#unknown evil

Dear Intro Interested,

“Yeah. No. Yeah, just finished.” Tim lifted his hoodie sleeve and looked at his watch. “30 minutes. Roger. ... No. No trouble. Yeah, the usual. Alright.” He swiped away the call and walked over to the small cooler he’d brought with him two hours to his houseguest’s arrival. He opened a bottle of water and placed a granola bar on the old metal table running parallel to the window. He was mid-swig when he glanced out and saw the irregular darkness on #3′s head.  “What the fuck?” He capped the bottle reflexively and placed it next to his supper. He walked back out to the warehouse, slowly approaching the three people on their knees, bound and hooded. The other two shuffled around and whimpered while #3′s soiled head followed Tim creeping closer to the trio. The closer Tim got, the quicker (it seemed) #3 bled out black. He took the handgun from his waist and cocked the hammer. #1 and #2 registered the noise, and made the appropriate panicky responses. Tim swore that #3 smiled at him behind blackened, gore-drenched cloth as he approached. He tightened his grip on the pistol as he reached out with his other hand to take out the bleeding thing’s shroud. He had just touched the top of the hood when #2 started pleading.

“Please. Please. I- I have kids. A wife. MONEY!” he yelled as if only now remembering that he had been embezzling millions for years. “I can pay you! I can pay all of you! Whatever you’re making for this, I’ll triple it...qua- quadruple-” Tim fired a round into a metal roof already riddled in holes. He never looked away from the spectacle of #3, who was now seeping an oily black down his front and onto his jeans. #2 yalped at the shot. #1 started to soil herself, which made the normal darkened stain pour between her legs. #3 looked over and bent down to look at #1′s accident. He then looked up at Tim, smiled again behind his hood, and relieved himself as well. The stain pouring between his legs was just as black and deathly as the gushing impossibility at his head. 

“F-fuck,” Tim managed under his breath. He backed off, lifted his sleeve, and looked at his watch. It had only been five minutes. “Fuck this shit,” he said and raised his gun at #3. He put his hand on 3′s head again, but before he could rip off the soiled rag like an old band-aid, #2 spoke. This time, it wasn’t the voice that pleaded and begged and bribed a moment ago. Now, it was something very different, much deeper and guttural to the point of inhuman. 

“LOSACH EH NOMACH”

Everything froze. Tim almost relieved himself. #2 then coughed out the same black oil from behind his shroud. It molded itself into a crescent in the fabric as it smiled. #3 looked over at #2, then back at Tim, and started to laugh. It was a hearty, genuine laugh just as inhuman as #2′s indecipherable declaration, but its own distinctive octave. #2 started to chuckle and pouring onto himself, and all of a sudden Tim was outnumbered. #1 screamed at the top of her lungs, and for a moment, 2 and 3′s shared guffaw was muted by sheer unadulterated terror. Tim fired two more rounds into the air, quieting #1 to a whimper, while #2 and #3 chuckled like the substitute teacher’s back was turned.

“Shut the fuck up!” Tim yelled trying to maintain order.  #1 tried her very best to silence her quivering helpless self. #2 and #3 looked up at Tim, both grinning the same grin behind filth drenched masks. Tim stepped back and took a breath. “It doesn’t matter what they do. They’re still tied up on their knees,” he thought. He looked at his watch again. In 17 minutes, this...whatever it was would be someone else’s problem entirely. An hour from now, he’d be home smoking a bowl and ordering a few whores. He convinced himself that he was still in control, despite the contagious evil that pooled black before him, and retreated once again into the former supervisor’s room. 

On the table was his respite of a forgotten granola bar dinner, and reality set an even keel. That was until he looked out the giant window, and the two grins stared through him from another dimension. Tim grabbed the granola bar and ripped open the wrapping. He gobbled it up and swigged down an ice cold bottle of water, then took some deep breaths. He had two bottles of water left. He took one, went to the corner of the office and poured half onto his face. Feeling momentarily refreshed, he snatched his pistol from his pants, and cocked open the action. He smiled at the golden round that gleamed the promise of power back at him, and momentarily convinced himself that he had to get control of whatever it was that was going on in the other room. 

He glanced back at the window. #2 and #3 were still grinning at him, yet Tim held his ground with his gun and his countdown. He put the gun back into his waistband and made a motion towards the door when the two funseekers started waving at him. The waving became very enthusiastic. #1 was breaking down and her shoulders spastically vibrated in a silent uncontrollable manner. Tim put his head to the window, and saw 2 and 3 motion and laugh at 1. It was the first time that Tim showed any form of concern towards a hostage. This pissed him off more than any supernatural horseshit. He slammed open the door and stormed into the room, pointing his gun at #3, then #2. He motioned towards #1 when the other two men slammed their heads against the floor. 

Tim froze as 2 and 3 took turns plunging their heads into the concrete. They would lift their heads sluggishly, look skyward, then slam them full force again onto the cold and blackened wet bluntness. Pitch excrement splattered everywhere. After 3 of these sessions had passed, both thing’s shrouds were completely drenched black. When the actions had ceased, and it seems they were finally dead, they were both face down in the muck, asses in the air. Darkness still poured out of their ruined sacks like broken markers. The pool that had formed between them was large, and spreading ever outward. 

#1 was weeping again, and for a moment Tim thought her reaction would be tenfold if she could actually see what she’d been hearing. He made a move towards her when a hand emerged from the black pool. It was long and bony, and connected to an even longer and bonier arm. It extended northerly between the two faceplanted bodies. The arm was completely coated, no constructed of the black excretion. It’s multi-jointed fingers spread in all directions, bending forwards and backwards, each time making the sound of wet bones breaking. It was as if the newborn had not yet learned to make a fist, and the motions it made looked like a giant spider skewered on the end of a long crooked stick. 

Tim was a dead statue. He was no longer of this earth, nor did he want to be anymore. The moment of saving a woman he’d condemned to her unknown fate five minutes prior had passed. She was once again fucked, but this time to the newly born impossible evil that extended from a concrete floor and crooked this way and that. Tim wondered, in his frozen state, what the creature looked like that was connected to the arm, and felt the blood rush into his feet, as if finding out wasn’t a possibility unless he had cowered behind the supposed safety of a locked door and giant dingy window. He realized too late that he should have used his pistol on the thin oil slicked arm as he locked the door behind him. Tim pressed his hand against the glass as the arm grabbed #3 by the throat and lifted him to his feet. 

In doing so, the arm extended further out from the sickening black pool to a length of what had to be at least seven feet. The atrocity had four elbows. Each finger had 6 joints. The hand then turned its attention to #2 and brought him to his feet as well. Both men seemed their cheerful selves again as they found great hilarity in their newfound friend and its ability to easily cut through each of their bonds with two quick swipes. It left on their hoods, which still poured overturned inkwells into the thing’s birthing pool. #2 thought it would be funnier than hell if he removed #1′s hood. The first thing she saw was the ungodliness waving at her. Her screams never really expressed the terror her eyes were witnessing, but it was a solid effort. 

#2 grabbed her by the hair and shoved her towards the giant arm. The bony shadow of a hand wrapped around her throat and the arm receded two-thirds back into the pool on the floor, bending her over. #3 slapped his knee in joy. He went behind her and ripped her slacks open. He made another swipe at her and her pants and panties were slowly sinking into the the pool on the floor like it were quicksand. Her face was held up towards the window, and her eyes met Tim’s. They were tearful and blaming. Tim couldn’t look away, as if another unnatural hand were holding him into place as well. 

#3 rubbed the sack on his head and coated his hand in black goo. He made a fist above #1′s behind and let the foul liquid drip down to her exposed sex. #2 sidled around behind the both of them and hugged #3. He also rubbed #3′s head and ran his hands down to the front of 3′s pants. He unzipped the man’s fly and released his erect member, coating it in darkness. #2 unleashed his own phallus and the two creatures shared a kiss through their disgusting hoods. 

3 entered 1 and 2 entered 3. #1 screamed and the men moaned. The bony hand wrapped almost twofold around her neck as the train built up steam. Tim was horrified and picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the call button as he stared up at the vile eroticism a pane of glass away. Tim felt terrible for #1, and noticed that her screaming had stopped. Her eyes had glassed over to a milky white, and was now moaning. Each moan brought with it a dollop of blackness from her mouth that slopped down the slender arm binding her. She was one of them now. Tim thought for a way out of this situation. He was just as fucked as the things in that room. Even if he did make a call, what would he possibly say?

The trio was in full despicable ecstatic rhythm when Tim’s phone woke up loudly. He looked down at a text alerting him that Danny was here, and to be ready. He looked up at the oily orgy and panic set in at an all time high. Danny was a serious player, and would be sure to put an end to this madness, yet Tim gave himself only about a 30-70 chance of convincing Danny not to throw him on the pile just for the trouble. The threesome hit an inhuman crescendo and the three slumped back onto #2. All were laughing and completely drenched in the black bile. The hand was caressing #1′s face. The room was calm and quiet for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. 

The door flung open and sunlight shocked the room brighter than it had been in years. Danny took one step inside and froze. Tim saw a silhouette of a very intimidating man throw his hands to his head. Danny stepped into the room, making a beeline towards the office. 

“Watch out!” Tim yelled from the office, thinking his warning would help to convince Danny of the danger and ultimately defeat the monsters on the floor. Danny stopped, looking at the mess of bodies, then up to Tim on the other side of the window, and back again. Tim looked at the three, who didn’t budge. The black liquid that had infected all three was now blood red, and they looked like corpses at a massacre. The long bony arm had now vanished in the sunlight and all three sets of eyes stared into the void. Danny kicked the pile, confirmed death, and started once more towards the office. 

Dear Rallying Racer,

The Rallybots have a long and storied history. The name dates back to some of the earliest Cybertronian documents, always in connection to the destructive forces known as "Destrons", led by an unknown evil whose own name has been lost to history. Long before the Autobots came to exist, the Rallybot title was used by a group of neutral Cybertrons, who underwent an experimental procedure to become a mighty super-warrior capable of opposing the Destrons’ combined form. They chose the name Champion for themselves—hardly the most ostentatious moniker, but one they did their best to live up to.

Those first Rallybots were an innocent group, unused to the idea of war, but determined to put their ideals into action and defend their way of life. They were lead by Paragon, a former politician who had abandoned the cities after deciding it had become time for actions, not words. His second-in-command, Blow-Out, was their guide and scout—she had spent so long in the deserts of Cybertron that her entire body seemed to be made of sand, and Paragon trusted her experience enough to let her lead in situations where he himself was uncertain.

Sprint backed them up, being their weapons expert—he used to repair energon harvesters, but after becoming fascinated by the Destron's new inventions, he wasted no time reverse-engineering them for the Rallybots. The last of the team was Splashguard, who had found herself thrust into action defending others when the Destrons first attacked. Abandoning her former career as a dam-builder, she went on to become the greatest warrior of the Rallybots.

Together the four of them left civilization, deep into the primordial wilderness of Cybertron, where the Destrons feared to tread. Their hit-and-run attacks, though ineffective on a material level, robbed the Destrons of their believed invulnerability, and proved to the rest of Cybertron that an uprising was possible.

From then on, whenever a group has taken the title of "Destron", it seems destiny causes another group of warriors to take up the Rallybot mantle. As you note, one instance was the Power Core Combiner Doubleclutch and his team of drones, but the Rallybot name has been borne alike by Scramble City combiners, Duobots, Triple-Combination teams, and Micromaster squads. No matter what form they take, each new incarnation of the team shares two things with their predecessors: a desire for a just peace, and off-road automotive alt-modes.

The latest group to bear the Rallybot name were recruited in the wake of the Combiner Wars. There, the machinations of Megatronus led a team of ancient Destrons to reawaken, and in response Optimus Prime chose a group of his bravest warriors to oppose them.

Voting is now open for Power of the Primes -- one of these lucky bots will get to be immortalised as Cybertron’s next leader, and you can help put them there!

Will Honour prevail?  Will Chaos reign?  Or will Cybertron come to Order?

Vote now here!

The yellow lines on the highway sped by in a blur, and we flew through the night, and we felt free. But we weren’t and we knew it. We were running away from something, and running away was never the path to freedom. I thought about telling John to turn back. I thought about suggesting fighting for true freedom one last time. But we had already lost so many; the empty seats in the back of the van a million times louder than the heavy breathing of the survivors.

An occasional glance backwards revealed that none of us felt truly free. Not yet. But hope. Hope was the drug of the masses and it was the one we were high on right now. And like any other drug we needed more and more of it to stay satisfied.

Except for me. I knew there would be no hope. Not for us or any of the scattered innocents. Because there were too many who were not innocent scattered in among them. Them. Because the reason I knew that despite the flowing sense of freedom was temporary was I was one of the convicted. I had been promised things, that I knew now, were never to be. At a cost far too high.

I was hyper aware of the tracker flashing in my boot. Equally aware that there was no way to remove it without revealing to those around me.

Traffic signs blurred as John pushed the van harder, the speedometer inching past 120, but the enemies behind us were closer than ever. The closest one within in reaching distance. Sitting silent in the passenger seat as each second brought all of us closer to our doom. Each second they thought we were getting away was one second we were in fact losing ground. They had no idea how impossibly fast our enemies were.

They wouldn’t know until far too late.

But I knew.

And knowing made it so much worse.

There was so little time left.

I thought once more about suggesting John turn the car around so we could fight. The selfish part of me hoping to die along side them rather than against them. Hoping that they would never have to find out who truly betrayed them for a mythos of false promises.

If we could fight one last fight together, go down together, still friends, still believing that this was for the greater good of the other survivors, then I could go peacefully.

But the decision was made for me in one split second as the car was lifted violently into the air, wheels spinning helplessly. The sudden lack of motion jerked as all forward in our seats and at least one person screamed. Besides me, John cursed violently throwing the car into neutral as if that would help us escape the sharp claws now digging into the side of the car with a metallic screech.

Then we were dragged backwards into the realms of horror all hints of freedom gone forever.

I wondered briefly if the creatures would let my friends kill me as their last revenge or make me watch them die first and kill me itself.