2Chariot's Armour
Author's Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.
Summary:
A poem based on the resurrected Chariot's obstinacy, set during The House of the Dead: Scarlet Dawn.
Explosive glass. Cadaver-tossed cadaver. Throwback to the good doctor's swatted roof.
Homeostatic horror, heat barely suppressed by the footman's steaming, coolant-roaring armour.
Goes around through the room, where the undercover agents' hurry-hurry gunfire isn't working.
Swinging his bardiche in one-handed crescents…This rancid, hobbling corpse unrelenting.
The inhuman growl, terrifyingly exhaled through gas mask's distorting rebreather.
Into the grated depot to dodge a chunked annex unit and granulated mortar.
What can break that armour? A rocket launcher from the armoury? Surprisingly yes.
Something will be released if they don't report in soon. But there are prisoners here!
Her perfect partner switches to the RPG and takes the sucker out. All while she abuses her master key.
Big boy's moving again. He winds for a slapshot, only a chink between his plates has been exposed.
A nice broken spot to pack with bullets, even though the unreadable stiff won't vomit green slop.
He's less persistent than just plain crazy. His stagger so constant they struggle to keep their distance.
Tracking them behind the pillars, bloodthirsty lenses barbaric and bright.
Overarm hacks mapped efficient onto more substantive bulk.
Removed the vulnerabilities of a wasting skeleton, loose fibrils strained of viable tissue.
Curien would commend these sicklier omissions.
Ill stroke the suit swells to scrap.
Kate hates a clingy guy.
He was twenty-seven, twice revived, less appealing to the maggots each stand.
I toll the true battle. The true battle in the future so forewarned by the brother dispossessed.
So mordantly cold, the axe falling upon the already deceased's neck.
