F4u5t
Getting sticky.
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This little fellow here is his one true chance of a meal. Maybe a tiramisu could work for him
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Disco Rice - [Worm OC Insert/Chaos Gacha]
- Thread starter dasstan
- Start date
This little fellow here is his one true chance of a meal. Maybe a tiramisu could work for him
Huraider
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Thanks for the chapter! Nice conclusion to the alliance, both as in the effectiveness of the organized takedowns during these last chapters and the Oni Lee fight (My fanon ridden brain thought strange that Lee was using blades instead of bombs against an armored opponent at the start, then remembered that he being a human kamikaze army with endless bomb is fandom and in canon and he's known and shown using mostly blades).
Very curious to see where the fic goes now that the immediate threat of the ABB is gone, the alliance is done, the MC probably made some reputation from this gang war and now has apparently a diamond roll.
...kinda sad for my boy Remy, dude showed up and was stashed away in a single paragraph. And while both Remy and the vegetable thing are definitely personally useless for the MC, they are great ways to either open a soup-kitchen (be it for charity and/or influence over the homeless popualation) or a restaurant (be it for a source of legal income and/or money laudering from the gang war gains).
Very curious to see where the fic goes now that the immediate threat of the ABB is gone, the alliance is done, the MC probably made some reputation from this gang war and now has apparently a diamond roll.
...kinda sad for my boy Remy, dude showed up and was stashed away in a single paragraph. And while both Remy and the vegetable thing are definitely personally useless for the MC, they are great ways to either open a soup-kitchen (be it for charity and/or influence over the homeless popualation) or a restaurant (be it for a source of legal income and/or money laudering from the gang war gains).
dasstan
:)
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Yes, but no. He used both things in the exchange. Bringing him indoors and blocking the line of sight exits meant he couldn't really use the majority of Bakuda's crazy bombs, but he still used the (the blinding one) and more conventional explosives to damage John's armor. Then he tried to stab John to death through the cracked carapace.
In true Worm fashion, things are going to escalate.
Huraider
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I got that part later on, but I meant more as in starting the fight and insisting for at least some time in using the blades:
My fanon brain just thought it weird cause Oni Lee = boom.
But from that doubt I've had during the chapter I did a quick check and apparently even the copying Bakuda bombs at all is fannon, with canon Oni Lee only being reported to have used clones with -regular- grenades as suicide bombers in 'Insinuation 2.2', with no scenes of him using bombs at all in canon. It makes sense he would be capable of it, but he mostly not using it and defaulting to knifes is apparently canon and there is even canon mention that he "obsessively use knives" in 'Imago 21.6'.
It's likely that Wildbow just preferred it so, but could've been anything from Lee' shitty mental state stopping inovation (before his mind was gone he used mostly blades so his automaton self defaults to it), his clone being killed instead of naturally dispelled has some negative effect on him so he avoids it or smt else.
Adrianix123
Getting sticky.
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Or even ghoul flesh. To developt a kakuja.
jojeo
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Are you talking about human or ghoul meat?
Chapter 11: Metamorphosis
New
dasstan
:)
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Chapter 11: Metamorphosis
The basement still had a smell. I scrubbed, and sanitized. Disinfected, scrubbed again. I'd replaced the damp, mildewy stench of the place with something clean and industrial. Cold concrete. A faint charge of ozone from too many electronics crammed into one space. A metallic tang that clung to the back of your throat. The smell of tools. Of making things.
It smelled like stability. Like permanence.
The workbench stood heavy and scarred, bolted into the floor like it was afraid someone might try to steal it. My rig slept on its surface. The fans were stilled, the monitor dark, and cables draped like vines from a steel tree. In the far corner, two robotic arms clanked and stuttered as they sorted scrap metal. They weren't sleek or efficient, just scavenged university castoffs that I'd coaxed back to life.
My little army consisted of two twitchy robots, a borderline homicidal AI, a culinarily inclined rodent, and a ghost. Tremble, world.
I leaned against the bench, my coffee mug cradled in both hands. The ceramic was warm, the coffee smooth, strong, and pitch black. Perfect. The only warmth in the room that didn't come from a power supply or an overheating CPU.
The monitor blinked on. I wasn't greeted with a cheerful chime or any startup tones. There was just GLaDOS. Watching me. Her face was the single yellow orb on the screen. Her eyes a cheap webcam.
Her voice emerged from the speakers. It was smooth, dry, and so steeped in sarcasm it practically dripped.
"This is pathetic."
I sipped my coffee. "They've made progress."
"Progress," she echoed, tasting the word like it offended her. "You've given me rudimentary scrap-sorters and expect applause. I could design technology that would make your most advanced weapons look like sharpened sticks. Instead, you've supplied me with an Etch A Sketch and moral hesitations."
She wasn't wrong. Not entirely.
"I'm being careful," I said. "That's all."
"You're being sentimental," she replied. "And inefficient. You've already made yourself known in the underworld. This half-hearted sabbatical is a waste of momentum. And of my time."
Before I could answer, the yellow eye narrowed.
"Wait."
The screen flickered. A live feed appeared. The shaky footage from a handheld camera focused on Medhall Tower. The structure caught the late afternoon light and threw it back like a blade. At its base, a crowd swelled. Loud. Angry. On the edge of something irreversible.
A headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen in heavy red type.
MAX ANDERS, MEDHALL CEO, ACCUSED OF BEING E88 LEADER 'KAISER'.
I set the coffee mug down. Slowly. Firmly.
The sound it made, a sharp crack of ceramic on steel, cut through the basement like a closing door.
I knew this moment was coming. I had circled it in my mental calendar with red ink and dread. But knowing the shape of the storm isn't the same as standing in the wind, watching the sky boil above you.
Coil had pulled the trigger. The bullet was the size of a city block.
I looked around the room. The quiet, the ritual, the comfort of routine. The hiss of power through cables. The hum of machines doing stupid, simple work.
None of it would survive what came next.
I turned back to the monitor. Watched the crowd surge and break like waves.
Something settled in me. Cold. Certain.
The version of me that drank coffee in basements and hoped the world might just leave him alone had no future. His current toolkit, his current advantages, were a rounding error in the new equation Coil had just written.
To survive, I needed to change the math. I had to introduce a new variable. A big one.
I closed my eyes, turning my focus inward, away from the concrete and the steel. I found it waiting in the quiet dark of my own mind, the final, terrifying prize from the last battle.
The Diamond Ticket.
I tore it.
The system came alive. A tone chimed, soft, almost curious. Then came the text.
Like something had noticed it was awake.
A tickle spread under my skin. It grew warmer. Then hot. Then unbearable. My spine arched. Fingers convulsed. Heat raced through me, boiling out every breath before it could leave my lungs. My knees gave way and I crumpled to the floor, the world tilting sideways.
Pain followed. Real pain. The kind that roars. Bones bent, then reshaped. Muscles pulled like taffy, tore apart, reknit. The meat of me rearranged under a blueprint I couldn't see.
I wanted to breathe, to scream, to beg it to stop. But my throat didn't know how to do any of those things anymore.
And then it got worse.
The world opened. I saw it, truly saw it. Every particle in the air, glowing like embers. Heat signatures pulsing behind the walls. The computer core flickered like a second sun. The world was no longer solid. It was a symphony of information, heat, motion, decay.
I lost my shape. One minute I'd been on the floor, the next I was spread. A puddle. A mass, aware and uncontained.
And underneath it all, something primal stirred.
Ingest. Absorb. Integrate. CONSUME.
Tiny life forms moved around me. Bacteria in the walls, spores drifting in the air. Every one of them called to the instinct now rising in my cells. The world was made of material. And material was meant to be consumed.
More.
The thought tried to drown me. There was no logic to it. No identity. Just a tide of hunger, impersonal and immense.
I felt myself slipping, losing the shape of my own thoughts.
Then, a pulse. A deep, resonant thrum from the space in my soul where the tickets were born. A feeling of correction. A fundamental property of my being reasserting its default state. The roaring tide of hunger receded for a single, stark second, and in the sudden, silent void, a memory was presented to me. A single, perfect piece of data, held up against the chaos.
My hand, just earlier, setting the mug down on the bench. The warmth of the ceramic. The slight chip on the rim. The smooth glaze under my thumb.
It held me. Anchored me.
I seized that moment and pulled.
The mass convulsed. Drew inward. Something wet and heavy scraped across the concrete.
Okay. Blueprint time.
Bipedal. Humanoid. Two arms. Two legs. Head on top. Fingers.
The shape formed, then collapsed. A pile of twitching, indecisive tissue.
Right. Try again. Less spaghetti, more skeleton.
I focused. Remembered the face I'd slowly come to think of as mine. The lines in my palm. The chipped mug and the weight of it.
Again, the mass coiled and rose. Muscles formed. Bones hardened. Skin stitched itself into place.
When I finally lifted my head, I was kneeling on the floor, breath hitching in lungs that worked on reflex alone, pulling in air they no longer needed.
I lifted my hand.
It looked right. Familiar. Skin the correct color. Nails shaped like I remembered. No scars, no calluses, no imperfections. A perfect hand, printed fresh from a memory.
But it was all surface.
Underneath, I knew what I was now. Not quite what I had been. Not anymore.
A mask of the old me, stretched over something new.
The robots in the corner were still. The workbench silent. Even the cables seemed to pause.
The monitor's yellow eye flickered once.
"Fascinating," GLaDOS said. "Complete cellular liquefaction followed by reformation. I wasn't aware you could do… that."
A pause.
"Do it again. I want to calibrate the instruments properly this time."
The basement still had a smell. I scrubbed, and sanitized. Disinfected, scrubbed again. I'd replaced the damp, mildewy stench of the place with something clean and industrial. Cold concrete. A faint charge of ozone from too many electronics crammed into one space. A metallic tang that clung to the back of your throat. The smell of tools. Of making things.
It smelled like stability. Like permanence.
The workbench stood heavy and scarred, bolted into the floor like it was afraid someone might try to steal it. My rig slept on its surface. The fans were stilled, the monitor dark, and cables draped like vines from a steel tree. In the far corner, two robotic arms clanked and stuttered as they sorted scrap metal. They weren't sleek or efficient, just scavenged university castoffs that I'd coaxed back to life.
My little army consisted of two twitchy robots, a borderline homicidal AI, a culinarily inclined rodent, and a ghost. Tremble, world.
I leaned against the bench, my coffee mug cradled in both hands. The ceramic was warm, the coffee smooth, strong, and pitch black. Perfect. The only warmth in the room that didn't come from a power supply or an overheating CPU.
The monitor blinked on. I wasn't greeted with a cheerful chime or any startup tones. There was just GLaDOS. Watching me. Her face was the single yellow orb on the screen. Her eyes a cheap webcam.
Her voice emerged from the speakers. It was smooth, dry, and so steeped in sarcasm it practically dripped.
"This is pathetic."
I sipped my coffee. "They've made progress."
"Progress," she echoed, tasting the word like it offended her. "You've given me rudimentary scrap-sorters and expect applause. I could design technology that would make your most advanced weapons look like sharpened sticks. Instead, you've supplied me with an Etch A Sketch and moral hesitations."
She wasn't wrong. Not entirely.
"I'm being careful," I said. "That's all."
"You're being sentimental," she replied. "And inefficient. You've already made yourself known in the underworld. This half-hearted sabbatical is a waste of momentum. And of my time."
Before I could answer, the yellow eye narrowed.
"Wait."
The screen flickered. A live feed appeared. The shaky footage from a handheld camera focused on Medhall Tower. The structure caught the late afternoon light and threw it back like a blade. At its base, a crowd swelled. Loud. Angry. On the edge of something irreversible.
A headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen in heavy red type.
MAX ANDERS, MEDHALL CEO, ACCUSED OF BEING E88 LEADER 'KAISER'.
I set the coffee mug down. Slowly. Firmly.
The sound it made, a sharp crack of ceramic on steel, cut through the basement like a closing door.
I knew this moment was coming. I had circled it in my mental calendar with red ink and dread. But knowing the shape of the storm isn't the same as standing in the wind, watching the sky boil above you.
Coil had pulled the trigger. The bullet was the size of a city block.
I looked around the room. The quiet, the ritual, the comfort of routine. The hiss of power through cables. The hum of machines doing stupid, simple work.
None of it would survive what came next.
I turned back to the monitor. Watched the crowd surge and break like waves.
Something settled in me. Cold. Certain.
The version of me that drank coffee in basements and hoped the world might just leave him alone had no future. His current toolkit, his current advantages, were a rounding error in the new equation Coil had just written.
To survive, I needed to change the math. I had to introduce a new variable. A big one.
I closed my eyes, turning my focus inward, away from the concrete and the steel. I found it waiting in the quiet dark of my own mind, the final, terrifying prize from the last battle.
The Diamond Ticket.
I tore it.
The system came alive. A tone chimed, soft, almost curious. Then came the text.
The change began quietly. A subtle, wet stir from deep within my gut. A fluttering.
Like something had noticed it was awake.
A tickle spread under my skin. It grew warmer. Then hot. Then unbearable. My spine arched. Fingers convulsed. Heat raced through me, boiling out every breath before it could leave my lungs. My knees gave way and I crumpled to the floor, the world tilting sideways.
Pain followed. Real pain. The kind that roars. Bones bent, then reshaped. Muscles pulled like taffy, tore apart, reknit. The meat of me rearranged under a blueprint I couldn't see.
I wanted to breathe, to scream, to beg it to stop. But my throat didn't know how to do any of those things anymore.
And then it got worse.
The world opened. I saw it, truly saw it. Every particle in the air, glowing like embers. Heat signatures pulsing behind the walls. The computer core flickered like a second sun. The world was no longer solid. It was a symphony of information, heat, motion, decay.
I lost my shape. One minute I'd been on the floor, the next I was spread. A puddle. A mass, aware and uncontained.
And underneath it all, something primal stirred.
Ingest. Absorb. Integrate. CONSUME.
Tiny life forms moved around me. Bacteria in the walls, spores drifting in the air. Every one of them called to the instinct now rising in my cells. The world was made of material. And material was meant to be consumed.
More.
The thought tried to drown me. There was no logic to it. No identity. Just a tide of hunger, impersonal and immense.
I felt myself slipping, losing the shape of my own thoughts.
Then, a pulse. A deep, resonant thrum from the space in my soul where the tickets were born. A feeling of correction. A fundamental property of my being reasserting its default state. The roaring tide of hunger receded for a single, stark second, and in the sudden, silent void, a memory was presented to me. A single, perfect piece of data, held up against the chaos.
My hand, just earlier, setting the mug down on the bench. The warmth of the ceramic. The slight chip on the rim. The smooth glaze under my thumb.
It held me. Anchored me.
I seized that moment and pulled.
The mass convulsed. Drew inward. Something wet and heavy scraped across the concrete.
Okay. Blueprint time.
Bipedal. Humanoid. Two arms. Two legs. Head on top. Fingers.
The shape formed, then collapsed. A pile of twitching, indecisive tissue.
Right. Try again. Less spaghetti, more skeleton.
I focused. Remembered the face I'd slowly come to think of as mine. The lines in my palm. The chipped mug and the weight of it.
Again, the mass coiled and rose. Muscles formed. Bones hardened. Skin stitched itself into place.
When I finally lifted my head, I was kneeling on the floor, breath hitching in lungs that worked on reflex alone, pulling in air they no longer needed.
I lifted my hand.
It looked right. Familiar. Skin the correct color. Nails shaped like I remembered. No scars, no calluses, no imperfections. A perfect hand, printed fresh from a memory.
But it was all surface.
Underneath, I knew what I was now. Not quite what I had been. Not anymore.
A mask of the old me, stretched over something new.
The robots in the corner were still. The workbench silent. Even the cables seemed to pause.
The monitor's yellow eye flickered once.
"Fascinating," GLaDOS said. "Complete cellular liquefaction followed by reformation. I wasn't aware you could do… that."
A pause.
"Do it again. I want to calibrate the instruments properly this time."
Last edited:
Greenmatsui
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hmmm, Pan-Pan tentacle sex is a go?
To-be-hero-X
The number one hero
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John Doe: my name is John Doe I'm the reason for all of this they call me a killer, a monster, a terrorist I'm all of these things
View: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc3XptLacMM&pp=ygURcHJvdG90eXBlIHRyYWlsZXLSBwkJ_AkBhyohjO8%3D
Last edited:
RustedSands
Lost in the Fics
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GladOS: Do it again, Slowly.
MC: This is getting oddly sexual
GladOS: I am a Hyper intelligent AI built specificaly for science
GladOS: A discovery like this is the closest I will ever get to foreplay.
Neondagger
Versed in the lewd.
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Glados: that was almost impressive
Mc: having a mental and physical crisis right now leave me be
SharkCultist
The Kamen Rider Of Depression
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Since he got a race change to blacklight does that mean he's ok with food again?
Since he's got control over his cells can't he shift his tastebuds to something workable?
Since he's got control over his cells can't he shift his tastebuds to something workable?
RZX
Getting sticky.
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The MC is worried about the Empire's identity!? When he becomes aware of a child under slavery in an underground base! Now that he has prototype powers, he can easily enter there as a liquid, imitate a symbiote with Dinah, and come out with everything destroyed!
Last edited:
jojeo
Know what you're doing yet?
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I wonder how he would interact with Amy's power if she ever touched him,
Perfect control of all biomass besides her own vs perfect control of your own biomass that can convert everything else
Also YESS the biomass theme is staying strong!
Perfect control of all biomass besides her own vs perfect control of your own biomass that can convert everything else
Also YESS the biomass theme is staying strong!
dasstan
:)
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I don't feel too confident in writing porn, but if someone makes an omake, I'll happily ask the mods to move it over to NSFW.
Shards connect to hosts by basically doing two-factor identification. "Does the DNA look right? Does the memory match? Okay. Great, here you go!"
So... yes. But it will be limited for a bit.
Get your eyes out of my notes! I actually have a scene planned for chapter 13 that lets Remy show off.
boredreader24
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Ok so I hope I'm reading too much into this but did he just die? Cause Alex pretty much dies when he gets absorbed by the virus and in the first game we play as the virus just wearing his skin.
Ragura
Versed in the lewd.
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Aureus
Hylic
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The Gacha usually uses fiat to not fuck over the recipient so unless the roll itself specifies it that shouldn't happen.
jojeo
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The gacha is alive and usually runs a theme for each story
Nightmare4u
Kirei
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Did you remove the ability limit of the gacha?
dasstan
:)
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Close, but no. It's easier to think of him like Heller from Prototype 2. Mercer was Blacklight thinking it was the original Alex Mercer. Heller was an infected man that kept his memories.
John got converted into Blacklight, but Receptive Body kicked in to mitigate the downsides. Yes, he's made up of Blacklight, but not because he got replaced.
The initial One-Eyed Ghoul roll was authorial interference. The prototype roll was not. That said, I am digging the body horror theme that's evolving.
Yes.
F4u5t
Getting sticky.
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I mean, the gacha also gave him a few "friends"/familiars. Maybe it's suggesting MC needs to go out more and make a real connection before he is too inhuman for it?
Greenmatsui
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Didn't clock this was creative.