Rustland Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Rustland

Prologue

The ancient piles of dead scrap almost blocked out the rising sun as Alan fled through them, running from his pursuer. He could hear it chasing him, smashing through piles of ancient metal and roaring great roars of mechanical rage as it hunted him. He could hear its claws clacking and clanging against the metal that made up all of Rustland. He needed a place to hide, some nook or cranny where the monster chasing him wouldn't be able to reach him.

As he ran he cast around, looking for a hole in the massive piles of scrap and old machinery. He saw his salvation; a hollow in the side of one of the huge hills of rusted metal. He crawled in, taking care not to cut himself on the jagged metal sticking out of the hollow's side. There was a sort of alcove within it and he ducked in to find himself hidden from view. It was perfect.

He crouched within the alcove, shivering in fright as he heard his pursuer approach, it's heavy footsteps thudding against the ground. He heard it stop and sniff with a wet scraping noise.

It can smell me, he thought, near panic. It can smell me!

Alan heard it approach the hole. Without thinking, he allowed his hand to become a weapon, his skin become hard, smooth and woody, tapered to a razor point sharp enough to pierce metal and skin. He stared at it contemplatively. Could he do it? Could he really kill himself and take the easy way out?

He supposed it would be better than being caught by the Automaton chasing him, a quick stab to heart or neck as opposed to being torn to shreds by the creature's corroded metal claws. He would become yet another corpse among millions, buried under the metal until the Rust took him and became one with his bones.

The Automaton lowered it's head to peer into the darkness of the cave, glowing eyes peering into the gloom. It gnashed its jaws, permanently snarling in a grin like that of an angler fish, in fury as it looked, the Rust that coated on it driving it to search. It could find nothing, but still dissatisfied it extended a tendril of old metal, lengths of sharp metal joined together by Rust. It probed the ground near Alan's feet. Realising that he would be caught unless he acted quickly, Alan grabbed a piece of metal from the floor and placed it in front of the tendril's path as it felt within the alcove. It felt again, Alan keeping the piece of metal in the way. If it touched him it would grab him and then he would be doomed.

The tendril of metal withdrew and the Automaton gave a roar of fury as it realised it had lost its prey. Alan waited as he heard it leave, its crunching footsteps echoing through the great canyons of dead metal. After a full ten minutes of waiting, he crept out of his hiding place, blinking in the bright sunlight.

He cast around, trying to get some vague sense of direction; in his panic he had gotten completely lost. He picked a random direction amongst the brown-orange canyons, and set out.

He walked for a full hour, sweat pouring down his stiff, smooth skin. The oppressive heat of the Rustlands was beginning to make him giddy, dehydration threatening to do him serious harm.

If I was back in Woodland, he thought. I could get myself a drink.

But he wasn't. He was in the middle enemy territory, in a world where the people needed no water or food. If he didn't get out soon then he would die here, whether he was being chased or not.

He jumped as he heard something behind him fall and span, hand already forming itself into a weapon. It was nothing, just a piece of metal dislodged from his passing.

Then the pile it fell from shifted and six metal claws, each the size of a man's arm and sharp enough to tear through the strongest metal, flicked up from a pile of metal. An arm, made up of nothing more than old metal held together by Rust, wrenched itself free and showed the Automaton's terrible form.

It was a vague man shape, with arms that were too long for it's body, causing it to lean forwards on its knuckles like some hellish mechanical gorilla. A barrel chest, made of sheets of metal stuck together by Rust, glimmered dully in the glaring sunlight, while its massive grinning jaws snapped open and shut in anticipation.

Alan turned and ran.

He heard it bound after him, like the time it had chased him before. But before he had managed to escape while it butchered the soldiers with him, while it was distracted. Now he was alone, and it was far faster than he.

He got barely five metres before two massive claws exploded from his chest, sending thick drops of sappy blood splattering on the ground. The Automaton allowed him to collapse to his knees, before wrenching the claws free, sending him sprawling away. Alan gasped weakly, desperately trying to crawl away, before the Automaton's bladed foot stomped down upon him, ending his life.

This was Rustland. This was war.

This post has been edited by The Bean: Feb 19 2009, 06:58 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Chapter 1

War ground to a halt as the rust storm began to brew, the wind sending flakes of rust flying into the air. Soldiers of both sides ended their fighting to shelter from the stinging scraps of metal.Only the Dryads and Automatons stayed outside, their barky hides or metal shells providing all the protection they needed.

It threw itself against the side of the Foundry, where it pattered against the metal walls that stretched hundreds of metres into the sky. The Rust, constantly bubbling and broiling along the massive building's side, simply grabbed it, absorbing it and adding it to its essence.

Michael could hear it against the walls of his room, a quiet staccato drumming that echoed around the chamber. He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his brow and slumped on his bed, a simple affair of just a mattress and blanket; Rustlanders prided themselves on the austere simplicity of their homes, unlike the wasteful and lavish accommodation their Woodlander enemies enjoyed.

The door to his room slid open as James, Michael's loyal and close friend, entered.

“Beat you again!” he said triumphantly. “You can't outspar me, Mikey boy.”

Michael rolled his eyes as he tossed his friend his towel.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know. You don't need to gloat.”

“But you know how much I love to,” James said. “Don't ruin my fun.”

Michael punched James on the arm, causing his friend to yelp in surprise.

“Alright,” James said. “No need to get violent.”

Michael smoothed back his dark hair.

“So, what do you want, other than to be an british boat?” he asked.

“Who said I wanted something? And if I do, I won't tell you if you're going to be so rude,” James said. “Ask nicely.”

“Fine then James,” Michael said. “Could you please tell me what you came here for? Is that all you need or should I grovel and kiss your boots?”

“The please was enough,” James replied. “Though if you do ever want to kiss my boots your perfectly welcome to.”

“What is is?”

“Your dad wants to see you, Michael. He says its important.”

“I'd best get going then.”

Michael left his room, up through the levels of the Foundry. He passed the huge building's guards, who nodded their greetings, and Automatons, standing guard, silent and unmoving. If it weren't for the Rust swarming around their bodies, constantly bubbling and shifting around their metal frames, they could have been statues. The walk through the large, orange-brown corridors of the Foundry was a long one, and after the long training session in the building's sparring room the climb was even more tiring than usual. He wished there was some way he could get upwards faster, but the doctrine of the Rustlanders had always been, and always would be, that hardship bred strength, and strength was the only way to defeat the Woodlanders and their creatures.

He finally reached the top of the Foundry, tired out. He took a moment to compose himself before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” a voice called from the inside, and the Rust that made the door up slid aside, a liquid curtain that reformed itself as soon as Michael stepped through the frame.

Michael's father had his back turned to him as he entered, looking out through the glass doors to the Foundry's balcony. Outside, the rust storm was in full swing, flakes of rotten metal flying through the air.

“You asked for me?” Michael said.

Edward Smith Windsor, rightful king of Rustland, turned as he heard his son enter. His aged face, a small seam of orange Rust running down an old scar across his cheek, split into a smile when he saw him.

“Michael,” he said. “I see James managed let you know that I wanted to see you.”

“Why else would I be here?” Michael asked.

“Good point, good point,” Michael's father said. “But I need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“It concerns your...inheritance,” his father said.

“Father, you don't mean-?”

“I do, Michael, I do,” his father replied, cutting him off. “I'm getting on in years. Rust blood's beginning to set in.”

“Oh,” Michael said, somewhat numbly. Rust blood what got every Rustlander if the Woodlanders or their pet monsters didn't. The Rust that inhabited their bodies slowly began to die. While this was harmless in the beginning, the older the body got the more Rust began to die. After a while, it began to fill the host's bloodstream, leading to heart attacks, strokes, and eventually death as the blood simply stopped circulating.

“Don't look so dismayed,” his father said. He placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. “I've managed to hold on for nearly sixty years-that's good innings, far better than most. And I'll have a bit longer in me before things get too bad.”

“But, aren't you afraid that, you know,” Michael said.

“Michael, when you've lived as long as I have, you'll come to realise that sometime or another, life will have to end,” his father said gently. “Of course I'm afraid, but someday you too will have to accept that your life will end sooner or later. I know it's a shock, but I've lived a good life. Rustland has done well and I've no reservations about passing its rulership on to you. Come over here, son.”

Michael's father led him to the large window that led onto the balcony. Though the rust storm was still raging, it was easy enough to see the city of Manchaster stretching below the Foundry. It buzzed with activity, its factories and workshops creating more Automatons, breeding more Rust or crafting the goods Rustlanders needed in their day to day lives. He could see the large grounds of the barracks to the west, even though the rust storm had driven the men inside. Further out, he could see the canyons of scrap metal that eventually led to the border in Yarksher, and then into the realm of Woodland. It was a sight to inspire a surge of patriotic pride in him, despite his mood at the grim news delivered by his father.

“Soon, Michael, responsibility for Rustland will go to you,” his father said. “This'll be yours to look after once I'm gone. You're a sensible lad, I know that.”

“Thanks dad,” Michael said, still feeling glum. “But I'm just not sure if I'm ready.”

“I felt the same way once,” his father replied. “But you're a Windsor. You were born to rule. We carved out this kingdom through the strength of our arms and we'll keep it through that strength. And believe me, you'll find it'll come to you naturally.”

“You sure?” Michael, who wasn't feeling as confident as his father was, asked.

“I'm certain,” his father said. He embraced his son. “Now off you go. I've been hearing from James that you need to brush up on your blade skills.”

This post has been edited by The Bean: Feb 19 2009, 06:59 PM