The Building-Wraith of tc_derailed - A chilling recollection
Shinobi turns a corner, his trusty Chang Feng at the ready. Before him extends a gruesome scene, the alley's walls anointed with deepest crimson, human remains dangling from girders like vast rusted meat hooks, lifeless hands still grasping for some long-departed salvation, disemboweled heads drowning open-mouthed in the concrete mire. Amidst the dripping sanguine sea stands Naota, the blackened blade of his machete indistinguishable from what was once human flesh, his singular hand clutching the severed spinal column of that horrid thing which had, until just previously, been a hapless alpha tester. The fiery cross upon Naota's forehead burns with hellish intensity through the gloom, his deranged, eternal conversation with the dead sweeping the narrow walls like a cursed wind, halting as the fleshless and bloodied skull responds in a tone only audible to himself. Shinobi's jaw falls agape, a silent, strangled sound of pure despair issuing from his throat. Shuddering visibly, his hands resolutely clasp the Chinese automatic weapon, disengaging the safety with a painfully audible metallic click.
Shinobi: "By all that's-... -I'm going to have to kill him myself."
Naota continues his vile work unconcernedly, only averting his gaze as a river of screaming leaden annihilation fills the alleyway. Tossing aside the grisly remnant of Shinobi's comrade, he dashes down the narrow path, cackling madly. Turning a corner, a vast, inauspicious building wall greets him, through which he passes through uninhibited, the imposing prop_static clearly unable to restrain his wraith-like essence without a proper physics model. Round after round perforates the weathered brick of the alley, rendering the far wall a veritable mound of dust as Shinobi stands utterly dumbfounded, staring at the empty cul-de-sac.
Hitman strides warily down the street skirting the small market which so openly defied physics, a 1911 at his belt and an SR-25 gripped tightly in his hands. Staring blankly at the heavens as it emerges impossibly from a solid concrete wall, the machete-wielding humanoid incarnation of slaughter turns to fix him with a gaze of singular, horribly twisted purpose. Hitman freezes, his free hand slowly, cautiously reaching for his radio. Raising his arm as unobtrusively as possible, he brings the microphone to his mouth.
Hitman (Team): "Come in... Shinobi.
Still wandering suspiciously through the alley, Shinobi jumps at the crackling static of his radio speaker, the heavy device nearly falling through his fingers as he fumbles for the switch.
Shinobi (Team): "Hitman! I saw him!"
Hitman (Team): "...He's right here, Shinobi. He's... looking at me."
Shinobi (Team): "He's a disgusting little thing, isn't he?"
Hitman (Team): "-I think he can hear you Shinobi."
Shinobi (Team): "Don't move! He won't hurt you!"
Naota's eternal, vicarious grin widens further, his fanged maw showing through beneath as insane laugher issues forth. Raising his machete to gesticulate wildly, he charges Hitman with inhuman speed.
Hitman: "AAAAGGHAAAH! AAAAAAAGGCK! AAAAAAAH!"
Shinobi: "Hitman! Hitmaaaan! It's me! Where?-"
All that remains where Hitman once stood is a single monstrous pool of blood.
Shinobi: "Hitman! What happened, are you okay?"
Hitman (Spectator): "He knifed me."
Shinobi: "That's GREAT! Actual, physical contact! Can you move?!"
Oelund (Team): "Shinobi, Shinobi come in please!"
Hitman (Spectator): "I feel so funky..."
Shinobi (Team): "Shinobi! I'm with Hitman... kind of. He got knifed!"
Oelund (Team): "That's great Shinobi- save some for me. Get down here right away, he just went into a ballroom!"
Shinobi (Team): "Okay, we'll be right there!"
The building in question was given a proper collision model shortly afterward. However, unsubstantiated reports of Naota transcending physical barriers to the point of supposedly walking through solid walls continue to proliferate. It remains to this day one of the most widely speculated upon mysteries ever to plague mankind.
Last edited by Naota; 04-22-2009 at 01:04 AM.
"On a more immediately personal note," the bootlegger weakly interjected. "Dare I ask for the prognosis?"
The doctor sighed, brushing an unruly tuft of hair from his eyes as he turned to Silas.
"I'm afraid you'll never live a normal life again. You've unknowingly patronized a clinic for unlicensed surgery, courtesy of a woman with a bloodied military bayonet fastened to her dress, unconscious and smelling of illicit alcohol, in the middle of the night. However, your physical condition is stable. Now be so kind as to remove yourself from my place of business." Stephens paused a moment to reflect. "Also, you appear to have misplaced an appendix."