"The Wraith Ring: Battle for Hell's Dominion"
0 Points
0
The Wraith Ring. A shattered superstructure, crackling neon-blue against the spitting black of a ruined sky. It stunk of brute plasma fire, old cordite, and—new to even the Master Chief—charred brimstone.
“Contact left! Hellhounds, two-by-two!” shouted Corporal Jansen. Gnarled, four-eyed dogs scrambled over a ruined pylon, slavering with molten-gold drool. Imps in letterman jackets and rusty breastplates dove after, swinging machetes the size of forearms. Somewhere, a boombox blared ‘Viva Las Vengeance.’
Chief motioned forward, barely feeling the recoil as his battle rifle spat out three-round bursts. Imps burst like overripe melons, black ichor spraying onto the fractured Forerunner alloy. Private Linz lobbed a sticky, plasma-popping a hellhound’s skull in a wash of green ooze.
“JESUS, these little buttfaces don’t quit!” Private Linz cursed, flicking gore off his visor. A kamikaze hellhound latched onto his boot, teeth gnashing on reinforced titanium. Linz stomped down, the thing’s spine snapping with a wet crunch.
Chief’s HUD painted two dozen more hostiles swarming from the east. One imp tackled Sergeant Kelly, shrieking, “Eat brimstone, you methane-suckers!” Kelly replied with a shotgun to its face, the remains painting the wall behind like demonic lasagna.
“Eyes up, marines! More up top!” Another wave, and this one was ugly—towering imps with serrated horns, tossing barbed sticks that flared with sulfuric fire mid-air. The world filled with thunderclaps, blue and orange explosions. Chief’s shields wailed red.
He tossed a frag—“Clear out!”—and three imps disintegrated, their lower halves kicking a full two seconds longer than their torsos.
“Back to the pylon, move!” They ducked behind fractured plates. Marines panted, muttered, bleeding from a hundred angry scratches but kept firing. Linz drew his combat knife, stabbing a crawling imp in the neck. “Take that, you festering wart!”
In the carnage, the sky flickered. Purple warp-light atomized a chunk of ringworld twenty meters ahead. From the rift stepped figures: capes billowing, eyes blazing, bristling with solar flame and arc lightning.
“Guardians,” Kelly breathed.
“Bout time the supers showed!” Jansen grinned, lining up his rifle. His target, an imp leader clad in golden brass knuckles the size of grapefruits, screamed profanity and charged. Jansen fired, popping its head like an overripe pumpkin.
Chief rose, battered armor streaked with all colors of hellborn viscera. Just another day, another war. The United Crime Syndicates of Hell wanted the Wraith Ring.
But so did the UNSC. And they, sure as heck, weren’t giving it up.
This story was generated by user zachrose with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: elluva boss/halo. the master chief with four marine buddies vs a army of imps with hellhond conscripts EXTRA GOREY WITH teen safe cursewords this takes place somewhare in the wraith ring and soon gardians from destiany 2 might show up and help and the unsc is now at war with the united crime syndicates of hell
Response: The Wraith Ring. A shattered superstructure, crackling neon-blue against the spitting black of a ruined sky. It stunk of brute plasma fire, old cordite, and—new to even the Master Chief—charred brimstone. “Contact left! Hellhounds, two-by-two!” shouted Corporal Jansen. Gnarled, four-eyed dogs scrambled over a ruined pylon, slavering with molten-gold drool. Imps in letterman jackets and rusty breastplates dove after, swinging machetes the size of forearms. Somewhere, a boombox blared ‘Viva Las Vengeance.’ Chief motioned forward, barely feeling the recoil as his battle rifle spat out three-round bursts. Imps burst like overripe melons, black ichor spraying onto the fractured Forerunner alloy. Private Linz lobbed a sticky, plasma-popping a hellhound’s skull in a wash of green ooze. “JESUS, these little buttfaces don’t quit!” Private Linz cursed, flicking gore off his visor. A kamikaze hellhound latched onto his boot, teeth gnashing on reinforced titanium. Linz stomped down, the thing’s spine snapping with a wet crunch. Chief’s HUD painted two dozen more hostiles swarming from the east. One imp tackled Sergeant Kelly, shrieking, “Eat brimstone, you methane-suckers!” Kelly replied with a shotgun to its face, the remains painting the wall behind like demonic lasagna. “Eyes up, marines! More up top!” Another wave, and this one was ugly—towering imps with serrated horns, tossing barbed sticks that flared with sulfuric fire mid-air. The world filled with thunderclaps, blue and orange explosions. Chief’s shields wailed red. He tossed a frag—“Clear out!”—and three imps disintegrated, their lower halves kicking a full two seconds longer than their torsos. “Back to the pylon, move!” They ducked behind fractured plates. Marines panted, muttered, bleeding from a hundred angry scratches but kept firing. Linz drew his combat knife, stabbing a crawling imp in the neck. “Take that, you festering wart!” In the carnage, the sky flickered. Purple warp-light atomized a chunk of ringworld twenty meters ahead. From the rift stepped figures: capes billowing, eyes blazing, bristling with solar flame and arc lightning. “Guardians,” Kelly breathed. “Bout time the supers showed!” Jansen grinned, lining up his rifle. His target, an imp leader clad in golden brass knuckles the size of grapefruits, screamed profanity and charged. Jansen fired, popping its head like an overripe pumpkin. Chief rose, battered armor streaked with all colors of hellborn viscera. Just another day, another war. The United Crime Syndicates of Hell wanted the Wraith Ring. But so did the UNSC. And they, sure as heck, weren’t giving it up.
Post your own comment or use AI: