#{{ Thread necromancy goes brrrrr. }}

[thx-lost-yxars]

Every man was screaming. Witnessing the horror, they broke rank and started to flee. Tripping and scurrying around as they blind fired at Buzz with no life-ending effect. The merc in the vice grip screams and flails his arms around, as the other merc who was just shot collapses. The laser burned a hole through his throat, as he bleeds profusely. Smoke rising out as he gurgles on his own blood.

Still, there were plenty of bounty hunters to deal with. Although broken on courage, what remained was the desperation to survive. They tried their best to shoot at Buzz. The stuttering of their guns echoed off the walls.

Scratch arrived just in time to witness the beginning carnage. Scarred too, he watched with wide fearful eyes. A part of him felt bad for the mercs. Then again, they were most likely here to kill him. After all, he’s a wanted man.

Out of pragmatism, Scratch decided to “help” Buzz fight off the struggling mercs. That would hopefully earn his survival at the end of this nightmare. Then again, the mutant might just tear out his lungs afterwards. But hey, if he’s choosing a side, it might as well be the winning team.

Woth his revolver, Scratch started picking off the mercs. They were too demoralized and confused with fear to realize Scratch’s attacks.

@nebula-gaster

Scratch was fifteen miles outside Vegas, when his bike broke down. Bad fuel cells, just his luck.

He pushed the bike for another two miles, but night was almost here. He knew better to stay on the road at night. He needed shelter.

He spotted the old smokestacks in the distance. It must’ve been a factory, or power plant from before the war. It was good enough. He just needed somewhere with walls and a roof.

Hiding the bike, Scratch made his way inside. The place was decrypted, falling apart. Prospectors came through and gutted this place. Now, all that remained was the bones of the building. Soon enough, that will go.

Scratch walked carefully, making sure not to cause much noise. He held his revolver, his eyes watching the dark before him. The wind howls outside, it seemed a storm was picking up.

He saw one room, seeing the faded letters of “M NA ER OF ICE” above. Grasping the doorknob, he twisted it and pushed in. The office was a mess, with overturned desks and emptied filing cabinets. Scratch figured this would do for the moment.

Placing his gear down, The Fiend tried his best to relax. He felt tense, that something was wrong with this place. It was just an old building; he tried telling himself. It’s just that old fear, the stuff passed down, that tells him he should be fearful of the dark.

But he can’t shake the feeling.

Sitting down, he slouches in an old office chair. His gun on the desk, he looks around the room.

That’s when he hears it.

It sounded odd, like something was moving around in the hallway. Scratch hopped up, grabbing his gun and moving towards the door. Back against the wall, he waited. His mind screams that something is outside. That there’s someone, or something, just beyond the door. Reaching over, Scratch locks the door and steps back.

They’re closer now, whoever they are.

Too close.