Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
DOOM
Repercussions of Evil
Extended cut
John Stalvern waited. The muscles on his face — taut and stiff — wrinkled heavily on each small, miniscule movement; needless to say, he was frowning rather hard- too hard. Spread sharply and broadly across his face, it seemed more like a whimsical grimace or a terrific grin. Either way, neither did it suit his face, nor did it suit his stature. He and his boorish reflection — if only John had the mind to realize it — had an intense staring competition, wearily extended to unreasonable degrees due to the stoic John's gaunt resolution that he would never give up. His eyes strained and pushed itself to its limits, and the longer he stared, the longer he started to think that he was winning. He never did win, though. Nor did he realize the mental repercussions that would come with this inane expression of the mind. And so, with that in mind, he waited. But without that in mind, for he was also naively ignorant of many a things concerning his surrounding and his own personal ramblings. The ship shook vigorously every now and then; it, however, failed to deter John's concentration into unknowingly extending the limits of the human face. He was, as mentioned earlier, frowning to an extreme degree. The mirror in front of him shook, and tumbled, and John's eyes watered and grew teary, for his own density proved to be harmful to him. His mind began to crumble. The reds — the place became red. His eyes were red. HE was red. Everything was red, really.
"Not now!!!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, which vibrated due to the high resonance. The visual malformations ceased appearing, although tiny spots remained here and there. John pressed his hands against his face as he wept.
The lights above him blinked and flickered with an intensity never before seen. The ship shook more violently, and with a more sporadic frequency. Distant, guttural growls clung to the thick air. There were demons in the base- lots of them. Vile and malformed, they fed on his comrades like they were pigs auctioned off quickly for fancy slaughter. John felt only remotely amused by this; he hated demons, or at least his fiery patriotism compelled him to. He didn't see them, never saw them, but had expected them now for years. For years, too many years. Decades of isolation, of solitary training, mopping the floor. It was enough to break any man. Colonel Johnson — lovingly called 'Cernel' by friends and family alike — failed to listen to his, John's, persevering warnings.
"No, Johnson. These are only your delusions, idiot. I'll have you assigned to the mental asylum as soon as we land home!"
"You're a maniac Johnson. I will have you jailed and imprisoned as soon as we land home!"
"No, Johnson. For the last tim- arrrghhhh!! Stop. C-choking mmm-me, ASSHOLE!!!!"
These were his exact words, said in monotone every time John proposed increased defenses. It was too late for that now, anyway.
John was a space marine for thirty-four very long years — most of it spend in his aforementioned period of angst, misery and self-loathing. He must be glorious, he must be patriotic, he must be superhuman; these were the bold words he lived by. When he was in his early youth, he used to gaze at the spaceships, and the stars that towered over them.
Oftentimes, whenever his father used to be in company, he'd talk to him. "I want to be on the ships, daddy."
His dad, ever the protective and irritable man, said "No! You will BE KILL BY DEMONS!" He wasn't the best of English speakers, and neither was he the most subtle of men. At times likes this, his eyes used to widen to extreme amounts, and what could normally be perceived as a timid, withered face, immediately turns into a wide, broad one. Made the old man look very menacing, very assertive.
Hell, the only person more stronger than that guy, was a Colonel Johnson — that man had guts, real guts, used to hang them by his trophy mantels. Both of them were equally stupid, though. Never understood things. They lived by the gun, and they, hopefully, died by them. Just like John's expendable comrades.
There was a time when John himself believed him, the old man. But then, as he himself got older he stopped believing anymore. It was a time of radical change, with the men all signing up to take part in the dramatic colonization rampant in the UAC. Once John got a whiff of the action going on over there, there existed no force that could stop him. It was only afterwards, that he realized he was terribly hoodwinked. But still, Joson- the quartermaster- made him realize his true potential — even then, it was just too late. Thirty-four years weren't enough. John need more. For the current moment, John knew only one thing, that now in the space station headquarters of the UAC, there were monstrous demons who threatened mankind's freedom and womankind's integrity. It was a terribly future, that John knew. That, John wanted to prevent. He wanted to be a war hero. A true one.
Not before long, he found himself facing chains of hordes of demonic entities — they all grinned, they all giggled in a maddening manner, they knew the odds John were faced against.
"This is Joson." the radio came to suddenly life. For the first time ever, Joson's booming and demanding voice came as a relief to the despairing John. "You must fight the demons! You cannot let them enter the main quarters. There will be no backup. I repeat: no reinforcements at all!"
John's smile dissipated. Tears trickled down his cheek. It was too much. Then, suddenly, he remembered his patriotic duty. He had to do it.
So, John grabbed his ever-trusty plasma rifle, tightening his grips on the handle, before going on to blow up the rightmost wall. The metal stood no chance against the superheated, hypercharged electrons. The demons stood there, staring in gaze and horror.
"HE'S GOING TO KILL US!!!" One of the demons piped up, leading everyone to go into a mass panic, hysteria and confusion. The three evils.
Almost immediately, a ridiculously bold cyberdemon popped up, chest and chin raised high up to the metaphorical air.
"I will shoot at him" said the cyberdemon, before aiming his rocket launchers at the dumbfounded John. The cyberdemon was an inhumane expert at the art of combat logistics. He quickly calculated all the outcomes of the fight, before firing a flurry of rocket missiles. John aimed his plasma rifle at the uber-intelligent cyberdemon, trying to get a clean shot at the thing but to no avail — the imps were too great a cannon fodders. With the broad width of the tension, the introduction of the ever-populating demons into a tiny room, and the density of John, something was bound to happen; the ceiling promptly fell, the debris dropping onto them, and as quickly as they created the intent to kill, they were trapped — and certainly not able to kill.
"No! I must kill the demons. I have to kill them! I have to!!!" he shouted frantically- whined actually, trashing his hands around the debris. The demons stared at him, dryly, in disbelief. The tension made the radio crackle.
The machinery remained silent, aside from the grainy ambiance. Small sounds of flesh slapping
flesh could be heard.
The radio astonishingly said, "No, John. You are the demons."
And then John was a zombie.
