Seated atop a bloody throne of ice, long legs crossed and arms folded with her detached sleeves rolled up on her lap, was Gy— Geneva. Slumped slightly forward, her silver-white hair cascaded over her face like a waterfall, getting tugged lightly by a wind that was slowly picking up. Just enough to gradually reveal the deep blue blindfold beneath.
"Zzz..."
Because she was sleeping. Quite peacefully at that.
Zooming out revealed both the throne's perch and its construction: a seven-spoked collage of ice columns jutting out of the corpse of a Hydra, each spoke of frigid death impaling one of the dead creature's skulls and pinning them to the floor below. From ground level, it looked less like a throne and more like a star with a sleeping woman sitting at its center. Beneath the hydra itself lay a bed of white and red frost, gluing the deceased beast to the ground. The oversized body was covered in slashes and deep gashes, most showing signs of severe frostbite.
Geneva's head snapped upright.
One word left her lips the second she returned to the waking world — panic and urgency baked into every syllable as she reached a hand out into empty air.
"VALORI!"
She lurched forward and bolted as if possessed. Unfortunately, that throne had nothing beneath it to run on. She made it about four steps before realizing her feet were touching nothing but air, prompting her to look down and check where exactly those heels were landing — and why there was no sound when they supposedly hit the ground.
"Ah shi—"
The realization hit. Late, but it hit.
Like a rock, Geneva dropped, heading straight for the icy surface belo— well, she was going to. Right when her body was about to make contact, it stopped, leaving her hovering a few inches above the floor, completely unharmed. Directly in front of one of the hydra heads.
Her face ended up centimeters away from a frostbitten black tongue.
A huff escaped her before she shakily reoriented herself upright, eyes still glued on the offending appendage. Metaphorically speaking, given the blue cloth currently blocking said eyes.
"So this is the sacrifice?" Geneva asked nobody in particular, her tone carrying a cryptic cadence as she surveyed her surroundings. "That's a bit underwhelming..."
A pause. Her senses caught something. 'Or rather someone...' She narrowed her gaze in concentration, trying to triangulate exactly where this presence was. Or rather, where their signature was.
Didn't interrupt that one, huh?
"Signature, presence, keep it pushing." She shot back.
Geneva succeeded in her search.
'Nat 20, let's go.'
Not only did she find the location of the new presence, but she found that there was more than just the one man. A small group of signatures in total — with his being the only one that felt different from the rest. Less... evil. That and his signature was the only one with signs of life in them.
"Something tells me that's a man in trouble..." She mused aloud, looking down at her side as she began walking in the direction of that group.
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Surrounded by dolls, a man in a purple trench coat and black jeans looked up into the air. The winds draping his mane around his face added a menacing aura to him as he silently stared into space.
Around him were four of them, each poised to attack, all four exactly 10 feet away from him. Their stances were low, but elegant, moving ornaments of deadly design. Each one shuffling slowly at him like they were trying to eerily sneak up on him all at once.
His features were neutral as the things soundlessly approached in unison. Unmoving until they were each around six feet away. It was only then the man looked down, eyes focused. On the tree behind the doll in front of him, instead of the thing itself.
He raised an eyebrow, asking a question aloud that's been on his mind for less than a second.
"Why do my balls itch?" He asked with a straight face, casually reaching into his trench coat and fetching a combat knife.
Really? That's your first line?
The dolls, white as snow, with one on his 12, 6, 3, and 9 o clock, were around 5 feet away now. Close to effective melee range. And the man still didn't attack. He just held that combat knife, twirling it between his fingers idly, flipping the thing between his knuckles like one would a coin.
The things were seconds away from... doing something I guess? Anyway-
Despite the things being right up on the man, his muscles didn't twitch. He moved not. Well, his facial muscles did move.
His eyes widened in realization. Apparently he found out why his balls were itching for a second. Then, he frowned, opening his mouth to speak as the things were now 4 feet away.
"Valorie... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...
My bad..."
He admitted to clearly not the dolls, his voice melancholic and reflective. Like something in him snapped. Or would a better phrase be broke?
He stops toying with the knife, or rather he slams his hand shut. Right around the blade itself, and a trail of blood began running down the weapon, landing on the floor.
The doll on his six didn't see it coming.
Neither did its face.
In one fluid motion, Gynesis spun and flung the blood from his palm at the thing, his hand and body following the motion of throwing the knife itself.
Right on the thing's face, the blood landed and began to eat into it immediately. Boring through the material like acid through wet paper, until less than a third remained. The doll hit the floor and started convulsing there, too busy pressing its hands to what used to be the upper half of its face to do much else.
It had no mouth prior, but this Artificial Monstrosity found that it simply must scream.
The remaining three went black simultaneously. Clearly a response to losing one of their own. That or the acidic blood that just invaded its personal space.
Then they moved.
All at once, not that one at a time nonsense.
The one on his nine came high. The one on his three came low. Textbook pincer, clean execution, half a second between the two — just enough of a gap to force a choice.
Okay, not all at once... But two at a time is still leagues above one at a time like they're being served fried chicken at Popeye's.
Gynesis didn't choose either, because he did both.
The knife caught the approaching high attack at the forearm, biting into the thing's limb and holding it thanks to the serrated teeth. At the same time, he drove his foot deeper into the ground and let the low attack take him across the back of the shin.
It hurt like a bitch, but he stayed ten toes down and let out a small grimace of annoyance as his only acknowledgement of the attack. Gynesis didn't.
Using the knife as a lever, the exorcist yanked the nine o'clock doll off its feet and hurled it directly into the one to his side. Speaking of, it was in the middle of some kind of jumping attack if its feet being both off the ground was to take into consideration.
With the grace and flight pattern of a derailed bullet train at full speed hitting a parked sedan, the thrown doll slams into the only one left able to attack. Changing its status from mid-kick... or punch or whatever it was going to do, to Gmod rag dolled a couple dozen feet alongside its friend. Sounds and all.
The one that hit his shin didn't escape clean either, getting clipped by that bullet train of a projectile that the other doll had become. But before its face and its ally's foot became well acquainted, it got its parting gift in. A kick to the back of the knee of the four's common enemy.
Landing with a sickening crunch and sending them both to the floor at the same time. Something broke. Hard. Like that, everybody did the flop. One doll was out of the running. Three were getting back up. And one human was flat on his back before he kicked up to his feet in one fluid motion.
The dolls went for a more skittering motion, finding themselves rising to their feet all the same.
"So this is how arthritis feels?" He groaned at nobody as he kipped to his feet. The dolls regaining their bearing not even 15 feet away.
Now upright, he looked down at his main hand, the blood still dripping from the open wound. He didn't blink as he made a fist with that hand, shaping the blood into a crude throwing knife. Dense, balanced, like the real thing.
"I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T do you know what that mean?- Nope!" He asked literally nobody, since presumably those dolls don't know any language other than violence and his voice is the only one in his head at the moment.
The bloody tool would leave the fingers of its creator before the target even fully registered it was ready to attack. Right in the neck went the heamo-blade, another target down. Same result as the one who'd taken a faceful of vitamin D-rich liquid. Down it went.
That makes two on the floor, each regretting its life choices in the corner. With two moving problems to solve.
"I can keep my screen time and lines from being the sole MC." He continues his blabbering, reaching for his right hand, grabbing his middle finger and pulling hard.
Ripping the digit clean off.
The sound it made was not pleasant to the ear, nor was the feeling on the man's body. Either way he didn't flinch. He just flicked his wrist, the motion making the blood transform the finger into a hilt and the blood into a blade.
At the same time, he'd tossed his knife into his off hand, glancing over at his opposition with an uncaringly neutral gaze.
Over with the last two, they'd watched the entire process with the patient menace of things that don't have eyes. Then they skittered forward together, going for the pincer again. On the male main character like Minecraft youtubers to kids.
WHAT?! You can't just...
The two came with a ferocity that would've mirrored enraged comrades had their faces existed. But they didn't.
So it just looked like two black marionettes dashing at a madman who was yapping to himself with murderous intent.
The two remaining dolls chose another pincer. This time faster, more aggressive. Going for a double mid. One punching, the other kicking. Both appendages aimed for the chest and ribs.
A cross guard would work here, a backdash, a sidestep, even a side profile would bear profitable results. And-
Yet, Gynesis chose to backflip. He picked the option with the least fruit to bear.
And somehow the double attack closed on empty air. Well, the fist and foot of the two managed to not only miss, but cross and cancel each other out by measure of the two limbs smacking into each other.
Luckily for those two they managed to recover in the instant they fucked up and go in for a follow up before Gynesis finished his backflip.
More like as soon as his feet touched the floor.
But who's keeping count? Clearly not the author.
Undeterred, the duo kept on the offensive. Tossing a proper combination this time at him.
Highs, lows, rotating angles, nothing telegraphed, everything with fewer than ten frames between each other per attacker. And Gynesis caught them all.
"Just a shit chac, with a ass bag- fuck! Now I'm pushing plot points like I'm first class, been have my revamp." He neutrally droned on as he dodged.
Until he didn't.
The heamo-blade in his main hand turned away four strikes, the knife now in his right hand redirected another three. Fancy footwork ate the distance on the following six, by only just enough that he still felt the wind from the missed attempts at his life.
the seventh to tenth were each deflected with precision matching a sharpshooter going for gold.
The eleventh strike caught him clean. A back kick, right down the spine, delivered with the kind of force that makes the central nervous system file for bankruptcy.
He went down. Smiling a little, just a little, as his form crumpled to the floor. Thanks to the doll on his left.
The doll on his right was already winding up a follow through. A curb stomp, aimed right for the face. Poetic justice if you ask the narrator.
Too bad it didn't land.
One finger sword throw was all it took.
Despite clearly being in stunlock, the man decided to toss out his combo breaker, in this case literally, right for the chest.
Right on target, the thing waved its upper torso goodbye. Adding another doll to the list of "Gynesis's corrosive therapy" victims.
Three down. One left.
Gynesis stood up, rolled his neck, and looked at what remained.
The last functional doll looked back at him. Turned around to see nothing but trees behind it. Then returned its gaze to the man's right hand, which was still bleeding and holding that knife.
It repeated this another two times, with Gynesis watching in silence each time, waiting to see what it was going to do.
What it did was return to its original white form. Followed up with briefly putting up an open palmed hand. Then it turned around one last time. And finally the doll hit the jets.
Ever heard something that can't speak say "Yeah, you got this" in your own tongue?
At full speed, the thing took off.
It got four steps.
Yeah me neither.
He covered the distance like a dragon out of hell. Catching the doll from behind like the thing just dropped the soap.
"Where do you think you're going, night guard?!" He asked with a sarcastic chuckle.
His arm went on its shoulder, used to yank the thing to look him in the eye. Well, if it had eyes anyway.
The claw came up, rising like a king tide right to the chest of the doll.
It convulsed in pain, trying to go into the fetal position. But that left handed death grip prevented such a search for comfort.
Following that was another stab, slightly higher up, then another, and another. Searching for an off button, it seems this guy was a London citizen. It wouldn't be a lapse in judgement to assume this was Birmingham's weakest soldier.
28 times that doll was impaled, receiving 28 stab wounds before finally kicking the bucket.
Going from mid chest all the way up to under the neck before stopping.
The off button was finally found. And once it was, he'd leave the makeshift blade imbedded in his target's neck, removing the tool like it was a cast he'd no longer needed. Revealing a perfectly healed right middle finger.
"Chin, huh? Or should I say neck..." He noted, tossing the corpse aside like it was a Biohazard. "These aren't dolls, they're zombies."
Just spouting bullshit at this point, Gynesis went to work. Going on to touch the other incapacitated dolls. Or should it be zombies?
The next to take a dirt nap went out as such.
He walked the thing down, reaching for his previously discarded middle finger, ripping the thing out of the doll's chest for one last use.
A clean horizontal slash across the neck came next. Ending the "zombie" then and there. Also ending the sword itself as it fell apart like a cheap toy.
That didn't stop the man from simply reforming the blade into a more compact combat knife. Similar to the one he'd started the fight with. Before moving on to the next doll.
The third to get a perma-ban from the server of life caught with a swift temple deletion. One and done. Then again, the thing was laying on the ground waiting to get put out of its misery.
The last survivor- the first one struck, the one that had spent this entire fight holding what remained of its face together- got lifted off the ground by the neck. Brought up to eye level. He stepped on its foot, looked at it for a second that lasted slightly longer than it needed to, and drove the dagger up through its chin.
Then he kept going, tearing his way all the way until he sawed the doll's head in half.
The silence afterward was the loudest thing in the dimension.
Gynesis stood in the middle of what he'd left behind, breathing steady, and looked up at nothing in particular.
"Heh." A small smile found its way onto his face. "As expected of my dearest sleep paralysis demon. Not even dimensional barriers can get in her way, huh Laz?"
He waited.
The smile stayed for a second.
Then it died. Like the dolls themselves.
He didn't look down. He did pretend he heard a snarky response from a certain redheaded fox however. And he kicked the nearest doll hard enough to send it skidding several feet across the ground in "response" to hearing said response.
"Oh fuck off!"
Then he put his hands in his pockets and started walking. The dagger he wielded not even a minute ago discarded and left to rot alongside the thing's victims.
He didn't know exactly where he was going. But something in his chest had a direction, and he trusted it more than he trusted anything else available to him at that moment.
He was almost exactly right.
Almost.