12-04-2006, 02:24 AM
Kid Buu looked down at the piled bodies. Three in all, his victims lay over one another like discarded toys. Limbs broken, eyes staring, they seemed to bemoan their fate to the sky above. The other assassins were scattered nearby, some more obviously dead than the others, but unmistakably having shuffled off this mortal coil. The thrill of the kill pumped through him and seemed to radiate out from his skin in waves, his eyes alight with a sort of murderous furor. Finally, he had had some action. But his elation was short lived, tempered by the next thought that plunged through his mind and smashed his feeling of joy into shards.
He had taken down three by himself.
Super Buu had saved Seventeen.
The disparity might have struck some as a very fine one: had the child majin not taken out his share of the stealthy killers, might they not have succeeded in their mission? But that probably future didn't matter to the puttalin child. That chance was in the past, the decision made; gone, terminated, just like the bodies in front of him. What was left was stark reality, naked and pure, and that was the fact that he had been outdone once again by the creature that had once taken everything from him. One of his four fists clenched, a raw snarl of hatred working its way out from between his pointed teeth.
Weaker. Inferior. Discarded!
Abruptly, Buu slammed his pudgy fingers down. The head of an unfortunate assassin lay in his path, splattering apart like a watermelon struck by a heavy pink sledgehammer.
There was a collective intake of breath from the soldiers nearby. The weaker stomached ones turned green at the gills, some of them literally. Most of them had seen death. Most of them had seen men ripped into pieces. But there was something different about the way that the majin went about to all the corpses, dragging them into one giant pile. It was something terribly premeditated, deliberate, ugly; a blood-rusted thought given form and action.
After stacking the bodies, Buu casually reached into his open mouth, driving his hand deep past his throat and into his extra-dimensional gut. Floating in nothingness, his hand finally closed over what he was looking for, and he yanked it free, tearing the objects slightly at its perforated edge. A single sheet of paper. Blank. Dry.
The majin stuck out his finger, collecting the blood that still seeped from the shattered skull of one of the attackers. He began to write, scribbling a message onto its blank surface, letters glaring a smeared bright crimson. Calmly, though with a look of such irritation that it might have scared off a Jehova's Witness, the majin pried open the jaw of one of the attackers and stuffed the note into his maw. All else was silent as he grabbed the lowermost set of legs, turned towards the village in the distance, and began.
Armed and ready, waiting for their orders, the forces of Garlick Junior waited. Restless noises carried on the air, broken occasionally by the sound of something breaking as a trembling hand dropped whatever it was carrying. The first sound of whistling was barely heard, the black blob only spotted a moment before it slammed into the ground with enough force to make the windows rattle.
The body of an assassin exploded, bones crunching as its limbs snapped apart in splintery, dry sounds. There were screams from the town as a second rained down, then a third and a fourth.
Five, six, seven, eight corpses fell like comets down out of the sky and over the gathering United, already in the process of beginning their retreat.
A final body slammed into the ground, mercifully intact. A single ball of paper rolled from its open mouth. A soldier picked it up.
In blood, it read thusly:
"Salvation is at hand! Pass this note to the man next to you. If at least 1000 men see this note, you will be spared a horrific, bloody death!"
Back at the camp, Kid Buu looked out over the setting sun, the sky turning a bright ruby that matched his radiant eyes. He smirked, and as the screams of the townsfolk echoed in the distance he reflected, somewhat happily, that at least the day hadn't been a complete loss.
He had taken down three by himself.
Super Buu had saved Seventeen.
The disparity might have struck some as a very fine one: had the child majin not taken out his share of the stealthy killers, might they not have succeeded in their mission? But that probably future didn't matter to the puttalin child. That chance was in the past, the decision made; gone, terminated, just like the bodies in front of him. What was left was stark reality, naked and pure, and that was the fact that he had been outdone once again by the creature that had once taken everything from him. One of his four fists clenched, a raw snarl of hatred working its way out from between his pointed teeth.
Weaker. Inferior. Discarded!
Abruptly, Buu slammed his pudgy fingers down. The head of an unfortunate assassin lay in his path, splattering apart like a watermelon struck by a heavy pink sledgehammer.
There was a collective intake of breath from the soldiers nearby. The weaker stomached ones turned green at the gills, some of them literally. Most of them had seen death. Most of them had seen men ripped into pieces. But there was something different about the way that the majin went about to all the corpses, dragging them into one giant pile. It was something terribly premeditated, deliberate, ugly; a blood-rusted thought given form and action.
After stacking the bodies, Buu casually reached into his open mouth, driving his hand deep past his throat and into his extra-dimensional gut. Floating in nothingness, his hand finally closed over what he was looking for, and he yanked it free, tearing the objects slightly at its perforated edge. A single sheet of paper. Blank. Dry.
The majin stuck out his finger, collecting the blood that still seeped from the shattered skull of one of the attackers. He began to write, scribbling a message onto its blank surface, letters glaring a smeared bright crimson. Calmly, though with a look of such irritation that it might have scared off a Jehova's Witness, the majin pried open the jaw of one of the attackers and stuffed the note into his maw. All else was silent as he grabbed the lowermost set of legs, turned towards the village in the distance, and began.
~+~+~+~
Armed and ready, waiting for their orders, the forces of Garlick Junior waited. Restless noises carried on the air, broken occasionally by the sound of something breaking as a trembling hand dropped whatever it was carrying. The first sound of whistling was barely heard, the black blob only spotted a moment before it slammed into the ground with enough force to make the windows rattle.
The body of an assassin exploded, bones crunching as its limbs snapped apart in splintery, dry sounds. There were screams from the town as a second rained down, then a third and a fourth.
Five, six, seven, eight corpses fell like comets down out of the sky and over the gathering United, already in the process of beginning their retreat.
A final body slammed into the ground, mercifully intact. A single ball of paper rolled from its open mouth. A soldier picked it up.
In blood, it read thusly:
"Salvation is at hand! Pass this note to the man next to you. If at least 1000 men see this note, you will be spared a horrific, bloody death!"
Back at the camp, Kid Buu looked out over the setting sun, the sky turning a bright ruby that matched his radiant eyes. He smirked, and as the screams of the townsfolk echoed in the distance he reflected, somewhat happily, that at least the day hadn't been a complete loss.
![[Image: Bellesig6-1.jpg]](http://i238.photobucket.com/albums/ff137/catseye543/Bellesig6-1.jpg)