September 07, 2018:
Graymalkin is invaded by Asgardians and Godslaying Goo
Characters
NPCs: None.
Mentions: Winter Soldier, Captain America, Thor, the Destroyer
Plot:
Mood Music: [*\# None.]
Fade In…
It had been a long couple of days for the Girl of Thunder. Perhaps even a long couple of weeks. There was that trip to Asgard of Old, and all of that, which very oddly was not as clear as it should be. Then there was that whole business with those shadow-creatures that had attacked her, The Lady Ultraviolence, the Prince of Power, and her Aunt Loki.
Oh, and there was also the problem with the goat.
What problem with the goat?
Well…
The portal that opens inside Graymalkin is perhaps the most colorful thing one is likely to see this side of space, scilanting with every hue of the rainbow and thensome, shimmering and billowing outwards as if the rays of some long burning cosmic star were burning through this slice in space.
It is open only the moment or two it takes for Toothbender the Space Goat to barrel through it with the aforementioned Girl of Thunder, Atli Wodendottir, hanging onto one leg for dear life!
Hitting the deck, the Asgardian and her animal both spin out, a sniviling, drooling cough from the latter and a shake of it’s horned head putting Toothbender’s disposition on full display. The goat has had better days, for sure, and seems to be having some sort of allergic reaction, one that has set it’s Bifrostian means of travel askew.
Much like Toothbender’s passenger, also askew, and sliding across the floor.
“Hel’s bells!!”
Atli comes to a stop against something or other with a resounding thump, her own hair a wild mess as she flips it back and looks towards her companion, friend, and living annoyance.
“Fool of a goat! This isn’t Alfheim at all! Verily, I doubt they have anything in this place that might clear up your sniffle.”
—
A cavernous room stretches wide before the Girl of Thunder and her ailing companion. They are dwarfed by advanced floor-to-ceiling fabricators in an unending assembly-line conveyor. In its hay day the room would have supplied equipment enough to support the advanced colonies set-up by the ancient celestials at the dawn of the time when they still played an active role in the creation of the universe. Now, much of the equipment lies dormant – obviously damaged – the technology required to make repairs unavailable beyond a barrier of time and dimension.
Elsewhere, ten thousand miles away …
A cluster of figures labor upon a small island of rock and ice within the East Siberian sea. A sophisticated drilling apparatus has been hoisted into the air where it is has been lowered into the Earth. It’s great-bit churns muddy slush up from a great well.
In 2217 a monstrosity laid to rest by Apocalypse a thousand years before will complete its gestation. Tearing its way to the surface it makes its way into a rebel stronghold killing hundreds of free humans before continuing forward destroying the scattering of villages for nearly eight hundred miles in an attempt to clear-cut any who may have known of the rebellion operation.
Nathan Summers estimates that the shaft leading to its artificial womb can be accessed from this point and by the close of the week he will have killed the creature in its dormant larval stage. In 2217 Apocalypse will have to assault the base with his forces directly. The rebels will still die but at a greater cost to their enemies and some of the surrounding villagers may live to take up arms in the place of those who have fallen.
A subdermal buzz. The largest of the figures looks towards the sky.
«Nathan. Unknown entities have teleported into the fabrication chamber,» concurrent with this message images pass through his cybernetic neuro-structure. A live feed from Graymalkin itself.
Nathan grabs the nearest man by the shoulder, “Keep digging,” he shouts over the noise of the drill, “I’ll be back.” Kneeling then he unzips a duffel bag and reaches inside, .«Bodyslide Deck 4, Adjunct C»
FABRICATION ROOM
The bay doors *WHRR CLICK* and fourteen tons of metal roll away to reveal the exterior corridor.
As the door opens the air shimmers and an array of photons hard-light fill the open door approximately four feet high creating a opaque blue-tinged chest-high wall. Behind it …
Cable; Seemingly the fusion of a man with the Destroyer armor of Asgard. He wears a ballistic vest which seems to have been filled with the ablative armor of a tank. Pouches containing futuristic ammunition, grenades, and anti-personnel mines cover his form.
He stands within the doorway a massive four and a half-foot long weapon reminiscent of a an sophisticated Armalite Rifle scaled upward such that it would ordinarily require a tripod to properly aim. Nathan clutches this weapon in his metal-arm but it is positioned casually. Tipped backward so that the upper-receiver rests casually upon his shoulder in an execution of ‘Right Shoulder Arms’.
“You took a wrong turn,” Cable declares voice echoing through the cavernous room for certainly the replay of their arrival did not make it appear as if they intended to be here given the slap-dash manner of their arrival, “Where were you going? Maybe I can find a way to help you get there.” He says opening negotiations in his gritty baritone.
—
It takes Atli little time to realize this is not where she wanted to be, and as the goat coughs and snort and carries on and on until it flops over in a pile against some giant piece of ruined machinery she pulls herself to her feet, dusts herself off, and takes stock of this, a giant room full of junk. Oh she's seen places like this before. King Thor's underwear drawer had much the same look. Also one of those libraries out in the middle of Nullspace, something manned by those fools from Chronux or somewhere else. Did the goat drag her all the way to the edge of nothing and back? Will she be forced to camp and break bread here, amidst these mountains of metal?
"By Thor's sullied beard, this place has the look of the Forge of Stars, except perhaps more melted. Goat, would you…"
But the goat is busy vomiting. Vomiting and vomiting, which brings a face to Atli that is made of such scrunch it might be hard to look at. This is about when the door behind her begins to open and Atli turns to half shield her eyes with a hand, squinting in the renewed light.
Grandfather?
The thought crosses her mind, for King Thor too, has a metal arm. Indeed, seeing Cable so, she does wonder if he is not related to Noble Barnes. Perhaps he and his people are all born with arms of the Destroyer. It is perhaps telling that of all of the many explanations for Cable's appearance, Atli settles on this one, and thus she has a smile for him.
"Oh yes! Greetings, great… man of half metal! I assume you know Noble Barnes? Perhaps a distant relation?" No one knows why she's shouting, she isn't far away, after all. "Verily, it does not matter, but you offer is most welcome for my goat has taken ill, and Alfheim is far from this place. You see, I have made arrangements with Sir Ivory Honeyshot to procure some 'edibles'. He assures me they will 'blow my mind'. And, at the very least, quell the stomach of my-"
It is almost a roar that leaves the goat as black bile spills across the ground, the stuff behaving as water might if it were exposed to different sine harmonics, becoming pointy and bristling here and there, and worse, the stuff seems to be making a sound.
A mourning, waning echo.
Atli looks back at it, her gaze drawing into a long look.
"Hmm, that doesn't sound good."
—
“Alfheim,” Cable repeats the word and gives a low ‘hrm’ sound before shaking his head, “I don’t know Noble Barnes,” Nathan says, “and I can’t do Alfheim. What about Amsterdam?”
Pause. Goat vomiting black bile all over the ground.
The contents of a space-goat’s stomach is certainly not the most disturbing thing he has ever witnessed. Although his features tighten a bit to betray a mote of annoyance as his goal was to remove them from this particular room but now he’s not certain he wants the goat puking all over the ship. Especially not when …
… the vomit begins to wail in mourning and becomes reactive.
His good eye drifts to the equipment that surrounds the Girl of Thunder. While most may be little more than melted junk some of it still functions. Cable moves. He steps high upon the photonic barrier and then forward off of it, “What did it eat?” He demands of Atli moving forward while shifting the weapon from his shoulder and into a ready-position. Feet rolling like tank treads as he focuses upon the reactive slop. Cybernetic eye cycling through a myriad of filters in analysis of what his other eye may be unable to see.
—
The black bile from some insurmountable hell stops moving.
Right when Cable looks at it.
Then it shifts it's shape until it's a puddle with Cable's face, which makes Atli reach up to scratch her head, and then freeze solid with horrible realization. "Well, the goat eats lots of things. I'm sure.. I'm sure this is fine. Just fine. I'll jus-"
Then, it flings itself. Not at cable or Atli or anything else, but sidelong and behind a great big machine that's seen better days. This spooks the goat, who snorts a horrible sound before roaring and tumbling backwards and disappearing into a rainbow portal made of it's own ass, and while Atli has already drawn her blade, which turns to a spear at the flick of her wrist, she must immediately stop and lay judgement upon the goat, who is no longer present.
"Toothbender, you coward! Come back and clean up your mess!! Good sir Mini-Destroyer, I do not know what has gotten into him. Mostly he eats pieces of Midgardian vehicles, and once, the boot of Steve Rogers, which I replaced and he complained was 'not a match'. Verily I rubbed the scale oil of the Child of Wehrsweir so fiercely into his other boot to bring them into line that he did owe me an apology before the end."
What was she saying? Oh right.
Atli blinks out of her rant, and points her spear. "The fool goat has unleashed a piece of Gorr's shadow beasts into your room of infinite metal horrors, I'm sure this won't work out for anyone if we let it escape, so let us form a band to engage this foe together and bring vengeance to it's oily countenance. Just as long as we're clear, this is the goat's fault and not mine, because I didn't bring us here. It was the goat."
Right.
"The goat." She nods again, as if afirming her decision, and begins circling the big machine, looking for this little, moving slime-thing.