Clusterfrag

Yung shakes the awe of the barrage of fireworks going off around him. His gaze follows Achak's movements and bold posturing; he briefly purses his lips before sliding adjacent to the Amerind.

He quickly unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves before crouching slightly with arms raised in front of him, ready to fend off whatever emerges from the abyss. "Gonna need to go to the dry cleaner after this, eh?"

(( Hold action until there a target or some such? ))

The Risen charging down the corridor dash directly in the line of fire. The runners watch as they disintegrate in the hail of bullets, collapsing into indistinguishable lumps of gore as round after round punch holes in the spongy flesh. The five vanguard corpses are utterly obliterated.

Yung whirls as a Risen comes from the rear, having slipped in during the fog of war. The festering carcass of an old woman lunges at him, attempting to savagely bite his shoulder. A quick juke saves Yung from the attack.

At the same moment, the corpse of a young man lopes past and attaches itself to Achak. The Amerind is caught by surprise and shoves his attacker away, but not before a bit of flesh is torn from his bare, unarmored arm.

Achak catches his footing and swings his combat axe, scoring a deep cut across the torso and down the stomach. The Risen seems undettered as its rotting intestines spill out on the floor.

The sheer horror of confronting the reality that has descended upon the crew finally imparts itself on Yung. For a rare moment he loses all of his pretentious composure and genuine terror flashes across his eyes, luckily obscured by his trusty glasses. Still, he falls back on his training, reacting reflexively to his attacker as if it were just another night on the streets of Seattle.

"Let's see if all those zombie trids are true."

(( Simple action clinch and/or then complex action called shot knee to noggin (Ti Khao) ))

Yung plants his palm on the corpse's head and yank forward while simultaneously driving upwards with a knee strike. The sheer force of the technique severs the Risen's head and sends it flying against the corridor wall where it explodes like a rotten cantalopue.

Another wave of hideously grotesque undead plunge through the plume of seawater, bloated eyeballs writhing in their sockets and jaws flopping open in a perpetual grimace. The corridor appears empty behind them, signalling a possible end to the onslaught.

At the same time, another two Risen appear from the opposite direction, catching the team in a pincer formation for a second time.

The runners also find themselves standing in about an inch of seawater. While nowhere near dangerous yet, the rate at which the hold is filling is disconcerting.

Axel spins Whirlwind around, alarm shooting through his circuits as a new front opens. He targets the closest shambling corpse and lets loose a long burst toward its torso and head.

Whirlwind's rifle chatters as round after round shred the corpse, reducing it to an unrecognizable pile of smoking organic matter.

Divorced from the immediacy of the action, Mouse registers the attack from behind in abstraction: the 3 angry red markers on her sensor array, Axel’s pivot to face the enemies behind. But the onslaught remains, as a fresh wave of bodies stand between the runners and the prospect of escape. In her physical body, the decker grits her teeth as she forces herself to trust her more physically capable friends and instead doubles down in the virtual, refusing to let up her own assault in her attempts to punch through.

(( Suppressive fire go brrrr. ))

In all of Mick's explosive outbursts of violence and all the ensuing rainstorms of gore by which they've been deluged, never has there been anything like this. It's like the mouth of hell has opened up before them, its jaw swinging impossibly wide at its hinge, and vomited a wall of blood and putrefied bodily tissues at them, a bursting dam, hot and sticky and sanguine.

At the absolute forefront of their awareness, their ghostly passenger thrashes in the chum, its every movement an exaltation– bathing and baleful and gorging ravenously. The ork can hardly see anything for the oppressive feeling of the spirit's gleeful, violent rapture.

The barrage of bullets, like the blood, must continue to flow.

(( Continuing the suppressing fire. ))

Both Wind and Mick fire indiscriminately, raking the hull with high caliber rounds while their ammo counters plummet. The steel siding is beginning to resemble swiss cheese.

Achak steps forward and swings his hand axe. Unfortunately, his quarry's movements are erratic and he succeeds only tearing through a stained shirt.

Reiya flaps her wings, irritated by all of the gunfire, however necessary. Manaball was not the searing attack she hoped it would be, but in hindsight, it makes sense, given the state of the Risen. Time to try something new, she muses, rising and extending her wings because it feels like the right dramatic gesture for what she's about to do.

(( Cast Lightning Bolt at Force 6 ))

Small forks of blue light lick out from Reiya's crow-form, spreading to become larger tongues. The air crackles as the energy arcs across the corridor, finally flashing brilliantly as it strikes the Risen. The spell chars the flesh, which sizzles and separates like well cooked meat. But something else happens, too-- as the current courses through the corpse, it's as if an invisible puppeteer has released marionette strings. The shambling horror drops where it stands, lifeless once again.

Yung spins to face the previously unseen assailants who have descended on the group from the darkness. Recognizing his defenseless comrades as both the most vulnerable but effective in maintaining their combat superiority, he quickly closes on the closest threat. Having observed the effects of Reiya's spell he instinctively changes tactics, opting for finesse instead of brute force.

"Gettin amped up!"

(( Clinch nearest threat, success = shock gloves, free action I believe. If miss, target still up, or another target in melee that's valid for a complex, regular melee follow up. ))

Yung slips under the Risen's outstretched arms and pops up on their flank. He moves in and catches the corpse in a headloc, pausing only briefly to turn on the shock gloves. There's a crackling sound as the gloves deliver their electrical payload. The Risen jerks in his arms, spasming as the current is carried through their body. After a brief moment of spasms, the undead horror simply goes limp and tumbles through Yung's arms.

The last wave of Risen charge straight into the hail of gunfire, yet again. And yet again they're torn apart by the hot, flying lead and reduced to a mushy paste of organic matter. Chunks of rotten flesh float in fresh seawater, which is mottled with black blood.

Now that the corridor is clear, a heavy silence fills the corridor, interrupted only by the sound of rushing water. Thick banks of gunsmoke drift around the drones, their barrels still gleaming red hot. The water level is approaching ankle-height, not high enough to wash away the mounds of smoldering meat. Every type of gore imaginable is represented in a tapestry of revulsion that covers wall and ceiling alike. If it weren't for the deluge of fresh seawater, one could mistake it for hell.

Achak sloshes back to join the group, favoring the side where he was bitten. He shakes his head, his long hair matted with viscera. "I've witnessed some remarkable things, but--" He trails off, his eyes fixed on the exit.

She surfaces in a cold sweat, like waking from a bad dream. Any residual doubts the decker may have over what she'd just borne electronic witness to are cast aside by the pop-horror dance tunes still blaring through her drone buddy. Her mind swims with new questions spawned from the batshittery that just unfolded, the first of which she manages to articulate being, "YOU GUYS WOULDN’T HAPPEN TO KNOW OF SOME SUPER SPICY MAGICAL WAY TO PLUG THAT HOLE, WOULD YOU?" She scrabbles to her feet in a hasty effort to get the frag out already, taking special care to ensure Reiya’s clothes are at the top of the pile, lest they get soaked. "BARRING THAT, I DON’T THINK WE'VE GOT THE TIME OR DUCT TAPE TO UNFRAG THIS MESS."

There's no time to waste. "Gotta get fraggin' moving– someone grab the kid!" Mick is pushing forward, eager as ever not to drown in a chum bucket of zombie entrails. Seawater sloshes around their boots as they shuffle toward the T-junction of the hallway. Making the junction, the ork leads their way around it with the business end of their AK-98 headed back in the direction of the medical room.

Achak pulls Javad gently from the crate and sets him down. "Close your eyes," he says calmly and takes one of the boy's hands.

The frigid chill of the seawater gnaws at the team's ankles as they make lethargic process down the corridor. Several alarms are now sounding, no doubt a result of the rising water level. Red light flickers across the ruined medical ruin, catching the team in blood-tinted freeze frames. Mick hovers at the decimated doorframe leading to the cargo hold. The coast seems clear.

[Like rats from a sinking-] With an increasingly familiar swat of her hand, Mouse silences the digital peanut gallery. It's not that it isn't apt. If anything, she's not going to reward it for being trite.

Instead, she scrunches her brow in a blend of determination and consternation at their current predicament, but obediently trudges toward the door, and the lab through which they'd come. The childish, petty part of her can't help is quick to shirk responsibility for this. If anything, this is what Preacher deserves for hiring someone like her for a zombie extermination gig. You pay a decker to make holes in secure things, not fix them.

As she makes her way toward the ironic safety of the outside storm, she does spare a glance toward the kid currently swept up in the Amerind's arms, still in the midst of his personal hell. In part to distract herself from the rising tide of gore, she starts trying to put words together. << Look, I know this is a lot right now, but we're getting out of here together. We've got a boat waiting for us outside, and we're going to take that far away from here. >> She can't tell whether these words, beamed across the group's feeds, are intended more for Javad or herself. << So if there's anything, or anyone, you need us to find before we go, now's the time to let us know. You don't even have to use words. Otherwise, just hang tight, ok? >>

Axel springs up from his crumpled position on the floor as if he had been awake and not possessing a machine in the other room.

"Right! Check each door as we pass through. If the Neo-Soviets haven't cheaped out on us, there should be a nice big button that will bring some big doors down, and seal this area off."

He glances dubiously at the shoddy construction and clear lack of maintenance. All fairly standard for the Neo-Soviets and their predecessors. I give it about 50/50.

The team hurries through the lab, stepping over debris and chunks of dead passenger. A black ring on the floor marks where the mine went off, and in its middle is a spout of water from the damaged bilge. Mick and Yung step around it and muscle the mutilated carcasses of Risen out of the broken doorframe. Tired and soaking, they press on.

The cargo hold is now empty-- just a vast, dark chamber. The floor, now clear of bodies, is stained with the black lacquer of long spilled blood. Bits of clothing are stuck to it as well, shorn free when the Risen awoke with violent motion. At the fore-end of the cargo hold, Axel locates the flood controls. His eyes follow the conduit from the simple glass-encased button along the wall to to a sliding bulkhead door that encases the maintenance and elevator area.

Meanwhile, the blip on the yacht's radar grows ever closer.

Achak stops near the maintenance tunnel, just in front of the cargo elevator. "We'll need to get above decks to use the DSECD." He eyes the far end of the hold and the massive hole in the wall leading to the lab. "Evidence," he says. "We need something to make sense of all of this."

It takes the decker’s full energy just to keep pace, the stereotypical nerd forced into gym class. As the team backtracks through the lab, she pauses briefly, taking a few visual stills of the uncovered machine with her microcamera, in part a weak fig leaf against her need to pant for air. She’s only barely catching up with the team as Achak mentions the need for ‘evidence.’ "WHY NOT RIP OUT THAT METAL THING AND TAKE IT WITH US? I MEAN, AT THIS POINT, WHAT ELSE COULD GO WRONG?" Even saying it, it seems like another overtly terrible idea, physically reaching into the center of this mystery to tear out its mechanical heart, but beyond whatever footage was captured by the drones, she’s not sure what else there might be to deliver, and they haven’t the time to find more.

"AT THIS POINT, THE SANE THING TO DO WOULD BE TO LET THIS SLITCH SINK." For all her frantic notions of salvaging both the ship and any goodwill from Preacher, her self-preservatory instincts appear to have taken over. "IF PREACHER EXPECTS US TO GO BACK IN, SEAL OFF THE LEAKS, AND STEER IT TO SHORE BY OURSELVES- ALL WHILE DEALING WITH STRAY MONSTERS AND WHATEVER PATROL’S SNIFFING AROUND, HE CAN MAKE THAT CALL." She holds up a finger, as if to pre-empt any interjections. "BUT IT'LL COST HIM, AND IT'S NOT GONNA BE CHEAP."

Achak glances dubiously at the mysterious device. "I agree that we should take it with us, but is it safe?" He nudges a random lump of charred flesh with the toe of his boot. "We should take a biological sample as well. It might be the key to finding out what happened to these poor souls."

"PROBABLY NOT?" Mouse answers Achak's concern with little more than a shrug as she circles back to peer into the strange compartment with the mystery device. She might not have any idea what this thing is, or how it will inevitably bite her in the hoop, but maybe somewhere between her knowledge of stealing stuff and breaking things, she can pry this can of bad-ideas loose.

(( Teamwork dice for whomever takes point on safely prying this thing out? ))

Axel looks back toward the hall, and pulls in a long breath. "Frag it, let's grab this thing." He pulls out a medium, quick-dry towel from his bag. "Let's wrap it in this, and stick it to one of the drones."

He sets off toward the lab.

Axel and Mouse kneel on either side of the mysterious gizmo. While the object before them is totally alien, it's still obviously constructed of parts they recognize. Axel starts by clipping a series of wire ribbons tucked underneath the chassis while Mouse begins removing bolts. After that it's just a matter of disconnecting anything and everything holding the thing to the recess in which it lives. There are several curious tubes which Mouse takes care not to touch directly. Unable to locate exactly what anchors the device, Axel simply jams a prybar underneath and heaves forward. It pops free and Mouse slides it on to the towel. The device is surprisingly light but also strangely unwieldy, as if the rotating cylinder is heavier on one side.

The pair survey the now empty recess in the floor, content that they've left nothing behind that isn't part of the ship. They can't help but note the peculiar odor that the device gives off: something like carbon and ozone, but with just a touch of iron.

Achak, meanwhile, uses his axe to scoop a glob of gore off the floor. Holding out the axe he asks: "Does anyone have a bag?"

With a crinkle of her nose, the little decker passes the towel-wrapped nuclear football to Axel, as though the two had just delivered some radioactive newborn from the belly of the ship. (Only in this case, as responsible adults, they were about to strap the baby warhead to a drone and send it on its way.) The smell hanging thick in the air, meanwhile, reminds her of dumpshock: burning wire, blood, and the consequences of her poor decisions.

Opting to leave the remaining 'samples' to those more viscerally inclined, she begins making her way back toward the maintenance hatch to freedom. Eyes fixed on the path ahead, her mind is still churning with unresolved questions, one of which manifests in a comms message to the rest of the party, (minus Achak and Javad): << So, assuming we all get out of this in one piece… What do we think's gonna happen with Short Round? >>

As Mouse places her hands on the bottom rungs of the maintenance ladder she freezes. She stays perfectly still, straining to hear for sounds at the very limit of even her preternatural hearing. A series of faint thumping noises emanate from far above and to the aft-- presumably hurried footsteps on a metal floor. The sounds are so faint that she can only assume that they are from somewhere in the main structure.

Achak approaches and-- seeing Mouse concentrating-- immediately glances upward. Seeing nothing he murmurs "What's wrong?"

The prey instinct kicks in- hackles raised, eyes wide, breath caught at the top of her chest, in the familiar freeze before the ‘flight’. The sound of Achak’s voice prompts a shallow exhalation and the resumption of movement, as she quietly points a finger upward to trace a rough directional line over the source of the sound, a series of red ‘bubbles’ blooming in the visual AR space along their path. "FOOTSTEPS." She captions her speech, barely above a synthetic whisper, in the teams’ comms.

Narrow eyes flit briefly in a moment of internal calculation, and when Mouse does move, it’s to slip a hand into her jacket, withdrawing her Light Fire. Hands trembling from both the unfamiliarity of the gesture and the burst of renewed adrenaline, she fumbles to load the Stick-n-Shock into the magazine. "EXPECT COMPANY."

Achak exhales slowly in an attempt to relax himself. Despite the Amerind's capable demeanor it's obvious that he is not in his element. He wraps his fingers around the bottom bar just underneath Mouse and nods up at her. "Let's get up on deck where there is more room. I'll cover you."

"Frag," Axel almost whispers as he finishes wrapping Wind's torso and the football-magic-techno-baby-in-a-towel in a few layers of duct tape.

"Allright, kids, reload. Game time."

For a beat, Mick's attention lingers on the "biological sample," dripping from the curve of Achak's blade. Even as they approach to take custody of the viscera, their eyes trace the shape, which lacks the arterial scarlet of fresh and flowing blood, or strata of muscle, fat and bone distinct on a recent kill. What's left is the byproduct of a body left to stew in its own juices, reducing it to marbled flesh, mottled with congealed blood, slick with purification and purge.

This fleeting reverie is broken by the intrusion of Mouse’s words, rendered into AR text and sent streaming across their irises. Sample secured, Mick makes their way toward the maintenance hatch, where they catch the baffled Mouse mid-double take. The little decker points dumbly up at herself, in the universal sign of, 'there is no fragging way you're suggesting that I facecheck this.'

As if in answer, Mick sidles up to the ladder, giving the elf a reassuring clap on the shoulder in passing. "I'll take point. Just stay close."

(( Volunteering Mick to do their sneaky recon thing on our behalf. ))

Having traversed the ladder in virtual silence, Mick peeks their head over the deck. The storm is waning and only a soft pelt of horizontal rain dash against their cheeks. The adept's head swivels as they reconnoiter the deck. All seems as they left it. The main structure of the ship now glows faintly, a product of the restored power. No silhouettes can be seen inside, but the portholes are very small and scattered across a great distance. Confident that the immediate area is secure, Mick flashes a thumbs up down at the rest of the gang.

At the bottom, Javad stares glumly at the small halo of light above. It's as if he had entirely discounted the notion of survival and is now refusing to believe it a possibility, for fear of yet more dashed hopes. The boy hasn't made a peep, but some semblance of reason has returned to his eyes.

Bolstered by the ork's lead and the presumed accompaniment of the remainder of her team, Mouse gives a hard swallow and scurries up the ladder, clearly eager to be off of this ship and out of this nightmare.

Axel emerges from the depths, reassured by the seeming confidence of the team. He glances around, and sends Wind and Whirlwind on a wide, lazy orbit around the top deck, video streaming to the whole team.

Rain drips off of the muzzle of the Alta. Axel has no memory of drawing it, and decides to keep it bared. "Let's see if we got up here before our new mysterious visitors did." He pings the ships system to see if it's still detecting the unknown craft.