Time to get the hizzell out of herezel. I don’t have a problem with outrunning a fireball, mind you, I just dislike doing it way up in the air with no way to fly or glide down. That’s why I hoof it back to the lift as fast as my little peg will take me. I don’t even stop when an Adepticus marine stepped out in front of me. I just ran by the surprised guy and called back to him, “Grab your shit, motherfucker, let’s go!”
Luckily this one was a worse shot than some of the others on the ship.
I dove into that lift and headed back up the way I came while watching the playback of my capture on my one remaining good eye. Bastards. Not that I care. I can always get myself a new eye. A better eye! An eye with x-ray vision and blackjack and hookers!
The lift stopped at a couple of floors. On the first, an exciting pitched battle took place between the Adepticus Pugilicus and a group of soldiers led by a man in dark armor with N7 on his chestplate. I watched as N7 vaulted through a broken window and charged an Adepticus. N7 formed a blade from a holographic projection on his arm and stabbed a marine in the face. In the face, I say! Another flanked him but was gunned down by a woman in bright pink and white armor.
I hope she saw when I motioned for her to call me before the doors closed.
The next stop was boring. Just a squad of Adepticus pinned down by the lifts. One was about to toss a grenade. I yanked his hand down with my hook and pushed the button to close the door. The explosion rocked the door a little, but I continued on my merry way up to the deck where I started this grand adventure. I promptly activated my stealth, which wasn’t quite so foolproof around my replacement parts. The built in sound dampeners in my boots obviously weren’t going to do anything about the peg leg.
By the way, if anyone has ever wondered if I can scream at a high pitch, the bomb went off. I’m not afraid of the dark so much as plunging to my death or being blown up. A few emergency lights came on as I ran for the docking bay. We started to fall. Then, with an odd hum, we stopped. When it grew loudest, I realized the emergency lights faded a little.
This reminds me of the time I played poker with this one guy who was getting way too lucky. So I stopped playing and hit him with my chair. Know when to fold ‘em, right?
At the end of the corridor stood my good buddy, the space Nazi. He reached behind him and pulled out…a circular saw blade on a chain. He charged at me and I hobbled at him, projecting various other mes charging or running and disappearing. He was thrown off by them and gave me a chance to get behind him and disarm him. Then I told him, “You are used to fighting in space, but have you ever fought on Uranus?”
An ancient and powerful fighting technique I know is called “63ing Your Ass” and it is not pleasant for the victims. First, insert hand into enemy ass. If your hand is a hook, this is even less pleasant for the other person. Then, you rotate them 63 degrees along a random axis. The Nazi was knocked out by the bulkhead, for instance. Then you release. Considering where it was, I just left the hook, took my stump, and made my way to the hangar.
I made like a truck driver carrying donkeys and hauled ass. So too did other space marines who emptied out of nearby rooms. I’m not that bad a guy. When I heard machine guns and saw the occasional tracer round fire through the door to the docking bay, I did the polite thing and let the marines go first. Waiting on them, I noticed the lights were dimmer than they had been a few seconds before. The humming was louder too. There could be an innocent explanation. Maybe it’s really boring to gun down waves of space marines.
I didn’t believe that either. I did stick my head out during a lull. Mecha marched through the bay or held defensive positions where they could track the entrances. Their insignia showed an eagle crossed with an airplane.
They also tracked me. I noticed the barrels of their machineguns adjusting slightly to my presence. That’s why I chose to wait until the next group of marines happened by. They charged in, reckless as they always are, and I followed behind. Not right behind. More to the right, since I’d seen some of what those guns could do. They did it, too, prompting me to grab a fallen marine’s laser rifle, roll, and bring it up to aim what I hoped was the cockpit of nearest mecha.
“It’s ok, not a threat, just some civilian. No need to shoot.”
I looked around and saw a mecha that had been aiming at me shrug and return to its watch.
A soldier not in the armor came over and gave me a hand. “You must be so scared, but don’t worry. We’re here to do all the fighting for you. Do you need a trauma counselor?”
I raised my stump to him.
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s the finger.”
They let me on to one of the abandoned Adepticus transports where I took my seat and tried to figure out how to turn the thing on. Unfortunately, the controls were written in improper Latin. I think one of them told me “the engines they go to the brakes”.
It was right then that the pervasive hum stopped. It cut back louder for a moment and then an explosion rocked the ship, followed by that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you realize the ground missed you and wants to hug you at high speed. I jammed my stump against the controls in a hurry as the ship was thrown out.
The transport was thrown into a sharp dip. I saw one of the mechas had grabbed on, and the soldier who had helped me up held tight to the mecha.
I got the ship powering up, engines due to cut on in 25 seconds. I got the ship into an unpowered spin that threw off the mecha, but his little buddy grabbed on to the cockpit window like an orange cat that hated Mondays. The engines started and the soldier breathed a sigh of relief as I examined the systems for a windshield wiper.
“You’re going to need a trauma specialist,” I told him over the external speakers. Then a red glow suffused the window and shot him off.
Then I got to have a firsthand view as the massive ship I had been in suffered another cataclysmic explosion to the midsection. Pardon my terminology, but having a peg leg doesn’t automatically make one knowledgeable in ship lingo. All I know is that I didn’t smell anything, so it probably wasn’t the poop deck that went up. The ship fell after that, prompting the air force and the heroes to go in for the kill. Dead ship falling over a city and all that.
Excuse me for wrapping up here, but you don’t want to hear about me crash landing in a Burrito Bell, catching a cab home, and sleeping for 12 hours.
Still something about the view of the ship, with ants dropping out of it and heroes desperate to destroy it before it takes out buildings, reminded me of a joke I was thinking of when I worked on my rocket. “I am become death, destroyer of worlds,” was what Oppenheimer thought of from the Bhagavad Gita when he saw a nuclear bomb test. If I had been there, I’d have told him, “Get in line, Oppenheimer.”