1.2
+++
The bunker's halls are wide and tall. The entrance is just about the smallest part of it all, really. A Human could fit through it easily, with no trouble at all. It's good.
Because my ground-selves barely fit, anyway. Only the smallest three types can get in, because an entrance that was large for Humans was a tight fit for most of me. My bodies are, for the moment, limited to Clashers, Mimics, and Howlers.
That wasn't a bad thing, per se. It cut my options quite a bit, but between the three, I had a fair share.
Probably more than I'd need, to be honest. That I hadn't caught a scent of life yet hinted at there not being much of it, down here.
...
Well, not anymore.
My Clasher-self comes to a corner. Lying in said corner is a pile of broken bones and long-rotten flesh. I don't spare it too much attention, that sight is one that isn't particularly uncommon, around here.
What is uncommon is the line of red-brown on the ground trailing away from it. It's blood, old blood, but...
Far newer than that of the bones. The bones had been there for decades, maybe centuries. The blood, maybe a few days at most.
Hmm. I inspect the area a bit more closely, looking around the blood. None, against the walls or ceiling. No marks, little smearing. It is, aside from its age, oddly clear and clean, in the marking it's making.
The list of potential suspects for who might be down here just shrunk significantly. I have a fairly good guess as to who.
A Mimic-self takes point, slightly faster than the rest of my bodies. I follow the direction of the blood, it and the pulsating thrum of power leading me to the source.
More corridors and corners pass, and more dessicated piles of bones, too. It might, perhaps, be more appropriate to call this bunker a charnel house.
With a Mimic-self in the lead, it doesn't take too much longer for me to find what I'm looking for. A scent of life...
It smells like Blood. Thick and coppery, imbedded with War, ancient, mindless violence. A prelude and a promise all in one. It's a scent I'm quite familiar with.
I hurry, moving as fast as I can with my bodies. Clasher-selves rush with deceptive speed. Mimic-selves dart through the air, the core of light at their centers shining with bright intent. Howler-selves charge, slightly faster than the Clasers, darting between their legs and towards the source of the scent.
Down a corridor, then another, and then a scream pierces the air, echoing through the halls. A bit of laughter follows it, and much lower, some chanting.
I don't slow. More corridors, more bodies... and a door, there, wrenched open. I can see malevolent red light shining from it, hear the jeering and mad laughter within, and I can feel the malice building, hanging in the air like putrid smoke.
I reach the door just in time to see a man shove a blade into the chest of another. It's a small blade, basically a knife, but it's glowing a baleful red, symbols etched all over it.
I'm correct in my guess.
There's eight men, standing in a circle. An eight-sided sigil is on the floor, drawn in blood, with seven bodies already on the floor, even as the eighth falls to join them. The eight men are wearing what might be generously called rags, skin covered in blood, with skulls hanging from their ruined clothes. Their scents speak of deep corruption, malice dripping from their bones.
There is, however, another person in the room. Another, much smaller figure, chained to the walls, covered in cloth and hanging limp.
It only takes me a moment to take it all in. One of the figure's heads is just turning towards my Mimic-self. Still, there's no opportunity to react before the next event takes place.
I can feel it. The malice in the air reaches a crescendo as the body falls. Raw bloodlust taints the world-
And then reality inverts. Power and corruption spill into existence with a crack of red lightning, right in the center of the ritual star. The taste of blood grows stronger, and with a horrific shriek, something appears.
It's red, and tall. A head with two horns to either side, and face like evil made manifest. Muscular and dangerous, a fact reinforced by the fact that it's wielding a massive flaming sword almost as long as the creature was tall in one hand.
Two burning orange eyes glare at me, and a mouth full of sharp teeth opens to screech.
I charge forwards, and all that I can think of this horror is that it's nice to finally get some good food.
My Mimic-self smashes into the Daemon, limbs angled forwards, knocking it backwards, into one of the cultists. The other seven are quick to draw their weapons, but none are quick enough to do so before a pair of Howler-selves come through the door. Their cores open wide, blue light gathering before shooting out as an arcing ball of energy. The grenades explode on contact, a wave of concussive force and heat knocking every single one of them off their feet and leaving significant burns. None are dead, not yet, but none are in a position to interfere anymore.
The Daemon screeches, swinging its sword in a wide arc. My Mimic-self takes the blow as I refrain from moving out of the way, shifting limbs together. The sword punctures through two of the limbs, but not all the way. Light-blood leaks out, but my Mimic is still alive, and so, I wrap the rest of the limbs around the blade to hold it in place.
The Daemon tries to pull back, but the rough edge of the blade works against it. If it had the time, it probably could have, but it didn't. The two Howler-selves dart up to it, jumping with open cores. The four extrusions surrounding the open core act, in this case, like clamps, closing around the arms of the Daemon, dragging it down and backwards to the ground. Again, the Daemon screeches, but this time, it can't do anything about it.
My Clasher-self enters the room a moment later. I waste no time, moving towards the Daemon. My Clasher-self's arms rise, and I plunge down. The tips at the end of those arms puncture through red skin, making it roar in pain.
I attack. Light pours from the arms of my Clasher-self, a scintillating wave of vitality-breaking power. The light burns at the Daemon's skin, and then shatters it, red flesh disintegrating into a mist of pink-purple-red, raw corruption and energy.
Dangerous stuff. These were energies that could and would twist everything it came into contact with. The slightest touch could easily mutate flesh and bone and metal.
I was none of those things.
I reach out, and take hold of it. The Daemon screams, sensing now the danger that I pose to it. Swirling corruption mist settles in as I pull it to myselves, and the corruption flows towards my bodies, drawn in like a vacuum. I absorb it, biting down on the corruption, and the corruption screams, literally, with a sound that defies sense and reality.
I chew. The corruption tries to fight back, energies shifting and changing and mutating to find a blade to stab my throat, but it's a futile effort. It tastes vaguely like the concept of war, though the texture is oddly like bubblegum. It doesn't make much sense, but that's why it's important to chew one's food. Chewing forces it into something a bit more manageable, and, inevitably, closer to the ultimate goal.
The Daemon disintegrates a bit more, spilling into more and more corruption, bleeding more and more of its essence. Sensing an impending death, it tries to escape, its power shifting and changing, reality twisting as the veil thins...
But I don't let it. I reach deeper, grasping with more than my physical shells. Tendrils of my mind grip the Daemon, and I bind barbed chains into its soul, the true essence of its existence. Food, after all, is not allowed to run. It screams, and screeches, and tries to fight back-
And then I shatter it with a final pulse of light and will. The soul breaks, fragmenting into disconnected concepts. A little bit more chewing, and then...
I swallow. Screaming corruption falls to Silence, and settles within my stomach. Digestion is quick, energy processed and made... more useful. I spare some to heal my Mimic, knitting its energy-structure back together, but that barely puts a dent in what I've gained.
I'm left with a distinctly happy feeling of a good meal.
My bodies rise, even as the rest enter the room.
But I'm not done yet. Still eight more, after all.
And it's very important to finish one's food.
