride alike, brought themselves to blows once more. Isaac's iron-clad fist careened through the air, just barely missing the undead creature's face as it planted both hands along the underside of his arm, sending a surge of power crackling through the steel assembly and into the Don's body.

A piston cracked beneath the eldritch powers unleashed, a gout of steam hissing out in a blinding fog as his arm descended- not from a lack of power, but with killing intent. His buckler a blur of whirling blades, a desiccated forearm split beneath its touch, spiralling off into the dead earth as rotten blood fertilised the salt flats.

Smirking despite the pain radiating through his body, the Don breathed heavily as he stood upright, the swordsman's blade lashing out as the Unmade assumed a one-handed duelist's stance, blade balanced lightly as it weaved through the air. Isaac's own sabre settled into a familiar stance, his several-tonne steel frame feeling light as a feather as he bared bloody teeth in a grin beneath his helmet.

Against all the gods, all the magic, all the nuclear hellfire the world could throw at him- Santagria would conquer.

And so, the final clash of blades began, between the two wounded champions.

2,931/3,500 words.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Captain Spears gestured sharply for her surviving soldiers to follow her lead, turning to bolt down the rest of the corridor. She and her three cohorts made to flee— only to find themselves scooped up in the air none too gently by a pair of robotic arms.

Haphazardly juggling the four humans between his servos, Skywarp took off running down the corridor. They hung from his grip like a four year old's collection of Barbie dolls, just kitted out with bulletproof vests and armed to the teeth; probably more G.I. Joe, in retrospect.

“I’m only doing this because TC will divorce me if I leave you to die!” the violet seeker huffed, hastily adjusting his grip. "Also, I'm a one-seater, so I won't be shoving you guys in my cockpit. I'm not that flexible…”

“You’re married?!” wheezed Tessa in surprise, a little winded from being compressed against his chassis.

With an agile twist, Skywarp darted past a plummeting boulder and snorted in derision. “No, no— he’s my brother!”

“You’re married to your BROTHER?!”

The Cybertronian grit his dentae, purple warp-lightning crawling up his frame. His red optics focused with laser-like intent on the menacing door positioned at the end of the long passageway, calculating more than just the usual distance required to make such a leap. No, Skywarp was also calculating the risk of teleporting them all into a completely unknown location. He might warp them straight into a trap, for all he knew about what laid on the other side of that door!

Even still, Skywarp bolted like a shrikebat out of hell, crashing through the hail of debris falling in a veritable avalanche from the ceiling, his engines roaring as he jetted away from the ever-increasing barrage of rocks and boulders raining down upon them. He was faring well so far— only minor scrapes marring his paintjob —but he knew fortune often favored the swift, not the slow. He had to make his move now, or it could very well be his last.

Reaffirming his grip on the four humans, Skywarp spread his wings wide, the air coming alive with a dazzling purple light. Then, in a frenzied flash, they disappeared.

Re-materializing on the far side of the door, Skywarp quickly took stock of the situation. His arms were full of humans, panting and sweating copiously and making a real mess of his pristine, gleaming finish. He set them down with an irritated grimace, then glanced up to see just what kind of place they'd landed in this time.

He was immediately struck by the sheer darkness of the new area they had stumbled into. Shadows crawled across the walls of a chamber that was structured in a spiral fashion, rows of seats shaped like an amphitheater descending in ever-widening circles. The only other thing that he could make out were small flickering lights scattered all over the place; guttering candles perched atop piles of ancient, mildew-ridden books, an acrid stench of decay hanging in the air, thick and musty.

A flicker of movement caught their attention from the center of the amphitheater. Instinctively, humans and Cybertronian alike sprang into action— the eerie silence broken by hurried scrambling as they scattered like rats, ducking down behind the ruins of fallen stone pillars and crumbled debris, breathing shallowly in their attempt to blend into the shadows.

Boots skidding with a soft squeal on the aged stones, Captain Spears dove towards an unidentifiable pile of rubble. Her breathing was labored and desperate as she scrambled for cover, finally taking refuge behind what remained of some kind of altar. She just barely glimpsed Tessa, Steve and Jane racing to find their own positions of safety before it was too late; she released an almost inaudible sigh of relief as they all fell to the floor, contorting themselves so as to huddle down and hide.

Suddenly, Spears' breath stalled in her throat, heart pounding rabbit-quick inside her chest as she scanned the room around her, arriving at a horrifying realization. Where the hell was Skywarp?

She whirled to her side, rifle tight in her grasp, and found Skywarp just... there, splayed out like a sunbather on a beach chair.

They locked eyes in an intense stare. An eerie hush hung over the chamber as the captain mustered up the courage to speak.

"What can you see?" she whispered, jerking her head towards what lay on the other side of their hiding place.

Skywarp lifted his helm, peering juuuust over the edge of the altar.

A lone silhouette draped in tattered lavender robes knelt at the eye of the great amphitheater, head bowed as if in prayer. Flickering candlelight illuminated the eldritch runes etched into the ancient stone floor around them, glistening with carmine luster. An eerie cacophony of unearthly murmurs and whisperings filled the air, snaking their way throughout the chamber, touching at their ears in a gentle, soothing caress.

"It's just some guy," reported Skywarp, optics narrowing to slits. "He's got a book or something."

Grunting in disbelief, Captain Spears raised herself up to look, as well.

Both watched, transfixed, as the figure stirred from their kneeling position. Their movements were slow and shuffling, and it soon became obvious why— their limbs were bound tight by heavy chains, rattling at their wrists and binding them about the ankles, their bare, dirty feet scuffing audibly across the stone floor.

"We need to come up with a plan of attack," said Captain Spears authoritatively, sizing up her Cybertronian ally. "I think we should—"

But Skywarp cut her off, sneering in contempt.

"Like I'm scared of some squishy nerd," he growled, with the air of someone who has stolen many a hapless bookworm's lunch money. "What's he gonna do? Read me a bedtime story?"

Captain Spears's jaw dropped in dawning horror. "SKYWARP!" she whisper-shouted, but it was too late. A brilliant burst of violet-white light flared and Skywarp vanished from sight— reappearing behind the hooded figure with a sinister crackle.

"Nothing personal, kid," he sniffed, leveling a gun at the back of the hooded figure's head. A smirk played upon his lips, optics narrowing in satisfaction as he went to pull the trigger.

A deafening crescendo rattled from the cobweb laden rafters above. Skywarp's gaze shot up, optics widening as he glimpsed the distinctive silhouette of a sinister metal cage plummeting towards him.

With a mighty scraping of metal on metal, the rusted bars of the steel prison clanged around him like a deathly embrace. Then, it began to tighten with a startling intensity— the bars clamping down on his armor, trapping him in place.

Skywarp snarled in frustration as his wings were painfully constricted, struggling against the bars with all of his might. The metal shrieked in agony, but held firm, fully intent on converting him into solid scrap.

With a yelp, he vanished in a vibrant flash of light, reappearing in an instant to rejoin Captain Spears and the rest of S.T.A.R.S. at their hiding spot.

"Oookayyy," Skywarp laughed shakily, the silvery glint of his grin shining in the dark. "Now I'm ready to hear your plan."

Wordcount: 1185 words
TOTAL: 2357/3500

 

[Arthur Morgan]

They observed the cloaked silhouette as it shuffled across the cold stones of the raised dais at the center of the chamber, its footfalls mere whispers in the darkness. As they watched, a slimy tentacle, its hue a sickly purple, protruded from between the priest's ichor-stained teeth— unfurling and tasting at the air like a snake. Searching.

Crouched in the shadows, Captain Spears contemplated the situation, her expression a mask of pinched concentration. Eventually, she spoke in hushed tones: "Skywarp, take Tessa and create a distraction—"

"Whoa, hold the phone," hissed Skywarp, glaring. "Why am I taking anyone with me?"

"No offense, captain... but that seems like a bad idea," Tessa added in a softer voice, rubbing at her arms.

Spears sighed heavily. "Tessa's smart, Skywarp. And by your own admission, you're only able to carry one of us. I'm sending her with you to keep you out of trouble."

Warp relaxed a little, his armored plating smoothing out where it had bristled in anger. He'd heard that reasoning before. "Good luck with that."

"Anyway, as I was saying," huffed Spears, daring any one of them to speak out of turn with her cold, hard stare. "Steve, Jane and I will find a way to hoist one of those cages from the ceiling down on his head. Once we've done that..." she gave a meaningful pat to her laser-rifle. "We'll give him everything we've got."

Skywarp rolled his optics and scoffed, a low grumble forming in the back of his vocalizer. Still, he drew Tessa closer into the shelter of one wing and servo, hiding the sly glint of his optics with a sharp grin. "C'mon, squish. Let's go make some noise."

The young woman hesitated, but slowly shuffled forward, Skywarp's eerie optical sensors focusing on her as he laid one servo flat to the ground. While Tessa flinched as it neared, she stepped right into his massive open palm.

With great care, Skywarp opened his cockpit with a hiss of compressed air, gently nestling her inside. It sealed behind her not unlike a glass coffin, the lightly cracked dome not quite able to hide the fearful whites of her eyes.

Their groups split off, the Cybertronian stalking in one direction while the three S.T.A.R.S. members went another. Skywarp skulked along the walls, keeping low and moving in a tight circle around the chamber's perimeter, his optics never quite leaving the robed figure standing at its center.

"What do you think we should do?" asked Tessa after a long moment of just... creeping about. She'd graduated to perching on the very edge of the seat in Skywarp's cockpit, her knuckles a ghostly white from gripping it so tightly.

"Dunno," said Warp. "My usual tactic didn't work."

"Does it... typically work?" Tessa dared to wonder.

Skywarp drew to a halt, sizing up their foe from afar. The pupils of his optics constricted to tiny, glittering diamonds, the heels of his thrusters blazing to life.

"Nine times outta ten, yeah. This guy's outside the norm. But you know what? I ain't letting him tarnish my record!"

A shower of violet sparks spluttered around his frame as Skywarp tore through a wrinkle in space, re-materializing just behind the priest. His arm cannon raised, primed and ready to fire— and then a lance of purple light crackled through the air, only narrowly failing to pierce his spark!

With a hissing snarl, Skywarp swooped backwards, sending a flurry of bullets flying with his signature machine guns. But the projectiles had little effect, bouncing harmlessly off an invisible force-field and rattling over the ground like a shower of marbles.

"You're joking," yowled Warp. "Force-field tech?! That just isn't fair!"

The priest hacked out a ghoulish retort, the syllables heavy with phlegm and disease. He thrashed his arm up, muscles bulging and something darker than the night itself writhing beneath his skin. In a blur of wicked speed, a tendril of light lashed out from his limb, cracking like a whip as it made to drag Skywarp out of the air.

Skywarp's quick reflexes saved him, just in time for Captain Spears and her team to make their move. One of the cages linked to the ceiling came loose, plummeting down on the unsuspecting priest with a deafening CRASH. A metallic and unmistakable clang of finality reverberated throughout the chamber, followed swiftly by a tsunami of dust that cloaked the area in darkness, smothering any lingering trace of light.

Without a second of hesitation, Spears raised her rifle and howled, "Fire!" The thunderous impact of her team's weapons echoed off the walls of the cage as it violently trembled beneath their onslaught, the bullets whizzing like enraged hornets, splintering metal and sparking against stone.

All too soon, the gunshots abruptly halted, leaving behind a numbing quiet. All they could hear was their own heavy breathing, echoes of violence that just moments ago had shaken them to the core. Smoke and spent powder hung thick in the air, releasing a cloyingly sour smell.

For a moment, it seemed the priest might have been felled by the onslaught. But then a gut-wrenching wail ripped throughout the ancient amphitheater, screeching from within the cage. Its rusted frame shuddered and shook as an unstoppable force surged upward from within, rending its metal bars as if they were paper. From the fractured remnants rose an unearthly abomination— levitating above them all with malevolent intent.

Robes cast off from his form, the priest's limp body flagellated forward, sickly skin glimmering a pallid grey-white in the dark of the chamber. His mouth contorted grotesquely with a choked gurgle, erupting in a chorus of writhing tentacles, torso twisting until the boundaries of what seemed human were broken, limbs stretching out like putty into unfathomable lengths. Half of his ruined face pulled wide, jaw audibly cracking as it was warped into a ghastly, bone-chilling grin.

Skywarp gaped, staggering backwards. His optics were wide as saucers as he swung his head to look at Captain Spears. "Was this part of the plan?!"

Wordcount: 1010
TOTAL: 3367/3500

Skywarp is expending 1 use of Focus, for the end of the fight. 4 uses of Focus left.

 

[Karl Jak]

Updates:

Thundercracker will suffer a Major Injury
The Red Baron and Skywarp will suffer Minor Injuries

If you haven't already, the three of you can start writing a resolution post. Since you have one more fight after this, you don't need to go overboard (unless you're rollin', in which case, go HAM).

 

[Don Isaac]

He was dimly aware of the burns that tracked lichtenberg patterns across his body, in the same manner that he knew that the sun blazed bright against his warplate- it was simply a momentary distraction, one he could not afford to let himself be distracted by. His steel feet slammed against the sand that slowly transitioned into cracked, ruined stone as he chased the undead swordsman.

They traded frantic blows as 'mech and morbid warrior ascended the collapsed side of a fallen ziggurat, its peak sunken into the salt flats. Even then, it was a great work of architecture, ruined tiers stretching skywards, the verdant vegetation that once hung from its masonry sprawled across its stone in burnt-black spiderwebs, foreverly desperately seeking moisture.

His cleaver of a blade sliced through the air, a flawless parry from his undying opponent sending it skidding into the masonry instead, carving into the solid stone- no matter. He pressed forward, sneering beneath his helmet as he backhanded the beast, sending the abomination somersaulting further up the tier, still graceful even as its ruined body bled corruption over the stones.

But there was only so much room for the creature to flee to. The cracked stone gave way to empty air, the tainted atmosphere of ozone and decay yawning wide over an abyss, a hole in the earth seemingly draining all vitality and life from these desiccated lands. The undead assassin didn't bother to look behind itself as fragments of rubble cascaded down the ruined ziggurat, its sole remaining arm still clutching its ebon blade as dark eyes stared into Isaac as he advanced. His own machine matched his fury- a thousand enraged serpents coiled beneath his armour plating, wrapped around pistons even as his left arm bled, infernal snakes hissing out gouts of scalding steam.

It was no matter, Isaac thought as he raised his blade, its tip slick with the sable sanguinary fluid of the monster before him. It didn't truly understand the dance.

Again and again his blade crashed down, his foe ducking and weaving around his blows, exposed spine creaking with the effort as it dipped beneath a rattling salvo of gunfire. Technically speaking, the corpse was perfect- every movement measured and exact, his slender blade weaving around his own to scrape against his mechanical forearms even now, ebon lightning arcing against the bare metal. Truth be told, if Isaac was on foot, he likely would have died long ago.

But he was not, and his foe was flawed. That slack, rotting visage drooled back sludge across festering teeth, and it did not hate.

Though his arm could not manage the strength it once wielded, the cables within still snapped taut at his command, sending the spinning blades of his buckler cleaving through the abomination's thigh in a lunging punch as it ducked beneath another wide swing of his sabre. Bone cracked beneath the cleaving propellers, bringing the monster to one knee. His sword was brought back around, descending like the judgement of a furious god- only to halt a fraction of an inch away from the creature's neck.

This was a dance. Not butchery.

Something within the assassin recognized that- it yet held its blade in a loose grip by its side, but there was no hope of making use of it before the nobleman's own weapon severed its head from its shoulders. Instead, it tilted its head upwards, empty eye sockets burning with a black fire as its jaw opened, a foul wind whispering out through tombstone teeth.

"He is inevitable," the creature said, the headband wrapped around its skull shifting- algorithms writing on the steel plate. The voice that issued from those bloated lips, a pair of black slugs slithering with every whispered syllable, was but a memory- one last echo, a weak wind whistling through the ruins of the world that had once stood upon this dead earth.

"All that is lies atop ignorance, all our sins multiplied by our shame," the creature rasped out, the power that had once sustained it leaking from its wounds, crackling arcs of lightning scorching its decaying flesh. "To resist Him is to declare that one and one are three- it is madness."

"Madness?" Isaac laughed, shaking his head. Such crushing despair, a surrender to the cruel whims of fate- it was anathema to all he knew. Beneath him, he could see his Crusaders rallying- Geoffery's tactical withdrawal to the ruins had ensured that the survivors of the initial ambush could largely fend off their assailants. They all looked skywards now, clad in plate armour that had exchanged heraldry for corporate sponsors, or the matte-black kevlar of a consummate professional.

"This is Santagria," he spat, slamming a steel foot into the corpse's torso, snapping its ribs like twigs, driving it into the empty air as the power barely contained by its carrion was released, a thunderbolt of black lightning cracking out from its post-mortal form. For but a brief moment, there was naught but darkness- a brief moment where he saw the emptiness that was the debatable inevitability of this unmaking.

And in its wake, the Don laughed, raising his blade to the sky as he shouted to the men beneath him, electing to shift his stance to hide the steam-bleed of his mechanical arm.

"For gold and glory! The heart of this cursed realm awaits!"

He was too distant to see the scoff on his Sarjeant's face, but the man shouldered his rifle nonetheless. It was time to earn their paycheck.

Minor Injury suffered: Steam leak in his left arm.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

The priest erupted into a cacophony of incantations and guttural hisses, syllables voided from any earthly tongue heavily auralized in a sibilant, flowing chant. They seared throughout the chamber like fire eating across the pages of a book, engulfing every occupant in dread and despair. It was an invocation of unspeakable evil— and now the consequences were upon them.

Eerie light crept over Skywarp's frame like a virus, seeping through his thick plating and attempting to overtake his body and mind with its power, slithering like snakes toward the glimmering beacon of his spark chamber. It was as if a wall of energy had completely frozen him in place, not allowing a single movement or sound to escape— a complete clench of fear that left the Cybertronian painfully frozen, unable to fend off the psychic assault on his senses.

The cacophonous clamor grew so fierce that it seemed to rumble through the very fabric of the chamber, rendering the air into a noxious, suffocating fog. A menacing presence pervaded the minds of all present, like an insidious invader that slowly cast asunder any lingering vestige of sanity. When the last syllables faded away, Warp could have sworn the entire room was glowing in an eerie purplish hue— like some sort of twisted reverse dawn.

Agonized wails of terror filled the vast amphitheater, desperate soldiers clawing at their ears as if they could somehow rip away the mental anguish that threatened to tear them apart from within. Their frantic motions were so ragged and uncontrolled that most quickly dropped to their knees, some falling atop one another in a fruitless effort to suppress the invisible torture that wracked their minds. Even Tessa, trapped inside his cockpit as she was, could not escape it— shredding at his interior for all she was worth with her fingernails and clenched fists.

No matter what they did, the words clung to them like some kind of maddening infection, embedding itself in their minds and searing away at their sanity. Everywhere they looked, arcane symbols and visions danced like specters right before their eyes, whittling away at their very souls, leaving nothing but scorched waste in its wake.

In his periphery, Skywarp saw that Captain Spears was similarly affected. A once proud warrior, she crumpled to the ground like a corpse in a river; her military attire and body armor seeming to weigh her down like an anchor. Blonde strands of hair spilled across the ground as she fought to stand against the deluge of whisperings, until at last her skull struck the stone floor with a sickening crunch, rendering her mercifully unconscious.

As hard as it was to resist, Skywarp gritted his dentae and clawed at his own chest, writhing in agony with every desperate screech of metal upon metal. Sharp talons lacerated the violet-streaked obsidian plating, each jagged rip revealing streaks of thrumming energy and vulnerable circuitry beneath. With a swift tug of his inner wiring, an uncontrollable jolt of sheer power came coursing through Skywarp's innermost mechanics, electrifying every inch of him— fragile bio-lights flickering to life beneath in little, sparking diadems of purple, glowing fiercely against the shadowy miasma of raw eldritch energy blanketing the room.

With a newfound sense of clarity, Skywarp activated his warp drive, destabilizing its core and releasing a powerful shock-wave of electricity, its might echoing like a thunderclap throughout the amphitheater. The unstable core released its energy in waves— purple lightning emanating through cracks in the seeker's mechanical chassis to dance across the chamber’s walls, rippling across every surface like a thousand shards of glass glinting in the sun.

In a shrieking blaze of light, Skywarp's dark form zapped out of existence. He rematerialized before the priest in the blink of an eye, claws lashing out in a violent frenzy, tearing skin from flesh like a savage, sharp-beaked bird. With each blinding flash, a new limb was lost, until there was nothing left of the stunned priest but a mangled pile of flesh and bone amidst the wreckage.

The room spun faster and faster until all sensation disappeared, the walls of the chamber churning around them in an infernal whirl that seared the soldier's faces with its blazing terror. And then—

An agonizing scream shook the walls of the chamber as the priest collapsed, his body disintegrating into a cascade of gritty ashes.

Skywarp stood tall in the aftermath, a battered yet proud figure amidst the scrap and debris caused by their fierce struggle. The smoldering fog from the priest's defeat wafted about him as his talons gleamed in defiance, vents hissing lightly from exertion.

He rapped on his cockpit's frame with a fist, receiving only a muted groan from Tessa in response.

Red optics dulled from exhaustion glimmered faintly as he slowly glanced up, taking stock of the fallen soldiers around him. All still alive, but definitely down for the count...

Skywarp's wings sluggishly dragged against his back as he trudged to begin the sour task of gathering up his team.

"Can't believe I've been relegated to babysitting duty..."

Focus usage from last post: Skywarp destabilized his Warp Drive, removing the Finite modifier's limitation and allowing him to overcome the Priest's influence.

Minor Injury: Self-inflicted scratches on chest plating.