PHQ-Nickname:
Syndel
Halfquake:
Mania
Level:
74
Total kills:
19,884,443
Birthday:
00th 0000
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| Mood: | awake |
| Type: | Story |
| Added: | May 18th 2007, 14:00:56 |
| Visits: | 1373 |
| Series: | [ Victimisation ] |
| Rating: | Not rated yet. |
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Somehow I must get out of here. The Victim sighed heavily and surveyed the aftermath of his battle. Nothing was ever simple in this world. Around him lay the corpses of many monsters, summoned for his slaughter. His eyes darted from corpse to corpse - sunken and hollow from the horrors he has witnessed this far in the institute. He glanced down and saw a slight movement from the beast lying in front of him. A dart was through it's head a second later.
He had become what he had faced, a trained killer. The sadists who ran this place had, by forcing him into situations where his survival was his only goal, trained him into an instinctive killer. The Victim had become the sadist. His contempt for the creatures echoed around his mind, growing in his hatred. The semblance of sanity that remained within his shattered psyche was focused on only one thing. If he couldn't escape... he would try to kill those responsible for his torture. He shouldered his crossbow and checked his ammo.
***
The world was in rebellion. Institutes that once stood tall were now under siege from the combined forces of both the innocents who had lost loved ones to the genocide and the armed forces of the new world order. Murther had lived a cursed life, and so had decided to curse the world. His mass genocides had attempted to change the world but had failed as the world realized the change and, as humans do, they clung to the familiar. Institutes around the world were fighting both the people and each other - sadists who had become more concerned with personal success than with the goal of the institutes.
Murther's message to the world fell on death ears. Even the sadists acted like humans, preoccupied with petty differences. When Murther died it was not the end - merely the beginning of the end.
...Somewhere under the atlantic:
...there was a Victim.
***
Death floated pensive above the burnt remains of an institute. Death was reliant on the humans to function - they personified him, made him real. He would stand but they had also made him non-corporeal. He existed because they did. It was he who, when the time had come, wrote the briefing in the world council. It was he who had incited the mobs and world against the institutes. There was too much death here - too many traps for both the humans and the spirits. He wondered if saving the humans counted against his job description.
He flicked through the universe, suddenly at an underwater institute - one of the most heavily fortified. The humans had equipped fighting submarines, quick, maneuverable craft. Surrounding the institute was a giant air bubble - kept stable through pipes to the surface. The submarines crashed down to the sea floor and armed soldiers rushed towards the institute - machine guns tore at them as they ran but could not kill all and many survived to breach the walls.
Armored figures wearing masks ran through the twisted backdrops of the institute - traps mechanisms visible, haunting melodys playing through muffled walls. Slaves fell to hails of bullets, security locks broke and fizzled as they failed. The leader of this institute smiled as he saw the carnage on the monitors. Beside him lay a handgun, a custom design consisting solely of clip, barrel and casing ejector surrounded by a transparent perspex casing. He loaded the gun and left the security room. Hung on his door there was a sign "Off hunting, be back later"
***
Something was happening. The assasin had just finished his tour of the complex - as far as he could see everything tunneled into a central room - this was where most of the other spirits had congregated. He had learnt from them that most victims were killed either during a part called "Violence" or immediately afterwards, however the institute expanded well past that point. He also learnt that some parts were circular - the Victim was held up for hours repeating the same task again and again - sometimes there were slight differences that would cause an inattentive Victim certain death. Everything lived on a lifeline here. He had also noticed the arrival of the soldiers - they could not know but the institute was huge, it would take them days to reach the center - assuming they could avoid all the traps between now and then. He glanced down and noticed, to his suprise, a diary, this far into the institute. He examined it carefully, cursing as he couldn't open it. A name was written on the cover. "Antaran's Journal" |
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