Well, I've wanted to write a fanfic for a long time.
Other game universes, with the possible exception of warcraft, just didn't grab my interest and so shortly after my registration to OWF, and subsequent immersion into the Oddworld mythos I decided to give it a try. Just one problem though; writing comparatively short stories is a skill, one I have
never been able to master. After reading some of the ones here (Moosh, Splat, dripik and Glacierdragon come to mind) I completely fell in love with them but I could only ever write one that was at least slightly
Epic.
Because of the general air of mystery that surrounds the Oddworld universe I had to take certain liberties with the established OW canon, although special thanks to Max the Mug, Fuzzle Guy and Zozo the Zfingymajig who helped me out with bits of the lore I didn't know about
.
So after possibly the longest fanfic intro in the history of Mudos I give you:
The Grallon Conspiracy
Prologue
The factory stood deserted, and had been for a long time. From the executive lounges at the top to the scrub sleeping barracks far below the ground, the only testament left to the preliminary Cartel expansion into Northern Mudos was the cold dead machinery and the dried blood. That of the meat that was left to rot, by the failing Glukkons, in this place of nightmares had long since been eaten by the resident Slurgs, before they too had faded away. Inside this iron shell of industrial failure lay bones of workers, long dead, restless spirits congregated within, doomed forever to stagnate in their steel tomb.
Native Grubbs and Mudokons for miles around feared and hated this place, not just because of the hideous destruction it had caused to their small secular communities but also because of a certain sense of wrong that pervaded from the construct’s innermost core. Named the Northern Mudos Regeneration Plant by its exploitive owners, the place had long succumbed to its more popular title ‘The Bloodworks’.
The air reeked of blood.
A heavy pounding of metal on metal preceded the Outlaw’s arrival into the large room, aptly titled ‘Grinderz zone DANGER’ by the musty sign, dangling from the ceiling. The outlaw slowed down at the nexus of the room and rested one steel paw on a support, clearly exhausted. Sweat ran down the metal plate that was his forehead and grunted in pain as he pressed his other, more organic hand against the deep wound on his side.
“Jorgen!” A sneeringly gruff voice echoed through the factory from the corridor the Outlaw had entered from. “What’s the matter tough guy? Running out of gas?”
Jorgen ‘Ironclaw’ Dravan let out a roar of disgust and glared at the entryway “Go to hell Steef scum!” He screamed. “I will run no further”.
Jorgen’s eyes narrowed in hatred as he watched the lean swaggering figure slowly walk into the room. The Steef’s fur was as white as the snow, which fell around the Zvheidaun, the shanty home of Jorgen’s northern Outlaws, and his eyes were a shade of bright scarlet, juxtaposed to the dull blood splattered everywhere. “The gates of hell are ready and waiting” The albino Steef spat out. “This nightmare of yours has ended before it began, Grallon Enterprise is finished, and you” The Steef pulled out a decorated spear from his back “Are naught but Fleechmeat!”
Jorgen brought out his baton to parry the Steef’s first blow, wincing as his weapon activated, showering electric sparks over both combatants. Using his brute strength he managed to force the shorter attacker off and get back on his feet. As the Steef was recovering Jorgen looked around the facility for an advantageous position, spotting an upturned forklift full of suspect looking barrels he used reserves of his fast flagging strength and made a break for the strategic corner.
He had nearly made it, mind racing with half-formed ideas of how to wear down his far fitter foe, when he felt a moment of pure agony as something ripped through the tendons in his back.
“Ironclaw, you coward” The Steef hissed through clenched teeth. “Turn and fight me!”
The Outlaw roared in pain and grasping the shaft of the spear, used it as leverage to swing the Steef into a pile of disused Fuzzbitez containers. Then heaving one of the large barrels over-arm, cracked the Steef square on the forehead with it as he tried to re-orientate himself. As the barrel connected, and subsequently burst, a rich black fluid seeped out, bringing with it a heavy tangy aroma.
Oil.
Having quickly recovered, and taking full advantage of the barrel’s recoil, the Steef, blood now trickling from a deep wound in his forehead and beginning to cloud his vision, brought both fists up, hitting the Outlaw in his lantern jaw and knocking him backwards into a control console. A deep whirring started from the bowels of the factory.
For the first time in ten years the Bloodworks was coming to life.
As the Outlaw and Steef, both at the end of their respective tethers, grappled for dominance, the machinery clicked and hummed around them. Deep thumping shockwaves came from the grinding machinery where huge bladed monstrosities, designed to cut Scrabs into bitesize pieces, pounded mercilessly against the malfunctioning conveyer belt. Meech Mashers rammed against one another and high-pressure steam from the bellows proceeded to destroy the nests of many vermin occupants before making it’s way to the old, run down boiler. Red lights were flashing throughout the whole facility and it was only a matter of time before something was bound to give.
‘BOOM’ Jorgen and the Steef were throwing their bodies against each other, both trying to force the other to the ground, ‘BOOM’ although the Steef was a strong wiry opponent with tendons like steel ‘BOOM’ Jorgen was using his raw strength and body, conditioned by years of game poaching and freezing winters ‘BOOM’ to tear the Steef’s arms from his sockets ‘….’ Pausing, the two combatants raised their heads to the source of the noise before throwing themselves away, just in time, as a gigantic drill from the upper levels smashed down onto the forklift, completely totalling the vehicle and covering everything in the room with heavy oil from the ruptured containers.
The boiler was under serious stress, bad enough that the pipework was rusty and dissolving in several places but worse still was the vast quantity of the system simply purloined and cemented over by the more economically minded thief. The whole factory began to judder and shake with the boiler. This experience was also being felt in the surveillance room where a Vykker Everlight Candle (Made from real Boombat), left by a rather careless Slig worker when the factory was abandoned, swayed off it’s precarious perch and with a violent judder, found itself knocked into the pipe system.
The gas pipe system.
The stamina of both fighters was now seriously flagging; oil had got into Jorgen’s cybernetic limbs making them slow and awkward, oil had also covered the floor, erasing all ideas of navigability. Taking care of the slippery floor, Jorgen climbed carefully to his feet; the latest clash had bought him mere yards away from the exit and reaching it first would certainly give him a huge advantage if he were followed. He moved carefully along the floor accompanied by the sound of a gradually growing hum until he heard a familiar sound, the cocking of a blunderbuss.
The Steef was now visibly swaying, past all thoughts of trying to bring Jorgen in alive, blood now poured from several places on his body fuelling his determination to end this fast. “Turn around” he growled at the Outlaw, struggling to be heard over the roar of the pipes “I may not have the pleasure of taking you alive but by Odd I’ll see you squirm through your final moments”
Jorgen turned round, eyes dead of feeling, and locked his gaze with the Steef’s. He cursed the foul creatures name under his breath but the other never heard; thanks to the, now all consuming, noise.
As the Steef aimed his gun, valves begun to break of the main pipes, whistling noises began in accompaniment to the racket present and the pipes began to thrust backwards and forwards rhythmically. He, however was dead to all this, his rationale all but destroyed by concussion and thoughts of revenge. He kept screaming at the Outlaw but the Outlaw wasn’t looking at him any longer “Beg for forgiveness!” the Steef cried, “Scream their names, murderer!” Still the Outlaw would neither listen nor look at him, but rather had his gaze fixed behind the Steef, eyes open in fear and mouth aghast. And so it was in some state of confusion that he finally turned around and saw the bulging mains pipe, shaking violently with compressed air.
From that point on everything seemed to happen in slow motion, turning back around he saw that Jorgen has already begun to flee. Swearing under his breath, the Steef tried to coordinate his four legs to follow but it was too late.
The tank gave an almighty shudder, burst, and a lance of flame shot out, turning the Bloodworks into an inferno.
***
‘“My Odd Crig! The flames here are unbelievable; just a few short hours ago stood a testament to the Magog Cartel’s history and power and now look at it, all up in smoke. Looks like this plant will never make another Scrab Cake again, I can only imagine what effect this will have on the local economy and all those happy, jolly Muds”
”Thank you Knut, fellow Oddites, that was Knut in the sky reporting on the disaster that is the destruction of the NMRP, terrorist dissenters are rumoured to be behind the explosion, taking place just after midnight, with no less than a dozen active Mud anarchist tribes claiming responsibility; who could possibly have done such a heinous deed? This humble reporters opinion? That Abe guy. And now stay tuned for a word from our sponsors”
“Ever feel limited with pants choice? Well Vykker Limbs is the place for you. Buy now and get a quadruped enhancement free, now in five amazing colours, just remember fellow Industrialists; a happy Slig is a-” CLICK’
The Glukkon scowled as the TV turned off, someone was late to report and this Glukkon despised tardiness. His personal fone started to ring beside him and the Glukkon answered after being passed the receiver by his long time assistant.
“Report” growled the Glukkon dangerously.
“He is dead,” the heavily accented voice on the other end, responded, “Rassato and Jeremiah have already been dispatched to check the other facilities, Sariah has started her…work again. All is back on track and we should make up what he cost us in days”
“Excellent work Mr Dravan, I will see you and your clan are duly rewarded”
“I’ll be happy to see my contract with Grallon honoured sir”
The Glukkon laughed, “It will be, Jorgen old friend, no doubt about that!”
As the Slig replaced the receiver the Glukkon rose to his feet and started walking out of the room. There was much work to be done and many wrongs to be righted; after all, he was only one sane Industrialist in an oddworld full of ingrates.
____________________
Thats all folks, at least for now
comments and constructive criticisms would be much appreciated and also if I've made any silly canon/grammar mistakes please let me know
. This is my second real go at recreational writing, please be gentle.
And with that I'm off to bed, this monster of a prologue has cost me hours of sleep I shall never see again.
The Grallon Conspiracy
you'll just have to wait, although I can say this fanfic will contain at least two canon characters (neither of them quintology heroes).
