To the Time Machine! - Part 15

"From the Desk of Rockel"


Preferring not to be slowly and painfully digested inside a carnivorous house plant, Rockel strained to hold the crushing jaws apart. This also meant he had to deal with the creature’s slimy tongue.

When shoving and punching did not seem to dislodge the bothersome Rockel from its teeth, the plant tried licking and tickling the cyber-assassin. This strategy was more promising, and even Rockel’s steel-alloy will was beginning to falter. He giggled. He hated being tickled. Well, who didn’t?

Rockel’s only hope to withstand the titillating terror was to transform to desk mode. He collapsed in on himself, physically and perhaps mentally. The relieved plant bit down hard, and broke several spiny teeth on the former Dossey desk. Plus, the hardwood armor protected Rockel from the tickling tongue.

Rockel laughed a cybernetic laugh, and quickly transformed to Rockel mode. Before the flytrap could stop him, he proceeded to punch out the teeth within his reach.

Just when he thought he might actually beat this thing, he realized with dread he'd forgotten the tongue of terror.

There in little Buies Creek, a fortunate few bore witness as unprecedented plant pugilism ensued.

Splinters flew as blows landed - the air was thick with debris. Rockel's desk armor absorbed some of the impact, but it was designed for camouflage, not combat.

The tongue body-slammed him against a row of teeth, and Rockel felt the armor on his back split like a creaky kitchen chair seat.

Before he could right himself, the tongue flipped him over and tried to swallow him. Rockel clawed for dear life, but could not get a hold. He looked about desperately for the uvula, but saw none. He was going to slide right down its gullet.

Thinking quickly, the cyborg deployed a smokescreen. The monster coughed Rockel up.

Rather than being spit back out, the assassin latched onto the lashing licker, and managed to get the tongue in a headlock, er, tonguelock.

What followed was a tremendous tongue tussle. After it was all over, Rockel felt perhaps he and the plant might be legally married in some countries.

But it was not meant to last. It finally flicked him out of its mouth and into the air.

To top it off, a massive vine appendage whipped out and smacked the daring desk, changing its course in midflight. Rockel sailed into the wall of the theatre, and slid down onto the roof of the lower corridor.

Fortunately for our trans-human, the plant was distracted because just then Kolberg landed atop its head.

General Kolberg was a one-woman army. She had little patience for pleasantries, decorations, fashion, or small talk.

She was all business. And her business was soldiering.

It was Kolberg who first organized the ragtag militia into the first Imperial army. Prior to accepting a position with the Empire, she battled ice giants in Norway, felled the belching jötunn, and let Bobby McGee slip away.

Yet none of these accomplishments had prepared her for an overgrown plant with an attitude problem.

Kolberg possessed many qualities of an excellent general, but she did not possess a green thumb.

Certainly, thumbs were useful. Hell, they were opposable. For instance, they were excellent for gouging out eyes and grasping weapons.

But she never fawned over flora. No, in fact, she knew this portentous plant had to be uprooted. And pronto.

Her wings folded up vertically behind her. She drew her sword. Norse words of power wrapped around the hilt flared to life. A voice called out from the wind, wrapping around her as she raised the mighty cleaving blade.

Then with a fairly anticlimactic lunge, she shoved the sword deep into what appeared to be the head of the botanical beastie.

And held on tight.

It tried to shake her.

Kolberg repeatedly rammed her shield into the scaly bark armor with one arm while clinging to her sword with the other.

Her efforts widened the hole in the creature's cranium. She reached in hoping for brains, but when she retracted her hand it held not brains but goop.

Did it have no mind? Where did plants keep their brains? Was it running on instinct only?

Would nothing kill this killer weed?


Cyber-Assassin Rockel took this chance to shed his broken armor. He ripped the smoking, splintering slats from his body.

He would be unprotected, but it would have only slowed him down at this point.

A quick systems check showed he was still 89% combat effective. He wiped ink from the corner of his mouth like it was blood.

With great conviction, Rockel stood. His optics glowed red.

It was time for some deforestation.