Bobby stepped forward, shield leading, into the greasy nightmare taking shape around them. The distorted, oily music seemed to crawl under his skin, mixing with the thick stench of stale grease and burnt coffee.
Flickering, unseen lights cast lurid shadows across warped chrome and countertops still seeming to coalesce from the anomaly's substance.
He moved onto worn linoleum tiles, the transition jarring after the metallic floor of the corridor. Cracked red vinyl booths lined one wall, looking cold and unnaturally stiff.
Fluorescent tubes buzzed violently overhead, their erratic flickering the main source of light, fighting against the shadows and Rigg's green lantern glow.
The whole place felt wrong. Like stepping inside a photograph that had been redrawn by someone who'd never seen the real thing.
[MEMORY ECHO DETECTED: ROADSIDE DINER]
[ENVIRONMENTAL INSTABILITY: MODERATE]
He scanned the empty booths, the long cheap plastic counter gleaming under the flickering lights.
"Place always gave me the creeps," Bobby muttered, half to himself. "Somethin' ain't right."
Rigg stayed close, his face pale, eyes wide as he took in the bizarre transformation. The kid looked completely bewildered by the mundane wrongness of it all.
"This place..." Rigg whispered, his voice tight with unease. "It feels… hollow. Like a skin without anything inside. It feels... dead."
"Well, ain't this cozy?" Betsy's voice cut through the thick air. "Feels familiar, don't it, sugar? Nostalgic, even. Except for the faint smell of corpse. Somethin' big is waitin' behind that counter, though. Playin' quiet."
Bobby didn't need telling. His eyes were already fixed on the shadowy space behind the counter, past the empty coffee pots and the mimicry of napkin dispensers filled with what looked like dried leaves.
He started moving forward slowly, his boots scraping faintly on the worn tile as he tested his footing.
Rigg stayed glued to his flank, the kid's head whipping around at every flicker and buzz.
They reached the center of the room, the open space between the booths and the counter feeling exposed under the stuttering lights. Bobby shifted his weight, readying himself.
Then, movement exploded from behind the counter. A dark shape launched itself upward.
A stack of paper menus – or whatever passed for menus in this nightmare – went flying, scattering like dead leaves. It landed hard on the floor with a heavy thump-CLANG of rusted metal and dry bone impacting tile.
Something that's almost Human, yet so clearly not.
A withered figure rattling inside ill-fitting plate armor. The metal was deeply rusted, fused directly to bone and stretched, dried skin in patches, looking less like armor worn and more like a cage grown around a corpse.
Its head was mostly encased in a dented helm, with the gap showing a skull-like face beneath, it's empty sockets burning with a faint, hateful green glow that pulsed faintly.
A Living Corpse, Nasty stuff.
In its grip was a massive greatsword, thick as a truck leaf spring, chipped and notched along the edge, trailing a blackish-green smoke that felt colder than ice.
Suddenly, with a sound like air escaping punctured bellows, a dry, rattling hiss. The Corpse aised the greatsword high overhead and leaped forward. Its joints popping audibly in the air, with its glowingg eye sockets fixed on Bobby.
Bobby didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Thanks to years of reacting to sudden roadside dangers – deer jumping out, tires blowing, load shifts threatening to send him jackknifing – plus all the craziness happened in the past day.
He brought the shield up hard, planting his feet.
CRUNCH-CLANG!
The sound was deafening in the confined space, echoing painfully off the hard diner surfaces, rattling the unseen glasses behind the counter. Sparks showered the floor as steel met reinforced truck door.
The sheer force of the blow shoved Bobby back a step. As his boots scraping for purchase on the tile, he felt the bone-jarring impact travel up his arm and into his shoulder.
"Watch out!" Rigg yelled, scrambling backward to dive behind the relative safety of a cracked red vinyl booth. He peered cautiously over the top, lantern casting shaky light across the floor.
The Living Corpus continues its assault. It adjusted its grip on the greatsword, the ominous smoke swirling thicker for a moment, and leaped forward, raising the sword for another swing.
The fight was on. And Bobby knew right away this wasn't like the threat of the constructs in the arena, creatures made of scrap and rock. This felt different. Messier. More personal. Like a vicious bar fight erupting in the middle of the night shift at some greasy spoon Bobby only half-remembered from a cross-country run years ago.
It swung the greatsword wildly, hammering brute force blows against Bobby's shield.
Bobby adapted quickly. This wasn't a duel; it was a brawl. He focused on blocking the main, telegraphed swings with the heavy shield, letting the impacts jar him but holding his ground, absorbing the shock through his braced stance.
Suddenly, it brought the sword slamming down onto a nearby booth table, the cheap plastic top exploded into jagged shards that flew across the room, stinging Bobby's exposed skin like tiny blades.
Immediately after, the corpus swept the blade low in a wide arc that forced Bobby to hop back, sending metal-legged chairs clattering across the floor like drunken dancers in a mosh pit.
Bobby timed a heavy downward chop from the corpse, deflected it slightly with the shield's edge to send the sword biting into the floor with a screech.
Before the creature could wrench it free, Bobby shoved forward hard with the shield's flat surface, right into its chest plate.
A hollow clang echoed. The corpse, already off balance from the unexpected deflection, stumbled backward, armor clanking loudly, tripping over one of the fallen chairs.
Seeing the opening but wary of the forsty sword, Bobby didn't immediately press the attack. Instead, he kicked a stray metal stool – the kind bolted to the floor in real diners, but just loose junk here – skittering across the floor into its path, hoping to trip it up further if it charged.
His own sword stayed ready, low and angled, darting in for quick, opportunistic cuts whenever the living corpse overswung or left itself open during its wild attacks.
A quick slash across an armored forearm drew sparks but no blood. Another nicked the already dented helm, making the thing hiss again.
"Watch out! It knocked something over - floor's slick there!" Rigg shouted from his cover behind the booth, pointing towards a small scattering of white crystalline powder near the corpse's feet where some glass container had clearly shattered.
"Good eyes, kid." Bobby felt his boot slide slightly as he adjusted his stance, simultaneously feeling the slight give of a loose tile under his left heel. This floor was a damn death trap on its own.
Viewer01: Worldstar! Diner fight! Throw the salt shaker!
Viewer02: He used the chair! Classic move! LOL
Viewer03: Shield bash FTW! Get 'im Bobby! +10
"Sugar, doesn't this remind you of that dust-up in Tucumcari,?" Betsy chimed in, "'Member that biker with the chain? 'Cept this fella's way past his expiration date and leakin' somethin' nasty. Also, look at that dent in his shoulder pad – rusted right through. Might be a good spot to aim for."
Bobby grunted acknowledgement, dodging another wide swing that whistled past his head. He saw the dent Betsy mentioned – a deep gouge in the right shoulder plate, rust flaking around the edges like dried blood. A weak point. He kept it in mind, waiting for his shot, trying to maneuver the corpse into a position where he could exploit it.
The fight devolved further into an ugly scramble. Close quarters. Stumbling over debris. Impacts against the flimsy diner furniture that groaned and splintered under the abuse.
The corpse lunged again, swinging low in a wild arc aimed at Bobby's legs. Bobby sidestepped the attack, letting the momentum carry the blade past him.
The greatsword slammed into the side of the silent jukebox with a screech of tortured metal, embedding itself momentarily in the warped chrome and knocking the whole machine sideways with a crash.
The impact caused the flickering lights overhead to buzz even louder, threatening to plunge them into darkness.
Bobby saw his chance while the blade was stuck. He lunged forward with a quick sword thrust aimed at the corpse's exposed side. But the creature wrenched its blade free with surprising, grating strength. It batted Bobby's sword aside with the flat of its own corrupted steel, the impact numbingly cold through Bobby's sword.
Having freed its weapon, it immediately lunged forward, abandoning finesse for a crude grapple attempt, reaching out with gauntleted hands, its glowing eyes fixed on Bobby.
Reacting on pure instinct, Bobby brought his shield up horizontally to block the clumsy grab, the impact rattling his teeth again. He shoved hard, using his leverage against the creature's awkward posture, pushing the stumbling corpse back against the main counter.
Mimicked coffee mugs – solid enough to hurt, apparently – shattered on the floor, adding to the crunchy debris underfoot. The corpse scrabbled for footing on the worn tile, its metal boots slipping on spilled sugar or phantom grease.
A low groan escaped its helm, like rusty hinges forced open.
In that moment, shoved up close, shield pinning its arms, Bobby got a clearer look past the rusted helm into the shadows beneath. Gaunt face, skin stretched paper-thin and taut over bone, grey and desiccated. Eyes vacant, yet burning with that cold green fire, a soul trapped in a husk.
It wasn't just a monster. It was what was left of someone. Some poor bastard who drew a bad hand somewhere down the line, maybe a soldier, maybe just a guy in the wrong place, twisted into this walking nightmare by whatever forces were at play here.
The thought didn't bring pity, just cold resolve settling hard in his gut. This needed ending. Fast. For its sake as much as his.
Rigg ducked again as a chunk of shattered plastic the size of a dinner plate flew past his head, hitting the wall behind him with a sharp crack that echoed the sound of snapping bone.
The living corpse roared, a dry, rattling sound, and pushed back with incredible strength, breaking Bobby's shield pin. It staggered free, swinging its greatsword defensively in a wide arc to create space.
Bobby pressed forward again, refusing to give it room to recover fully. He deflected a clumsy swing with his shield, the clang ringing in his ears, then swung his sword low, aiming for its leg where the armor looked thinner near the knee joint. The blade scraped against rusted greaves, sparks flying, but failed to bite deep.
The corpse retaliated instantly with a powerful backhand swing that Bobby barely caught on his shield, the force spinning him halfway around. He recovered his footing just as the creature brought the sword down again in a heavy, two-handed overhead slam.
Bobby met it squarely with the shield, the impact driving him back another step, the floor tile beneath him cracking audibly this time under the strain.
He could definitely feel the thing weakening, though. Its swings were still heavy, fueled by that unnatural energy, but they were slower now, more predictable, leaving bigger openings.
The smoke leaking from its sword sputtered inconsistently, like a fuel line sucking air, the green glow in its eyes flickering slightly, less intense than before. Time to press the advantage, before it got some kind of second wind or the damned diner decided to throw something else at them.
Bobby blocked another heavy, desperate swing aimed at his head. Instead of just absorbing the blow, he let the impact's momentum help him pivot smoothly, turning his shoulder into it, redirecting the force and using the creature's own momentum against it.
As the corpse overextended, Bobby slammed the sharpened top edge of the shield hard into its side, right below the armpit where the plating looked thinner and less secure.
CRUNCH.
A sound like dry branches snapping, louder this time, accompanied by the screech of protesting metal. The living corpse let out that hissing groan again, louder this time, and staggered sideways, armor groaning, knocked completely off balance.
Its sword arm dropped slightly, the greatsword dragging on the floor for a second. It stumbled backward, away from the counter, moving erratically towards the section of wall near the fake kitchen doors – the swinging kind with the round windows you see in old movies.
"That wall looks like it'll cave, sugar!" Betsy yelled, " Now's your chance! Hit 'im hard! Send him back where he belongs!"
Bobby's eyes narrowed, tracking its movement, planting his feet. That wall section… it looked different. The cheap, peeling wallpaper pattern – some faded design of cheerful-looking coffee cups – seemed to be actively buckling, rippling like disturbed water.
The paint beneath looked strangely fluid, as if it's even less real than the rest of this place.
He saw the corpse, momentarily exposed, clutching its injured side, right in front of that weird patch of wall. It tried to raise its sword again, maybe for a final, desperate attack, but the movement was sluggish and weak.
This was it. The opening.
Bobby planted his feet firmly on the cracked floor, ignoring the debris crunching under his boots. He gripped the shield tight, feeling the familiar weight, the solid reality of it in this place made of bad memories and stale grease. Muscles coiled in his shoulder and back, burning with fatigue but ready.
He lowered his shoulder, breathing out hard, channeling every bit of frustration, exhaustion, and pure stubbornness into his legs. Forget Tucumcari. This was worse.
Then he drove forward.
All his weight, all his momentum, poured into a single, powerful shield charge aimed squarely at the staggering, entropy-leaking corpse. Aiming to smash the damn thing straight through that peeling wallpaper and into whatever waited behind it.