Anderson Quest: Killing Vampires and Werewolves and Leprechauns (Hellsing/Bloodborne)

[Tricia]

"I'm off ta end this clusterfuck of a Nightmare," you reply. "Ye with me?"

Her whole body hardens, once more the towering sentinel that first welcomed you to the clocktower. Djura lengthens his stance, only to be waved down by Simon.

"I was very clear, Father Anderson. There is nothing for you here."

"I have some information ta the contrary."

"And what could that be?"

"Recursive dream bullshit."

She slackens in confusion and you pounce on the opportunity, soundly butchering Yurie's precise explanations and using Djura as an unwitting visual aid. Simon does a solid job of filling in the gaps you either can't articulate or are taking artistic liberties with.

"...and that's why I need ta nip this problem in the bud before things take a left turn down Bugfuck Avenue." You cross your arms, patting yourself on the back, before snapping your fingers. "Oh, and I've got Annalise's severed head back in Byrgenwerth. She's still pretty chatty if ye'd like a word."

Her lips and eyebrows do a merry jig as she cycles through emotions, ultimately raising a finger. "I'm going to deal with this one piece at a time."

"Fair enough."

"Let's start with Annalise. Why did you decapitate her?"

"Was tryin' ta kill her. I've got me a cross that burns the unholy. Usually a pretty good indicator o' who needs a good stabbin'."

"If you wanted to kill her, why didn't you do Steps Two through Ten?"

"Nobody's ever told me what they are," you grump. "I figure burnin's involved at some point but I don't wanna do that too early an' fuck up the whole procedure."

"Burning and scattering the ashes is a fairly reliable method," says Djura.

"Yeah, but vampires're fucky. Do things out of order and it gets weird."

"In any case," Maria intervenes, "I trust your judgment here. Though she was family, Great-Grandmother Annalise was a beast in her own way. Cainhurs had momentum, of sorts, and it needed to be blunted." She retakes her seat. "Now, regarding the Nightmare: do you know of Byrgenwerth's sins, Father Anderson?"

"What, besides Johnson's?"

She flinches at the name, but soon regains her composure. "Byrgenwerth made its first great breakthrough when the corpse of Kos, the Sea Mother, washed up on the shore of a rural fishing village. The body teemed with parasites, which fed the villagers for months on end. The scholars of Byrgenwerth met a trader who told of the hamlet's riches and went to investigate."

She leans forward, her eyes shards of sparking flint. "The scholars vivisected the fishermen. Experimented on them, tore them limb from limb to expose the secrets their bodies held. I heard the screams, Father Anderson. I still hear them, stripped of humanity and consumed with the desire to die. The scholars refused even that mercy. This Nightmare is their justice; they walk beyond this tower, content and untouched by those who wronged them.

"They are at peace, Father Anderson. A peace they were robbed of in life. I will not let you rob them of that."

She sure knows how to deliver a dramatic monologue; you probably should have expected that after seeing the way she pretended to be dead for decades for the sake of a badass one-liner. You can definitely respect that.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Their peace may be real," you reply, "but make no mistake; it's the peace of a beast, rid o' want or need o' human dignity."

She bristles and moves to stand, which you avert with an outstretched palm.

"Ye lectured me. Only fair I get ta lecture ye back."

When her grimace clings to life, you sigh.

"Alright, fine, get it out o' yer system. Meat o' the thigh'd be preferable."

Those are beautifully-made swords, you have to admit. You barely feel the stabs until they start scraping bone. At least she avoids the more important arteries.

"Ye good?"

"I am."

"Alright." You clear your throat and wait for the stream of blood from your leg to die out and quit killing your vibe with incessant dripping. "So, human dignity. They were robbed o' that in life, too, but those who suffer don't need the contentment o' the yoke. The greatest kindness ye can give a tortured soul isn't ta let 'em graze like mindless cattle put ta pasture."

"You haven't seen them," she offers with waning conviction.

"I've seen everyone else in this place. They're slaves to mindless routine. Let them sleep, Maria. But before that, we've gotta deal with the ones responsible for all this shit."

She returns to her seat, knuckles white. The silence oozes around your group, viscous and suffocating until you stomp your foot.

"Is this about them or about you?" you all-but-shout. "Are ye punishin' yerself for not savin' 'em in the real world? Are ye tryin' ta justify all the time ye've spent here?" You stab a finger back towards the research hall. "What about the people in there, the ones screamin' yer name and beggin' ye ta heal 'em? The fuck did they ever do ta deserve this?"

You straighten to your most imposing height and breadth. "It's time ta wake up, Maria."

"I want to talk to Gehrman."

Your bombast dissolves before the near-whisper. You slacken, unsure what sort of response she'd take as patronizing. She looks frightened, of all things, younger than you've ever seen her.

"What?"

"Use that bell you have. Ring it in his Dream. I want to talk to Gehrman."

"I can make that happen. Why, though?"

"I'm dead, Father Anderson. I died decades, centuries before you were born. I don't even know how long ago. When the Nightmare ceases, so do I. But it has to go before Yharnam's. If any of your flock die in the fight, I don't want them to suffer here.

"Gehrman was...I don't know what Gehrman was to me. Is to me. But I'm not leaving things between us as they are."

"There's nothing stopping us from saving Yharnam and then coming back," Djura interjects.

"Are you sure you'll even still have access to this place?" she replies. "Will the Nightmare still be attached to the real Yharnam? Or will it drift away, eternal and untouchable?"

"I'll take ye ta Gehrman," you say. "Interpersonal issues now, multidimensional fuckery and order of operations later. Sound good?"

She nods and you clap your hands.

"Alright, let's go get some shit resolved."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You turn to go, remember something mid-turn, and transform it into a slick 360 spin.

"Before I go: Hope didn't ask ta be made. She had no say in what she looked like. Whatever problems ye think ye have with her, she's an innocent in all this. I'd like ye ta remember that."

Her mouth tightens, clamping off any objections, and she nods.

"Alright, I'm off. You and Simon can catch up while ye wait." You snap your fingers. "Oh, right, I never introduced ye ta Djura. Maria, this is Djura o' the Powder Kegs. He broke his arm in half punchin' Ludwig. It was awesome."

The old man gives an awkward sort of bow. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she replies.

You turn for real this time and trek back to the nearest lantern, leaving behind an awkward silence that Djura tries to break by talking about guns. You're gone before you get a chance to determine his success.

Hope is seated on her usual ledge with what looks like a single Messenger on her lap. Closer inspection, however, reveals it as a tiny version of Ebrietas, which excitedly waves a tentacle at your approach.

I studied a lantern and figured out how to project myself here!

"I can see that," you reply, picking her up so you and Hope can do your customary bow. It's like holding a tube sock full of overeager gelatin. "Why the travel size?"

It's easier to maintain, especially since my real body is still working with Yurie.

"She has been telling me more of the waking world," says Hope with a smile. "She is a delightful companion and an excellent source of knowledge.

"Aye, she's somethin'," you say, patting your miniature acolyte on the head. It jiggles a bit with each pat and you release her to flutter onto Hope's shoulder. "Introduced her ta Gehrman, yet?"

"Not yet; he has been busy working on your commissions, although he should be about done."

"That's good, because, well, I'm bringin' Maria. She wants to talk ta him."

Hope clutches her hands together tightly enough to audibly creak.

"Does she know about me?"

"She does, yeah."

She looks down, heedless of Ebrietas' tentacle pats. "I suppose worrying will do nothing. I shall do my best to make her stay comfortable."

"Ye'll do great, I'm sure."

The nearby Messengers scatter, procuring welcome mats and floral arrangements from seemingly nowhere as you walk up the path. Gehrman rolls to meet you at the door with a massive sack in his lap.

"Just finished, Father Anderson. I have the tools they'll need to properly size them bundled in. Sorry about the delay, but I had to make sure they were perfect." He gestures down at his peg. "I know how it feels to lose part of yourself."

"Thank ye kindly." You shove the bundle up your sleeve and decide to bite the bullet. "Maria's comin'."

He's stone-faced, though you can see his mouth flinching upwards and downwards. "When?"

"As soon as I ring this here bell. Need time ta prepare?"

"Just a moment, just a moment." He shoos you out and frantically zips about the workshop. Looking over your shoulder, you watch him chop "How to Pick Up Fair Maidens" into confetti.

When the sounds of creaking wheels and evidence destruction fade away, you ring the bell. Its sheer bulk rattles the nearby wood and, before long, Maria's shade rises from the earth. She looks about the Dream, eyes lingering on a downcast Hope, and marches into the Workshop before the Doll can make her way over. The Messenger welcoming committee grumble and toss their untouched gifts aside.

"Leave us," she whispers. You nod and go to join Hope on the ledge. The Workshop doors slam shut behind you.

"Ye alright?" you ask Hope.

"It is disconcerting, Hunter Anderson. Seeing who I was supposed to be reminds me of the early days, when Gehrman refused to even look at me."

You sit next to her and put an arm around her shoulder. Ebrietas flies from her shoulder and returns with one of the dropped floral arrangements, drawing a soft smile from her face.

The three of you sit in silence, eventually dozing off in the eternal quiet. You don't know how long you're out before Ebrietas shakes the two of you awake. Maria is marching stiffly towards you.

Hope makes it up more quickly and begins to bow, only for Maria to grab her by the shoulders. They lock identical eyes.

"I'm so sorry," says Maria. "Thank you for taking care of him."

Hope fumbles for a reply, but Maria cuts her off. The Huntress raises an ornate flare gun into the air and fires, fading away alongside the report. The newly-opened Workshop doors shut once again, leaving the three of you alone in the stilling air.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I'll go see how he's doin'," you say. "Ebrietas, stay on standby for emergency comfortin'."

She gives you a little salute as you turn and walk up the familiar path. You give the door two quick raps and wait with your hands clasped at your waist. Before long, it creaks open and the brim of Gehrman's hat slides into view through the narrow gap.

"Just wanted ta see how ye were, if ye needed someone ta talk to or anythin'."

Fury sputters across his features, bright but stillborn. He sags and shakes his head.

"No, thank you, Father Anderson. I think I need some time alone." His crow's feet dance as he blinks away lingering dampness. "Let me know how the prosthesics work out. Good luck with the Nightmare."

"Aye, I appreciate that."

He nods and gently shuts the door. You return to your companions and the squad of Messengers gathering around them. A few seem to be attempting to ingratiate themselves with Ebrietas, offering her weapons and other trinkets.

"He needs 'is space," you report. "What about you two? Anythin' I can help ye with?"

"We are alright," says Hope as Ebrietas politely declines a hammer that resembles a tombstone on a stick. "Will you be returning now to the Nightmare?"

"Aye. Past time we put an end ta it."

She rises and the two of you bow. "Then farewell, Hunter Anderson. Be safe in your journey."

Ebrietas waves goodbye from among her cluster of admirers. Kneeling at the isolated grave, you rise to see Simon and Djura in mid-conversation with a seated Maria. All three turn at your approach.

"So," you say with a clap, "we doin' this?"

"You can pass," says Maria, "but I will not be joining you."

"Ye sure? We could really use yer help. Kicked some proper arse together back in Cainhurst."

"I will not harm the villagers, Father Anderson, and I would appreciate the three of you minimizing the suffering you inflict on them. No grandstanding, no theatrics. Clean kills."

"I think I speak for the three of us when I say that we can accommodate your request," Simon replies before you can shove your foot in your mouth and Maria can then cut it off.

"Thank you, Simon."

You shrug. "I mean, sure, but are ye fine with that? Just sittin' here an' waitin' ta die?"

"I am. I have an opportunity before me that no other Hunter ever had: a peaceful death. I had a glorious final fight, one free of self-doubt and in which I gave my everything. There is nothing more I could want.

"Forgive an old woman her selfishness."

You and your posse stand in silence for several moments before Simon steps forward and bows.

"It was an honor meeting you."

Djura follows suit, taking her hand and nodding stiffly.

"I'm sorry we didn't have more time to talk."

Maria stands and pulls from her coat a small dial, a spitting image of the great clockwork behind her seat. She holds it up to the light streaming through and the machinery grinds to life. The various discs twirl until their apertures line up, revealing a waterlogged path that roils softly in an unseen breeze. Djura and Simon step onto it, leaving you alone with Maria. The two of you share a look, one warrior to another, and you extend a hand.

"It was a pleasure."

She takes it and gives it a firm shake, smiling faintly.

"It was, indeed."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You look down and shuffle your feet a bit, cutting short a few attempts to walk towards your companions.

"Ye mind if I preach a little bit? Promise it won't be too, well, preachy."

Maria tilts her head slightly before nodding. "I suppose."

"Right, well." You clap your hands together. "For what it's worth, from one geezer who died givin' everythin' they had to another, bein' able ta experience more o' this Hell we call life was fun. The good, the bad, the ugly; this life that the LORD gave us really is sweet and I can't say I've lost out for breathin' a bit longer, if only for havin' had the chance ta meet people like you. When your light finally snuffs out, crack a smile, why don't ye? The tale was grand."

You bow and she bows with you, a smile on her face that you've seen many times beneath a bonnet. A handful of steps take you to Djura and Simon and the three of you step into the saltwater mist, an old song on your lips.

For life is quite absurd
And death's the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow.
Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.

So always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath

Life's a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.
You'll see it's all a show
Keep 'em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

You've got them whistling with you by the halfway point.

Once more, you give thanks to the Dream's cleaning service; you're damn sure going to need it after this. You have to walk nearly single-file at times to stay atop the sandbar, which sucks at your boots and somehow manages to befoul Simon's previously unbefoulable rags. Naked trees of indeterminate life stand at the edge of the drop off alongside clusters of stones, some of which are stacked in miniature idols, and towering masts with rotten sails peek through the mist. You step over a partially-buried whale skeleton as candlelit canoes, each bearing the corpse of a sluglike woman, bob gently. What shacks you see in the limited visibility are bloated with water and not so much encrusted as infested with tumorous clumps of barnacles.

"It's a graveyard," Djura murmurs.

"Man, even if we hadn't promised ta be quick and practical, I don't think I even could have fun with this," you reply. "Too damn depressing."

"You're more used to places only looking like this after you leave, I take it?" says Simon.

A towering form lurches into sight and the three of you draw, but the thing shows no interest in you. Humanoid and near three meters tall, it wears a sheet of sailcloth wrapped in fishing line atop its blue flesh. As it approaches, its ramblings become audible, unaffected by your proximity or the hand you rather rudely wave in front of its face to draw its attention.

"Byrgenwerth...Byrgenwerth...Blasphemous murderers...Blood-crazed fiends...Atonement for the wretches...By the wrath of Mother Kos...Mercy for the poor, wizened child...Mercy, oh please..."

That is a lot of ellipses. Some proper foreboding rambling right there.

"I'm with ye, man," you call after him as he slouches past. "Fuck Byrgenwerth."

At this, he stops and slowly turns to face you. After a moment's pause, he gives a ponderous nod and flips a lethargic bird at the clocktower.

"Fuck Byrgenwerth."

With that, he resumes his walk. You shrug and your troop advances into the hamlet, where the water rises to almost knee-deep. You flick a lantern to life and watch the heavy nets strung between the buildings sway in the breeze.

"He seemed nice," you say.

Unfortunately, the crazed Innsmouth-looking motherfucker with a spear charges in before Djura or Simon can add an appropriate setup line. You put a bayonet through his brain with a sigh.

"Won't even throw me that fuckin' bone," you mutter. "Alright, who's up ta start killin' and feelin' real bad about it?"

"Is it alright if I just feel ambivalent?" Djura replies. You and Simon stare at him.

"I legitimately can't tell if you're joking and that frightens me," says the bowman.

[] Be efficient

[] Don't be efficient

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

With a quick prayer for the soon-to-be re-deceased and some failed attempts to seal your respective boots, the three of you march deeper into the mass of shanties. The fishmen, who seem to share a more uniform theme than the Pirates of the Caribbean-esque walking bouillabaisse you expected, busy themselves with mending boats and nets as you pass. None of the work is pressing enough to stop them from launching themselves at you with furious abandon, but you can appreciate their respect for preventative maintenance.

You shortly find yourselves before a sizable plaza, a well in the middle and distant splashes from all directions announcing its occupancy. For efficiency's sake, you and Djura help Simon onto a nearby rooftop, then onto the one next to it when the first one caves in beneath him. Undaunted, he takes position at the highest point and nocks an arrow.

"Ready when you are."

Barring the hooded fishman who launches Logarius-style smoke skulls at you, a habit Simon quickly corrects, you dispatch the gathered horde (school?) without issue. As you pause to pull Simon's ammo out for reuse, however, heavy tremors churn the waters in classic Jurassic Park fashion.

"The fuck is that?" you call to Simon.

"Hang on." He cranes his neck, turning this way and that, before blanching. "That is a shark. That is a giant shark with arms and legs."

The thing bursts from between two buildings and barrels down on you with a rasping bellow. The head reminds you more of a sperm whale, or maybe a right whale considering the lumpy masses all over its body, but semantics can wait until after the four-meter mountain of mussels, muscles, and seething hatred is finished trying to deep-six your face. It shrugs off both bayonets and arrows that bury themselves to the feathers in its mad charge, forcing you and Djura to dodge in opposite directions. There's no hesitation when it spins to face Djura and exposes its back to you, which quickly proves a mistake when you rush in and go to town on its spine. It teeters forward just in time to catch Djura's Stake Driver uppercut right in what very swiftly ceases to be a face.

This has the side effect of just drenching the old man in fish brains, leaving him to scrub away while you gather up the spent arrows. Simon hops down to meet you and stows them away with a nod.

"Want to take a look in the well?" he asks, motioning towards the ladder peeking out from its rim..

"Fuck no," you reply. "There's probably like eight of these big fucks waitin' for us down there."

Djura peers down, walks over to one of the slain spearmen, and carries said spear back with him before dropping it into the well. The stone funnels the resulting roars back at you with enough force to blow your hair back.

"Just two," he reports.

"Never thought I'd see you turn down a fight," says Simon.

"We're on the clock and I'm not allowed ta enjoy myself."

"Fair enough," he shrugs.

A bit of searching reveals a path out of the water and into a wooded area. You assume this is where the intelligentsia gather, as the fishmen here have the good sense to try throwing their spears instead of running across thirty meters of open ground in a vain attempt to stab you. The ultimate result is still the same, of course, but you feel slightly bad for stunting the hamlet's path towards enlightenment. Then another sharkwhaleguy comes after you with an entire goddamn anchor and you decide that piscine culture can kiss your ass.

Once both he and the accompanying pack of piranhadogs are dead, you soon find your way to a small hut and take the time to wring your clothes out and pour as much crap out of your boots as you can. Djura gives his a good thump and an entire crab pops out, giving him a friendly wave before scuttling over to the pulped giant and munching away.

"Feelin' alright?" you ask Simon as you flick a lantern to life. "Look a wee bit troubled."

"It's nothing," he replies. "This place just makes me uncomfortable for some reason."

An entire corner of the hut is missing, giving you a view of yet more labyrinthine shacks. On another wall sits a cell door, which stays locked for about five seconds before Djura explodes it with the Stake Driver. The center of the room looks like another well, but the chains leading down and your most hated of foes, the lever, reveal it as a Yharnam-style elevator.

"Huh. So this is where Byrgenwerth found 'im."

"Where to next?" Djura asks.

"The way I see it," you reply, "we've got two options. One is ta go through that hole over there and deal with whatever twisty turny bullshit this place still has ta offer. The other is ta ride this thing down; in my experience, these tend ta take ye where ye need ta go."

"Convenient," he says.

"Isn't it?"

[] Go out the hole

[] Go down the elevator

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I say we go down," you declare. "Any objections?"

"Nope."

"None."

You yank on the lever and the chains grumble to life. You hear a faint tune beneath the grinding as the platform rises, origin unknown. After Simon and Djura volunteer you to confirm its weight capacity, the three of you group up on the disc and, once everyone's extremities are accounted for, step on the raised section in the center and begin the journey downwards. The air grows heavier and cooler with every inch, oozing through your sinuses with a heady saltwater burn. The tune starts again, seemingly right below your feet, but you can't figure out why until the cylindrical shaft opens up into a massive chamber.

From below, you see a series of ridges lining the inside of the shaft, extending just far enough to graze the edge of the disc itself. Their shapes and spacing vary, matching up with the beat you heard. The motherfucker didn't just invent elevators, he invented elevator music. You can only hope the latter died with him.

A heavy thrum greets you as the platform slides into place and the three of you dismount. A look around reveals a slug-person, not unlike the corpses in the boats above, "kneeling" in an obvious prayer pose. He offers no reaction when the three of you round the corner to see dozens upon dozens more reverential invertebrates lining a passage to the open air, their humming harmonizing brutally in the damp air. You poke one for curiosity's sake and get only a dirty look for your troubles before it goes back to humming.

"I can't help but feel like slug-people and saltwater aren't a good combination," you say.

"I think they're more like snail-people, honestly," says Djura. "Look at that hump on their backs."

"I propose 'sneeple' as shorthand," says Simon.

"Motion carried," you reply.

Etymological precedent thus set, you step onto the beach. The sun's clouded eye struggles against the mist, the veritable forest of wrecked masts mere suggestions among the waves. It's the colossal figure near the shoreline, however, that draws your attention. Bone-white and larger than life, its lower half resembles nothing so much as a monstrous nudibranch, flattened and dehydrated on the coarse sand. Its upper half, by contrast, is clearly humanoid and female, fin-lined arms longer than you are tall stretching from a cowled torso like some primeval mermaid dredged from the depths and left to bake. Total MILF.

It's also clearly dead, branching fins rustling in the breeze.

"That'd be Mother Kos, I presume," says Djura. "Where's the host?"

Disturbingly on cue, the corpse bulges obscenely. Before your eyes, a lanky figure pulls its way free, drenched in amniotic fluid and trailing a heap of bone and viscera. It forces its way to its feet, steaming and trembling in the anemic sunlight, and wails in a voice that deepens in seconds.

Ah, the miracle of birth. What a beautiful thing.

The creature rounds on you, footing surer with every step and twin flaps of loose skin trailing behind. Though bearing the traditional two arms and two legs, it shares its mother's pale flesh and fins along its arms. Its face is that of an old man, resembling Patches' but in desperate need of ironing. Its umbilical cord, partially wrapped around its wrist, terminates in a massive, bony placenta covered in fleshy pustules. What begins as a trot quickly becomes a lope, then a feral sprint as it devours the distance between you.

Simon nocks an arrow, Djura revs his Gatling gun, and you take a fighting stance. You're not getting concussed by a placenta again.

BOSS BATTLE: ORPHAN OF KOS
​

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You fill your hands and charge forward, the Gatling whine and the creature's screeching in near-harmony. You hear sand burst behind you as your gunners scatter, then erupt in the Orphan's path beneath an onslaught of bullets and arrows. Undaunted, it picks up speed, bent so low its chin nearly carves a furrow as it weaves. Placenta-club over its shoulder, it leaps forward like Jordan from the free throw line, intent on posterizing you with authority.
Unfortunately for him, you are also well-versed in the art of slam-jamming and unleash that most fearsome of sick moves: the killer crossover.

You angle off as the thing buries the club worryingly deep in the sand. Rather than wallow in its shame at being so righteously juked, however, it instead pivots and brings the thing around in a widening arc that forces all three of you to hit the deck. Just the pressure of its passage sets your collar a-fluttering; the fact that the Orphan has shoulders the size of its head suddenly makes a lot more sense.

Before Djura can get his gun spinning again, the Orphan jerks the club back into its hand and bears down on you with mad swings that you struggle to meet club-to-club. The creature is faster and stronger than it has any right to be and its raw aggression forces you into the shallows.

You've dealt with fast tonight. You've dealt with strong tonight. You haven't dealt with anything like this. To paraphrase an old boxing analyst, your opponent fights like a fish swims. Its attacks are wide and inefficient, but there's an instinctual understanding of momentum and flow that leaves your martial mastery scrambling for answers. This style is the opposite of Logarius' mechanical efficiency; it's improvising with every blow, lashing out with hands and feet whenever you parry or duck his weapon and filling all possible openings with relentless violence.

Neonatal care has never been this intense.

Djura rumbles into the fray with his Stake Driver cocked, while you catch Simon scrambling up the cliffside out of the corner of your eye. Makes sense; firing into melee was easy with Ludwig, who was roughly the size of a barge, but he'll need a better angle for this lanky fuck.

Unlike some assholes you've Double Impact'd with, the old man knows how to make close quarters combat a team sport, staying clear of your swings while finding angles for his boxing combinations. He just doesn't have enough reach to get past the telephone-pole limbs that never seem to stop moving. The Orphan somehow manages to chain an overhand smash that sends spiderweb cracks through your forearms into a back thrust kick that launches Djura a good four meters.

Point-blank isn't working.

"Back up!" you yell to Djura, crossing your fingers that Fishface's language centers aren't as well-developed as his biffing centers. "Give Simon room ta shoot!"

He gives an affirmative grumble and makes space while you do the same, circling off to put the Orphan between you and the sea as it roars after you. You beat a full retreat, sending volley after volley of bayonets towards its face. Its pursuit falters when the Gatling gun resumes its song and the arrows rain down. Apparently deciding it would rather deal with the roving stream of tracer rounds than the arrows, it unspools its umbilical cord and hurls the club towards Simon's perch.

The bowman's leaping ability and grip strength save him from a pasting as the blow obliterates the spot where he stood. He dangles just at the edge of the impact crater, suspending himself with one hand and flopping wildly to avoid the minor rockslide that ensues. Heedless of the fact that he just flattened dozens of kilos of solid rock, the Orphan continues the arc with a leap towards Djura. He scrambles back to avoid the placental piledriver and, not one to waste perfectly good kinetic energy, the Orphan drags the whirling bludgeon back your way.

Perfect.

You leap towards your foe with bayonets held high. Blessed steel bites into taut umbilical cord and, with a little help from centripetal force, shears through. The Orphan's screams take a turn for the guttural as the detached placenta careens into the rocks and sends a fresh wave of debris tumbling towards Simon.

You're not sure what the bowman's yelling, but you're just going to go ahead and assume it's "thank you."

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Slight blunt trauma from deflecting blows.

Simon: Currently trying desperately not to fall off cliff.

Djura: Getting his wind back after a kick to the gut.

Orphan: Cord cut.

 

[Tricia]

"Quitcher bitchin'," you say through a smile. "Same thing happened ta me when I came out and I turned out fine."

The Orphan, in a clear case of abandonment issues, makes a beeline for its lost weapon. From behind, Djura shreds the sand around its feet with a fresh stream of gunfire that, in its panicked state, the creature can't avoid. A round punches through its calf and the Orphan makes its first ungraceful move of the fight, eating shit on the bloodstained sand. It scrambles up and, at least for the moment, abandons its pursuit in favor of going after the old man.

While the crazy newborn bludgeoning machine is away, the Anderson will play.

"Simon, heads up!"

You hurl a bayonet into the cliff face by his hands and he latches on, working his way back towards a better foothold. While he does that, you launch a storm of nails and pages that lock the placenta away until Kos Jr. can learn to be responsible with its toys.

"Coming your way," Djura huffs from your left side, a monumentally pissed Orphan hot on his tail. You tag in with a sweep of your bayonets and he makes distance once again. The creature is somehow even wilder than before, letting you land a bevy of cuts on its thrashing limbs. Punches and kicks and elbows flow together in an unbroken dance that steadily trails more and more blood in its wake.

Then it gets the bright idea to grab you.

As you swing for its neck, it catches you by the wrist and yanks you towards it. You start to slip forward, but it helpfully stops your forward momentum by driving one of the slabs of depleted uranium it calls fists directly into your face. Your jaw cracks instantly and teeth go flying. It hurts like a motherfuck, but the worst part is that the punch knocked out your front teeth; as you know from experience, all your quips are going to have little whistles until the damn things grow back.

Before you can tell it to sssssuck a dick, it grabs you behind the head with both hands in the universal symbol for "I am going to knee you in the face until there is nothing left between my knees and my palms." You force your posture as straight as possible and jack its jaw with uppercuts as it tries to wrangle you back into proper smashing position, an effort somewhat hampered by the arrow Simon puts in its shoulder. With a bark of anger, it wrenches you between itself and Simon and slams an elbow into your damaged jaw. You tip forward, a viscous mix of blood and mucous pouring from your face, and watch as the knee locks onto its target.

The Gatling whir picks up again. The Orphan's head whips towards it and, for just a moment, its monstrous grip slackens. Your brain catches hold of the reins once more and you drive a bayonet into the pierced shoulder. Two more vicious stabs part the bone entirely and the creature's left arm crashes to the ground.

Its next scream has an unmistakable hint of fear swirled in it. The Orphan hurls you away and charges towards Djura, dodging a follow-up arrow by the skin of its teeth. Its speed just isn't there anymore with the damaged leg and the old man tenses to leap away and start the merry chase again.

He times it perfectly. Then the twin flaps of flesh on the Orphan's back stir and send it hurtling into him shoulder-first. Djura goes flying back and tumbles along the sand for quite a ways. It bellows and lightning engulfs your world.

Your instincts, honed by various ill-fated attempts to capture a Thunderbird, launch you clear of the blast. The resulting thunder blows out your eardrums, but tinnitus is a foe you have bested many times before and you quickly shake it off. You can see Simon scrambling away from his own near-miss, while Djura struggles to his feet with burns branching across his body like the root system of some parasitic plant.

Strained, powerful breaths draw your attention towards the shoreline, where the Orphan is struggling with its warded placenta. You can see the flesh of its remaining hand bubble and blister as it tries to force its way through, ultimately abandoning it and instead returning to its fallen arm. It picks it up and bites down on the shoulder. The sunlight writhes through its wings and it slams the arm down hard enough to shatter the nearest outcropping of glass.

You have a newfound respect for Mama Anderson putting up with your tantrums.

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CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Shattered jaw, nearly deafened, equilibrium issues.

Simon: Frazzled, deafened.

Djura: Severely burned, deafened. Has blood vials.

Orphan: Severed arm currently held in teeth, puncture wound in left calf.

 

[Tricia]

In one smooth motion, you pull out your club and twist it like this. You toss it to Simon without taking your eyes off the Orphan, trusting him to know what to do with it. He can put on his big boy pants and get over the whole "no guns" thing.

Ponderings on Simon's similarities to Batman and whether the Club o' Righteousness counts as a gun are quickly shoved aside in favor of not getting bludgeoned to death by the pissed-off blue toddler rampaging towards you. It's ramped up the aggression once more, attacking with newfound speed in a flurry that forces you back. You feint as best you can, trying to draw out its dramatic movements, but its wings give it a whole new axis with which to fuck your shit right up. A literal flying knee breaks your guard and blasts you away from your ward. Glass shatters beneath you and gouges your coat a few steps closer to Simon's aesthetic.

Instead of the follow-up ground pound you expected, however, the creature instead rockets towards your fire support. His panicked laser shot goes wide, perhaps a byproduct of his inner ear getting obliterated, and his rags do little to blunt the headbutt that audibly cracks his sternum. The club falls from limp hands, its impact overshadowed by that of its wielder as the Orphan latches onto the cliffside and spikes Simon into the sand.

"Oh no ye fuckin' don't," you growl as it tenses to leap down for the finisher. You burst forward, rear back, and uncork your latest toy: a spring-loaded Amygdala fist that erupts from your sleeves and slams the diving Orphan into the sheer stone. The entire cliffside groans, yet more detritus shifting from the impact and crashing down. You retract the fist and yank Simon away just as a chunk the size of Liam flattens his former resting place.

He's out cold, the cracking of his ravaged chest upsetting the rhythm of his shallow breaths. You have no idea where or if he has blood vials. Your eyes snap back to your punch's impact crater, obscured by the raining stone, and drag Simon's limp form behind you just before the Orphan cannons into you with tectonic force.

It doesn't even let you fall, digging its clawed fingers into your stomach. Your neck crackles from the whiplash, the sound drowned out by the wet shearing of flesh as the creature clenches its fist and tears a hole in your abdomen. Your hands instinctively moves to support your exposed organs, leaving you ill-prepared for the vicious chokeslam that sets the inside of your head afire. Only the yielding sand saves your skull from cracking like a hairy egg. The hand moves from your neck to your right wrist, yanking it away before the Orphan stomps down on your shoulder.

It pulls with inhuman strength. Muscles tear, ligaments yield, and with a final heave, the Orphan tears your arm off with a muffled screech. It throws its trophy aside and rears back to drive its fist clean through your face.

"OY."

Its head twists so quickly that the arm in its jaws nearly hyperextends. You force your head up to see Djura, his burns a fading tattoo, revving his gun. He cocks and fires the Stake Driver into the air, tinting the ocean air with cordite.

"Don't you fucking ignore me."

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CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Severed arm, mild concussion, slight case of disembowelment

Simon: Unconscious with cracked sternum

Djura: Mostly intact

Orphan: Severed arm currently held in teeth, puncture wound in left calf, damage to remaining arm from blocking Amygdala fist