You're a necromorph. As plain and simple as I can put it, this short story shows how I imagine a regular necromorph would live out its, er, necrosis.
Dead Space: Bloodlust
You feel the ebb and flow of the Corruption in your skull. It drains down into your body once it is done contorting the head. It twists flesh, bone and blood into it’s own mad design. Your sight returns from it’s restful views of nothing to instead gaze, through a view of red, at a thin, flapping, pale creature working furiously on your forehead with a strange nozzle that drips a foamy yellow substance.
This is what gave me birth, you think somehow, from death. You are thankful for this.
You struggle upright onto your deformed legs, with the aid of your bladed arms, after the life-maker has moved off of you. You feel intence pain, and so you roar. But air escapes through slashed vocal chords, and creates a strange gurgling instead. The ends of the chords lay limp, dangling from the base of your exposed jaw.
You swing your arms up, above your head, with your arm blades poised, at the ready to rip and shred anything in your path.
You are a Necromorph, bringer of death, bringer of life.
The tight, cool metal air ducts envelop you as you scramble forward. You can hear prey. The panting, the footsteps. You can smell it’s fear. You want the blood, the flesh, the scream! You want it now! But you wait. You are patient. Time holds no sway over you. You have beaten death. A few more moments of waiting will not matter. So you poise yourself over a vent opening. It has been the easiest way to attack before.
The breathing gets louder. The clanging of metal against metal as boots fall against the floor in rapid succession. Now! You rip the vent grate with a blade, and fall to the oringe lit corridor floor with a roar, your three-toed feet landing prone and keeping you stable. You bring your head up, to face the prey.
It is a female, with golden hair crinkled and messy, and is dressed in a jet black uniform that covers her whole body, arms and legs. She has wide green eyesShe raises her arms in a pathetic attempt at defence, and screams. This you enjoy.
Your left blade swings down and cuts into her right arm. It cuts through skin, veins and arteries, bone and flesh cleanly. Warm blood squirts erratically from the cleaved arm as the woman screams louder, in anguish and pain.
You bring your head forward now, and thrust your deformed jaw at the womans neck. Your teeth, with jagged tips, rip messily at the slender neck, letting blood fountain down over you and the prey. Tiny pieces of skin and muscle float away with the tide of crimson bodily fluids. You thrash your head in attempts to dig your fangs deeper into the flesh. The woman is struggling vainly to push you away. But her strength seeps away with each drop of blood. You eventually break through the flesh and bone to the prey’s windpipe. So you withdraw your fangs, letting more blood flood down the womans thoat, and into her lungs.
She looks up at you, shocked, as she starts to choak, and dribbles of blood spray from her mouth to your face. You just stare as she slowly dies. She finally kneels over, and with a final gasps, collapses. Blood pools around her face as you roar in triumph. Another will be transpormed, but your bloodlust isn’t satisfied. You can hear more footfalls in the distance. Heavy ones. So you run, ready to kill again.
You run past the lumbering, twisted creatures that explode. They are always the last resort in major attacks. You can see, through a haze of red, a side affect of your transformation, several of your bretheran attacking the enemy as well. One of the large, rotund creatures, the one that carries spawn inside it, staggers along on squat, mottled legs towards the prey as well.
Massive chunks of rock fly through a line of yellow energy far above you, disintergrating as they move along the beam until it’s caught in a collection of turning, grinding cogs. This is the centerpiece of a large room, but you are restrained to a narrow series of walkways around the room. This makes attacks on the prey harder.
In fact, the prey is killing your bretherin. Lances of energy is flying from the preys hand tool at your bretherans limbs. And the energy is cutting them! One bladed arm flies by your head, sizzling blood streaking behind it from its wound. Bodies are beginning to pile up in front of the prey. You hear a wet splat as the volatile pus sack the exploding Necromorph employs as a weapon suddenly explodes when a stray bolt of energy strikes it. The explotion blows another of your bretheran into a bloody pulp. Suddenly, the carrier Necromorph falls, it’s limbs laying, chared, next to it. It’s still twitching head rolls past you. A second explotion is heard behind you, conferming the second Exploder is gone, leaving you and the prey in the massive room.
The prey is odd. It is clad in a copper metal. Strips of the metal are attached to the preys arms and legs, making most attacks difficult. Its face is even more strange. Three lines of blue light are in place where it’s face should be. It has an impationate stare as the prey raises its tool, a dull coloured object, like a weapon, and pulls the trigger.
A lance of energy flies at your right shoulder, strikes it, and cleaves it cleanly off. Blood squirts over the metal walls next to you, leaving a red stain, as you roar in pain. Your head pounds furiously, screaming to kill! You leap into the air at the prey, slashing down at it with your last arm, as it tries to quickly slide a canister of some sort into the tool. You miss your mark, and crash into the prey instead.
Your bladed arm is wrapped loosley over the prey’s shoulder. You bring your head down on the preys neck, trying to dig your teeth through the fabric covering the neck.
But the struggling prey grabs hold of your shoulders, and with a distorted grunt, throws you off of him. He then swings his hand, the one holding the tool, at your head in your momentary unbalance. The metal tool colides with your head.
Tendons and skin in your decaying neck rip apart suddenly, shearing your head off of your shoulders. The world spins wildly away. But you have not yet died. Darkness crowds the edges of your vision again, but with the last shreds of your life, you force yourself to watch your body.
It is still standing, somehow. Most likely the Corruption. Your body swings it’s last arm at the prey, slashing madly in it’s general direction. The prey fires it’s tool again, and rips the last limb off. Your body collapses in a heap at the prey’s metal boots.
The darkness is seeping in faster now. But as your vision disapears, you see the prey lower its weapon, and walks out of your line of sight.
As your view of the world vanishes, you realise, sadly, that you cannot return from death this time.
You cannot return to kill again.