Anal in the Zones
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The subtropical trees of zone Epsilon-Whiskey rose proudly over an abundance of dry shrubs.
Pax stumbled backward over another aerial root but managed not to fall. Pax' naked muscles gleamed under the loose canopy's filtered light, a shiny layer of odorless bug repellant the only thing keeping the so called "Weevils" from sinking their mandibles, pincers and even more bizarre hooks into him.
The foot-long, insectoid abominations with the cutesy code name buzzed toward him, dark brown wings barely granting lift, part pill bug, part squid, some almost like monkeys or dogs clad in chitin.
He'd slaughtered more Weevils than he'd expected to find and there were still more coming.
Pax' tactical jockstrap in beige and the red bandana around his neck were all the "armor" he needed, his combat gear fitting on a tight harness that ran from shoulder to jockstrap hem.
Pax was barely aiming his zapper pistol, every dull "thwip" of light shredding one of the fuckers to sludge. He downed one each second. Yet they were getting too close, swarming him.
The tan Asian's forearms were wrapped in black leather, holding studded steel plates. As the bugs came into melee range, Pax' arms flexed, the mandalas of his full sleeve tattoos dancing on the bulging fibers.
He slapped the beasts aside, steel spikes slicing their boney-fleshy exoskeletons.
His com crackled on his harness strap. "Pax, what the fist is happening?" Bautista's voice said. "Do I need to come out and save your mancunt?"
Pax pulled the rebreather bandana over his nose and pressed it on so it stuck to his skin. He tossed his last killing shell between his heavy boots.
Smoke rose fast enough to disorient Pax but he made it away under the thumping sound of drowsy, dying Weevils falling.
He reached for his com. "Right behind'cha, sir."
The boring platform was the size of a football field, hexagonal lead tiles preventing burrowing bugs from popping up. The man-high drill in the center had gone silent.
The place was surrounded by auto-zapper turrets, faintly clicking as they detected Pax passing in front of them and safety-locked.
Bautista was aiming his arm-long zapper rifle at the forest. Seeing the gunner arrive, the commander put it behind him where it clicked into his bandolier.
Both men were on the Brute-Juice for as much size and strength as was safely achievable. With an "upper class" background, Bautista's body was trained more for aesthetic than power, where it was the other way for Pax.
Bautista, too, glistened with bug repellant under the clearing's sun, his armor consisting only of spiked shin guards leaning into sandals and a pauldron all the way down the right biceps.
His mohawk was a bushel of deep purple, where Pax kept his mohawk cropped and natural black. Team leader Bautista didn't wear a combat jockstrap. His overly thick eight incher and the rest of his package were tied to his right thigh by a purple bandana, like the one around his neck.
He had only a few tattoos, most prominently the splayed scarab on his forehead and four rings around his right forearm. His skin was an even brown from a mix of middle eastern and latin heritage.
The gunner met his commander by the drill. They clapped their hands together and bumped pecs. The purple-clad schlong bumped against Pax' minuscule jockstrap bulge.
"Got swarmed, sir," Pax said, "faster than a cumshot, tryna face rape me all at once. Confirms there's too fistin' many."
"Shoulda called for backup, boy," Bautista said. "Lone heroes bite it first."
Pax' narrow Asian eyes squinted further as he grinned. "I know, I know. Kinda sucked a fist there. I've learned my lesson, sir." He saluted.
Bautista rolled his eyes. "Doc Wolfram has all the data he needs from this station. Drove off already." He slapped the silent drill. "Let's bail."
"Yessir."
They marched toward the auto-zapper line. The leader spoke into the com. "Sexy Scarab, we're coming out. More bugs than expected."
"Ferryn here, sir," said a scratchy voice. "We have some fucky readings heading our way. D'you request Solstice?"
"Not pissing myself yet," the commander said. "Keep him ready."
The buzz of Weevils rose as they advanced into the forest, but that wasn't the real danger. Pax kept his eyes and zapper aimed at the ground, in case anything dug up to drag him down.
"Roach," Bautista yelled, his rifle awkward to handle in the thicket.
Three tall figures barreled toward them, human features -- faces, skin and limbs -- bloated and distorted. Some were more insectoid than others -- segmented eyes, antennae, stingers -- but all were clicking with pseudo-chitin membranes.
The middle one fell under combined zapper fire, yellow and green goo squirting everywhere.
Pax balled his fists and tossed himself at the left one, smashing and ripping with his forearm spikes. Bautista rammed his pauldron into the other. In the tangle of limbs, Pax got his zapper's serrated blade out and sliced with the gun. Bug bones crunched under their mass.
Following their training, the men rolled *over* the Roaches instead of getting caught in the limb tangle and jogged onward, zapping behind them.
#
Finally breaking out of the forest and into the wide open tundra, Pax and his boss clasped hands and bumped pecs together.
"Fuck yeah!"
They were awaited by a swollen mass of black metal, the size and rough shape of a cabin. Resting on tank tracks, the Sexy Scarab battel wagon was a cluster fuck of spikes, pipes and blades, blue spray paint indicating what Ferryn considered important, gold paint what Bautista thought looked fucking good.
A few auto zapper turrets clicked locked as the duo approached. The slow, deep thumps of Neo-grunge Dark-cosmos Punk-core blasted across the dry grass.
Two men were present but distracted.
Their grenadier Solstice -- a black men, squat but massive -- was crouching and had his fist buried halfway down the forearm in the ass of a pale, lean teen. Lube oozed from beneath the fist-bottom's tiny, beige jockstrap.
The bottom looked like he was fighting for his life, face a grimace, body quivering, as he forced himself deeper with superhuman effort, every fiber tense. The only hair on him were dark blond eyebrows. A black mohawk strip was tattooed onto his head.
Solstice noticed the approach. His smile was uncanny thanks to the white skull tattooed fully over his face. Like Pax, he wore a red bandana, a spare one hanging over his nearly flat tactical jockstrap as a loincloth. He had huge shoulder pads, like a football player's chest gear.
Solstice nodded at them. "Welcome home, sir. You've met Axil?"
"One... sec," Axil huffed, spasming with every muscle flexed. "Assgasming..."
"Doc Wolfram's a'ready fisted off?" Bautista asked. "And left his nephew bitchboy with us, huh?"
