Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

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Shroom Man 777
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Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

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Somewhere in the Atlantic, on an oilrig…

Amidst the explosions and gunfire, the withering exchange of lead and lasers, Number 13 stood resolute in all his albinic audacity. He and his EVIL Elites, stormtroopers clad in black armor and armed with hi-tech rifles, were the EVIL oilrig lair’s first, last and only line of defense. He knew that the other henchmen, goons in shiny silver outfits and cheap plastic hard helmets, were no match for the SBS – they were screaming and shooting blindly with their grease guns while being systematically slaughtered by the British Special Boat Service.

He slid up his visor and confronted his men, gazing at them cold and hard. Without a word, all of his squad nodded, and in fireteams of three, they spread out and joined the fray.

13 led the way. He did not flinch as a nearby oil drum exploded, nor did he bother as he stepped over the dead corpse of a helmeted goon – EVIL insurance would take care of him, he noted grimly. A couple dozen meters ahead, two henchmen were holding off against the British commandos, or at least they were, before getting blown up by a hand grenade.

“Here they come!” one of 13’s Elites yelled. As one, they unleashed a volley of lead into the corridor before the commandos could storm in. 13 himself fired his G-36, picking off targets with precise three-shot bursts. One of the gas masked commandos, the point man, danced as the combined firepower of the EVIL Elites tore large holes in his body. At this, the other commandos took cover and threw a grenade at them.

“Cover!” one of the Elites shouted.

There was a flash and a bang, but the Elites kept on firing, knowing that the commandos couldn’t advance under a hail of fire. The British would have to fall back, as advancing would cost too many casualties. Unless –

There was a crackling rumble, like that of thunder, as the bright blue bolt of plasma lanced from the corridor and exploded an Elite.

“Reciprocate,” 13 said, as a second bolt of blinding plasma vaporized another one of his men. He calmly reloaded his rifle and resumed firing.

A team of two henchmen made their way beside 13. “Setting up, sir.”

“Hurry!” an Elite shouted, amidst another explosion.

The steel support column 13 was using for cover was blown into superheated fragments, molten flecks of steel that showered his armor. As he fell back, he could see the two henchmen finish their set-up.

“Commence ignition!” the henchmen heavy weapons team shouted, and after a brief moment, the power cells hummed and a red-hot laser beam lanced out of their contraption and zapped the commandos in the corridor. The beam was accompanied by a humming noise, and an explosion of sparks.

“Fall back!” a commando shouted. There was nothing to be had here.

13 turned to one of his Elites. “Seal that corridor. They’ll try again from another direction, if they haven’t already. Tell the Overlord to get into his escape pod and send a strike team to the docking bays.”

As he said the last part, the lights suddenly flickered and died.

“They’ve cut the power,” an Elite stated obviously.

13 switched on his nightvision. “Has anyone contacted Professor Hansgruber?”

A henchman shook his head.

“I’ll get him,” 13 uttered grimly. Professor Hansgruber was in charge of lowering the nuclear bomb into the bottomless pit the platform had drilled into the crust, and that threat was what they were using to blackmail the world governments. No doubt the British had an MI6 man on the platform to thwart their scheme.



Hermann Hansgruber was a diminutive little man, but what he lacked in size, he made up for with his mind. His shrewd, cunning mind. He was a genius, a mad scientist, some would say. He grinned at this thought, grinned as he turned on his night vision goggles.

How they would rue the day they called him mad. Mad? Hah, he was no psychopath like Ichabod Weir. His colleagues were poor and miserable, while he, Professor Hansgruber, was rich and comfortable, his great intellect in the service of the EVIL Corporation and their generous paycheck. He was a respected figure in the Corporation, and that meant a lot (of money) to him.

“We should be going with the Overlord,” the cyborg arch-henchman said. “He is already proceeding to the mini-sub.”

“Silence!” Hansgruber dismissed him outright. “Come with me, you cyborg. What was your name?”

“Deadbolt, sir.”

“Come, help me open this door,” Hansgruber commanded. With the blackout, the blast doors had to be opened by hand, and Hansgruber wasn’t nearly strong enough to manually open blast doors. It wasn’t like he was a cyborg or anything, he certainly couldn’t lift anything that weighed in megatons.

Deadbolt sighed. “Yes, sir.” He used his metal fingers like a crowbar and pried the door open.

“We have to show those British, show them and make them rue the day…” Hansgruber muttered to himself as he entered the chamber. “The nuclear warhead is still operable, so we’ll throw it down the bottomless pit!”

“Sir?”

“We’ll throw it down the bottomless pit!” Hansgruber repeated. “Then we’ll detonate it remotely! The resulting sea-quake will cause tidal waves that will wipe out the British Isles!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” said someone who was already in the room. He was standing beside the bomb, which was being illuminated by a flashlight on the floor. The radioactive warning label could be seen in the faint light, along with the words: ‘Caution: 100 Megatons’. Despite the low light conditions, the man was clearly smirking. “Professor.”

“Manglor!” Hansgruber said to the cyborg whose name he forgot. “After him!”

Mister Pierce, International Man of Mystery, renowned for his ability to kill dozens of men while seducing women with the slightest innuendos (even his name was an innuendo), drew his sidearm, a Walther PPK, and fired.

The tiny bullets dinged harmlessly off Deadbolt’s face and he grinned at the secret agent man, showing off his metallic jaws. He gritted his teeth, making a painful sound of metal-against-metal, and pointed his hand at the agent man.

“Name’s Pierce, by the way. Sean Pierce,” the MI6 man said as Deadbolt’s forearm transformed into a very angry-looking Chromium Cannon. Mister Pierce raised his eyebrow as an overpowering beam of absolute destruction was sent at his face.

Commander Sean Pierce, of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, adjusted the tie of his tuxedo, which was, in its tailored perfection, actually a kind of ultra-light power suit. As he adjusted his tie, he sidestepped the Chromium aimed at him and emptied the rest of his PPK at the cyborg henchman.

Deadbolt growled in frustration and clanged his iron jaws together, making a loud clanging noise before accidentally biting one of the bullets and crushing it into powderized lead. His Chromium Cannon made a beeping noise, needing to recharge, and he growled again as he stomped toward the MI6 man, intent on smashing his skull.

Pierce’s perfectly tailored tuxedo granted him a measure of improved strength, and so he kicked the cyborg. Hard. There was a loud clang as his foot slammed against that impossibly hard cyborg shin – but Pierce’s expensive shoes weren’t enhanced in any way, so one of his toes probably ended up broken.

“Ouch!”

“Stupid agent man!” Deadbolt said triumphantly – albeit grammatically incorrectly, since his CPU was diverting processing power from his communication faculties to his combat systems - as he backhanded Pierce’s face with his Chromium Cannon-arm. “You die now!”

“Not if I can help it,” Pierce replied wittily as he slammed his other foot into the cyborg’s crotch. This time, it wasn’t his toes that broke. Pierce smirked. “Manglor.”

Deadbolt grunted in slight discomfort as he picked Pierce up and threw him, hard, onto the nuclear bomb. “And my name’s Deadbolt!”

“Manglor!” Professor Hansgruber cried out. He was on the other side of the bomb, trying to activate it. “Be careful!”

“Sorry boss,” Deadbolt replied meekly as he approached the felled agent.

Pierce got up and slicked his hair. This was going to be hard; this Deadbolt Manglor chap was going to be a tough nut to crack. He punched the cyborg’s face and, in return, the cyborg punched his face.

“Ha-ha!” Deadbolt laughed. Overhead, the sounds of armed henchmen battling with British commandos climaxed with the boom of a giant explosion. Ceiling panels fell, slamming against Deadbolt’s hulking mass. Cables and wiring fell too, hanging like vines, or intestines. Despite the power outage, redundant systems were still online, so the cables and wiring were sparking, unlike vines, or intestines.

Deadbolt went for an overhead smash, but Sean Pierce ducked and crawled between the cyborg’s legs. Deadbolt ended up smashing his fist on the nuclear bomb.

The bomb wasn’t going to explode because someone was hitting on it, but manually arming the bomb without the Overlord’s access key required concentration, and being interrupted by a cyborg smashing the megaton-level warhead certainly wasn’t conducive to concentration. Hansgruber scolded: “Manglor!”

Deadbolt gazed at the Professor, clearly annoyed. “Wha-”

Then Deadbolt had the back of his head kicked by Pierce, sending his forehead smacking into the radiation symbol of the bomb. His hyperalloy cranium clanged against the nuclear warhead, the sound of steel-on-steel and the ensuing vibrations resonating through his microprocessors as he staggered about aimlessly.

“Saved by the bell,” Pierce quipped as he kneed the cyborg in the groin, again.

The knee to his groin snapped Deadbolt back online, refreshing his operating system, and he turned around to face the MI6 man, hammering his pretty-boy face with a bionic fist. As the MI6 man’s mouth bled, Deadbolt brought his Chromium-plated gun-arm up and grinned. The gun beeped, signaling that it had charged up.

“Hasta la bye-bye,” Deadbolt quipped. “Ba-”

Midway through the cyborg’s pre-mortem quip, Sean Pierce leapt up and tore one of the overhanging cables and shoved it into Deadbolt’s mouth. Instinctively, Deadbolt bit on it and crushed it with his metallic teeth, and received a mouthful of tasty electricity, all several thousand volts of it. He stood stiff and bounced on his feet as his cybernetic hairs stood on end, and he made gurgling sounds as his eyes and nostrils lit up like New Year’s Eve.

It was time for a post-mortem death crack, Sean realized. He was always good at this. “Hm…chew on that. Yeah, that’s good.”

Then, as if out of spite, Deadbolt spat out the sparking cable plug and clanged his metal teeth together once more. He reached out and pointed his Chromium cannon, right at the agent man’s gaping face. “Yeah…” he said, his voice sounding distinctly electrified. “Chew on this.”

The Chromium cannon hummed as it readied to discharge, and Pierce, as quickly and as cleverly as he could, ripped off another sparking cable and shoved it into the barrel, as if plugging a power cord into a socket. Sean Pierce jumped out of the way while Deadbolt gasped, and exploded.

At least, his arm exploded. The rest of him was sent flying and screaming, probably down into the bottomless pit where the bomb was going to be –

“Fool!” Hansgruber shouted. Before Pierce could even stand up, the little scientist was already on him, climbing on his back and strangling him. “Now how am I supposed to throw the bomb into the Earth’s core without a cyborg?! You’ve ruined everything! Everything!”

Caught by surprise, Pierce gritted his teeth and struggled with him. “Get of me, you bloody mad scientist!”

“Mad?!” spittle rimmed Gruber’s mouth. “Mad?! I am angry scientist! Angry! Ang-OOF!”

Hansgruber was flattened on the floor, sprawled and incapacitated.

“Hrm…” Pierce muttered as he walked over the unmoving mad scientist and went over to the bomb, probably to disarm it. He looked at Hansgruber. “Wasn’t expecting that…”

“No, Mister Pierce,” Hansgruber said as he suddenly got up and pulled out a death-gadget from his belt. “I expect you to die!!!”

Hansgruber repeated himself. “DIE!!!”

“You.” Pierce said as he slapped Hansgruber’s death-gadget-wielding hand away from his face. He shoved his own arm into the mad scientist’s face. “First.”

With a push of a button, the gold-plated Rolex on Pierce’s wrist shot a short-ranged heat ray at Hansgruber’s face, scalding it and causing his nightvision goggles to go red-hot and sizzle.

“AURGH!!!” Professor Hermann Hansgruber shrieked, trying to pry-out the superheated goggles from his eyes, only to find it wielded onto his skin. He flailed around blindly, staggering about like a blind person whose face had been set on fire. Then, finally, he found the bottomless pit where his nuclear warhead was destined to descend. Ironically, it was he who fell into that abysmal shaft.

Waving his arms wildly, he made one final proclamation to the surface world: “AAAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

As the mad EVIL scientist’s screams faded into nothingness, Sean Pierce adjusted his tie. “Bet you didn’t expect that com-”

Sean Pierce was thrown face first into the steel floor as his backside was blasted by a shotgun. He noticed that the alarm klaxons were blaring the entire time…

Number 13 looked at the felled agent, then he looked at Deadbolt, whose robotic jaws were emitting sparks. They were both dead, or probably as good as. The whole oilrig was compromised and the fail-safes were making sure no one was going to recover anything from this whole mess.

13 looked grimly at the bomb, which was anything but nuclear. It was a large WWII-era warhead, disguised to look atomic. It had radioactive material taken from a lot of smoke alarms inside it, so it would look like a nuke to radiological sensors. No way the EVIL Corporation could get a hundred megaton nuke, no one would stand for it. Besides, the Corporation almost never carried out the End of the World.

With cyborg Deadbolt and Hansgruber probably dead (though one could never be sure about these things), someone would have to fill that empty space in the arch-henchman roster. And that meant a promotion.

The alarms rang and bits of structure began collapsing.

“T-minus ten minutes to compromise,” the disembodied female voice from the speakers informed.

13 sighed. As he headed for the escape pods, he realized that at least something had come out of this mess.



+++ CSM M-101 S-800

> DAMAGE: 85%
>> WEAPONS SYSTEM OFFLINE…
>>> MANDIBLULAR HYDRAULICS MALFUNCTIONING…
>>>> INITIATE REPAIR SYSTEMS…

>INITIATE SURVIVAL MODE…
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Booted Vulture
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Re: Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

Post by Booted Vulture »

:D Professor Hansgruber!

Pretty snazzy, Shroom boi, isn't this referenced in Dino Eater? Where it turns out Deadbolt survives?
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Ford Prefect
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Re: Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

Post by Ford Prefect »

Yeah, he's mentioned alongside the EVIL Corporation's medical insurance. Cyborgs are good like that - most of the fleshy bits of Technotheocrat cyborg Kill-Cleric Yamen gets steamed in Things Might Get Trippy, but he's not actually dead.
FEEL THESE GUNS ARCHWIND THESE ARE THE GUNS OF THE FLESHY MESSIAH THE TOOLS OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION THAT WILL ENACT THE LAW OF MAN ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
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Shroom Man 777
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Re: Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Kill-Cleric!

Wait, that dude is actually not dead yet? Cool.
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Re: Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

Post by Malchus »

Hey, I remeber this! Glad to see it reposted, this was one of my favorite oneshots in old OZC.

Though, was the Shrew's original name Hansgruber or did you change it? For some reason, I can't recall his pre-Shrew name.
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I admire the man, he has a high tolerance for insanity (and inanity - which he generously contributed!). ~Shroom, on my wierdness tolerance.
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Shroom Man 777
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Re: Oneshot: EVIL Expectations

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

It was Herman Hansgruber. He is now an angry scientist.
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"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
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