KOV VII: Mortality vs. Warsman

Avatar image for thisisgonnahurt
ThisIsGonnaHurt

43085

Forum Posts

840

Wiki Points

0

Followers

Reviews: 0

User Lists: 4

@mortality:

Eighty years ago, Berlin - the height of the Nazi regime

Five men in greatcoats with pointed caps and polished boots exited a truck bound for the Fuhrer's residence. They needed to confirm through documentation and certain paperworks that a weapon capable of winning the impending war with the rest of the world actually existed. Two years of searching and meticulous planning brought the five to different corners of the globe, spanning a crusade of knowledge that would have taken a single man most of his natural life. The moment they waited for, the culmination of this knowledge, had finally come. Lumbering through the nightly drizzle in a strict fashion, the quintet made their way into a grandiose library, made in the honor of Adolf Hitler of course - the pretentious fool's portrait hung everywhere, along with the more important symbol of power in the swastika.

"Why do we have to do this?" Gustav blubbered, his fat face comfortable in his insulated cloak. "The Fuhrer will never know if we just hide the information away. This discovery is far too important to be used as a simple weapon,"

"Silence," Otto barked, his heavy jaw bouncing with his long strides. Ahead of the pack, he always managed to make himself the leader. "The Fuhrer will have his weapon and the Reich will spread across the globe, wiping out imperfections as it goes,"

Klaus kept his lips pursed, as he always did, and his slumped posture betrayed the frailty of sleep deprivation and introvertedness.

"But what if the Fuhrer misuses it? Turns it against the Allies and ends up creating more of a mess than he has already gotten Germany into?" Berthold inquired, his thin face and wiry body holding more wisdom in a finger than the zealous Otto possessed in his entire brutish mind.

"I said be quiet," Otto snarled again. "We have come here to put together the pieces to the puzzle. Yet, one of our group has not yet told us what he has found. Kriegsherr, just what did you find in Egypt?"

"Patience, Otto," the most terrifying of the five responded coldly. His face, almost as if his skin were forcibly removed so that his pulsating flesh could replace it, creaked into a devilish smirk. "Not even the Fuhrer's greatest spies know the value of what I uncovered in the pharaohs' crypts, or in the sands where the slaves died as they worked. The secrets of Egypt on this subject are mine, just like the secrets of Scandinavia are yours Otto. We are all here on account of the Reich. We will not fail,"

Before long, they reached a duo of imposing doors inscribed with images of eagles, griffons, and various other winged creatures proclaiming the 'ascension' of the Reich. Battles between mythical and earthly creatures were not uncommon in the baroque artworks of the talented German artisans forced into labor for the Fuhrer, his closest friends, and their families. The library itself had been a gift. Statues, paintings, and various other symbols of elegance imported from France, Bulgaria, and Italy were commonplace. The Fuhrer forgot about it within three weeks of the Reichstag burning. He scheduled an underground bunker to be built beneath its floors and for the rooms themselves to be reinforced in the event of an attack on Berlin. The artistic integrity had been lost in the smoke of an inferno that had yet nine years left to burn to the Fuhrer's beloved capital.

"Gentlemen, hang up your coats. We have a long night ahead of us," the Kriegsherr stated, closing the doors behind him and gesturing to a rack where he then placed his own jacket.

After they became somewhat situated, three of the quintet had taken their seats. Otto and the Kriegsherr remained standing. Otto wanted what the Kriegsherr knew with a fire in his belly.

"Kriegsherr, now is not the time for your frivolous games," Otto growled.

"Your patience is as stunningly broad as your trigger finger, Otto. I see how well you slaughter the untermensch by pressing buttons and throwing levers. I do not fear you because I have seen you fight. You prefer to do it behind closed doors and with your thumb up your ass, m*sturb*ting to the pain you cause," the Kriegsherr taunted.

"You..." Otto murmured, at a loss for words.

"Yes, me. I am the only real soldier in this room. I know how to kill when my enemy is in my face, writhing in his own blood," the Kriegsherr removed his Lugermorph from its holster on his chest.

"Baron Otto, they will call you, master of hounds. Master of others who do the fighting for you. Have you ever held an opponent in those broad arms of yours? Squeezed the life out of his throat?"

Otto began to visibly tremble. Gustav and Klaus were quiet, but Berthold rose to his feet.

"Now now, gentlemen, this is not the night for bloodshed. We have information to share, remember?"

"I've already read your documents, Berthold. You think I am a blundering fool whose only talent is butchering my enemies," the Kriegsherr glared Berthold back down into his chair, then fixed his gaze back on Otto.

"The Fuhrer wants his weapon. Only I found any concrete evidence of its whereabouts," the Kriegsherr twitched his trigger finger three times. Two of the bullets ricocheted off Otto's spinal cord and ripped through his vital organs. With a gout of blood choking his last breaths - most likely curses directed at his killer - Otto slumped to the floor in a cold heap.

Five more bullets sang. Klaus began to cry and covered his head once he saw blood leap from Otto's stomach and onto his face. Berthold tried to react, but his spindly form took one bullet into the eye socket. The brain he grew to be so proud of crumpled as the piece of metal bounced around his skull like a happy child. Gustav, in his estranged way of defying death, tried to lunge forward and wrench the gun away from the Kriegsherr. Faster, stronger, and far more agile than Gustav, the Kriegsherr rewarded the fat man with a swift slap with the back of his hand and a smoking gunshot wound to the temple. Klaus - poor Klaus - tried to surrender.

"P-Please Kriegsherr, I will do anything if you spare my life! Pledge my eternal soul to you if I have to!"

"Perhaps later."

The quintet had dwindled down to a solo act and stayed that way for eighty years. What the Kriegsherr found in Egypt and what he managed to steal from his accomplices in Berlin details of a mystical doomsday device that fell from the sky: "مكعب الكونية" - the "Cosmic Cube."

---

Planet Maus - present day

Seven years of consecutive tournaments referred-to as the "King of the Vine" passed slowly and arbitrarily for Warsman, known in a past life as the Kriegsherr who went missing in action following the Battle of Berlin. He intentionally waited for the tournament to become such a widely-acclaimed event that the instigators and collective hosts of the gladiatorial event would be greater technological masterminds than anything the human race had seen or will see for quite some time. That time had come, and the Symaarian Imperium - should he win - would theoretically be able to construct or at least gather the necessary tools for Warsman's very own Cosmic Cube.

However, he never realized how...colorful...a galaxy-spanning military superpower could be, especially in regards to choices in arenas.

After the pre-battle preparations, the combatants were gifted with a free ride to Planet Maus, though Warsman wished he had a decisive voice in where he could properly fight his opponent. The incessant roar of ticket machines, the clacking of greasy hands on outdated arcade booths, and the pitiful whining of spoiled children drove a spike through his ears and twisted his heart into a vengeful rage. Whosoever finalized this location would have his head forcibly removed and put on a spike for all to see, so swore the tyrannical skull-faced menace.

Slapping a woman out of his way, he kicked over a group of children gathered around a basketball game. Hearing them cry gave him some manner of satisfaction. Hearing the silence after a fatal explosion of grenade shrapnel curled his lips into an even more malicious smile. One of the more annoying aspects of this planet did not exist in its almost entirely academically miniscule population, but in the workforce employed to keep it from crumbling into anarchy rather than the structured chaos that it thrived on. The mascot, for example, gave Warsman a dead stare from its felt eyes. With arms akimbo as if in disappointment, it pulled out a cartoonish blunderbuss from a strap on its back. Warsman grinned. Perhaps this would be fun after all.

---

The children screamed and ran in all directions of the endless playhouse. Their hero - Mocky Maus - struggled in pitched battle against a monstrous skull-faced man who had just recently caught his first and last whiff of cardboard pizza and unwashed bathrooms and decided to do something about it. Stabbing into the plush nightmare with his two hands, squeezing the blood out of the man's torso, Warsman's eye twitched in a primal insanity and lust for violence. Tearing out the innards of the infernal costumed clown, the Red Terror had grabbed two handfuls of tickets as if they were the entrails of a giant pinata. Satisfied with his work, Warsman departed from the scene of the carnage.

Slamming the tickets onto the desk, he startled the cigarette out of the mouth of a woman in a purple and yellow uniform who obviously had more than enough time on her hands to think about past mistakes. She quickly recovered, looking at the tickets - splashed with the crimson life fluid of her co worker - and then back at the deformed visage of her customer.

"Give me the best firearm you are capable of mustering for me,"

Frightened and confused, the woman answered Warsman with a quaking pair of hands darting for the Mocky's Special - an all purpose gun designed for anything that the wielder could come into aggression with. Warsman's lips curled with sadistic thoughts as he took the gun from the woman behind the counter.

"Also, where is my opponent?"

She pointed behind him. Turning, he set the Mocky's Special to standard fire considering the pudgy nature of his so-called 'enemy.' The words he spouted fell on deaf ears. Warsman kept quiet, focusing instead on trying to pull the massive trigger to the Mocky's Special. The mascot wielded it with such ease, why could he not? Finding another dial on the firearm, he noticed the trigger pull weight at over 100,000 tons. He rectified this and instead set it at four pounds. Now fully operational, he had only a second to understand the blabbering of his foe to end in a confident "HaDOken!" before the energy blast collided with his chest, sending him back and through an old copy of Street Fighter. How appropriate.

Swiping the embers away from his greatcoat, he once more brought the Mocky's Special to bear - but with a shield in mind. Aiming above his head and pulling the trigger, Warsman became enshrouded in an impenetrable cloud of...petrified pizza crust. Perhaps the most durable thing on Planet Maus, the pizza crust protected Warsman from the otherwise painful plastic shrapnel at the price of pilfering his precious nasal cavities - Mein Gott, the smell!

Finding a curious doorknob on the shield, Warsman twisted it and pushed only to discover a relatively easy way of finding his way back to the obnoxiously colorful and decedent mental institute that his superiors decided on making his tournament round with Montgomery more 'child-friendly.' Damn them all.

Quite suddenly, he remembered a quite fat and hairy man with Nazi memorabilia tattooed from his head to his feet having stood right in front of him prior to the shell of moldy crust having taken form. The conclusion of where he scampered off to ended as abruptly as the mystery began: the ball pit. The clever bastard.

Setting the Mocky's Special to 'well done,' Warsman aimed it down at the devilish depression of despair filled to the brim with multi-colored pellets. With a short spasm of flame vomited through the nozzle, Warsman sent the ball pit up into a sky-high column of fire and devastation. Surprised beyond any reckoning, he fell on his back and rolled for about twenty feet, disrupting lines and crowds of children and their overworked and underpaid parents. Shock very quickly melted away into anger and the people melted into screaming effigies of fire.

"I did not agree to this tournament to play games! Though I admire the craftsmanship on some of these weapons and brainwashing tools. If you yet live, then know this!"

Casting down the embers of his greatcoat, revealing the third-degree burns simmering on his opened flesh, Warsman slapped the molten meat and skin, tearing some of it off and chomping it in a show of fearlessness.

"I am Warsman! I do not fear you just like a lion does not fear rats!" He swallowed, the taste of his own blood a familiar sensation.

"Come out and fight me or this entire planet of untermensch children and the Neanderthalic loins that spawned them will join you in the afterlife."

To make his point more valid, Warsman switched Mocky's Special to 'spicy meatball' and started hurling grenades into clusters of civilians.

Avatar image for thisisgonnahurt
ThisIsGonnaHurt

43085

Forum Posts

840

Wiki Points

0

Followers

Reviews: 0

User Lists: 4

@mortality:

The untermensch children and whores were absconded from Warsman's destructive range. The man wearing the swastika tattoos among satanic symbols and heavy metal album tributes saw to that. Somehow, he commanded the ethereal rather than the corporeal. He also felt little to no pain, considering the splintering of his fingertips into ripened butterflies of minced and flash-fried human flesh. The Heir to Hitler narrowed his eyes maliciously. He had to think on a battlefield that he had not manipulated in quite some time. The hauntings of his estranged and bizarre opponent could best be described as the childish pestering of a poltergeist. Therefore, the burning sensation of necroplasm as well as the psychic trauma of various other underhanded and supernatural tools would be the best course of action.

Looking through the settings on the Mocky's Special he found...no such thing. Of course a child-friendly environment would support heavy artillery, but nothing related to reanimating the enraged souls of the damned for ammunition purposes. Growling, he instead settled on a transformation sequence. Belching out two punch amplifiers in the style of brass knuckles, he admittedly converted all available power from the Mocky's Special into being able to drag away any source of energy he could get his all-hating hands on. Discarding the now-useless hunk of metal into the jaws of death looming over him, the nefarious national socialist narrowly avoided his spine being ripped out by replacing it with the scrap blunderbuss.

Instead, however, his advantageous ducking roll turned into a larger canvas for his opponent to grab onto with his intangible limbs. Paralyzed by the sudden cold, Warsman stared down at the botched surgery happening before his eyes. He could feel his organs shifting around in ways they were never meant to. It almost tickled. He looked at Ambrose in the whites of his eyes. This would mark the closest he ever stood next to untermensch scum without a pistol in his hand, and the only time where one laid hands upon him - or in this case through him - without the result being immediate execution. If anything, Warsman thought it a curious sensation, seeing his entrails streaming out of invisible wounds, hearing his lungs deflate on the cold carpeted ground, and feeling his stomach gurgling right in front of him. No blood splatters, no shredded flesh, merely the immortal Red Terror observing with all interest focused on something worthy of the tortures of Satan's domain.

"You remind me of Mengele, except for the fact that you are operating on an ubermensch instead of a subhuman animal,"

Images of Nazi war crimes usually drove historians into a righteous fervor. Those who survived had their own unique anger and temperament about what they witnessed and lived through. The dead, however, spoke louder and with more fury than any. There is a saying that living a long and healthy life is the best revenge. For the 6,000,000 brutally killed for being 'different,' no better evidence of this existed than in the relic of their past that continued to taunt them by remaining among their descendents to cause further pain and misery. For the Kriegsherr, however, the rage of the dead did not need to be heard or answered. It needed to be converted into fuel for his new weapons. Even in their graves, the untermensch needed to suffer.

The amplifiers wrapped around his fingers hummed with a cruel intensity. The dreams of the damned to see the Reich forever buried turned to ash as their living souls were converted into raw necroplasm for the insidious machines. The Dog of War's face twisted into a demonic laugh.

"Eighty years I've waited to bring back the untermensch who thought their punishment for being born had been carried out,"

Throwing a series of punches aimed to hit not only the phantasm's physical shell, but more specifically his ectoplasmic core, Warsman's cackling could be heard over the incessant screaming of the ghostly ammunition backing his blows. He painted a target over the fat, hairy chin covered in thick stubble. Though he also directed a few of his reinforced attacks at the throat and eye sockets, he wanted to dislocate the jaw and tear the ghost out with his own two hands.

"After I am done with you, the people you tried to save will be next!"

Avatar image for thisisgonnahurt
ThisIsGonnaHurt

43085

Forum Posts

840

Wiki Points

0

Followers

Reviews: 0

User Lists: 4

@mortality:

Quivering with excitement, with the jovial accomplishment of achieving physical contact with a denizen of the ether, Der Kriegsherr watched with equal consideration in his long footsteps as he closed the gap separating his ghostly foe and the mutilated corpse he once called a shell. The fat neo-Nazi screamed in absolute agony, the trauma of his burns finally catching up to his paralyzed conscience. For a short while, it seemed that he would suffer for at least another full minute. However, his heart stopped entirely after an unnecessary and aggressive climb in adrenaline doses to cope with the pain. He fell on his face unceremoniously and unremembered.

Warsman yet had plans to torture the phantasm who had posed such a tremendous reminder of the human stubbornness to accept defeat. Ripping his exposed innards out of the way, he wrapped his hands in about a yard of his own lower intestinal tract, stretching the resulting muscle like a strand of piano wire. His intentions were very clear. Transferring some of the necroplasm through his knuckles and into the taut chunk of meat, he knelt down close to the poltergeist.

"I have seen you, and now I can touch you. It is only a matter of time before I destroy you completely. Or perhaps I shall keep you around for my amusement. Living victims die so dreadfully easy. The 6,000,000 giving me the power to hurt you are evidence of that. At least now they serve a greater purpose in death than they ever could in life," he added with a short, decisive laugh.

He never heard a word of the spirit conversation. The language evaded his ears, calling to the dearly departed instead of his insidious mind. The first clue of his power source turning on him happened when his makeshift strangulation device burst into green fire. His skin burned and his chest grew heavier than any weight. The...The Jews remembered! They wanted him to burn! They craved the sight, the smell, and the crackling of Nazi flesh that would have given them so much clarity and satisfaction in their bleak afterlife. Tormented and slaughtered, they wanted nothing else in their hopeless dreaming death. Nothing! Five punches rang out, each cracking like a thunderbolt against Warsman's jaw, each one searing deeper into his deformed face, each one crying out with 6,000,000 voices:

"NEVER AGAIN!"

Staggering, stumbling, and stunned, the Red Terror's knees became gelatin and he crumpled to the floor - delirious, dazed, and defeated. At least, that is how the crowds safely pinned to the ceiling saw things. While their ghostly savior raced for the ticket booth, the man responsible for their current predicament and endangered lives slowly climbed out of his slothish slumber. Shaking his head, he restored some semblance of footing as well as the establishment of an understanding of his whereabouts. His left fist lashed out again towards his face, but his right hand gripped the wrist and held it back. Whether through sheer willpower or hatred, he began to systematically conquer the spirits of the dead once more.

"Listen to me and listen well, untermenschen," the Baron of Blood hissed. He heard the faint otherworldly echoes of their anger. Perhaps they could hear the roar of his forthcoming dominance.

"The vengeance of the dead will never be carried out. You can never return to the land of the living, nor can you ever hope to destroy the last relic of Auschwitz. You are doomed to forever watch as I exterminate your broods in the name of the Fourth Reich. The master race has passed you by and any jealousy or rage you feel now is pointless! You would do better to slave for me in death because of your inability to serve for me in life! Now kneel! Kneel before your Fuehrer!"

They were uncooperative at first. The rolling tides of almost 100 years of pent-up frustration proved a vicious storm to overcome. Warsman had to demonstrate order through violence, the only thing these untermenschen understood - even if they were already dead.

Gripping his weapons tight, he overcharged them, swathing his entire body in necromantic energies. 3,000,000 souls perished in the process, burned away with no more mercy than a forest fire to saplings. They all went quiet. They suddenly realized that they were still vulnerable. Loved ones perished again, never to return for a second time. The salty brine of hatred waned into bitter tears of repressed guilt and an eternal sorrow that could never be quenched.

Silence.

"Much better."

Turning on the polished heels of his boots, the absence of the spiritual voices became overtaken by the characteristic clang of a firearm being utilized. He did not recognize the make or the sound of it firing, but he did know when a trigger had been pulled. Fighting his way through the first cloud of ammunition, he realized that there were no actual bullets involved. Instead, a group of grubby little worms dug their way through the sleeve of his greatcoat, obviously looking for something warm and fleshy to crawl into. Tearing off their temporary landing pad and revealing his brawny left arm, Warsman continued his cautious advance at the source of the nefarious airborne worms. He clashed his fists together, sparking a torrent of necroplasmic fire.

He could return the favor now.

When the energized torment of the Holocaust dead came into the physical plane as a ferocious beam whipping through the air, it burst into an emerald hurricane of light and sound.

The cremation furnaces. Gas chambers. The windows children were told not to look into. Public executions. Images ingrained into the very souls of the Jews melted down into ammunition for mankind's most abhorred individual all sprung up and disappeared in an instant. A blip on the cosmic radar, yet a terrible one to inspect any closer.

A fragment of Hell had followed Ambrose. Its name was Warsman.

Avatar image for thisisgonnahurt
ThisIsGonnaHurt

43085

Forum Posts

840

Wiki Points

0

Followers

Reviews: 0

User Lists: 4

#8  Edited By ThisIsGonnaHurt

@mortality:

With victory apparently his, the New Age Todesengel stiffened his posture. Rigid and formal, he surveyed the carnage of the once-superfluous carnival affair. Other than the incessant caroling of the cadaverous grubs within the rotting tarp, he heard nothing. For a split second, the apparition faded into his own words, swallowed by his own puns and jokes. That could be attributed to the true ironic genius of comedy. Warsman leered at those peons still stuck to the ceiling. They should have fallen by now, considering their ghostly messiah had vanished. Then the fact of the matter struck his accelerating wit. He charged the necroplasmic gauntlets once more, prepared for a frontal assault. The intangible coward must have become unseeable!

A chill went up and down his spine.

The sensation of death he knew too many times crept upon him again. The cold started at the soles of his feet and worked its way up to his knees before he could pinpoint the source of the unsavory feeling. He had already swerved around, looking in all directions from above ground. Twisting and turning frantically, he could almost hear the phantasm inside his skull.

From below!

"Missgeburt!" Warsman shouted, stomping at the floor in an attempt to break the hold on his black spirit - but to no avail.

Ten corporeal fingers latched onto his heart, using it as leverage to drag up the rest of their otherworldly body until the two entities shared every centimeter of what once belonged uniquely to the Mad Czar. With nothing displaced besides humanly warmth, the Dog of War howled not in terror but in jubilee.

"While you are in there, feel the sensation of killing someone else - know it AS I DO!"

Cackling, he removed his Luger from its holster on his belt. His other arm, against his will, tried to stop him from squeezing the trigger.

But Warsman had grown too accustomed to ruining lives.

His laughter betrayed that this was his intention all along.

The child Ambrose saved from the ballpit slumped to the ground just as Warsman's amputated limb did, both oozing the red fluid of life. Both destined to shrivel up and die.

The boy's mother screamed for him, limited by the ectoplasm pinning her to safety. She did not care. Her instincts made her tear at the sludge, shredding it with nails and then the broken fragments of nails until she broke free only to run and cradle a corpse.

It must have burned Ambrose to know the passion the Relic of Auschwitz had for such a grisly game.

"Would you like to see more, untermensch?" Warsman snarled.

"Then by all means, remain where you are. I shall have complete control over my body soon regardless."

Kneeling, he reached for the pistol once more with his remaining hand. Seven bullets remained and there were seven skulls he had been eyeing ever since Ambrose fastened them above the battlefield.