Hey fanbase!
here's one of the pieces i'm going to be submitting to Jazz's buddy Josh, it isn't quite finished yet but i just had it reviewed by my class and i figured why not get more feedback on the site. So read it, comment on it, enjoy it. And don't worry, when i actually finish the "final" draft i'll repost the story so things aren't so confusing.

Pilot Wilco

Excerpt

“God damn you bastard! You want some?” Wilco yelled flipping a switch overhead as he pivoted in the replicated amniotic fluid. His arms shot upwards grasping onto more fluid; his hands tensed as the phantom object he grappled with pulled him from one side of the chamber to the next. “Die you ugly piece of shit,” Wilco said revealing a crooked smile while he threw his arms in opposing directions. His canines mirroring the placid blue light emitted from the monitor situated a few feet from his face. “That the best you got Sasha?”

A short static burst from internal speakers crackled till a disembodied voice echoed through the roseate fluid in a Russian accent “It is not quite over friend, I suggest you consider the setting in which you’re in.” Sasha’s final laugh ushered the disconnection of the radio feed formerly established.

“No,” Wilco whispered to himself, “Dammit, those last soldiers baited me right into this fucking kill zone.” Wilco shouted discerning that he complied perfectly with the elaborate trap conceived by the disembodied voice. Wilco shook his head a few times before intuitively moving his hands to shape various symbols. Finishing the flow of familiar movements activated a secondary screen illuminating the left side of his face. The screen flipped sideways revealing a three dimensional grid stacking lines together to form the terrain of the secluded island. As the grid filled out Wilco proceeded with several more gestures to enhance his exact location on the iridescent screen. A yellow dot massed itself in a valley surrounded by a cul-de-sac of high reaching mountains. “So that’s why you disabled my thrusters.” Wilco said aloud, answering a question he previously pondered.

“Alright Sasha, so what do you got for me, More Fontainians or maybe Orok himself?” Wilco bellowed, “Anything you throw at me I’ll tear to pieces.” Wilco’s hands reacted with serine calmness, cutting off the grid screen and igniting another two optical views to provide a full range of vision. His eyes crept across every tree top and cliff edge, analyzing every detail of the secluded forest.

A river of splintered trees and churned earth formed by the previous hostilities drew in all forms of critters and predators inspecting the new scar in their homeland. Groups of birds flew in unison from the thick canopy and circled the sky only to swoop down into the horizon long green sea. The metallic giant, Wilco piloted, refracted rays of sunshine from its titian alloy and the steel chasms embedded in the armour from the former bloody conflict. The effulgent light illuminated the scrap yard of dissembled machines and pools of colourful liquids mixed with bloody entrails oozing from beneath the feet of the mech. Wilco’s muscles flexed in the irradiated ebony suit, lighting the electrodes enclosed within the micro fibre clothing.

Thickets of birds burst forth from the tree lines disturbing the peace and taking flight until they reached a safe distance from tips of the canopies. From the horizon, a chain of birded clouds sprang closer and closer to the soldier awaiting his fate.

Wilco squinted at his monitors attempting to spot the reason for the commotion. With a few hand signals the screen enhanced the images outside of the steel giant. Zooming on the image displayed by his monitors didn’t help him in discovering the disturbance. Every time his eyes would adjust to the new setting, all he could see was a man sized black flash racing across the tops of the trees, bobbing and weaving through the dense forest.

“Alright Sasha, I’ll admit it, you have my attention,” Wilco commented to the disembodied voice that he knew was surely enjoying the spectacle. Focused back on his optic monitors, Wilco created another two signs to start a sequence of yellow numbers coupled with a circular target. The aiming system patiently floated mid screen until the black streak appeared, coming to life to trace the movements of the energetic pursuer until the figure fell back into the thick bush. The yellow numbers correlated accordingly to the aiming system’s sporadic tracking, displaying a sign ‘4000m’ which rapidly counted down. “S’fast,” Can’t use this bulky armour if I stand a chance against speedy, Wilco thought finishing the whisper he initially started with. Another several movements from the pilot forced a screen to appear with a simple question asking if the pilot was ‘sure of operations’. Tensing his fists, Wilco activated a set of loud hissing just outside of his chamber.

Steam burst forth from small seams which fastened the mech together, pushing the metal away from the bulk of the machinery and dropping it against the littered floor creating a thunderous clap which rang against the mountain’s walls. Once the operation was fully complete the orange armour no longer shone from the top of the giant but on the forest floor amongst the graveyard of its mechanized brethren. Without the armour, Wilco’s mech was reduced by twice its original size.

Flashing with a dwindling ‘500m’ the once yellow numbers now turned red. Wilco responded, reaching for his right hip and picking up a short blackened barrelled weapon befitting the monstrous size of his pernicious tool. Wilco pointed the gun while lining his left eye with the targeting system and began pulling an imaginary trigger.

Balls of golden light stormed upon the already damaged earth, creating tidal waves of rocks and trees erupting into the sky and falling down with exuberant ferocity. Wilco grinned with each plasma round fired, laughing as he pulled the trigger repeatedly. A loud authoritative sound paired equally with a potent flashing red light filled Wilco’s senses, ceasing his amusement.

A female voice took to the speakers announcing, “Damage assessment: both legs have been severally damaged depleting all power from lower appendages. In this state you will be unable to move from your location on foot. Suggestion: Initialize thrusters and reengage enemy in aerial combat.” The robotic tone finished with a pop leaving through the chamber’s speaker systems.

“What the fuck is this thing?” Wilco questioned, pondering what his options might be to still come out victorious. Flipping himself to float parallel with the ground of the chamber, Wilco proceeded to activate another optical screen which surveyed the ground below him. Flickering to life the screen revealed gushing azure fluid and a blackened form grasping an old piece of fallen armour and picking it up to waist level. Spinning in a quick circle the enemy launched the titian metal towards the secondary optics in succession with dashing to the right side of the mech. Orange metal was the last thing Wilco saw before rotating another ninety degrees and pointing his left imaginary gun towards the right side of his body.

“See how you like 30,000 tons of shrapnel, you prick,” Wilco discharged two quick rounds into the right side of his mech; blasting and blistering away the right side of his steel humanoid. The deafening blast tossed the mech backwards landing on its back, leaving only a partial torso and left arm still clutching onto the firearm. Wilco lay motionless, a permanent grin plastered across his face shown every time the erratic light flickered. “Nearly got me Sasha, but I still win,” Wilco chuckled, “now give me an extraction”

Erupting from outside the chamber, metal on metal scraped sharply against the thinned layer of protection still separating its pilot from the external world. The sound grew ever louder with each shrill of metal being peeled away. Light burst onto Wilco’s face as he scrambled to the back of the chamber reaching for the pistol holster dangling on the left wall. A long silvery blade cut inwards through the viscous liquid slicing across Wilco’s thigh. A piercing scream rang from his mouth, pushing fluid towards the jagged hole which disrupted the fragile pressure difference between amniotic fluid and external atmosphere. Wiggling the blade maliciously made quick work of the final layer of armour, the blade receding once the whole chamber flooded with natural light; leaving Wilco pointing his gun at the massive opening but with no target to be seen and with his blood clouding the already semi permeable roseate fluid. Each twitch of his muscles disturbed the liquid, sloshing the contents around until spilling through the barbed breach.

With incomparable speed the black flash plunged into the chamber catching the wounded soldier off guard, his equipped hand immediately tasting the venomous bite of the indiscriminate blade. Unable to accept defeat, Wilco swung furiously with his uninjured arm towards the darkened face of his assailant. The undisclosed attacker caught his arm with ease instantly manipulating the sturdy boned wrist into small splinters. Another gasp of pain burst from Wilco’s lips. The black flash slowly pulled Wilco closer as he asserted himself as the clear victor of the skirmish. Wilco’s breath quaked with pain as the rush of fluid cleared the murkiness of the bloody mixture. A torrent of amniotic fluid scrambled for the outside atmosphere racing towards the gaping opening and across the face of his assailant, pulling crimson coating from his face on the way out. The man finally seen in full by Wilco only allowed him to utter one word before carving the malevolently wielded blade up the pilot’s chin and through the skull.

Dante

Machinery clicked and popped with renewed excitement initializing a large egg shell sized chamber to bleed pink fluid into the drainage holes situated consistently across the ground of the black tiled flooring. Iridescent lights flashed as the egg crackled and hissed exposing slits in the smooth siding and raising the curtain on a man in a tightly fitted ebony suit. A helmet covered the man’s face with a similar darkness replicated throughout the room.

A growl began rumbling from within his chest working its way to the throat, gurgling the sounds before igniting through his mouth, “Sasha!” Wilco howled echoing the already accentuated name. Tugging at the bottom of his helmet, Wilco removed his head covering and dropped it into the last dripping pool of amniotic fluid not quite expelled into the drainage system. Wilco stepped from the moist egg onto the tiling, his steps forming a melodic rhythm that tapped throughout the room as he walked. His strides instigated hollow sounds from hanging fluorescent lights beginning an arduous initializing procedure. Each light revealed more of the great expansiveness, exposing rows of egg chambers. Reaching for the zippers on both wrists, Wilco unzipped the suit until only his legs remained covered. On the far side of the egg room, a set of cylindrical doors slid open with his approach.

Glowing from within the next room two separate walls projected silvery light onto the sunken faces of two men sitting with their backs to one another. Speedily tapping away at the keyboards in front of them, the men watched as letters and numbers ran from one line to the next on the brightly attuned screens.

Wilco continued his pace all the way passed the man with the long pony tail of stringy brown hair, grasping onto the greasy unkempt strands as he walked beyond the leather seat. A sharp pull by Wilco forced the man to the floor causing the chair to fall sideways and scuttle across the illuminated tiles. The man’s hands frantically reach upwards digging his grubby nails into the bare wrists of his aggressor. Blood began to trickle down into Wilco’s porcelain coloured hands as he slammed the dangly man against the adjacent wall, knocking several hard drives off a set of free hanging shelves and gaining the attention of the other predisposed programmer.

“Sasha,” Wilco said switching his grasp from hair to neck, “why was Dante in the program?” Bitterness spewed from Wilco’s mouth as he tightened the grip against the beating tissue of Sasha’s neck.

Sounds and words incoherently dribbled from Sasha’s thin lips as he tried to catch breaths of air; drool began to run down his protruded chin when Wilco finally cooled his mind to loosen the blood curdling grip. Sasha collapsed to his knees, gasping for the air that previously escaped him, his coughs echoing throughout the room.

“What is wrong with you?” Sasha asked, coughing with each fleeting word, “Is this the gratitude you show for a man that saved your life?” Rising from the ground, Sasha stumbled towards the chair he previously sat in, gazing all the while at his attacker.

“Save my life? My life?” Wilco retorted, “you had Dante kill me you vodka sipping greasy fuck!”

“If he actually killed you, you’d be dead fluid jockey,” Sasha explained while picking up his chair and swinging back towards his work station, resuming the thumping of plastic, “I extracted you from exercise just before trauma become too much for heart to handle. You should be praising my existence not throwing me from here to there.”

“Alright, so you extracted me in time, Fine,” Wilco said walking to Sasha’s desk, “doesn’t explain why you put Dante in the program.

“I did nothing of the sort, it was your creation. If you’d taken time to read today’s assignment you would’ve known program traces fear of trainee and creates in physical form. Yachoff merely entered collaborative data information once fear was established.”

“I’m not afraid of a dead man, Sasha. You sick fucking krauts probably just wanted me to finally lose your pathetic simulations.”

“Kraut is German, you reverted fetes,” Sasha scolded, “your aptitude for simulation has nothing to do with fact you’re afraid that rumours of Dante are true.”

“Dante is buried in Mainland, I saw it myself” Wilco said unconvincingly, “and besides Dante never was able to take an Oni down with no armour.”

“Yachoff designed your fear with data from Gale database. If you don’t like it, talk to tech support.”

“Funny Sasha, real funny. Talk to the deaf Russian who never learned a lick-a-English. I’m guessing that it was you who had my Oni suggest thrusters after they’d already been disabled?”

“Actually that was Yachoff as well. We had good laugh seeing you sweat with no aerial combat.” Wilco wasted no time for Sasha to finish what he was saying. With only a few steps Wilco fixed himself directly behind the heavier set programmer.

Yachoff, eh?” Wilco asked while simultaneously throwing Yachoff’s balding head into the keyboard in front of him. His head bounced instantly bringing up several broken keys, one of which embedded itself in his forehead. His hands immediately shot upwards to grasp his face as blood began squirting from his nose and freshly formed pressure cuts.

Hearing the percussive sound, Sasha spun on his heels pulling a gun from underneath his desk as he turned, “Step away from my brother Wilco,” Although the gun was improperly proportionate to Sasha’s sickly skinny arms, his aim set true to Wilco’s sweating brow. “I was going to let these outbursts go because I sympathize, but you touch Yachoff and now you’ll be hearing from CU.” Sasha threatened flicking his gun in the direction of a door which read ‘Exit’ in bright fluorescent red paint. “Now leave before I kill you.”

Taking a second to comply with the request, Wilco begrudgingly headed to the door, only turning after he went through the automated exit. “I ever see my brother in a program again, I’ll kill you both.” The exit closed two parties eyeing each other till the very last second.

Tears welled in Wilco’s eyes as he sombrely staggered down the hallway, residual pains flaring from his imaginary gashed leg and lost arm; the pulsing throbs shook right into Wilco’s head making him feel like Dante really had pierced his skull.

“Dante,” Wilco whispered wiping away a rogue tear, “are the rumours true?” finally asking the question aloud prompted Wilco to throw a wayward fist against the metal sheeted walls.

Crackling to life, the intercom shouted a powerful ding, ding, ding before stating, “Wilco, please report to presidential tower.” Wilco longed for a moments rest and although he urged himself to refuse the request, he could not disobey his leader’s wishes.

Sorry for another cliff hangar.

I could use the criticism so feel free to dish it!

Second Base...actually second story but meh

And the second story (more like precursor to something but whatever) i promised.
This is getting closer to my style but the next one will really show case the best right now.

Hundred Soul Blade:

Once long ago, a blacksmith forged a blade, this particular blade laid dormant within the smithy of small town for years. The blade was regarded as an unremarkable piece of weaponry. That was until the small village was attacked by ruthless bandits sweeping the land. The bandits were ruthless as they ravaged the country raping and pillaging all in their path. One boy, after witnessing the murder of his father and the raping of his mother, ran to the building and unsheathed the weapon ready to defend any townsman still alive. However, for the boy it was too late. Only a few straggling bandits remained to slaughter the last few wounded persons, leaving the bandits and the poor boy as the last hearts still beating in the town. Crying loudly to storming skies, the boy knelt in the pooling blood beneath his feet and beseeched the very god who he stopped believing in. He begged and pleaded with god to grant him the strength to avenge his friends and family. The bandits laughed as they approached the boy wielding a sword twice his size. Their blades and pikes ready to slay the last resident of the rural town.

The first blade came down across the boy’s neck only to be stopped centimetres before his spine. A radiant form erupted from the boy knocking all the surrounding brutes on their backs and pushing them towards more solid structures. Their bodies pinned to walls and stacked corpses as an unforeseeable force held them in place. The boy’s eyes glowed pure white, burning the flesh of the bandits he laid his gaze upon. An ethereal form extended from the boy’s limbs until his own body was just the core to the phantasmal being. Each bandit lied helpless while their flesh boiled and their bodies shred piece by piece with every swing of the phantoms iridescent blade. The shadow’s of the recently slain, their souls, assumed life as the vessels choked on their last breath`s and after the last man was slaughtered, the souls vanished within the blade, receding the phantom back into the boy. Sprawled in the dirt panting, the boy was unable to witness the slow progression of his townsman, who had surely died, stand from the soiled earth. Some shone a vibrant white while others looked just as they did before, no wounds, no blood stains, and no memories of their deaths. Once the last child stood from a sure death, a voice entered into the boys mind. It started by praising the boy’s bravery and resolve and explained that it was due to these two virtues the blade was awoken from its slumber. The voice called the blade, Dirge. Dirge’s purpose was to reunite a soul with its lifeless vessel. In order to do so the blade must feast on a truly wicked soul, one soul for another. Dirge would record the souls of whom he witnessed perishing and he deemed worthy of rebirth, however, the number was limited. The blade could only bind a hundred souls. These souls would be bound through the power of the wielder and would be their burden to bear.

Through the next several weeks, the boy realized exactly what he had done. One family of the village was reborn, while the others stayed close to the boy. The family adopted the boy, unable to view the souls that followed him daily. They lived happily and prospered for years, remaining diligent even after the confusion of their townsmen`s deaths. Until one day, the boy decided to search the land for the town’s attackers. His adopted family pleaded with him that the task was impossible, that his idea to revive the town’s people was one of insanity. Though while living together the boy slowly gained strength that would be inconceivable for his age, he grew out of his clothes within weeks and looked near twice his age by the end of only two years past the original incident. Incapable of stopping the boy, now man, the family bid him farewell and watched as he walked past the hills for the horizon.

The man never returned to the village. After years of searching and killing he avenged every soul he carried with him. Slowly, the souls who walked with him disappeared, finding their empty vessels and, what the man hoped, continued life as if they never died. His adopted family, now believers after witnessing many rebirths, constantly tried describing the boy`s story to every revived townsman. The non-believers saw the tale as a wild legend until they themselves observed the waking of the dead. The bard of the town wrote his tale and was tasked with spreading the news to surrounding lands in hope of the man, once boy, hearing the tale and returning home into open arms of his thankful followers. The story spread further than any of the town members could ever imagine and in the end, the only thing to return to the village was the word that many now too believed in his legend. The legend of Vabiel and the Funeral March.

My first Blog will be...

From the common visitors to wandering stumblers,
Welcome all!
I pondered for a few hours today about all the possible stories i could start with and decided that i should follow the advice of a wise man, Lewis Carroll, who once said, "begin at the beginning." So i will do exactly that. However, like most things in life, i will give a disclaimer: This is a piece i wrote when i first returned to writing. I understand that the wording and grammar is in need of a fine, fine comb but this piece holds a certain amount of character in which i like to write. So i will release two blogs; the first will show the beginning and the second will show the vast improvement in my maturity and prose.

Without further ado, i give you "Machina," The book which rediscovered my ambition.

Chapter -Cry

Seventy sevens face lit at the chance to finally indulge all the information that had weighed him down. He smiled as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed leaving the sweat stained sheets stuck to the clumpy mattress. His mind raced as to where to begin on the question he waited for anyone to ask him. Though he longed to answer the question, his face furrowed as his mind drew a blank.

“You have to understand something Seventy seven” Locke paused to sit himself on the bed, “We don’t live in good times.”

“I know that, the whole world was divided after the last democratic leader passed away.” Seventy seven fell backwards toward his bed. “I’ve heard that more than anything.”

“Alright well what do you know of this pla-”

“Military hospital, funded by Fontain himself,” Seventy seven stiffened and puckered his lips. “Home to the brightest mind in Fontain, John Locke.” Seventy seven’s impression mocked the info video that they had showed him once he awoke from his original coma.

Hanging above them the dimmed bowl shaped light flickered. It was a regular occurrence for the hospital, so much so that the men didn’t even acknowledge it. It was only the room’s sudden darkness that drew their attention.

“What the hell?” Seventy seven asked as Locke lunged toward the door. His ear pressed tightly against the metal surface. The loud screeching of the ensuing alarm made Locke’s head snap back.

“It’s an attack,” Locke’s hand reached into the back of his lab coat and pulled out a shiny object out. He clenched it tightly as he let his arms dangle to his side. “We have to get to the next level.”

“Why do you have a gun?” Seventy seven questioned frantically, “Why are we being attacked?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain, we have to go before they close the next level.” Locke’s free hand gripped the handle of the door and turned it slowly. He lifted his gun hand to eye level to peak through the crack he created, peering into the hallway. Locke’s face flashed red as the alarm light crept into the room. “It’s clear, you ready?” Seventy shook his head in disagreement but in the same motion stood. His muscles burned from his last workout. Just standing sent sharp pains through his entire body. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he shifted his weight from one leg to another, preparing himself for what to come. Shifting turned into willing as Seventy seven shook his limbs from their agonizing constriction.

“You ready?”

“Ya,” Seventy seven said standing in disconcerting stillness.

“Stay close,” Locke stated, bringing his gun to his face. His gun reflecting the little light that shone to his upward turned corners of his lips. Swinging the door open Locke smashed a hole into the dry wall backing as he ran to the parallel wall. Imitating the doctor, Seventy seven sprinted to the wall, slamming himself flat beside Locke.

Carefully the men slid across the wall, Seventy-seven right on the back of Locke who held the gun pointed towards the adjacent hallway. The alarm was loud and the sound drowned the tap created with each step taken. Seventy seven appreciated that no one would know they would be there but knew that it was a double edged knife. Quickly Locke’s hand pushed Seventy-seven closer to the wall. As their backs pressed tightly against the tiled siding a man and woman appeared in their sight. Their lab coats flailed as they turned, seeing Locke and Seventy seven.

Breaking past the echoing noise of the alarm the woman screamed loudly. Seventy seven couldn’t understand her shrillness but he knew it needed to stop. He reached for the woman but her arm slipped away easily. Seventy seven knew this substance as he looked down at his hand. Even in the red alarm light it wasn’t hard to know what the crimson liquid was. It happened so quickly Locke and Seventy seven never even noticed the man in the lab coats’ head was half of what it should be; his flesh that remained blackened by the contrasting blue flash that seemed unnoticeable at first.

“Grab her,” Locke barked. Wasting no time on grabbing her arms, Seventy seven went straight for her waist. The shriek was only silenced in the breaths that the woman needed to take. Seventy seven held her closer, trying harder to muffle her screams. He grimaced as the blood which covered the women, coated his half naked body. The sticky substance reminded him closely to the brief memory he retained of his life before the hospital.

Searching for support Seventy seven shifted his gaze to Locke. Locke, however, focused his eyes around the corner to see who had killed one of his coworkers.

A cracking broke through the alarms alert, taking a large chunk out of the corner of the wall.

“Locke!” Seventy seven shouted seeing Locke fall to the ground.

“Bloody hell,” Locke’s voice was distorted as he took a large breath inwards. Repositioning his legs Locke pushed himself against the wall onto his feet. “He’s good. He’s not going to miss again.”

Seventy-seven was frozen in amazement at how calm his friend was. He knew if that happened to him his own string of curses would still be filling the ears of anybody in a ten mile radius.

“Let go of me!” Seventy seven was so concerned with Locke he had forgotten the woman who was still in his grasp. His hands loosened their grip and the girl pushed away from his bare chest. “We have to run or he’s going to kill us, it’s our only chance.” Her voice was shaky and here eyes wide.

“No, you can’t. You’ll die.” Seventy seven spoke tilting his head and softening his usual baritone voice.

“We’ll die here.” Her body trembled violently and the droplets of blood that covered her flew to the ground. “You would probably kill me just to save yourself.” Her eyes scanned the men as she stepped slowly backwards, her chest now rising and falling faster than when her friend was shot.

“Listen lady, we want to help you.” Seventy seven shot his hand out quickly trying to grab at the arm he had before she had become so paranoid.

“Don’t touch me!” She said sharply. Seventy seven switched his stare towards Locke for him to help guide the woman from the edge of the hallway. Locke’s face was calm and tranquil, his eyes gently shut as he brought the gun parallel to his face.

“See he’s going to kill us.” She continued backwards, every step bringing her nearer to the sight of the shooter down the hall.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Seventy seven hands raised in front of him showing his palms to the frightened woman. “We want to help.”

“I don’t want to die.” She yelled as she spun on her heels, breaking into a stumbled sprint down the shooters hall. Seventy seven felt a hand on his shoulder as he reached for the female doctor who was well down the hallway. His head turned to see Locke step out of the protection of the wall, gun pointed to the direction of the shooter. A bright blue light flashed down the hallway, silencing the thumping of the woman’s heavy foot step. Only to be returned by a flash from Locke’s gun.

“Go check on her.” Locke ordered. Before Seventy seven could answer Locke was already traveling down the hallway with two hands on his gun. Seventy seven ran to the opposing wall, leaning against it as he moved towards the downed woman. The red light revealed more than Seventy seven wanted to see of the bloody scene. He first came across her legs twisted awkwardly and separated from the rest of her mangled torso. The area between her two selves streaked with bloody entrails.

Seventy seven dropped to his knees as a fire erupted in his stomach. The burn worked its way up his body, igniting everything in its path. Incapable of holding the inescapable aftermath of the gruesome scene, Seventy seven’s vomit splashed against the linoleum paneling. Seventy sevens body convulsed as the last drop of off white fluid fell from his lips to the ground

“Seventy seven we have to go” Locke’s footsteps were light; Seventy seven hadn’t realized Locke stood above him. Stretching backwards for the support of Locke, Seventy seven scampered to his feet.

“Bastards,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his forearm. Locke put another reassuring hand on the large mans shoulder and with a nod of his head they began down the hall.

With his stomach sufficiently emptied he followed Locke away from the horrific scene. The men traveled cautiously down each corner, welcoming the fall in thought that they would be fighting for their lives down every turn. They traveled without speaking, their hand signals their only form of communication. It was only when they reached a hallway with a sign reflecting the red flashing light that declared ‘Surgery Ward’ did Locke speak.

“That’s it” Locke shouted, pointing to the only place that didn’t quite radiate the alarm light. Instead, a flood light hung from the ceiling illuminating the blood stained walls that dripped onto the hospital beds and surgical trays that seemed to be pushed frantically against the walls. One bed lay across the width of the hallway riddled with scorched holes, burnt into the aluminum frame.

“These people are fucking animals” Seventy seven said, feeling the fire back in his mid section. He was glad his guts lay elsewhere in the hospital so he would not be able to spill them here.

“C’mon mate we just need to go to the last door on the left and we’ll be through this mess” Locke spoke nodding his head down the hall “All we have to do is reach that otha’ flood light.”

Seventy seven mind raced, looking for the will he needed to continue to finally be safe. Though his body did not need such things for his legs had already begun to follow his partner through the massacre.

“Where are all the bodies?” Seventy seven asked, his thoughts finally settling on the question. The blonde haired man’s mouth opened to answer, only to be interrupted by a deep percussion cackle. The cackle began low and rose in pitch, riding the walls of the narrow hall.

From the door Locke pointed too, two dark skinned men immerged. Their hair long and tangled their eyes black as a moonless night. The colouring looked as if the darkness had bled from the iris and swallowed the whole of the sclera. Their smiles were large revealing their carnivorous teeth that matched the red walls. It was from these two the laughs were originating from, their deep brown bodies bouncing with the rhythm of laughter.

Locke’s gun hand raised, he fired two shots at the feral man on the left, dropping him to the ground. He grabbed at the yellow fur that covered his shoulders and chest. Though the laughter had seized from the grounded one the other laughed even harder, seeing the other in such pain. His body wriggled and wretched twisting disturbingly, his under platting scrapping sharply against the flooring. Which only increased the volume of the other’s laughter. It seemed as though nothing could stop the terrifying chuckle that filled the air. Silence drew only after the twitching man stood again, their eyes tightening on the now petrified patient and doctor.

“Shoot em Locke Shoot em” Seventy seven bellowed. His eyes widened firing three shots into each of the men. Each bullet making them barely flinch, there ungrudging trek towards them unaltered. Their focus increasing with every step they took.

“Run,” Locke screamed, grabbing on to Seventy Sevens shoulders and physically turning him to go back the other way. Concerned with the initial threat Seventy Seven and Locke hadn’t noticed that it wasn’t two people laughing but four. Two identical looking men inched closer, matching the methodical onward press of the two first. Locke’s gun banged and clicked one last time, the upper slide cocked back revealing the bullet chamber and the last shell trickling to the ground. As one of the initial feral creature’s head sported a brand new blackened dot an inch above his right brow. His knee’s buckling in mid step crumpling the man awkwardly.

Not slowing down for the fallen comrade the feral men began their sprint. They were fast, Seventy sevens head shifted left to right pressing his back against the wall. His hand settling on the nearby surgical tray searching for something he could use to attack. Before Seventy-seven could blink again the three men had pounced on Locke, his feet the only piece of him Seventy seven could still see.

Seventy seven dove to the closest one knocking him easily off his friend and landing on top of him. His eyes going from the man he was on to the arteriole clamp he clenched in his fist. Raising the clamp over his head, he thrust it down towards the face of the black eyed man. Feeling contact made, Seventy Seven stared at the fruits of his labour. The feral mans hand raised 6 inches in front of his face, blood dripping down from the metal clamp he had barely stopped from entering through his forehead. His laugh boomed in Seventy Sevens ear as he held his pierced hand at mouth level. Brightened by the chance Seventy seven threw his palm at the circular handle still exposed, shoving the rounded tipped clamp into his opponents throat. Instantly the man on the bottom pulled his hand from out of his mouth spraying blood into Seventy Sevens face.

The liquid burned as it ran into Seventy Sevens eyes, mouths and ears. He stood from his position and felt the foot of the man he was attacking make contact to his stomach making him crash backward into the cheap walling. Grabbing for anything he could reach to wipe away the liquid, he found an already bloodied sheet off of a tipped over bed. Wiping his face he caught site of the man he had sentenced to death scramble to his feet then back down to his stomach on the ground, repeating the act until finally he lay still. Seventy seven switched back to his endangered friend only to have a face stare right into him. It was quickly replaced by a fist that tossed Seventy Sevens head backward making a deeper hole into the cavern which was created from his first bludgeoning. Before he had a chance to recover he felt rough calloused hands grab his face and stone like thumbs jab into his closed eyes. Searching his face and the attacker’s hands he grabbed onto his new opponent’s pinky fingers and with a cry of energy pried the pinky’s backward. Only stopping once he heard a sufficient enough snap and crunch. He felt his opponents hand retreat allowing him to open his eyes again only to reveal blurred sight that merged his surroundings as he attempted to regain his bearings. Finally focused he settled on the scalpels that littered the ground from a tilt over surgical tray for his next weapon. Extending his hand for the tools exposed him enough for the feral man to stomp down forcefully on his appendage. With a scream of pain Seventy Seven shot his other hand out for the scalpels, grabbing one he stabbed hard through the foot that wasn’t grinding his hand into a pile of diamond tipped instruments. His opponent jumped back tearing at metal that stuck from his bleeding foot, realizing the opportunity Seventy Seven scrambled to his feet.

Gathering all his strength he threw his Machina leg into the chest of the feral. He heard ribs crack under the power of the metallic leg. The force of the kick leveled the man to the ground who flew back face up to the sky. Seventy Seven felt every inch of his body pulsing with the thick burst of adrenaline that now enveloped his being. He stomped down on the exposed stomach of the stunned man, hearing a few more bones crack under the pressure. He continuously kicked precisely hitting the boniest parts of the downed man’s side until he felt as though he might be kicking minced meat. The final blow only occurred once Seventy Seven kick made contact to his head making a cracking noise that resulted in the yellow covered man to follow his fellow attacker’s extreme stillness.

Seventy Sevens breath was heavy as he turned to what was the last of the attackers. His pulse beat loudly in synch with his breath in his ears, though it wasn’t enough to be unable to hear the loud suction popping. The feral that he first saw emerge now lay straddling Locke’s limp bodied chest, a pink string extending from his hand to Locke’s eye socket. He ripped back violently forcing the string to snap, his face brightening at his accomplishment.

“NO!” A high pitched cry flew through the bloody scene. Looking back at the door that Locke had initially pointed to a woman appeared, gun in hand. Her body stopped on a dime before she exploded a punch that made the feral man slide a few meters back. In an inhuman amount of time the man was standing again. The woman lifting her gun and began to fire but the yellow fur draped man blurred quickly out of sight. “Seventy Seven help me.” The woman placed Locke’s arm around her shoulder.

It took him a second glance to recognize the woman as his trainer, Amanda. Shell shocked he walked to his friend who he still hoped severely was at least alive. Grabbing Locke’s other arm he felt the hot breath of his unconscious companion. He also heard the now rising sound of laughter filling in behind them.

“Amanda cover us, I’ll carry him,” nodding her head she let the arm she wrapped around her drop, which allowed Seventy seven to sweep his arm underneath Locke’s legs. Firing into the red to black darkness the two ran for the safe room. Seventy seven didn’t look back, he knew they were right on top of them and could only pray the exit was still open.

Rounding the corner to the room he saw the wall size steel door closing slowly. Slipping side ways he fit quite easily through. He turned to see sure that Amanda would also make it through. Her gun hand rounded the corner they had just came from, firing bursts of bullets into a mob that burst walls as they ran to their targets. “Come on.” Seventy Seven shouted.

It could only be her, only her small stature could fit through the crack that the steel doors had left the few seconds before fully closing. She pushed from the framing of the doorway she was shooting at, dropping her gun and taking two large steps to dive through the slit, sliding across the concrete floor like a baseball player stretching for home plate.

“Safe.” Seventy Seven sputtered as a mist of blood spat from his mouth onto the woman who’d saved their lives. His arms feeling weaker then ever dropped the doctor. His eyes feeling as they did when the feral clawed for his face, dropping to his knees he felt the warm liquid that pulled beneath him.

Wooooooooo!
Alright, so there it is, a Chapter from Machina .
What's going happen to the injured Seventy seven and Locke?
leave comments, let me know if you liked it. Just remember, the grammar and the wording will be fixed when i'm not so busy. So if you must comment on that aspect, make sure it's motivational for me!
Just a reminder this was very early writing so if you want an accurate measure of what i do now, read posts 3 and up! :D