Outfit: Clothing/Armor
Weapons: Heavy Blaster Pistol |
Vibroknife | Loadouts in bio
Nos stalked through the dim office building, his boots making almost no sound on the tile as he scanned each corner, his vibroknife gripped tight. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, acrid scent of cheap synth-plast furniture. The carnage he’d left behind was silent now, the bodies cooling in their crimson pools, but the real fight was ahead.
Nassar was here—Nos could feel him, a swirling vortex of sadistic glee and hunger. The emotions burned in Nos’s mind like a fever, a cruel beacon that tugged him deeper into the labyrinthine halls. The sensations came in waves: taunting laughter, jagged excitement, and whispers of malice threading through Nos’s thoughts.
"You’re good," came a mocking voice from somewhere ahead. It was thin, nasal, and laced with amusement.
"Better than most of the trash that’s tried to take me. But you don’t belong here, pretty boy. This is my house."
Nos didn’t respond, keeping his focus razor-sharp. Words were a distraction; his task was simple: find Nassar and end him.
A faint scrape of movement pulled his attention to the right, toward a half-open door. He moved quickly, silently, sliding into the room. It was a small office—cluttered with crates, data pads, and a rotting stench from something spilled weeks ago.
"You think you’re the predator?" Nassar’s voice taunted again, this time behind him. Nos spun, knife raised, but the doorway was empty. The air crackled faintly, charged with an unseen power.
Suddenly, a metallic clink echoed behind him. Nos turned just in time to see the canister bounce once on the floor before spewing a thick, purple vapor.
Nos dove for the door, pulling the fabric of his sleeve over his mouth, but it was too late. The gas spread fast, filling the small room with an oppressive haze. The Zeltron’s enhanced tolerance dulled the worst of it, but not enough. His heart pounded, his breathing grew uneven, and the edges of the world began to fray.
The walls rippled, their color deepening to a fiery red, cracks spreading like veins pulsing with heat. The ceiling seemed to melt into the air, shifting into a roiling storm of shadows. Nassar’s voice came again, now a guttural snarl that resonated in Nos’s skull.
"Let’s see what you’re really made of, pretty boy."
From the fog, Nassar emerged, his gaunt frame distorted into something monstrous. His bloodshot eyes glowed faintly, and his scarred face twisted into a demonic grin. He twirled a jagged blade in his hand, its edge shimmering with venomous green.
Nos shook his head, willing himself to focus. The hallucinations were tricks, but the danger was real. He rushed forward, driving his knife in a precise thrust toward Nassar’s chest.
Nassar twisted, moving faster than seemed possible, his blade flashing as he parried. The clash of their knives sent a jolt up Nos’s arm, and before he could recover, Nassar slammed his elbow into Nos’s ribs, driving him back.
"Not bad!" Nassar crowed, lunging forward.
Nos ducked the strike, catching Nassar’s wrist and twisting. He drove his shoulder into the slaver’s chest, slamming him into the desk. The furniture splintered under the force, scattering shards of wood across the floor.
Nassar’s laugh echoed, maddening and gleeful, even as Nos drove his knife into the man’s shoulder. The blade sank deep, and Nassar shuddered—but instead of faltering, he seemed to revel in the pain. With a feral snarl, he yanked the blade out himself, tossing it aside as his free hand struck Nos in the side of the head, sending him staggering.
The hallucinogenic gas blurred Nos’s vision further, and Nassar’s laughter warped into a chorus of snarling voices. The walls twisted, lined with flickering, ghastly faces. The floor beneath Nos’s feet seemed to shift like liquid fire.
Nassar came at him again, his blade slashing low. Nos blocked, but the angle was awkward, and the tip of the weapon bit into his thigh. Pain lanced through him, sharper than it should have been. The venom.
The cut burned like a brand, and Nos’s empathic senses exploded with Nassar’s euphoric bloodlust. The sheer intensity of it fed into Nos, stoking his own rage. He let out a guttural snarl and threw himself forward, grappling Nassar and driving him into the warped remains of a filing cabinet.
The slaver countered, twisting his hips and flipping Nos to the floor. Nassar’s blade arced down, and Nos barely rolled aside, the weapon sparking against the tiles. With a roar, Nos kicked upward, catching Nassar in the ribs and sending him stumbling.
Nos surged to his feet, unsheathing another blade in a flash as he slashed across Nassar’s side. The slaver hissed, blood spraying across the room like molten fire. But Nassar only smiled, his eyes wild with manic glee.
"You feel it too, don’t you?" Nassar hissed, licking the blood from his lips.
"The pain, the thrill. It’s beautiful."
Nos didn’t answer. He lunged again, their blades clashing in a furious exchange of strikes, counters, and grapples. Each impact sent jolts of agony through Nos, amplified by the venom, but he pressed on. His knife found flesh again, carving a deep gash into Nassar’s arm.
But the slaver wouldn’t fall. Instead, he roared with exhilaration, feinting left before sweeping Nos’s legs out from under him. Nos hit the floor hard, his breath knocked from his lungs.
Before he could recover, Nassar grabbed him, hauling him up with inhuman strength.
"You’re mine now, Zeltron," he growled, hurling Nos backward.
Glass shattered as Nos crashed through the window, the shards slicing into his skin. He hit the rain-slick pavement below with a bone-jarring impact, gasping for air as the cold and pain seared through him.
Above, Nassar stood silhouetted in the broken window, his gaunt frame wreathed in the glowing storm of hallucinations. With a mocking laugh, he leapt down, landing with predatory grace.
The slaver grabbed Nos by the collar, dragging him through the rain toward the compound’s arena, a sandy pit with rows of seating for an audience. The dome of the pit's energy shield sizzled and sparked as it blocked the rain. Nassar and Nos crossed the threshold, leaving a crimson trail from the broken glass to the ring of pain and death. The snarls of bloodhound beasts echoed from their nearby kennels, their silhouettes barely visible through the storm.
Nassar’s force-empowered voice cut through the downpour, booming and venomous.
"Come out, come out, little slug-rats! Let’s make this fun. Bring your best—or watch your friend die slowly."
Nos’s vision blurred, the world flickering between reality and hellish distortion. One thing remained clear: Nassar’s cruel smile promised nothing but pain.
