Chapter Text
There were no more oceans, no more sandy dunes, no more glimmering salt flats...only a wasteland of scorched rock met Leg’s eyes, stretching from horizon to horizon under a hazy red sky.
And, standing proudly in the middle of all that desolation and ruin, Rolltonder threw his rusted helm back and roared with distorted mechanical laughter.
“How incredible, fleshbag!” he cheered, clapping his swarm of limbs. A morbid round of applause for the Ultra trembling in shock behind the forcefield that separated them.
“How absolutely splendid! It’s been eons since I’ve had the chance to taste despair of such high a caliber! A rich and piquant beginning that unfurls into a most vibrant rainbow of diverse flavors...And finally, a delicate finish that caresses my senses more tenderly than a lover’s touch...Oh, Ultraman Leg, you truly are a gift that keeps on giving!”
“...m-master Eeznus…” Leg whimpered, “t-th-this c-can’t b-be…”
Rolltonder emitted a noise that fell somewhere between the creaking of an old doorframe and a giggle, brought the thumb and forefinger of his most humanoid limb to his eternally-grinning fanged mouth and bonked them against his lips (or rather, his lack thereof).
“Ah, denial!” the vile robot sighed contentedly through his speakers, “Truly, the juiciest stage of grief!”
Eeznus dangled limply from Rolltonder’s wires, disarmed and so grievously wounded that only the weak blinking of his Color Timer and Beam Lamp distinguished him from a corpse.
“I must admit,” Rolltonder’s voice thundered amidst the devastation, vocalizer cranked up to full blast, “Your master has managed to hold out for far longer than my simulations predicted. Hmm...perhaps another upgrade is in order. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? A win is a win. And a pathetic meatbag is a pathetic meatbag, no matter how hard it struggles to prove otherwise!”
“Let him go...” Leg choked out as the villain engaged in a casual match of catch against himself, his metal tendrils tossing the battered Ultra Warrior around like a ragdoll, “Let him go, dammit…”
“Oooooh, looks like reality is setting in at last! Delicious!” Rolltonder cooed autotunedly, “Why would I let him go when the fun’s just beginning?”
With a grinding noise that drilled into Leg’s eardrums, the five-fingered limb Rolltonder had “kissed” a moment earlier transformed, its digits reconfiguring into what looked like very jagged, very rusty Swiss army knives.
“You see, Leggy my boy...” ever the one to rub salt into his enemies’ wounds, Rolltonder had decided to switch to imitating Eeznus’ voice again, “There’s two things I want to find out here...Firstly...Just how much damage do I have to deal before this pesky forcefield finally gives way? The Product won’t deliver itself, you know...Oh my, what a delectably horrified expression you’ve got there! You care for your “Master Eeznus” a lot, don’t you? Which brings me to the second task at hand…”
“...what?” was all Leg could utter, rooted to the spot with terror.
“Oh, what admirable curiosity! I shall gladly satisfy it!” Rolltonder exclaimed in a perverse mockery of praise, and Leg shuddered so hard that for a moment he thought he was going into agonal convulsions, “Have you ever heard of selective breeding, Ultraman Leg? With careful cultivation, even the ugliest fruit can be coaxed into deliciousness...And your despair, in its original, most untamed form is already a delicacy like no other...Just imagine what would happen if I were to nurture it to its full potential…”
Rolltonder flicked his Swiss army fingers, unfolding each of them into something akin to a cross between a scalpel and a miniature chainsaw. Another flick - and a maddening high-pitched buzz filled the air, as though a swarm of giant mosquitoes had suddenly erupted from within the dread robot’s chassis.
“...And now, I am going to do just that…” He continued, lightly brushing one of the buzzing blades along the stripes of armor on Eeznus’ shoulder, “Leggy my boy...I seem to be having trouble deciding which bodypart I should start with...Would you be so kind as help this rusty old bot out? His arm, perhaps? Or would his leg be a more suitable option?”
Leg screamed. He screamed, and he pleaded, and he prayed.
But the heavens, suffocated with the red haze of Planet Lopata’s death throes, were numb to his pleas. And no deity came to his aid.
Instead, it was the depths that granted him salvation.
In a great explosion of rock and magma, Brebs and Don Shirak erupted from underneath Planet Lopata’s crust, locked in mortal combat even as parts of their plating melted and mixed together. Crashing into the ground, the two techno-organic kaiju tore at each other with relentless brutality. Don Shirak’s flagellum was wound tightly around the motorcycle, its slimy secretions eating at the exposed engine. But then, Brebs’ tentacles found their way inside Don Shirak’s maw and set about utterly ravaging it, ripping out teeth and tongues and flinging them into the air. A hideous gurgling screech erupted from the cuboid kaiju, its corrosive flagellum twisting in agony.
Don Shirak was struggling.
And Rolltonder noticed it.
And he was not amused.
“DON SHIRAK YOU FLAGELLATED DEGENERATE! DON’T YOU DARE LOSE TO A FILTHY BARIBARI!!!” boomed his speakers.
To be continued...