Scary Stories

Somethin scary huh? Ok, imagine that you went to this terran "halloween party" you had a good time and passed out, drunk with an incredibly attractive woman(nane your species, it wont matter) When you woke up the next morning in just your boots, you looked next to you to see the amazing creature you spent the night with, and you find, IT WAS PARIAH its ok, you can go change your pants now.

...Uhhhhh

I have reached new levels of wtf.

Noooooot in a good way either.

There is a star. One among billions. It is relatively close to Kahje, visible with any reasonably powerful telescope. It was not bright enough to earn a name, only a catalogue number. In the distant past, it was examined for exoplanets and found to have a fairly standard system.

As we progressed to interstellar technology, we travelled to these stars to get more accurate information and hopefully new places to colonise. Naturally, we went to this otherwise unassuming system, even if it was just curiosity. For centuries the findings were censored. Even after it was released, it was kept off any lists a much as possible, buried beneath uninteresting reports. It is hard to find, there being one hard copy and the electronic copy kept behind a series of unintuitive links. However, it is not illegal to talk about it.

What they found the first time was that the findings were wrong. Stellar dimming and oscillations suggested several planets. When exploration teams arrived they found the system bare not only of planets but any material save the star. We assumed that the previous findings had been wrong and moved on.

Just before contact there is a burst of radio noise from the star. It defies any sort of decryption, but is regular enough to possibly be a language. We investigate (despite it being a few years old at this point due to light lag) and, once again, we find nothing there.

A few decades after contact and something odd happens. We receive a distress call from the star. It is in Standard, but the ship's name and the nation of origin is not recognised. But we investigate anyway, travelling to the empty star. But there is no trace of any ship ever being in the system. Nowhere else claims to have received any sort of message.

Several more distress calls are received, different ships, from the same nation. All they give is the distress message, and do not respond to any hails. Every time we return to the system, it is just as empty. But the captain of the cruiser Lo, Did The Enkidlers Appear And Bless Us All In Their Light decided to do a sweep of the system. A derelict of unknown make and origin was found drifting about 10 AU from the star. No biological traces were found, and, once the power had been restored, the computer had been wiped clean. It, in theory functioned like any other ship, but no manufacturer could be found for replacement parts.

Every call, every time nothing except for the derelict, exactly the same condition. Some even commented that it was almost exactly the same. Small interior details would be different, but from the outside, it would be exactly the same. Biological material that did not match any known species, sophont or otherwise, had been found. Next time, it looked more like blood. Then we found bodies that almost resembled a simple species from a star in the same cluster.

There the report ends, at least the one that has been released to the public. It does not mention where the bodies or the derelicts are being kept, and it is unlikely that information will ever be released.

I think the OP asked for scary stories, not an overly long joke. Then again, with how long it's lasted, I can see how it can turn into a horror story.

The experience evidently varies, my friend.

I'm not sure whether you, or I, am worse off for it.

You are a Migrant Marine.

You do not get to make fun of other governments after you were part of an organized effort to murder yourselves

Y'all're borin'-ass shits. Here, lemme show you how it's done. Gather 'round, you fuckers, so dat OL' DADDY DWICK can tell y'alls A STORY.



ahem







Two hunnerd years ago, deep wit'in da Serpent-Toe Threshold, dere was a planet called Kolksmaud. Real pissy little planet, Kolksmaud. Ugly. Brown. Small. Covered in sicky little plants what would pierce 'troo your boot an' shred yer feet ter pieces. Ever'one what knew about Kolksmaud hated it - but ever'one what knew 'bout Kolksmaud was dyin' ter raise dere flag on da little bugger.

See, Kolksmaud, little tetchy thing what it was, was dense as fuck - tenth da size of Tooch, twice da G's. Meant da place was swimmin' in heavy metals - gold, plat, merc, it had ever'thin'. One schmuck even let on he dat he'd stumbled inter a vein big enough ter buy out da whole Abyss' eezo perduction fer a week.

(Funny enough, 'ee was dead wit'in dat week.)

Well, ever'one an' their retarded stillbirth've a granny wanted a piece of dis here pie, but da problem was dat it was sittin' right 'tween the T's and C's. One one side you had both da blinks an' spikes clamorin' fer "peaceful cooperation" (you know, since dis was 'fore da furheads started playin' space invaders). Den you had da whalefaces - said basically dat da planet was made fer 'em. An' den, you had ever' single tinpot dictator'a Bumfuckland layin' down a ROYAL DECREE threatenin' Free Mandatory Good Times fer enny she-bitches what tried ter take it as dere own.

Dat's where I come in.

Back 'fore I was da FABULOUSLY RICH GALACTIC MEDIA SUPERKINGPIN dat I am terday, I was a jacker've all trades. Fightin', killin', buildin', designin', tapin', playin', politickin' - if you needed a job done an' done right, I was dere ter do it. Best way ter catch a quickie, y'know? Plus, y'get da talkin' points from satisfied custermers, an' da reppertation dat'choo'll do ennythin fer a quick cred.* Terday, though, I was playin' da role of beat cop.

As da biggest, baddest, meanest mofo onna T-Colony by da name'a Jot-Un, I was sent as a surprise dippermatic envoy ter "assert Jot-Un's eminent domain over all resources of da planet." I was ter do dis by showin' ever'one da proper way ter skin a dippermat - y'know, wit' visual aids? Always gotta bring yer visual aids fer shit like that - nobody believes you know yer anattermy 'til yer carvin individual chords'a muscle meat off da firs' schmuck what calls you out.

ENNYWAY.

I'm supposed ter get dere an' wrap up dis li'l dispute all quick-like, but firs' thing I realize when I get dere is...well...

'Member when I said place was a tenth da size'a tooch, wit' twice da G's?

well

myeahhhhh

An' o'course da population's a buncha whalefaced swampstompers. Go figger.

It was kind've a bad day tryin' ter stomp 'round at dat weight - even wit' THIGHS OF STEEL from my daily regimen of squaaaaaaats**. Da whole "gettin' shot at wit' heavy cannons" thing kinda helped - y'know, motivation an' shit - but fer some reason, by da time I actually started gettin' a winded, all dem amblers suddenly stopped shootin'.

"Now Dwick, you sexy void-damn motherfucker," I hear y'all sayin' ter yerselves, "why would a buncha stodgy [NEAREST TRANSLATION FOUND: "ELEPHANT-MEN"] stop firin' at da big round ball'a destruction dat'choo is?" Well, I don't got no answers fer you, sad ter say - other'n dat when I reached dere bunker, dey was all dead.

Yup. Ever' last one'a dem. Lyin' on da ground, legs all chewed up, bone an' shit spewin' outta da flesh. Looked like da bloodiest damn game'a [NEAREST TRANSLATION FOUND: "COW-TIPPING"] I ever seen. ‘Course, this got me ter thinkin’ - not very hard, mind ya, since I’m a cerified GENIUS, but still, thinkin’ - ‘bout th’ one thing dat dese bumfuck redneck asswallers don’t never talk ‘bout round here cept when they’s drunk or stupid or fuckin’ their goddamned elephant-faced shitass cousins.

An’ dat’s DA HOLLER ELCOR.
Dey say dere’s an elcor round here what don’t know he dead, right? Some kinda fuckass mercenary what got blowed up inner war, or over some kinda dame, or somethin’. Personally, I think he swollowerd a grenade b’cuse he was a stupid fuckass swampstomper, but whatever.

Prolly thought it were a meatball - or some kinda… meaty…. thing--

ENNYWAYS

So dis Elcor, he died, right? BUCKED TH’ KICKET. Exploded so hard his skin done fell right offa him. Went “POP.” Well, turns out th’ elcor don’t know he’s ded yet, so da story goes, so he haunts his own skin an’ looks aroun’ for folks so he can steals their organs an’ shit - fill up th’ whoooooole hole inside’a him! Now, some folks say it’s a bunch of fuckin’ goddamn vorcha shit, but some don’t, an’ when I told somat th’ locals bout what happened, they went all volus on me an’ shut the fuck up, making hexes an’ crosses an’ THE EVIL EYE at my ass like I was some kinda evil volannis!

Well, I is, but I ain’t gonna be kept away by no EVIL EYE, heh

So, ennyways, after I get back ter my job’ve huntin’ an’ killin’ em, I take myself in a house an’ lies up for th’ night, ready t’try agin tomorrow. That’s when I heard it out on the wastes. The’ sound no one wants t’hear. The most terrifyin’ thing I ever done heard in my life.

“HAUNTINGLY: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

Was like da sound’ve an organ playin’ dis one note, louder’n louder, vampin’ an’ shit, never changin’ inflection. “HAUNTINGLY: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Not even a change in pitch.

An’ dat’s when I picks up mah gun, heave m’self outta bed an’ look outside. An on der horizon, squattin’ like an sari takin’ a shit she don’t want no one t’see, stands th’ skinniest fuckin’ elcor I ever done seen! Oh man, it were HIDIOUS. All skinny an’ flappy an’ shit!

BLURRURRURRR

If I weren’t no MACHO PRIME SPECIMEN OF KROGANITY, I might’ve been a touch spooked. But since I am (an' derefore weren't), I picked up my gun an’ I gave a BIGASS WARCRY WHILE CHARGIN' DAT THING LIKE A FURHEAD RUNNIN' FROM 'SPONSIBILITY. Ain’t no ghost gonna wreck my night, no? So I run up t’the thing until I can sees the whites of its dead eyes, an I put my shoulder down an ram inter it, and guess what happened soon as I touch it!!

IT ‘SPLODED INTER FORTY DEAD BABIES

FORTY OF ‘EM

DEAD BABIES EVER'WHERE

An' the dead babbies all turn’n look at me, openin’their mouths, an - dis shit is real, man - an’ they turn an’ look at me and start PUKIN' SHIT AND PUS ALL OVER DA FUCKIN’ PLACE. Forty streams of shit an puss SHOWERIN' AROUND like a bucketheaded septic tank. Just BILE an' SHIT an' SHIT an' BILE an' MORE SHIT EVERY FUCKIN WHERE***

So I shoots ‘em. Each an’ ever’ one’a dem in da face. An’ they just explode inter these… like, SHIT GRENADES.

BLOOOSH
Blood and vomit and shit EVERWHERE

Like, WAY too much crap in 'em to actually be around, right

An’ the worst part is that their faces was still flapping around, bigass holes in dere cheeks from where my blunderbuss bunted ‘em, an they start yellin an cursin at me, calling me things that HAUNT ME TO DIS VERY DAY

“DWICK. DWICK. SKINNY-ASS STICK. DWICK. DWICK. SKINNY-ASS STICK.”

IT WAS LIKE A NIGHTMARE I TELL YOU. AN’ IT WASN’T FINISHED

see, dat’s when i looked down at m’self an’ realized

I COULD SEE MY FEET

WIT’OUT BENDIN’ OVER

Dere I was, flappin’ flappin - in da 2G breeze, scuttled ‘round like I weren’t no bigger den der average suitsack, inna middle’a BUMFUCK NOWHERE an’ SURROUNDED BY BABIES. It was ‘round den dat I realized that dat swampstomper weren’t DA HOLLER ELCOR.
It was DA BABIES DEMSELVES.

An’ as I realized IT WAS DA BABIES, I saw dat dem babies was tearin’ demselves apart, right down da middle. Skin just tearin’ ter shreds, making da weirdest “ZZZZZZLURRSK” sound as dey ripped demselves in two. An’ dey was crabwalkin’, now - scooting, closer an’ closer ter each other, grabbin’ at each other’s skin, still spoutin’ shit, still screechin “DWICK, DWICK, SKINNY-ASS STICK, DWICK, DWICK, SKINNY-ASS STICK” OVER AN’ OVER AGAIN, an’ when they touched each others skin

DEY MELTED TERGETHER INTO A BIG-ASS QUILT THING OF DOOM

Dat’s how dey did it, see. Li’l shapeshifters, made’a baby flesh, what turn inter a livin’ towel dat pounces over dere victims an’ SUCKS ‘EM DRY WIT’ DERE BABY MOUTHS.

So I shouted, an’ I yelled, an’ I let loose wit’ my gun, firin’ bullet after bullet inter da beast. I pumped ‘em fulla lead, but dey kept healin’ faster’n a vorcha inna roomfulla broken glass. Dey was comin’ fer me - dey was comin’ fer STICK DWICK - who could on’y be more stick-y if he was Short-Order Cook - an’ ‘fore I could shout HEY GET YER BABY MOUTHS OFF MY DICK

THEY POUNCED

Ohhh, it was a BAD DAY fer yer hero, STICK DWICK, but trapped unner da babyquilt as I was, stuck unner DA HOLLER ELCOR, I realized dere was but ONE WAY outta dis.

An’ as da firs’ baby mouth came for me, covered in teeth sharper’n da tayseri strangler’s pointy heads, I opened my mouth wide AN’ BIT FIRST.

It was like eatin’ veal atta shittin’ convention, I tells ya. Warm soft baby flesh, stewwwwed in a font’a excerment an’ boiled ter inedderbility, but i chomped down wit’ my chompers and RIPPED dat fleshy monstrosity ter bits. What I didn’t eat, I stomped, an’ what I didn’t stomp, I SET ON FIRE. Ever’ last tyke on dat planet was burnin’ by the time I was done, all haunted by der HOLLER ELCOR, an’ when I was done, so too was da whole colony.

As I felt m’self all over, feelin’ like my old self once more, II then realized: da colony ITSELF was cursed. CURSED, by dis swampstomper what wouldn’ realize he was dead and started hauntin’ vampire babies, an’ dat left alone dis colony would consume ITSELF for da babies’ appetites.

So, bein’ da forthright, forward-thinkin’ krogan what I am, I went back ter my ship...grabbed a shitload’a bombs, put ‘em near damn near every home - an’ BLEW THE WHOLE THING UP.

The screams’a da whalefaces was like a natural healin’ balm dat day, an’ sure enough, as da last’a da elcor snuffed it, I realized I was myself once more. No more STICK DWICK, but a return to the big, rich, saucy buncha MAN MEAT what y’all know an’ love.

Except...not.

For you see, leavin’ dat planet and goin’ back ter Jot-Un’s natty gravity, I realized dat all dat fightin’ had truly taken a toll on me. Dem kids had stolen from me sommat what I could never get back.

For y’see…

I had LOST 80 KILLERGAMS.

An’ so, dear readers, so ends da story of--








* An' DAT is why I ROCK in da sack.

** Thank'ee, Body By T'Haerna.

*** Still got some’a dat shit. Kept it inna jar. Dat’s, like, haunted shit, y’know?

what the fuck

you're a level beyond retarded, fatass. You're mega retarded.

an' DAT'S not a story

WHO'S DA STUPID ONE NOW

Okay, fatass I got a story.

Once upon a time there was an extranet forum, nothing special. Just full of a bunch of idiots screaming at each other over (mostly) retarded shit. But then something happened.

One asshole made a scary stories thread.

It was full of low effort shitposters trying to edgy but that's expect. The scary thing is the fat fucker who wrote words and words and words about a bunch of shit that made no sense and is pretty fake. Made me waste ten minutes reading all of that shit with his weird fucking accent and shit about THE HOLLER ELCOR! Ten minutes. Ten minutes and I still don't what the fuck you were typing.

So I read it again.

Ten more minutes.

I STILL DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT

Ten more minutes

Thirty more minutes and I still can't comprehend your retarded shit.

Repeat until I am old and dead

OOooooOOOOOOOO

oh there's a fucking video, let's see what that shit is

wait what the fu--


[user disconnected]

i win again

I have to admit (and this is really weird for me actually), this was a great story from DWICK.
I'd even say better then most of their regular program!:v

I don't know if it's scary but it makes sense. I can see what he was going for, I think, because it's very much rooted in what I suppose are specifically krogan insecurities, you know? It doesn't need that much explaining. I mean, look at the imagery. Dead babies, swarming you, eating away at you. You're being weakened by a flood of dead babies. Your strength (your girth, your, er, quantity) is sapped away, you're dwindling, but you have to keep fighting, you have to stop thinking about it and just fight to survive. And the whole idea of people who are dead but haven't stopped moving yet, who won't accept that they're dead? That's about the threat of extinction, about the slow decline. Plus there's the bit about taking it out on other people around you, about becoming predatory and destroying others.

That's what I think.

This isn't something he made up. This is something that really happened.

You remember that Breakfast piece he broadcast a while back? About the krogans' past and future? This is more of the same.

You get that, don't you? He does this sometimes.

So our sayin, beneath all the retarded bullshit he is playin to our fears of extinction? Thats fuckin retarded. But i kinda, kinda see it. But its drowning in retarded.

I'm just saying that while the, er, plot, so to speak, is completely incoherent, as a scary story and a message of sorts I can see why it works. For krogan.

Look, this stuff isn't just random. I'm not sure he's playing to anyone's fears so much as... exorcizing them. It's like the normal krogan posturing but wrapped in ludicrous imagery. "Look at me, I beat this thing, but I lost a few kilograms", well to me that's, "We beat the genophage and I'm letting you know we're back in business".

Look, krogan need to learn to think on multiple levels. There are wheels within wheels to these things. Granted, a lot of the wheels around here are jammed, but you have to look beyond the surface.

No-one is this stupid.

Dwick is.

Seriously, how is this even open for debate?

Frankly I'm rather amused at his ability to be both needlessly convoluted and improbably racist in the same breath. Truly, it is a wondrous talent.

bet'choo can't do better

All right, since you all are being outperformed by a literal two-ton manchild, I've decided to throw my own hat into the mix. Fair warning to all, it has to do with salarian politics again (Sorry if' i'm a bit myopic on this), but on the plus side it is a story.

Or rather, I should say, a look into religions.

Those of you in frequent contact with us probably understand the concept behind the Wheel of Life - reincarnation. It's a simple idea. We're here, on this planet, in this station, in this galaxy, far too short to understand the true consequences of our actions. Curing a disease here, two steps to the left there, a simple smile to someone else - all of our actions and reactions are the things that drive an enormous machine made of an infinite series of parts. When we die, the part of us that makes those decisions is conserved, never truly created or lost - and becomes part of a new life somewhere in the universe. The machine ticks on, the machine turns once more, and the universe continues its merry march through spacetime.

It's a small measure of comfort to us. Of those around, we're one of the oldest known spacefaring beings in the entire galaxy. And yet, you could fit 100 generations of us in one asari lifespan. Shrell, the current Overlord of Tuchanka's worked through 140 of us. The reason we seem so "frantic" or "neurotic" or "worried" compared to the rest of you is that even if we live our lives as perfectly as possible, we'll still snuff it before a quarter of a human lifespan is over. For comparison, when I was 17 I already had my Ph.D - turians aren't even finished with their first stint in the armed forces by then. When I hit 20 - mid-life for the average salarian - I was serving my second year in indentured servitude. That might not mean much to you, but if someone came along and carved a decade's worth of productivity from your life, I'm sure you'd have a good idea what it meant to me.

It's impossible to do everything you really want in that time. Maybe if we lived to 70, or 150 like the humans, but not 40. We have so much to do and so little time to do it - and every second we waste is an affront, something to be ashamed for...if you don't believe in the Wheel.

It's a sanity check, a way to avoid going insane. Screw up in this life? Fix it in the next. Have more to offer? Give it later. Debts to pay? Pay them in the next.

Suffer too much? Be redeemed in the next. Who knows, you might get a nice long philosophical life as an asari, or be the two-ton manchild of the next generation. It's better than some lives out there.

Now imagine if this were a literal Wheel. Imagine if that, just below the surface of reality, there is an endless, ceaslessly clicking clockwork that not only reacted to your actions, but dictated them as well. Imagine how incredibly complex such a machine would be, tracking life, death, movement, disease, moods, all the way down to actuation, chemical processes and the basic interaction between quarks.

Now imagine the maintenance for such a machine. Imagine the calibrations, the tweaks, the oiling required to keep it running for billions of years.

And then imagine if, at some point, a teeny-tiny little piece of it broke down.

Chaos would erupt. Causation would lose meaning. Deaths here wouldn't translate to life there, which would fail to interact with them here, but because the Wheel's still clicking away, those lives continue to spin on, both reacting and not reacting to the stimuli there. All the while, souls of the dead stagnate under the surface, creating decay in the gears of the machine, causing it to sputter and fail in increasingly larger swaths. Life continues as usual over in this point of the galaxy, but because this group of the galaxy isn't receiving the souls necessary to keep things running, entire worlds become populated with lifeless, decaying husks, useless not only to the people there but also to the galaxy itself as a whole. Causation fails, life stagnates, the universe decays to death.

Now, imagining this, consider how often it has to be reset to keep the universe running. What's the interval of time needed before pusing the Cosmic Reset Button?

Once a year?

Every thousand?

...Every...Fifty thousand?

And who would be doing the reset? Certainly no mortal, certainly no salarian - by the time we realize what's going on we're already four generations into our next life. Someone as long-lived as the asari or krogan, perhaps? I suppose they could do it - if they were disciplined about the whole "tell our kin 50 generations down the line to press the button" thing. (Personally, I'm not that optimistic.)

What if the Reset Button came in the guise of an immortal race of machines, like an automated task in the background of your garden-variety omni-tool?

And what if, in our infinite wisdom, we shut off that task?

Ladies and gentlemen of the forum, I present to you the Wheel of Death - a cult of people who consider the Reapers an unfortunate but necessary means of maintaining galactic causality. These people think that not only was stopping them in their task was a bad idea, but that it is a delusion of the Ultimate Sin - letting the entire universe die because you weren't ready to die yet. You were not ready to die for the Ultimate Cause. That your existence will be the downfall of every life after yours.

That people actually believe this - and that these aren't just salarians - is a pretty damn scary story to me.

That is... beyond terrifying. I mean, it's just supposition, of course, and they're just a whacked-out death cult, but... Damn. If the Reapers put it in as a control mechanism... Jesus. I'm human, and that gave me the heebie jeebies.