Ladies and gentlemen.
For the first time in over a year, I have completed a full chapter.
This is a momentous occasion. Pity it wasn't for Ronins Imperialis, but you take what you can get. At any rate, here it is. A little short, but it's a Prologue after all. Enjoy - this goes up on FF.net as soon as one of the resident grammar nazis OKs it and my net stops going down every thirty seconds.
For the first time in over a year, I have completed a full chapter.
This is a momentous occasion. Pity it wasn't for Ronins Imperialis, but you take what you can get. At any rate, here it is. A little short, but it's a Prologue after all. Enjoy - this goes up on FF.net as soon as one of the resident grammar nazis OKs it and my net stops going down every thirty seconds.
Dead Hina
By: Dark Knight Gafgar
Disclaimer: I do not own the Love Hina or Urban Dead franchises. This is a non-profit fanfiction. Any and all original characters and advanced/original plot details, as well as the writing itself, belong to Dark Knight Gafgar (namely, me).
-----
Prologue
In the city of Malton in America's Midwest, an epic battle was underway. A titanic struggle of good versus evil, of man standing next to his fellow man and holding the line against the tides of darkness that threatened to plunge the world into black oblivion. All across the city, human strongholds were besieged by the ever-growing hordes, grand sieges lifted directly out of ancient times and into the modern world of today.
In much simpler terms, the citizens of Malton were continuing their resistance against the local zombie infestation.
Or, at least, that's what the harmanz would say.
In the opinion of one Keitaro Urashima, nineteen year-old prospective Tokyo University student, immigrant to Malton from the Land of the Rising Sun that is Japan and one of only a few such members of his kind that hailed from that one nation so glorified by otaku worldwide, it was the zambahs of Malton that were continuing THEIR efforts against the local HARMAN infestation.
Admittedly, it was indeed a very delicious infestation...
Such were the thoughts of Keitaro Urashima as he slowly and deliberately munched on a piece of deep fried businesswoman. Generator explosions - and the resulting fires - were so helpful in creating such rare treats as cooked harmanbargarz. He had to profess that he wasn't much of a fan of the charred brainz, though...
"Graagh.", groaned one of Keitaro's zethren that was currently enjoying their current dinner's liver, along with a chianti that had appeared from somewhere.
"Mrh?", Keitaro grunted, turning to observe the figure next to him. His ghoulish companion was a sight to behold - skeletal except for small, scattered remnants of flesh and gristle that remained attatched to his body seemingly in direct defiance to the laws of physics, he certainly appeared more fearsome than Keitaro's more traditional green-skinned appearance and fashionable, if admittedly somewhat nerdy bloodstained khaki pants and green sweater. Keitaro noted that the letters "RRF" had been painted on his companion's forehead with some sort of red substance, and resisted the urge to lick his comrade's skull to determine wether or not it was really blood. Now that would be just downright disgusting, he thought, popping an eyeball into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
The figure reached forward, grasping one of the round mounds of flesh on their dinner's chest and ripping it free. He held it up toward Keitaro, skull tilted to one side. "Bra bag?"
Keitaro shook one clawed hand dismissively. "Nah."
"Zangz.", his companion said in appreciation, quickly beginning to devour the new treat.
"Nah brabham.", Keitaro replied with a shrug, wondering for a moment wether his comrade was a member of the Barhah Brigade - he certainly looked the part. If looks could kill, the man could probably outdo Hitler just walking down the street! Keitaro dismissed the notion, however. It was a foolish one, afterall - everyone knew the Barhah Brigade didn't exist. Nope. Not at all.
Out in the street, a green-skinned figure in a policeman's uniform wearing a black flak jacket with "RRF" proudly emblazoned upon it with human, ahem, harman gore grasped a terrified survivor's head in both hands, then with a mighty roar of "BARHAH BRAGGAG" began to bash his victim's head into the concrete sidewalk repeatedly until the skull split open like a ripe mellon, revealing the juicy treats within to the confused mob of hungry and cold homeless Ferals that had begun to gather around the site of the feeding, hoping for some leftovers. The Ridleybank Resistance Front soldier made a sweeping bow, gesturing toward the now-motionless body before turning away and lurching off at a surprisingly fast speed, leaving the wide-eyed group behind him to fall upon the fresh meal with a multitude of thankful cries and moans.
"Katarah? Kataraaaah?", called a voice from further within the building Keitaro and his dining companion occupied, causing Keitaro to turn while his companion finished off their current meal and quickly crawled over into a corner of the room to begin devouring a corpse that strangely resembled Ice Cube.
"Mrh? Graaaagh!", Keitaro groaned back in reply, rising to his feet and staggering out of the room he'd been in, stepping over the bloodied and devoured carcass in the doorway that still clutched a shotgun in one hand. Entering the hallway, Keitaro noted the figure shambling toward him - a postal worker. Not to uncommon to see them - even after over half of the Malton Postal Service had willingly thrown themselves to the fledgling zombie hordes in a fit of ennui months ago at the start of the outbreak, not many had noticed, and therefore the men and women of the mail service had continued their endless cycle of deliveries. At least dogs didn't attack them anymore - those that did were swiftly eaten.
"Katarah Razzimah?", the postman asked, a bit of drool - or was that embalming fluid? - leaking from one corner of his mouth.
"Zahah.", Keitaro said, nodding in the affirmative. The postman promptly handed him an envelope, and then turned and left wordlessly, sidestepping a man in military fatigues who ran screaming from the building with several groaning attackers in close pursuit.
Keitaro stared at the illegible symbols on the envelope for a few moments, ignoring the shout of "KEK YAZZALPH, FOO'!" and sounds of battle in the room he'd been eating in earlier, and then, in a flash of inspiration, turned the envelope around. He then blinked. Japanese kanji? And the sender...
"Gramma?"
-----
When Hina Urashima's letters to her daughter and family living in America had been returned time and time again without explanation, Hina's first reaction had been annoyance.
When news of the outbreak of an unknown plague in Malton and the city's resulting quarantine by the US Army had leaked out into the world media, her second reaction had been horror.
When, after months of not-so-patiently dealing with the American bueracracy that had stalled her efforts to ascertain the whereabouts of her family, she had finally been informed of the discovery of the bodies of her daughter and son-in-law, her third reaction had been sorrow.
When the one final letter she'd sent to her grandson had been returned - with a reply - her fourth reaction had been shock.
Now, as she stared at the sheet of paper upon which an unintelligible series of bloodspatters and pinkish - was that brain matter? - smears had been spread, Hina Urashima was unsure wether to be terrified, amused, or... amusedly terrified. Or something.
Setting her grandson's... irregular reply to the side, Hina poured herself some sake she'd appropriated as rent from one of her residents - miss Konno, of course - into a small cup, shotted it, and then promptly chugged the rest of the bottle. Now much more at ease - not to mention a little frisky - Hina sighed and came to a decision.
The Hinata Sou was about to get at least one very interesting visitor, and Hina Urashima, for one, wanted no part in the chaos that was bound to ensue.
"Time for a vacation."
-----
On the roof of the Hinata Sou, the silent and stoic figure of Motoko Aoyama knelt in meditation, trying to rid herself of the stressful events of her day. Honestly, the buffoonish males who made up Japan's so-called 'law enforcement' were complete imbeciles. The perverted old man who'd tried to cop a feel on the train deserved exactly what he got, and should've been glad that her sword had not been with her and he'd gotten off with merely a shattered wrist. It was enough to make her-!... wish that she could put the incident from her mind already and return to her meditation. She needed to purge herself of all cares and worries before she could begin her evening katas, after all. Deep breaths. Inhale good, exhale evil. Inhale good, exhale evil-
Darkness.
An uncountable horde of monstrous forms.
Terror, pain and agony.
Rape.
Rape.
Rape.
'You gonna get raped.'
Motoko gasped, her eyes darting open and widening as her body shuddered violently with a freezing chill. She fell back ungracefully onto her buttocks, her arms wrapping around her in a vain attempt to dispel the sudden cold that gripped her body in it's chilling embrace. Finally, after several long moments, the sensation passed, and Motoko rose uncertainly to her feet, absently noting from the position of the sun that several hours had passed during... whatever that had been, and that it was now nearly time for dinner.
"What... what was that?", she mumbled, still holding herself tightly and rubbing warmth back into her arms. Her eyes turned toward the eastern horizon, staring out across the endless sea. "A vision?", she asked herself uncertainly. That voice at the end... had it been real? No answers came to her.
Staring out at the horizon for several long moments, Motoko turned and quickly retreated back into the safety - and warmth - of the dorm, shutting the door to the roof behind her and locking it, then leaning back against it and allowing herself to slide towards the floor.
"I... I have a very bad feeling about this."
By: Dark Knight Gafgar
Disclaimer: I do not own the Love Hina or Urban Dead franchises. This is a non-profit fanfiction. Any and all original characters and advanced/original plot details, as well as the writing itself, belong to Dark Knight Gafgar (namely, me).
-----
Prologue
In the city of Malton in America's Midwest, an epic battle was underway. A titanic struggle of good versus evil, of man standing next to his fellow man and holding the line against the tides of darkness that threatened to plunge the world into black oblivion. All across the city, human strongholds were besieged by the ever-growing hordes, grand sieges lifted directly out of ancient times and into the modern world of today.
In much simpler terms, the citizens of Malton were continuing their resistance against the local zombie infestation.
Or, at least, that's what the harmanz would say.
In the opinion of one Keitaro Urashima, nineteen year-old prospective Tokyo University student, immigrant to Malton from the Land of the Rising Sun that is Japan and one of only a few such members of his kind that hailed from that one nation so glorified by otaku worldwide, it was the zambahs of Malton that were continuing THEIR efforts against the local HARMAN infestation.
Admittedly, it was indeed a very delicious infestation...
Such were the thoughts of Keitaro Urashima as he slowly and deliberately munched on a piece of deep fried businesswoman. Generator explosions - and the resulting fires - were so helpful in creating such rare treats as cooked harmanbargarz. He had to profess that he wasn't much of a fan of the charred brainz, though...
"Graagh.", groaned one of Keitaro's zethren that was currently enjoying their current dinner's liver, along with a chianti that had appeared from somewhere.
"Mrh?", Keitaro grunted, turning to observe the figure next to him. His ghoulish companion was a sight to behold - skeletal except for small, scattered remnants of flesh and gristle that remained attatched to his body seemingly in direct defiance to the laws of physics, he certainly appeared more fearsome than Keitaro's more traditional green-skinned appearance and fashionable, if admittedly somewhat nerdy bloodstained khaki pants and green sweater. Keitaro noted that the letters "RRF" had been painted on his companion's forehead with some sort of red substance, and resisted the urge to lick his comrade's skull to determine wether or not it was really blood. Now that would be just downright disgusting, he thought, popping an eyeball into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
The figure reached forward, grasping one of the round mounds of flesh on their dinner's chest and ripping it free. He held it up toward Keitaro, skull tilted to one side. "Bra bag?"
Keitaro shook one clawed hand dismissively. "Nah."
"Zangz.", his companion said in appreciation, quickly beginning to devour the new treat.
"Nah brabham.", Keitaro replied with a shrug, wondering for a moment wether his comrade was a member of the Barhah Brigade - he certainly looked the part. If looks could kill, the man could probably outdo Hitler just walking down the street! Keitaro dismissed the notion, however. It was a foolish one, afterall - everyone knew the Barhah Brigade didn't exist. Nope. Not at all.
Out in the street, a green-skinned figure in a policeman's uniform wearing a black flak jacket with "RRF" proudly emblazoned upon it with human, ahem, harman gore grasped a terrified survivor's head in both hands, then with a mighty roar of "BARHAH BRAGGAG" began to bash his victim's head into the concrete sidewalk repeatedly until the skull split open like a ripe mellon, revealing the juicy treats within to the confused mob of hungry and cold homeless Ferals that had begun to gather around the site of the feeding, hoping for some leftovers. The Ridleybank Resistance Front soldier made a sweeping bow, gesturing toward the now-motionless body before turning away and lurching off at a surprisingly fast speed, leaving the wide-eyed group behind him to fall upon the fresh meal with a multitude of thankful cries and moans.
"Katarah? Kataraaaah?", called a voice from further within the building Keitaro and his dining companion occupied, causing Keitaro to turn while his companion finished off their current meal and quickly crawled over into a corner of the room to begin devouring a corpse that strangely resembled Ice Cube.
"Mrh? Graaaagh!", Keitaro groaned back in reply, rising to his feet and staggering out of the room he'd been in, stepping over the bloodied and devoured carcass in the doorway that still clutched a shotgun in one hand. Entering the hallway, Keitaro noted the figure shambling toward him - a postal worker. Not to uncommon to see them - even after over half of the Malton Postal Service had willingly thrown themselves to the fledgling zombie hordes in a fit of ennui months ago at the start of the outbreak, not many had noticed, and therefore the men and women of the mail service had continued their endless cycle of deliveries. At least dogs didn't attack them anymore - those that did were swiftly eaten.
"Katarah Razzimah?", the postman asked, a bit of drool - or was that embalming fluid? - leaking from one corner of his mouth.
"Zahah.", Keitaro said, nodding in the affirmative. The postman promptly handed him an envelope, and then turned and left wordlessly, sidestepping a man in military fatigues who ran screaming from the building with several groaning attackers in close pursuit.
Keitaro stared at the illegible symbols on the envelope for a few moments, ignoring the shout of "KEK YAZZALPH, FOO'!" and sounds of battle in the room he'd been eating in earlier, and then, in a flash of inspiration, turned the envelope around. He then blinked. Japanese kanji? And the sender...
"Gramma?"
-----
When Hina Urashima's letters to her daughter and family living in America had been returned time and time again without explanation, Hina's first reaction had been annoyance.
When news of the outbreak of an unknown plague in Malton and the city's resulting quarantine by the US Army had leaked out into the world media, her second reaction had been horror.
When, after months of not-so-patiently dealing with the American bueracracy that had stalled her efforts to ascertain the whereabouts of her family, she had finally been informed of the discovery of the bodies of her daughter and son-in-law, her third reaction had been sorrow.
When the one final letter she'd sent to her grandson had been returned - with a reply - her fourth reaction had been shock.
Now, as she stared at the sheet of paper upon which an unintelligible series of bloodspatters and pinkish - was that brain matter? - smears had been spread, Hina Urashima was unsure wether to be terrified, amused, or... amusedly terrified. Or something.
Setting her grandson's... irregular reply to the side, Hina poured herself some sake she'd appropriated as rent from one of her residents - miss Konno, of course - into a small cup, shotted it, and then promptly chugged the rest of the bottle. Now much more at ease - not to mention a little frisky - Hina sighed and came to a decision.
The Hinata Sou was about to get at least one very interesting visitor, and Hina Urashima, for one, wanted no part in the chaos that was bound to ensue.
"Time for a vacation."
-----
On the roof of the Hinata Sou, the silent and stoic figure of Motoko Aoyama knelt in meditation, trying to rid herself of the stressful events of her day. Honestly, the buffoonish males who made up Japan's so-called 'law enforcement' were complete imbeciles. The perverted old man who'd tried to cop a feel on the train deserved exactly what he got, and should've been glad that her sword had not been with her and he'd gotten off with merely a shattered wrist. It was enough to make her-!... wish that she could put the incident from her mind already and return to her meditation. She needed to purge herself of all cares and worries before she could begin her evening katas, after all. Deep breaths. Inhale good, exhale evil. Inhale good, exhale evil-
Darkness.
An uncountable horde of monstrous forms.
Terror, pain and agony.
Rape.
Rape.
Rape.
'You gonna get raped.'
Motoko gasped, her eyes darting open and widening as her body shuddered violently with a freezing chill. She fell back ungracefully onto her buttocks, her arms wrapping around her in a vain attempt to dispel the sudden cold that gripped her body in it's chilling embrace. Finally, after several long moments, the sensation passed, and Motoko rose uncertainly to her feet, absently noting from the position of the sun that several hours had passed during... whatever that had been, and that it was now nearly time for dinner.
"What... what was that?", she mumbled, still holding herself tightly and rubbing warmth back into her arms. Her eyes turned toward the eastern horizon, staring out across the endless sea. "A vision?", she asked herself uncertainly. That voice at the end... had it been real? No answers came to her.
Staring out at the horizon for several long moments, Motoko turned and quickly retreated back into the safety - and warmth - of the dorm, shutting the door to the roof behind her and locking it, then leaning back against it and allowing herself to slide towards the floor.
"I... I have a very bad feeling about this."