This thread will be used to compile/talk about all the lore surrounding the skeleton wars.
Main contributers are thekillerax, aleph and Agent MacLeod
Trent's
From the self disillusioned log of Trentominous
It was around midnight when the strange man entered the war room. He wore an odd colored suit, carried a cane, and had a large mustache. "Mr. Crabb Fischer" I said, "so nice to see you". "I wish I could say the same" he replied, his accent making the statement seem more ominous then intended. Mr. Crabb walked towards me, swinging his can like a sword. "I suppose you still have that offer on the table?"
I responded with a simple "Of course". I knew he would take the bait eventuality, it was only a matter of time. A man like him needed the money that I was offering. He walked closer towards me. "Where is it?" I pointed towards where I had stashed the money. "Remember what I need you to do?"
"Yes. Draw attention away from you by claiming that I have a skeleton army and am trying to take over the capital or something. Won't he know that it's the plot to V for vendetta II?"
"No, we have strict movie laws in this state; we don't allow crappy sequels."
"Ah"
He walked towards where I had pointed. As he walked past me I thought of something I had forgotten to tell him.
"Mr. Crabb?"
"Yes?"
"If you see killerax, use extreme prejudice."
Aleph's
Killerax
Agent MacLeod
I'm laying on my back, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. A booming voice speaks, "Wake up." I sit up to see a hulking bear of a man standing in the doorway next to the foot of the bed, with more beard than should be possible. It is a fractal of beards. Beards within beards upon beards. The man is both bald and sporting a conservative haircut, as though he were in a quantum state. As I look up, I see a symbol painted on the wall that I am very familiar with, even though I have only ever seen it in online fiction: a circle, with three arrows intersecting and pointing inward, surrounded by a shield.
"What the fuck is going on?"
"He doesn't grok this?" "No, I don't think he does." The man seems to be speaking to himself with two separate voices that are somehow also the same. He (they?) seems to reach a decision and says, "Come, we have to hurry."
I roll out of the bed and see that I'm already dressed. "You shouldn't sleep in your clothes, by the way. That's weird." I shrug it off. "Here, take this. And this. And you should be familiar with this," the odd Beard man says as he hands me a backpack (my backpack, actually), a pump-action shotgun, and a very familiar firefighter's ax.
I begin to open the backpack up when the entity I later come to know as Djorimaticx says, "We can check your inventory later. First, you need to look around."
"Am I in a shitty puzzle game or something?"
"No. Unfortunately, you are in a 'webcomic' by Andrew Hussie."
"Oh, fuck me. Do I need to get my arms?"
"No, you already have them, dipshit."
"Ok, cool. So do I have to solve sureal puzzles or something, or do I have to try to escape this shit?"
"You seriously believed you were in an Andrew Hussie comic? Seriously? Like, whatever he's gonna follow Homestuck up with? No. You're a self-insert character barely based on the author who is writing this shit out in the SCP wiki forums right now."
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Is there any way I can punch that asshole in the face?"
"No. You're fictional. You're just a narrator. Even if you punched him in the face, it would only be another fictional version of himself. You'd accomplish nothing."
"What a dick. Any idea how this happened?"
"The 'Ask the Person Above You a Question' thread. Someone gave IRL you a prompt referencing the weird jokes you made about Djoric and Dmatix yesterday."
"Huh. So what does that make you?"
"Djorimaticx, your spirit guide or some shit. Come on. There's an apocalypse happening."
"Why does this shit always happen to me?"
I found out as we were walking that we were in the barracks for the local militia, of which I was apparently a member. Also apparently, the militia in this world were also the law enforcement, the firefighters, and pretty much every other emergency responder. Service in the militia was also required from everyone for two years. However, when the zombies showed up and started demanding equal representation in Congress, it had all gone to shit. It also didn't help that the Scarlet King was demanding blood sacrifices, Cthulhu had lost the 2016 election, and Isabel Wondertainment had moved her toy factories to New Dehli, wrecking the Sait'Nin'Tee economy. I was only one of a few sane survivors. Probably.
As we walked through the barracks, we came to the area where the firefighting equipment was stored. I saw a complete set of SCBA gear. Jokingly, I threw the mask on and said, with a fake German accent, "Hello, I am zee Captein!"
Djorimaticx immediately whacked the back of my head and said, "Don't steal shit from webcomics! Come on."
He led me to the Brush Engine and told me that, out there, there was a horde of zombies that had to be mowed down, and that this was the only serviceable vehicle. I pointed out that there was an entire garage with filled Humvees, including one that had a machine-gun loaded and mounted. This earned me another whack to the back of the head. "Do you think stories are interesting when a character has everything they need handed to them on a silver platter? Unless you're going for crackfic, the answer is no! You can write a badass, but the badass can't be the most badass just because. There has to be conflict, and there's no conflict if you just mow down the zombies with a machine gun before they even show up! Now get in the damn brush truck."
"Jesus, man, what is your problem?"
"You're a self-insert character and you have yet to prove that you're a well-written one. You're my problem."
I couldn't help but mutter "asshole" under my breath as I tossed my equipment into the truck and began detaching the battery charger. After I'd finished prepping the truck, I asked my bearded spirit guide whether I should take inventory now.
"Na, you should've done that when you first woke up. Would've made the scene flow more smoothly."
"How was I supposed to do that when you didn't let me?"
"Idunno. I guess the author just didn't think this through."
"What a dick."
"I know, but hopefully, this adventure will help him fix that."
I start the engine on the truck, press the garage door opener's button, and, as soon as the door is open enough, slam my foot on the gas. After passing through a veritable sea of zombies, many of which I turned into bloody speed bumps, I begin the drive into my new life.
I'm sitting behind the wheel of the brush truck, Djorimaticx in the passenger's seat and my backpack between us. The silence is killing me.
"So zombies, huh?" I don't know why I felt the need to ask, but I did, and now the question hangs in the air.
"Huh? What about them?" It seems that Djorimaticx had been taking a nap.
"You said they demanded equal representation in Congress, right? This means that they're sapient, right?"
"What're you getting at?"
"Well, the way I figure, there are four kinds of zombie. You've got Night of the Living Dead/Zombieland zombies, that just shamble around. Then there are The Thing/SCP-610 type-zombies, that operate on a hive mind. Then you have Resident Evil/[PROTOTYPE] zombies, that are controlled by boss zombies. And then there are traditional voodoo zombies, which are either mindless-but-not-contagious ghouls or slaves controlled by a necromancer. There are also Warm Bodies zombies which are normal people but kinda dead or something, but nobody saw that movie besides me and necro fetishists, so they don't really count."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, what sorta zombies are these?"
"Does it fucking matter?"
"Yeah. I mean, I ran over like 50 of them back there, and I've hit a few since we've been driving. I wanna know who I'm killing, so I can at least feel comfortable about it or get all angsty for the sake of the story."
"You're supposed to be a badass. Your name is 'MacLeod,' for fuck's sake. If you're gonna write badass self-inserts, you need to make them either really subtle, or really crackfic-y. The author opted for crackfic, and crackfic doesn't have fucking angst. I'm not fueling your bad habits."
"Seriously?"
"If you want to know so damn much about the zombies, ask one yourself."
"Eugh, fine." I happen to see one shambling by the side of the road. Instead of swerving to make road-jerky out of it, I decide to pull over and roll down the window. "Hey, zombie lady! Hey!"
"What the fuck do you want, asshole?"
"I'm talking with my friend here, but he won't tell me what kinda zombies you are. So tell me, are you mindless brain-eating monsters, slaves to a hive-mind, slaves to a boss zombie, or slaves to a necromancer?"
"First of all, the word 'zombie' is extremely prejudiced against people like me. Just because I'm a woman suffering from necrosis, rigor mortis, and a brain addiction doesn't give you a right to use the 'zed' word, because everyone knows that zombies aren't real. That's just ridiculous. Secondly, it's none of your damn business who I've chosen as my employer or supreme dark overlord. Deal with it." At this point, she bared her teeth, growled, and began to rush me, so I grabbed the shotgun off the seat and made hamburger meat out of her.
"Holy shit. That was close."
"Yeah, you were talking to a fucking zombie. What did you expect?"
"Hey, I don't need you and your beard's shit right now, man. Why don't you go write an inaugural speech for President Wondertainment or some shit?"
"Don't be a dumbass. Everyone knows Wondertainment moved her shit to India after Trump won the primaries."
I was about to reply when I saw movement outside the window. The zombie lady wasn't dead, despite a massive cavity where her chest had been. I could hear her rattling something, so I listened closely. "Sooooomeoooone heeeeelp me, I'm being reeeeepressssed."
"Seriously? Fucking Monty Python and the Holy Grail quotes? Fucking seriously?"
"Yeah, this author thinks he's being funny with references to people who actually were funny. You need to be more original, man."
"Clearly. Should I put her out of her misery?"
"Sure."
I threw the truck into park and jumped out, pumping the shotgun and checking to make sure there weren't any zombies lying in wait. As I walked up to the zombie, I could hear her rattle more; "Ssssseeeeee? Thiiiiss iiiss thee viiooolleence iinheeeeerent iin thee sysssteeem."
"Yeah, fuck this." I stood back a few feet (but close enough to be sure I wouldn't miss), aimed at her head, and fired.