Hermit Horror Week
Day 1: Game Mechanics
@hermithorrorweek sorry for the late entry lol
Title: Victory Conditon
Prompt: Game Mechanics
Rating: Teen And Up
Words: 1,075
Warnings: Possession, Gore, Blood, Violence, Death, Horror
Summary: During a Decked Out run, Impulse stumbles on something that shouldn’t exist. Tango is there to fix the problem.
read on Ao3
Tango wandered around the roof of his dungeon, absentmindedly listening to the sounds of the run below. He heard the dungeon announce ‘STUMBLE,’ then a ravavger’s growl followed by a faint scream. He chuckled. As he walked, he followed Impulse’s bouncing nametag as he ran through the dungeon, following his compass.
Tango made his way to his favorite spot in the wiring of the dungeon, right in the center, and sat down on the ceiling of one of the tunnels. He could hear nearly everything from that spot—the calming ticks of the redstone circuits, the roars of the dungeon’s creatures, and the frantic movements of the player. He closed his eyes and laid back, listening to the music of the dungeon all around him. It calmed him, hearing the literal sounds of his success. Sometimes, he would lay there for handfuls of runs at a time, only leaving if there was something that required his attention. He’d even fall asleep there, lulled into slumber by the metholodical ticking.
He studied the sounds of the run—the cards being played, the sounds of the players and creatures—and he guessed on how the run was going. It wasn’t going too bad so far, Impulse had quickly made his way down into the Black Mines, and by Tango’s estimate, he wouldn’t be too far from descending into the Burning Dark.
A few minutes later, and he heard the doors to the Dark slide open. Tango fell back into the calm of his head, deciding that the next part of the run was straightforward enough to avoid speculation. Get the artifact and get out. Simple.
Then, he heard a sound that had never before been played—from inside the depths of the dungeon, there was the deep growl of heavy iron doors sliding against the blackstone of the Burning Dark.
Tango’s eyes shot open, consumed by bright red flame.
Impulse pressed himself against the blackstone wall of the Dark, praying to the God of the dungeon that he hadn’t been spotted. His health bar was constant at 5 hearts, refusing to regenerate. He had been out of berries for what seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.
He was tempted to stay there, hiding in a corner of the dungeon, but he knew that his opinions were already dwindling. The dungeon’s heartbeat filled his ears, matching Impulse’s own. He thought he could hear the shrieks of Vex from down the hallway, but maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him. He hoped so.
Impulse looked back at his compass. The needle was pointing to the right of where he was. He swore that he had come from that hallway, though. He looked up, into the darkness of the hallway his compass was leading him to, then back down at the compass. The needle faltered, spinning to point behind him for a second before returning to its original position.
It’s broken, Impulse thought. No wonder this run has been so bad.
A growl echoed through the not quite empty halls of the Burning Dark. Then a sound like the ragged inhale of broken lungs came from behind, right before an earsplitting shriek screamed through the air, driving itself like lightning into Impulse’s brain.
He gasped. He was reduced to two, trembling, hearts. His ears were ringing with the aftershock of the warden’s roar and the heartbeats of both himself and the dungeon pounded deep into his head.
He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around his ribs, numbing the blooming pain with a constant pressure. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked back at his compass. It was pointing straight ahead.
A deep grinding sound rumbled from the wall in front of him. Impulse stared straight ahead and watched as a pair of dark iron doors slid open ahead of him, giving him something of an escape route.
From the dungeon into the wastelands.
Tango’s face was set as he strode through the dungeon, none of its creatures dating to touch him. The crimson fires still burned in his eyes, casting the blackstone walls in a wash of bloody light. The cool blue fire of his hair barely made a difference.
He navigated the labyrinth of his creation with ease, only stopping when he reached the farthest corner of the Burning Dark. The set of solid, wrought iron doors in front of him appeared to glow red-hot in the light of his eyes. The doors slid open and Tango stepped into the wastelands, letting the doors slide shut behind him.
Impulse spun around as a scarlet light flooded the bleached desert of the wastelands. Overhead, a starless void seemed to envelop the pair as Impulse finally recognized the Dungeon Master.
“Tango! Thank goodness you’re here. I think something is wrong.”
“Yeah.” Tango stepped closer.
“Where are we? Is this a new level of something?”
“Something.” The specks of stray redstone dust on Tango’s cloak shone in the glow of his eyes as he walked.
“Hey, are you okay? Why are your eyes red?”
“I’m fine.” A shimmering netherite sword appeared in Tango’s hand.
Impulse turned his back to Tango. His eyes wandered through the barren sky and across the cracked, chalky ground that was much too fine to be sand.
“Really, though, where are we? Am I supposed to be here?”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Oh, I’m-“
Impulse turned back to see Tango standing mere feet away, his fist clenched around the grip of his sword.
“-sorry. Hey, are you sure you’re okay?”
Tango blinked. For a second, the scarlet wash disappeared. Just as quickly as it left, though, the bloody light filled the wastelands again.
“I’m sorry, Impulse, but you’re not supposed to be here.”
“Yeah, I though so. This place feels … wrong.”
“Impulse, you can’t be here.” His voice was flat.
“I can leave and just continue my run, if that’s okay.” Impulse offered. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”
“These wastelands are prohibited.”
“I’m so sorry, I-“
“This is the end of your run.”
“Wha-?“
Tango’s sword slashed up through the air, connecting with Impulse’s torso and cutting through his flesh with ease.
Only as Impulse’s blood splattered across Tango’s cloak, making crimson constellations with the redstone dust, did the flame in Tango’s eyes finally fade back to a frosty blue, letting his vision clear.
The Dungeon hummed with satisfaction, and the iron doors slid open once more.
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Everyone is horny for your Wally but I would love to know about your tall dark and handsome mystery man - little anon
Hello, again! 💜 I'm glad you asked!
No one knows where he came from or how long he's been around. Some say he's been there since the building was first opened, that he is as old and ancient as the brick facade. The buildings very own cryptid!
Really, he's a quiet man who lives in the basement of the building where no one goes. His front door is tucked behind a corner easy to miss because of the many shelves obscuring the view. He lives a quiet life of anonymity giving him the air of something peculiar and non-human. I assure you he is flesh and blood.
Despite the assumed age of nearly 200, the young man with the relaxed posture is only 25. He detangles his hair while in the shower when it's coated in a thick layer of conditoner. His wild head of curls make him feel positively beautiful.
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blowing out candles on wishes which are promises which are hopes which is the caged bird crooning. we chain it and hope it sings something concrete but all it wants to do is leave. it beats its wings against the bar and asks to be free.
you collect your dead brothers. you are my brother and i need a shovel a hard drive a computer a prayer to love you. why did you come back you ask the ceiling. the air conditioner kicks on. the computer runs numbers that look too much like your carbon dioxide. the air conditioner conditions it all the same.
you stare at the letters on your arm. R. VDK. HB. you wonder if anything is really absolute or if absolution is as dictionary defines: utter destruction. you destroy yourself and hope it pays the dividends. you touch yourself and find the skin hums numbly like a computer like an air conditoner like a coffee machine like a VCR tape like a savage stevens.
they all blame you, even if they dont know it. "its been x years" "where have you been" "i thought youd never come back". the supercomputer had it the right way around when he raped you-- enlightened you-- made you into what youre worth-- paid the dividends. he knew the score he knew. made your "husbands" dance in front of you their cyclical dance their scripted verse-- "where have you been?" "its been weeks" "oh look how happy they are to see you" it was all rehearsed. it was all the same. he fucked you into the plastic dust because he wanted you despite the mess you were. because there was worth to be found in the way you cried right on cue.
there is a presence in your living room. it envelops either side of your ears and you wonder if youre going insane. you wonder if anyone will believe you. you attest, probably not. you wonder if anyone has believed you all along. you cry, useless. incomprehensible heap. more carbon dioxide. the air conditioner conditions it all the same.
you wonder if your body is what's wrong. you consider the knife. you feel compelled to put it down. you pick it up. you extend the blade. youre compelled to put it down. you pick it up. you pick it up. you pick it up. you pick it up.
the prescense is gone . almost as soon as you notice it. its a nice metaphor you think... its a nice metaphor.
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