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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Shadow's Sacrament

By evolution-500

Genres: Horror/Mystery

Feedback: Always welcome

WARNING: This story contains violence, coarse language, mature themes and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: "Quake" is a property owned by ID Software. I do not own any of these characters.

Prologue: Awakening

"The war engines are in place, the mines buried beneath the earth, and already the towers tremble; the ladders stand at the gates, the grappling hooks cleave to the walls and fire runs through the roof tops.

With the gleaming swords and the menacing faces of his enemies around him, and thinking utter ruin is upon him, why should he not quake and mourn?"

- Francesco Petrarca, in Secretum, 1342 A.D.

He dreamt that he was back home again. Back where he could feel the comforting and soothing warmth of the summer sun and the gentle cool breeze of the wind as it caressed his rough, rugged features. Both kindly greeted him as if he were a dearly beloved and missed old friend. He dreamt that he was in the loving arms of his wife Annie, along with his son and daughter again, embracing- no, clinging- onto them tightly, like a man on a life raft who had sailed alone for so long in the middle of a dark and cruel ocean. He dreamt that he was having a barbecue with his friends and family, enjoying a beer and talking about football scores with his neighbors as he sat with his wife on a lawn chair in the front yard.

Then, just as he was about to enjoy another taste of his beer, a biting cold swept him away, forcing him to leave that pleasant dream, and return back to the grim nightmare that was reality.

Opening his eyes, the Ranger found himself face-to-face with the grisly, bloodied and decapitated remains of an Ogre as it lay lifelessly beside him, staring at him with a gaping mouth, its eyes rolled up into the back of its head, his double-headed axe buried deep into its neck.

Letting out a groan, the Ranger swore as he wiped the grime and blood out of his eyes and face, spitting out the pieces of meat that had found its way into his mouth, shivering as he felt the freezing desolate arctic-like wind pick up.

Pulling his open-faced, bucket-like barbuta-styled helmet off from his head, he saw his straggly long, greasy and filthy hair fall free.

Sighing, he slicked his hair back as best he could before lifting his hands to his mouth, huffing onto his cold flesh as he massaged his inner palms, trying to keep warm.

The Ranger released a frustrated breath as he glumly looked back at his surroundings.

From the bright comfort of his dreams where he saw his family, he now found himself back in the world he now knew.

Back where darkness, madness, obscenity, war, eldritch horrors and death greeted and held illimitable dominion over everything that he saw with an iron fist.

He saw the dark, cyclopean, megalithic-styled masonry, the strange, gloomy, almost medieval-styled architecture that greeted him unwelcomely.

Overhead, he saw a dark purple sky with clouds constantly swirling around.

In all of his time in this dimension, not once had he ever seen it change.

It was always the same in the various dimensions that he passed through, the one common feature all of these worlds had. He had never seen any of them rain, let alone snow. Walking through these dimensional planes was akin to standing over a unhallowed grave. A mausoleum. So utterly...lifeless.

And yet, the Ranger knew that deceptively still quality only belied how dangerous these realms actually were.

All around him, he saw the scorched remains of a fresh battle, one of many that he had been lucky enough to have survived, the remains of his various foes that he had dispatched lying scattered all over the floor.

As he gazed upon his fallen enemies, he started to recall the events that had occurred.

He had been ambushed from every direction. Grunts, Ogres, Knights, Enforcers, Fiends, Scrags, Rottweilers - whatever creepy fuck haunted these realms, whether they had slithered and crawled on the ground, lurched in the shadows, or came sailing through the air on strange wingless bodies, they all flung themselves relentlessly at him with neither logic nor regard for their own self-preservation. Every stinking and sorry bastard pursued him, level after level, room after room. He had been caught by surprise, that was for sure. Hell, several actually managed to nick 'im a couple of times.

It was only through sheer will, perseverance, concentration, a lot of firepower and prioritization that he showed them who they were messing with. It had been that one fucking Ogre and grenade that made the Ranger tackle into him like a quarterback. One fucking grenade, and then he had last consciousness.

Once he finished administering first aid to himself, removing the pieces of nails and shrapnel from his armor, treating his own injuries with antiseptic and bandages, the Marine glanced back to the battlefield.

Cadavers of various species, humanoid and otherwise, lay in varying degrees of preservation and poses, some of them still twitching, a horrible blasphemous mosaic as if in horrible parody of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, with some looking more like pieces of freshly fileted, pulped and/or charred meat.

Smoking nine inch nails streaked across the stone walls, while a couple of bodies nearby were perforated beyond recognition, some nailed to each other, a few to walls, columns, doors and ceilings like horrible gory Christmas decorations. One or two of them had so many impaled into their bodies that they looked more like bloodied metallic porcupines or pincushions.

All around he heard otherworldly cries and howls, a maddening cacophony that chanted and groaned. Mounted on the walls were torches with strange green flames that wavered, as if dancing to the cacodaemoniacal cries, but one symbol drew the Ranger's attention and ire. One symbol made him tighten his mouth and clench his hands in anger and hatred.

It was a symbol that resembled a nail and crescent, a symbol that the Ranger has come to represent everything that was wrong with this place, everything that had brought him so much pain and suffering.

The symbol of his target.

Quake.

A dull, throbbing pulse from his backpack drew his attention.

Shrugging it off his broad shoulders, the Ranger's hand felt around inside, pausing for a moment before he finally brought up three glowing runes into view.

Lifting them up with one hand, he studied them curiously, watching as they pulsated and emitted a strange glowing effluence.

It was then that his eyes rolled into the back of his head, the words from the runes chanting loudly into his eardrums over and over the following phrase.

"Iä! Iä! Blessed be Those that have been selected by the All-Mother! Ever Their praises be, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!"

Grimacing, the Ranger snarled as he violently shook.

"Get out of my head!" He hissed.

The voices died down...and yet, they remained at the back of his mind, a dull humming thrum that failed to dissipate, whispering to him dark, forbidden knowledge.

Running a hand through his long hair, the tired man slicked his hair back.

"God, I'll never get used to this," he said aloud as he placed his helmet back on.

Sitting himself up, he picked himself up from off the bloodied, frost-bitten floor, pulling his axe out from the Ogre's neck with a sickening squelch.

"I'll be takin' this back, thanks," he grumbled to his would-be attacker as he straightened himself. Rolling his shoulders, the Ranger cracked his joints along with his neck, groaning in exhaustion as he looked around with tired though wary eyes, listening and waiting.

How long had he been out for?

He didn't know if it had been for a few minutes or hours. Hell, for all he knew, he may have even been out for days. Weeks even. Time meant little in this dimension...or rather, dimensions.

Tightening his hand around the handle of his axe, the Ranger exhaled as he checked his backpack, counting up his ammunition. He should have enough to continue with the mission. Raising his battle-hardened eyes back up, he narrowed them at his surroundings as he swapped weapons, exchanging the axe for the comforting and familiar form of his shotgun.

"Well...time to get going."

Chapter Text

Shadow's Sacrament

By evolution-500

Genres: Horror/Mystery

Feedback: Always welcome

WARNING: This story contains violence, coarse language, mature themes and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: "Quake" is a property owned by ID Software. I do not own any of these characters.

Chapter One: Reminisces

"I love to dream, but I never try to dream and think at the same time."

- H.P. Lovecraft

The road forward had been long, painful, and violent.

From the blood-soaked, rivet and sheet metal-covered floors of the Slipgate Complex, through the gore-drenched block masonry of the Castle of the Damned, the dark Romanesque halls of the Necropolis, the subterranean and water-filled Grisly Grotto, the Ranger had pushed onward despite the odds against him.

From the bubbling, molten hot realm of the Ziggurat Vertigo and House of Cthon, to the grim corridors of Gloom Keep, he slew his way through, killing anything and everything that dared block his path, including Cthon himself in all of his horrible glory.

Through the complex and labyrinthine Ebon Fortress, where he had traversed slime-filled moats, swam through dark, murky, disgusting shit-covered and pissed-filled waters, he kept his attention fixed on his goal of finding his target and getting home.

Through the Installation, the heavily fortified fortress of the Ogre Citadel, through the dark and decrepit castle that was the Crypt of Decay, he had fought legions of the Undead. Through the magma and trap-riddled Haunted Halls, Chambers of Torment and the dizzying tubes of the Wind Tunnels that had lifted him off his feet, the Ranger persevered, unrelenting in his pursuit.

Every step forward became lined with a trail of bodies in his wake, his path lined with viscera.

As he finished decapitating another Ogre, the Ranger tiredly pulled away and settled against a column, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. He had been fighting for so goddamned long, he just needed a moment to rest! Every part of him ached.

How am I still alive?

The Ranger shut his eyes and shook his head wearily, letting out a tired, derisive scoff. By all accounts, it had been a miracle that he had been able to survive for so long, and without infection. He'd probably need to get tetanus shots after this, but all things considered, he's lucky.

Then again, his entire life had been based on defying the odds.

What were the chances of a small kid from a poor family with a single, working class mother in Arkham becoming one of the top football players with a scholarship on the Fightin' Badgers Team at Miskatonic U? Granted, he wasn't good enough to turn pro, but it had been enough to make a geeky, awkward runt like him into something of a hometown hero. What were the chances of him, a scrawny kid, coming back from 'Nam a highly decorated soldier?

Hell, even his own conception had been against all odds; before he had even been born, his own mother had been declared infertile, told by doctors that she wouldn't ever be able to have children of her own.

A wry, amused grin formed on the Ranger's face at the thought.

Boy, had the doctors been surprised!

Granted, he had no idea of who his father had been, nor had the deadbeat son of a bitch ever provided child support for him and his mom, but all things considered, he couldn't complain much in terms of how things had turned out.

Sure, things had been tough. Growing up in a small armpit town like Arkham, he had been bullied relentlessly by other children, with townsfolk gossiping about his being a bastard. Various rumors surrounded his parentage and about his mother, a great deal of it upsetting, but that didn't matter in the end; in a lot of ways, he had been blessed. He was handsome, well-built, and sturdy. When he had filled out as an adult, women's heads were turning. He had done well in school, worked hard, and faced overwhelming resistance and adversity when he had joined the Marine Corps. Two years of intensive and grueling training from miserable sons of bitches for drill instructors.

His tours of duty in Vietnam, a horror story in and of itself, with all sorts of fucked up stuff.

In the end, he overcame it all.

He had been able to marry the girl of his dreams, and with her, produced two beautiful children that were back at home waiting for him.

For all his life, the Ranger had spent it overcoming impossible odds, and by God, he intended on maintaining that track record, if only for his family's sake.

He just needed to figure out how to get out of this current predicament.

Leaning his helmeted head against the column, the Ranger slowly took a long-worn photograph out from his armor, staring at it despondently as he let out an audibly deep, exhausted, heavy and regretful sigh. The picture depicted four people smiling, one of them being himself, but the photo had so badly aged in this place...or places, that a lot of the color and features were gone. The smiles of his wife Annie, along with those of his son and daughter, like his memories, were, little by little, fading away, threatening to disappear forever.

Tracing his fingers along their faded features, the Ranger pressed his rough lips against the picture, his tired mind doing its best to retain whatever humanity and memory he had of them.

"I promise I'll be home, Annie," he said quietly to the woman in the photo. "God help me, Annie, I promise."

How long had it been since he had entered this place?

He leaned his head back, his brow scrunching up in thought.

How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months?

...Years?

The insidious thing about this place was that time moved at a standstill; day and night seemed to exist simultaneously. Nothing about this dimension, or dimensions, made a lick of sense. Neither did the structures that he had found in either their architecture, geometry and configuration. Gravity fluctuated from area to area, with some having little to no gravity at all, causing objects to float freely up in the air. As far as the eggheads were even able to tell, a lot of the soil and water samples taken from here indicated that, by all accounts, these were all uninhabitable. In all of his travels, not once had he ever seen any plant life around. They were so barren, so desolate.

Granted, he saw moss, lichen, and occasionally some mold grow around here, and he had encountered the indigenous species that inhabited these realms, all of which had been able, through means that nobody was able to even figure out, to survive and thrive in such a miserable environment. And yet, he would be reluctant to call it "living", though - from the various observations that he had made of its grisly inhabitants, they only existed for the purposes of slaughtering whatever crossed their paths.

From what he had observed, everything about these places was hostile, even down to their temperatures and odors. If a dimension wasn't bitterly freezing, it would be ungodly hot. Often it smelled of rot, meat and mold, an ugly and disgusting combination that made the experience even more abysmal.

As the cold wind picked up and elicited a low, distant howl like a wild animal, the Ranger broodily contemplated his position.

If only more squads or platoons had survived - Operation Counter-Strike hadn't been meant for one person to do all by themselves.

His eyes narrowed into a tightly formed squint as he grimly recalled how he got pulled into this mess.

The call came at 4 am.

"Honey, can you get that?" Annie said drowsily into her pillow.

"Let it ring," he grumbled half asleep beside her. "They'll hang up eventually."

The phone continued on. And on. And on. And on.

Letting out a slew of angry curses, he fumbled around for the bothersome, ear-aching contraption, lifting it up to his ear. If it was a telemarketer, he was going to tell them to fuck off and die.

"Hello?" he croaked into the speaker, just barely awake.

"Sir. This is the Comm Center at Control. I have orders to call you in immediately for an emergency briefing. Transport is on the way."

Pushing himself up from the bed, the Ranger massaged his eyes, scraping away crusted rheum from the corners. "Of course. I gotta go now."

Once he had shit, showered and shaved, he had gotten dressed and found the transport waiting for him outside of his home, where it had taken him to the heavily fortified Military installation over at Dunswiche, an hour and a half drive. By 5:30, he was in the base itself, where, after being thoroughly checked by base security, he and the rest of his unit had been greeted by their Commander, a creepy egghead by the name of Gilman and, to their surprise, a CIA spook who would act as their consultant and liaison.

"Gentlemen," The Commander began tersely in his mission brief, "what you are all about to hear is highly classified information and is considered top secret. Nothing that you hear is to leave this room, let alone repeated to anyone else."

And thus began his introduction to Operation Counter-Strike. Operation Counter-Strike had been the codename given for a top secret black ops mission that had involved accessing one of the installation's R&D facilities, which had caught everyone's attention, the Ranger's especially.

For one, security for that place had been incredibly restrictive, tighter than a nun's asshole - nobody on the base, aside from those with the appropriate security clearances, had been allowed to enter due to the highly sensitive and secretive nature of those facilities, nor had anyone been allowed to talk about their contents.

Nobody had known what had went on in those buildings, but there had been various rumors throughout the years, some of it pretty dark stuff.

A couple guys thought it had been weapons testing. Others thought that it had been for the purposes of genetic experimentation. A few idiots like Peters had thought it had housed aliens like in Area 51.

The truth, it had turned out, had been infinitely stranger, and as he came to find out later, far more dangerous - for several years, the installation had been developing a new type of transport system, a teleporter device that the scientists had dubbed a "Slipgate".

"Once we perfect these, we'll be able to use them to transport people and cargo from one place to another instantly," the CIA Agent explained.

It had been a strange experience sitting there in the briefing room, listening to all this with the other guys in his unit.

For a moment, part of him had wondered if it had been a prank, but the hard expressions on the Commander's face along with those of other personnel had told the Ranger otherwise.

Once Gilman had explained the inner workings of the device and how it had worked, using a lot of terminology that the Ranger had been unfamiliar with, the Commander had then revealed the truth, which had startled everyone.

"Gentlemen," he said tersely in his mission brief, "for several weeks now, we have been under attack. An enemy, codenamed "Quake", is using his own Slipgates to insert death squads inside our bases to kill, steal and kidnap…

'The hell of it is we have no idea where he's from. Our top scientists think Quake's not even from Earth."

The Ranger had listened to everything that the Commander told them, and the more he had heard, the more insane it all sounded.

Other dimensions? Strange lifeforms? It all sounded so crazy!

Early attempts at communication had resulted in failure. According to the CIA operative, who was enigmatically referred to as "Agent Roads", the intel that they had received through drone feed before the machine itself had been destroyed indicated a massive number of bodies, all of which had been very suggestive of an invasion force.

The mission parameters had been simple - do reconnaissance of the enemy in order to gather further intel, locate and rescue base personnel, recover any stolen weapons, equipment and other military property, and, if necessary, eliminate Quake and his forces with extreme prejudice and by any means.

"You're our best man, Captain," the Commander said, clapping the Ranger on his shoulder, "This is Operation Counter-Strike and you, son, are in charge. Find Quake, and stop him…or it… You have full autonomy to requisition anything you need. If the eggheads are right, all our lives are expendable. Godspeed, son."

The Ranger lay in the stygian shadows, watching and listening to his eldritch surroundings anxiously in grim anticipation and readiness.

After the mission brief had finished, he and his unit had geared themselves up and gotten every piece of equipment available, none of them taking any chances. When they had arrived at the Slipgate with weapons ready, he hadn't thought much of the device's appearance.

In fact, he hadn't been impressed at all.

The Slipgate had been a brown, squarish and slightly raised standing pad with four glowing red lights in the corners, with a top section on the ceiling with similarly matching red lights. Connecting the top and bottom sections, however, was a wall-mounted panel with a touchscreen. Taken as a whole, it had looked insidiously like a mouth, which had made the Ranger's stomach twist in discomfort.

Because the device had been in its early prototype stages, the scientists in charge had a number of health and safety concerns. Smoking near the device was downright prohibited, nor were personnel to stand too close when someone was on a platform. Personnel had to wear specialized gear when handling and/or being near the equipment, which had really made the Ranger and his unit nervous, some of them even reluctant to go through with it. Part of him had worried about the potential long-term health problems this technology could have on him and his men, including the possibility of radiation exposure and other unforeseen detrimental effects, but the scientists in charge repeatedly assured him and the others of the device being safe.

"There is absolutely nothing to worry about."

The Ranger couldn't remember what egghead said that, but if he ever saw him again, he was going to punch him in the face, court martial be damned.

Because the Slipgate was a working prototype, they couldn't send the entire unit altogether - not unless they wanted to risk his men fusing together, having their atoms rearranged and/or potentially exploding.

Once he was finally convinced, they proceeded on with the mission.

One by one, the Ranger saw the guys in his unit disappear in a flash of light after an automated voice finished its countdown. One by one, he saw the men disappear in front of him, until finally he had stepped onto the standing pad and waited, the last morsel to be fed into the Slipgate's wide hungry mouth, his weapon held tightly in his hands.

Words couldn't begin to describe the sensation of what had occurred. It had started off with an odd tingling sensation. The next thing the Ranger became aware of was how every hair on his body stood up on end as the air ionized all around him, sparking.

Lowering the glass visor from his yellow and brown helmet to cover his eyes, he had then strapped on his rebreather mask as the automated female voice counted down.

Finally, there came a flash of light, and with it came a burning sensation that lasted for just a second. It had felt as if every particle and atom in his body were being violently torn apart with hooks.

Moments later, he had found himself on other side, dizzy and disoriented with the rest of his unit. Once it had been established with their wrist-mounted scanners that there were suitable oxygen and nitrogen levels and that there hadn't been any diseases, germs or radiological hazards present, they had all removed their masks and collectively thrown up.

Not all of them had made it, though - one member of their team, "Wrack", an African American Marine that had been a lifelong friend of the Ranger's, had gone missing, and despite their best efforts at locating him, in the end, they weren't able find any trace of him. For all the Ranger knew, the teleporter might have teleported him to some other distant location, if not fried him.

From there, the mission had gone downhill. None of the radios worked for shit in this place. Scanners, when they had worked, if ever, often had raised a lot more questions than answers. Compasses had spun in every direction imaginable, making it impossible to know where to go. Even worse, equipment and food would age and rust quickly, further complicating matters.

It had been especially problematic when they all had to traverse through cold muck - trying to navigate their way around through this shithole in such piss-poor conditions had been a major undertaking in itself, with mud getting into their armor, clothes and firearms, jamming a lot of the latter.

The first actual encounter with one of the realm's denizens, to put it bluntly, had been a disaster.

A freakish, nine foot giant with a fat belly that wore a filthy, disgusting brown tunic that was covered in stains had charged at them with a chainsaw while lobbing explosives at them with a grenade launcher with its other hand at the same time, firing with startling accuracy, causing them all to scatter.

It had taken a combined effort to take it down, but by the time they had, they already lost five of their guys.

Things progressively got worse from there.

One Marine had gotten vertically split in half by a guillotine in some castle structure. A guillotine of all things!

Another ended up perforated by nails.

Two ended up crushed by a ceiling trap.

A fifth ended up getting...the Ranger couldn't even begin to describe it. The guy had been choking, emitting a long, foamy and bubbling substance from his mouth, looking as if he were asphyxiating underwater. Nobody had a clue as to what to do - despite the Corpsman's attempt at trying to help, all they could all do was watch in horror as the man drowned in front of them all, his every, gasping breath coming out in long bubbling chains until he had collapsed onto the floor, oozing water from his mouth. Nobody had been able to find an explanation for what had happened.

A sixth had been eaten piece by piece something invisible, while a seventh ended up being consumed by the walls and ceiling.

As more and more of their number started to dwindle, the more dire things became. Several men ended up becoming ill and came down with a fever. None of the first aid nor the medicines administered had any sort of effect whatsoever.

More and more started to fall.

One of them, a guy named Stevens - at least, that's what the Ranger thought what his name had been - had started to lose it, ranting and raving about hearing voices and rats scratching in the walls. Before long, he had ended up going completely insane, killing one of the men before ultimately being gunned down himself.

The last man had slit his own throat out of despair, leaving the Ranger alone.

Since then, the Ranger had been travelling through this place all by himself, trying to make radio contact with someone, anyone! When he found himself unable to communicate with his base, the Ranger had done the only thing that he could do under the circumstances - walk. Search around and see if he could find potential clues, friendlies, a way to communicate with the installation back home, anything to distract him from the fact that the mission was FUBAR and that he was the only man of his unit left.

The Ranger never knew how long he had wandered for, let alone knew where he had been heading. All he had focused on was pushing on ahead, try to find supplies to sustain him long enough to survive, try to push on through and see if he could find his way out.

As he had traversed the umbral plains, he had kept a careful eye on his ammunition and supplies, only using them when necessary, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter what direction he took, he only found himself pulled deeper into the nightmare, deeper into madness. He had been running and gunning for so long that he had forgotten a lot of the names of his friends, the men in his unit. More and more of his memories started to slip away as he struggled to survive. Before long, he forgot his own name. His own goddamned name!

He never forgot Annie's, though - God forbid that he would let that happen! He remembered his son and daughter. Their names were...K...and...J.

The Ranger groaned as he massaged his head. He couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember his kids' names!

This fucking place was getting to him. He needed to stay sane...or whatever passed for it here in this crazy shithole.

If it hadn't been for the fact that he would stop occasionally to occasionally shave or cut his hair whenever he had felt like it, he would have looked downright troglodytic.

Hell, given the environment he was in, he might as well have been one - every waking hour and minute was spent running and gunning, killing anything and everything that moved. Nothing ever presented itself as a friendly. Nothing about this place whatsoever was friendly. Whatever bullet, weapon or item he found, no matter how small, he had used it until it either broke or when he ran out of ammunition. On some occasions, he would give into fear and make a mad blind dash through a given area to avoid the plethora of hostiles whenever it became too overwhelming for him.

On a few occasions, he had tried a more stealthy approach, but the goddamn freaks that lurked about have been specially adapted to this dark and hostile environment; they knew when he was around. Maybe the odd Ogre would be fooled occasionally, but the others?

He was alone in an unknown and extremely hostile land, surrounded and tormented by an enemy that he had no understanding of whatsoever.

Outclassed, outgunned, surrounded in all directions by unknown enemies, and absolutely scared shitless.

As far as the Ranger was concerned, this was worse than 'Nam. So much worse, with no hope of success.

The Ranger's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he felt the pulse of the three runes speaking their foul blasphemous secrets in his mind.

"Iä! Iä! Praise given to the Holy Queen, the Witch Goddess! Blessed be her Annunciation and Those that have been selected by the All-Mother! Ever Their praises be, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!"

"Fuck...OFF!" He said in a low voice before finally roaring the last part, his voice echoing loudly.

He sat alone against the column, panting and heaving as he massaged his temples.

Whatever the hell these damned runes were, they were making it difficult to think straight. Little by little, they were consuming him, consuming his mind, his memories, replacing it all with dark arcane knowledge.

He shuddered.

The things they had showed him, the truth of what was out there...

Closing his eyes, the Ranger felt a chill come over him.

If only he hadn't picked the damned things up in the first place.

He just couldn't help himself - one rune that had been floating freely up in the air somehow had increased the power of his attacks, firearms or otherwise. As much as he had hated to admit it, killing one of these slimy bastards with this...enhancement, for lack of a better term, felt utterly satisfying, especially against those fucking Ogres.

These particular runes, however, were different - while the other one had faded away and dissipated, reverting him back to "normal", these sigils in particular had been heavily guarded. Even more, they had a strangely ethereal sentience, but when questioned directly, they'd never answer. Not simply, nor in a straight manner. Often, they would implant imagery of things that he didn't want to see into his head, implanting knowledge of stuff that he didn't even want to know about. Not because he wasn't curious, but because the more he learned, the more afraid he became.

The first time it had happened to him, he had been shaking and trembling horribly. It hadn't gotten any easier with the other three, either - if anything, it made him even more afraid.

Despite the plethora of high-powered weaponry that he had managed to collect, despite all the ammunition that he possessed, the Ranger felt powerless and vulnerable in the face of the powers that lurked in these realms.

He felt like a bird that had been caught in the middle of an oil-filled pond that was slowly being drowned, with every struggle and gasp for breath pulling him deeper and deeper into the black bubbling pool with no hope of ever returning to the surface. Even worse, he felt as if the runes were setting him down a path from which there was no escape.

All around him, the Ranger felt the stygian pit watch him, eying him hungrily.

Sighing audibly, he pulled himself onto his feet, and did the only thing that he could do - move forward.

Move forward, and pray.

Chapter Text

Shadow's Sacrament

By evolution-500

Genres: Horror/Mystery

Feedback: Always welcome

WARNING: This story contains violence, coarse language, mature themes and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: "Quake" is a property owned by ID Software. I do not own any of these characters.

Chapter Two: Confrontation

"I could not help feeling that they were evil things- mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss. That seething, half-luminous cloud-background held ineffable suggestions of a vague, ethereal beyondness far more than terrestrially spatial; and gave appalling reminders of the utter remoteness, separateness, desolation, and aeon-long death of this untrodden and unfathomed austral world."

- H.P. Lovecraft

The Ranger listened to the chanting that echoed as he crossed a forest of gothic arches. He heard the thump of a large drum, followed by guttural howls.

The hell's goin' on?

From the sounds of the racket, it almost sounded like a celebration of some sort.

Probably celebrating an early victory.

He tightened his hands around the barrel and handle of his shotgun.

Bastards may have won the battle, but the war was far from finished. So long as he was still breathing, nothing's finished, and these chuckle-fucks were going to learn the hard way not to count their slime-covered eggs before they hatched.

He moved deeper into the shadows, his weapon drawn and ready, his trigger finger itching for a target to shoot.

It had been half an hour(?) since he heard the chanting and followed in its direction, trying to locate the source, but sound, just as time and his sense of direction in this place, was incredibly skewed. At times he would hear it distantly, then just a few feet away. On a couple occasions, he would hear the chanting behind him, some of it spoken in the voices of his dead friends, his wife Annie, his children. There were times where he heard the chants spoken in his own voice, catching him completely by surprise, making him wonder at times if he had been speaking without even realizing.

Other times the language started to shift from English to French, then to Latin and what seemed like other older styles before becoming garbled animalistic rasps and snarls, to something so inhuman that the Ranger couldn't help flinching.

The whispers and sounds came from every direction at once, some so close that he could swear they were just standing just a foot away.

One voice whispered directly into his ear, causing the Ranger to let out a startled shriek as he violently whipped around and fired his weapon, the blast of his shotgun echoing and ringing. Staring shakily at his surroundings with terror-filled eyes, the Marine swallowed as he searched for hostiles, some hint of a disturbance or presence, his heart pounding loudly and painfully through his ribs, the whispering gone.

The only thing he managed to hit were some chunks of bricks.

Once he was certain that he was alone, the Ranger slowly lowered his weapon with trembling hands, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"...Jesus Christ," he said quietly.

He needed to find a way out of here - there had to be a goddamned exit somewhere, a teleporter, a ship, something! Anything!

Exhaling, the Ranger looked away and adjusted his helmet, continuing on in his search.

He didn't like how quiet it had become.

The Ranger strained in concentration, trying to pick up the slightest noise, no matter how small.

Nothing.

Not even wind.

Passing by the dilapidated ruins of a church-like structure, the Ranger regarded it curiously, staring at his reflection in the stained glass window.

Christ, the figure in the window looked so different than what he had imagined. Was that really how he looked?

He looked so disheveled. So...old.

Looking away, he continued on, his heart troubled by what he saw.

Where the hell was everybody?

The Ranger scrunched up his brow, looking around in confusion.

He had been wandering around for a long time now, and not once had he encountered any form of resistance, which really surprised him, just because these slimy bastards for the last few hours wouldn't stop attacking him.

So what had changed? What, were they all celebrating somebody's birthday? Did monsters have some religious holiday or day off from wanton violence and gruesome killings?

'The hell is going on around here?' he wondered.

Part of him imagined them all having a coffee break, causing a wry smile to curl up the side of his face.

Wouldn't that be something?

He still had to be careful, though - even when he had been alone, the fuckers always would find a way to catch him by surprise, sometimes just appearing out of nowhere.

The Ranger checked his backpack, counting up his ammunition and supplies. He should be able to have enough.

At least, he hoped he did.

He frowned.

If only they hadn't been so goddamned difficult to kill.

Early on, the Ranger barely managed to scrape by, but as time went by, he started to take notice of the various creatures and had studied them thoroughly... at least, as much as he could.

Every inhabitant of this place was different, each with their own unique set of features, abilities and weaknesses. Certain weapons, he had found, were more effective in dealing with one or two enemy types while other creatures proved far more durable and resistant, but, at the same time, those same beings were more vulnerable to other types of weaponry.

The Grunts, for instance, were the easiest enemies to deal with, although more dangerous in groups, beings that could easily be taken out a shotgun blast or two.

The Ranger shuddered as he recalled his first encounter with them. In life, they had been his fellow Marines, but the things they became...

He shook his head sadly.

It wasn't enough that Quake took their corpses and made them into mindless killing machines, but the fact that he/she/it went so far as to insert probes into the nucleus accumbens section of the brain, damaging the frontal lobe and the cerebellum in the process, in order to elicit feelings of pleasure every time they killed someone or something?

He tightened his hands around the barrel and handle of his weapon in anger.

That sick fuck.

And those were the mere tip of the gruesome iceberg - Rottweilers were another form of hostile that he had to worry about as well. Once normal dogs turned into fleshy rotting undead hellhounds, the already formidable animals were made meaner, with a nastier attitude and an even meaner bite.

Ogres were by far the most common, although dangerous in their own right. Physically, they were tall and pale, with fat though muscular frames, their heads bald with squinty eyes, possessing more bestial, almost simian facial features. Their feet were all malformed, looking more like elephant or rhinoceros feet than a human's, with four toes on each dirty foot. Often the Ranger saw these beings have chainsaws strapped straight onto their limbs with thick chains, but what made them especially dangerous, however, were the grenade launchers that they wielded, which they used with startling accuracy. There have been plenty of times where the Ranger had just barely survived by the skin of his teeth against those fuckers. The only thing deadlier than their chainsaws or skills with a grenade launcher was their body odor - the creatures, as far as he could tell, would never bathe; they would wear stained brown tunics until they either rotted off their disgusting bodies or if they became too damaged and brittle. As far as the Ranger could tell, the Ogres seemed to be the ones responsible for building a lot of the traps and masonry, but he was never able to observe them without fleeing for his life.

The Scrags.

He felt his stomach lurch at the thought of them.

The Scrags were, in a word, creepy. Physically they were limbless, nothing more than humanoid torsos with scaly alabaster skin, spikes on the shoulders and long tails, completely and utterly hairless. And yet, through means that completely mystified the Ranger himself, the creatures were able to...levitate. The only way to describe them was if someone stripped human corpses down to bare torsos and dementedly tried to shape them into snakes, like human-sized albino cobras. The analogy seemed to be an appropriate one, for the creatures, like cobras, would hiss and spit venom at him whenever he came within striking distance.

The Fiends were also a problem to deal with. Simian-like in appearance and dark beige in color, with strange bat-like features, the creatures were tall, about six feet high and eyeless, with two horn-like appendages at the front near their gaping wide, sharp-toothed mouths. They didn't really possess necks - if anything, their heads seemed to have been fused with their torsos, making the creatures look downright...weird. Their hind legs were long and hooved, reminding him of horses or goats, while their equally long upper limbs were nothing more than curled bloody scythes. Agile and vicious, the Fiends were ruthless hunters - very fast and capable of leaping great distances.

The amount of ammo he had to spend in killing one was a headache to think about.

The worst had to be the Shamblers - hulking, twenty foot tall beasts that were pale and walked on their hind legs like a human, a strange fusion of man, ape, insect and reptile, with long, powerfully-built arms. Like the Fiend, these creatures also had no eyes and their heads seemed to have been fused with the torsos, possibly hinting at some sort of genetic link or ancestry, but if the Fiends were headaches, then the Shamblers were downright nightmares incarnate. Whole pools of ammunition had been wasted in trying to take one of these titans down. Along with their imposing height, the Shamblers also had the ability to teleport as well the uncanny ability to fire lightning straight from their hands. More often than not, the Ranger had to retreat in order to get away.

Curiously, there appeared to be a number of different species and variants for the Shamblers, far more than the others - some of them, he couldn't help noticing, were covered in fur or fine hair, like on an insect or bear. A couple sub-species of Shambler had strangely arranged upper limbs that were utterly jointless, possessing more of a grotesque elasticity in their arms, hands and fingers like rubber, moving with the fluidity of a snake. Those same variants would have gaping mouths with two pairs of hook-like teeth that reminded the Ranger of a squid's.

The Ranger tilted his head, regarding his surroundings in suspicion.

Regardless of the creature, every encounter was a challenge. Every encounter was a sort of elaborate puzzle based on prioritization and management of resources. Some hostiles required immediate priority and focus more than others, but that didn't make the others any less dangerous - speed and accuracy was key.

The one enemy that made the Ranger anxious, however, was "Quake" itself.

As revealed by the runes, Quake wasn't just another monster. It was a being that was so unimaginably old and powerful, an Outer God, the likes of which the Ranger had never imagined, not even in his deepest nightmares.

And yet, perhaps there may be a chance - the runes were anxiously driving him into finding the last rune, urging him onto collect it. The more he listened to the runes, the more certain he became. These runes possessed power, and if he hoped to be a match for Shub-Niggurath herself, then he needed to find the last piece.

Once he had collected the final rune, perhaps he would finally be able to destroy Shub-Niggurath along with her horrible, hell-spawned army, finally find a way to end this madness and return home.

Adjusting his backpack, the Ranger continued down his path, his eyes and heart filled with determination.

The fourth and final rune had been collected.

As he laid claim to his prize, the Ranger felt the other runes pulsate together in his backpack, the world around him shaking. He sensed tremendous invisible forces moving to unseal unseen ancient barriers, and a strange, unidentifiable sensation, as if air that had been sealed away for so long had been finally released, leaving a strange moldy taste in his mouth.

Once the shaking stopped, he continued on, moving to where the runes guided him.

It had been a long road, filled with all sorts of twists and horrific turns, filled with horrible and intense encounters, with equally close calls, but after everything that he had gone through, the Ranger was able to emerge triumphant. All around lay the scattered remains of his enemies, his clothing, armor and face sticky with gore as he panted.

Wiping the blood from his face, the Ranger exhaled as he reloaded his shotgun.

"Let's finish this."

He felt the runes guide him, directing him where to go. He could feel himself being pulled into a particular direction, and he obediently followed, his weapon at the ready.

He was making his way down a corridor, climbing down a long, spiraling cobblestone staircase when an entity appeared before him at the end - a strange, red, pink and white skinless creature that resembled a sort of medieval knight, a freakish humanoid monstrosity that had neither eyes, ears, nor a mouth. Its "face" or "visor", if it could be called that, was nothing more than a spinal column with ribbing, its scalp flayed and hairless, revealing the exposed bone of its skull. In its hand was its "sword", a strange thing that had an eye on its rain guard block with squid-like barbs and suckers on the handle, the blade covered in what appeared to be saliva.

As the Ranger raised up his weapon and prepared to blow the creature away, the being did something unexpected - it raised a placating hand and spoke.

"Wait," it said in a bubbling, gurgling and slime-filled voice.

The Ranger gave a surprised and startled look.

"You can talk?" he asked, uncertain and suspicious.

"Yes." The bloodied knight suddenly kneeled before him, bowing his...its head respectfully down, its drooling sword firmly placed into the ground. "A thousand blessings and prayers do we offer to you, Mighty One. Hail the return of the Scion! Your battles have been viewed with much awe by our brothers. You have proven your worthiness. Fear not our wrath - you may proceed unhindered. None of us shall lay a hand on you."

The Ranger hesitated, looking around conspiratorially and in confusion, uncertain as to what to make of this.

Could it be that there was some sort of splinter group in these dimensions that wanted to rebel against Quake?

And what was a "Scion"?

Once he became certain that he wasn't going to be attacked, the Ranger lowered his weapon.

"Who are you?" he asked, eying the creature.

The entity remained kneeling, silent as the grave.

He repeated several more times, but to his frustration, the creature refused to answer.

Finally, the Ranger departed, pressing forward down the corridor, until finally he came upon a large, dimly lit chamber that had four cadavers crucified to the four sides of the room, with a great open pit in the chamber's center. Standing around on all sides were other knight-like beings, including the large and distinctively horned Death Knights, which the Ranger had fought on plenty of occasions.

Just as the Ranger prepared to draw up his weapon, the creatures all kneeled before him with their swords impaled into the floor in reverence. Scrunching up his brows, he looked perplexedly around, uncertain and completely bemused by the whole situation.

None of the creatures he had encountered in his travels ever behaved this way before, not even Death Knights. In his experience, Death Knights tended to slash at anything in their way with their long flamberge-styled swords and toss a spread of six fireballs in all directions at a time. To see them doing such a gesture...he didn't get it.

"Hail the return of the Scion! Praise be given in the name of Glorious Yog-Sothoth and his mate! Hail!"

As the chanting ended, the Ranger approached the edge of the pit and stared down with cold, battle-hardened eyes. Below, he saw a shimmering ebony pool like water, the color so dark and impenetrable that it was next to impossible to see anything.

Turning to his right, he faced the nearest knight.

"Is it safe?" he asked warily.

The knight bowed his head.

"This teleporter," it gurgled, "will take you directly to the one you seek. Go."

The Ranger glanced back down to the teleporter, his hands clenching around his weapon. He waited a minute, then two, watching, listening, waiting.

Taking in a deep breath, he exhaled, then took one step forward toward the edge, letting gravity do all the rest as he fell.

The Ranger's vision cleared as he continued to fall. He barely had time to react to his new surroundings when he felt himself plunge into cold, dark murky water, the foul taste getting into his mouth and nose. All around were large piranha-like Rotfish that swam hungrily toward him with gaping wide mouths, their sharp teeth ready to bite. Taking out his knife, he slashed wildly around at his attackers, slicing and dicing anything that got in his way, their blood spilling out in red billowing clouds that stained the water crimson. One or two of the little shits bit his arms and legs, while another bit him straight on the ass, drawing the Marine's ire as he slashed them all wildly to ribbons, even after they were dead.

Swimming up to the surface, the Ranger let out a loud gasp of air, his lungs protesting as he hacked up water and fish guts, his attackers floating lifelessly beside him. He felt the pull of the runes guiding him, telling him to swim down.

Ducking underneath the water, the Ranger looked around, then saw a tunnel opening to the left, then swam deeper toward it, swimming all the way through. Turning right, he fired his shotgun at a Rotfish as it swam toward him, the shot producing a muffled sound as the creature spasmed wildly before floating lifelessly away. Swimming past, he proceeded forward, then took a right and swam upward until he came upon a series of large thick bars that receded as he approached.

Once the bars were gone, he swam up to the surface, letting out a loud gasp and cough. A loud hiss alerted him to the presence of Scrag as it levitated in the air and spat venom at him. Ducking down, he fired several times, the blasts catching it in the torso, tearing it apart. Once he was sure it was dead, the Ranger swam toward a platform and climbed out of the water. Pushing himself up, the Ranger found himself confronted with stockpiles of ammunition - God bless those eggheads! - along with something red. Once his supplies were replenished, he took a couple steps forward, staring face to face with an ominously glowing red portal that swirled with energy like flames.

This was it - he could feel it.

The path to Quake.

Shub-Niggurath.

Exhaling, the Ranger tightened the muscles in his jaw, his weapon locked, loaded and ready, his will strong and unconquerable.

Time to finish this.

Taking a deep breath, the Ranger leapt into the portal without a second thought, his mind resolute and determined, prepared for whatever lay at the end.

Once the tingling had stopped, and his vision cleared, the Ranger found himself in a large, dark cavern that had wall-mounted torches along with a collection of stalactites and stalagmites.

Take us out.

Startled by the voices, the Ranger felt his backpack pulsate as if there were a living heart inside. Taking the backpack off, he pulled the Runes out, watching as they emitted a strange light. As he held all four runes up in his hands, they started to glow, growing brighter and brighter, shining with such effulgence that for a moment he thought he would turn blind. When the white light was gone, the Ranger reopened his eyes and found himself confronted with a peculiar artifact - a strange, floating orb that reconfigured into a multitude of shapes, from sharp and spikey, to smooth and rounded. He watched as the object turned into a cube, then a pyramid, then spiraling double helixes and a multitude of other shapes that he had trouble identifying, all done with such an alienly fluid motion and otherworldly gracefulness.

Hell, as far as he knew, none of the shapes on display were anything like the human mind had ever imagined!

"You have activated the Dire Orb, Scion," the object spoke in a multitude of voices and languages, all at the same time to him, "We shall commence with the Ritual."

The Ranger hesitated.

"'Ritual'?" he questioned, "What rit- HEY!"

Before he could get any answers, the Dire Orb, as it had dubbed itself, flew up a walk way, forcing him to follow along down long, winding, snake-like stretches of cavernous tunnels and corridors.

Gripping his weapon close, the Ranger eyed every corner, listening. The walls were alive with whispers and chants, and as he proceeded forward down a straight line, he heard the whispering grow louder.

Coming upon an opening to his right, he heard something like a stream of water.

Looking through it curiously, at first, he saw nothing but pitch blackness.

Flames suddenly erupted from the water, and what the Ranger saw made him pale and shake with fear.

Through the opening, he saw a gigantic subterranean chamber that was so vast and spacious that the ceiling couldn't be seen anywhere - all that he saw at the top was pure darkness, giving the feeling as if he were deep underground.

Fire and lava bubbled and mixed with water as it boiled, producing a thick steam that hung low and veiled everything around it as if it were a sinister, suffocating scarf, the air thick with a putrid, indefinable smell that made him cough and gag. But in the center of the chamber, however, was a very large island that was just a jump away, but it was the loathsome occupant that made his skin crawl.

It was gigantic, far larger than anything he had ever imagined - a swollen, sprawling endless cloud of writhing tentacles, drooling mouths, and twitching goat legs that must have been hundreds of feet high and long, some of its tentacles so far stretched that they clung to the sides of the chamber like the roots of a tree. He couldn't tell if it was a plant, fungus, or if it was some type of sea anemone, but whatever the hell it was, the Ranger felt certain of one thing - he had found her at long last.

Quake.

Shub-Niggurath.

All around, he watched as walls fell, revealing countless rows of creatures, each beast staring malevolently at him from all directions.

Grunts.

Enforcers.

Ogres.

Scrags.

Fiends.

Knights.

Death Knights.

The humanoid spider-like Vores that walked around on three legs.

Zombies.

Shamblers, all the variations.

The walls were lined with countless bodies of creatures, so many that it would be hard not to miss.

Raising his weapon, the Ranger's mouth curled into a snarl.

"BRING IT ON, FREAKS!"

And so began his assault as he fired upon the wave of enemies, the creatures roaring as they raced from all directions. Whole numbers of them fell as they were torn apart by buckshot, grenades and rockets. Turning toward the mass of tentacles on the island, he fired several of the latter into her, watching them exploding harmlessly into her.

A frown formed on his face.

Damn, it seemed that more elbow grease was going to be required for this one, but for now he needed to deal with the rest of the rabble. Turning his attention to the other beasts, he unleashed a barrage of firepower, watching with satisfaction as nails punctured flesh, rockets turning whole mobs into mush.

It was then that something unexpected happened - the surviving horde ceased attacking altogether. Instead, they were all just...cheering?

The Ranger blinked, hesitating.

What the hell? Why weren't they-

His mouth tightened as he uttered a growl.

Ohh, he got it now - they were mocking him! So these fuckers think it's so damn funny?! Oh, he'd show them. He'd show them all!

Taking off his backpack, the Ranger took out his Thunderbolt Lightning Gun, a long, two-handed weapon with an equally lengthy barrel with a prong tip that shimmered with electricity. Pointing it in his enemies' direction, he pressed down on the trigger, sending long electric chains and arcs that hissed, watching with satisfaction as lines of Shamblers fell in a matter of seconds, their forms writhing and blackening. Columns of enemies fell, with some exploding like crimson and gory water balloons, and as he pointed the weapon at the Hell-Mother herself, the more the creatures chanted her name, crinkling his brows in confusion as they cheered him on.

"YES! YES!" The monstrous mob cried in ecstasy. "BLOOD FOR THE GODDESS! FLESH FOR HER FLESH! PRAISE TO THE SCION! Iä! Iä! Praise given to the Holy Queen, the Witch Goddess! Blessed be her Annunciation and Those that have been selected by the All-Mother! Ever Their praises be, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!"

Meanwhile, floating around the island and the decimated cavern was the Dire Orb, its form twisting and reconfiguring itself as it absorbed countless dismembered bodies, entrails and parts as it phased through all forms of matter, unaffected by the molten heat of the lava, passing through all the various creatures, even Shub-Niggurath herself in a constant loop.

What the fuck was going on?

Something wasn't right.

From the mass of writhing tentacles emerged a shape - a large, humanoid female upper torso with long arms, all of it sickeningly made up of tendrils, the being sensually arcing its back. On the top of its head was an assortment of horns of every conceivable type, shape, and size, an unholy crown of horns, its face nothing but a featureless mass with two blank white eyes.

As it straightened itself and looked slowly in his direction, the being passively regarded the Ranger as he unleashed barrage after barrage of firepower into her and her horde. By the time he had finished, nothing remained of her brood aside from countless acres of viscera.

As the last shells from his shotgun clattered noisily onto the ground, he gave the being a smug grin.

"It's over, bitch!" The Ranger sneered as he replaced his shotgun with his axe. "Your army is gone! Your plans for invasion are in the shitter along with every other fucker I gutted! Once I kill you, it's finished."

There came a low, loud, rumbling chuckle, the sound causing the cavern to shake. Finally, the entity spoke, its voice an echoing, sibilant, multilayered loathsome thing that sounded akin to the combined voices of a multitude. A multitude that alternated from male to female, child to adult on a given string, word or syllable, alternating between light, sonorous and silky smooth, to a deep baritone, then to something that sounded like gurgling squelch or growl, like an animal. From crystal clear to a low, buzzing, insect-like droning. From something human to something inhuman.

"'Invasion'?" Shub-Niggurath spoke with dark amusement, its eyes laughing. "Oh my child. My dear, sweet, naïve little child. How deeply mistaken you are."

He blinked, caught completely off-guard. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"This wasn't an army," she casually gestured to the bloodied remains. "These were my children. Each and every single one, and they have all served their purpose. It had never been my intent to invade - your species are nothing to me."

"Then why?" He demanded. "Why do all of this?"

The Ranger wasn't at all prepared for the answer that he received; in fact, it probably would have been better for him to not have not known in the first place.

He was unprepared for the dark knowledge that it imparted - every time the creature spoke, he felt the temperature in the the chamber drop.

He learned of Great Azathoth, the Blind Idiot God whose dreams created all of reality.

He learned of humanity's origins, the result of a cosmic accident created by a race known as the Elder Things, an alien species that came to colonize Earth billions of years ago.

He learned of the Great Old Ones, an ancient race of god-like beings of unimaginably vast power that had ruled over the planet, beings that were so utterly alien in their aspect that just gazing upon them alone would drive a normal person insane.

He learned of a great and terrible war that had been waged between the two races over the planet's dominion, the battle so terrible and fierce that whole species and civilizations ended up being extinguished, lost to history.

He learned of how that same war ended with the Great Old Ones forever sealed away. Many such as Yog-Sothoth were exiled to the stars, locked away in other dimensions and far-off, distant universes, with no hope of ever returning. Others such as Great Cthulhu, who resided deep in his oceanic house within his underwater kingdom of R'lyeh, were forever trapped in a death-like sleep in different parts of the world, bound to this miserable state until the stars aligned.

All of the Great Old Ones and Outer Gods were bound and chained, shackled for all of eternity.

All, however, except for one, much to the Ranger's surprise - a being that, to this day, continued to walk free and was active.

Nyarlathotep, the messenger and will of the Outer Gods.

That was, however, before his betrayal.

"'Betrayal'? What do you mean?"

The Ranger watched as the tendrils on Shub-Niggurath's humanoid torso flared up like the hood of a cobra in agitation.

"The fool has turned his back on us!" she seethed.

From what the Ranger gathered, Nyarlathotep had grown tired of serving the Outer Gods. Waiting an eternity for their return, it would seem, had made him bored; even though he had dedicated his time to serving their every whim and will, gathering together cults and driving people mad, there came a point, however, where the Outer God came to begrudge his position. One day, Nyarlathotep just simply had enough, and, realizing how helpless they truly were compared to himself, he abandoned his position, leaving the Outer Gods to their own devices.

Upon hearing that, the Ranger let out a loud bark.

"Heh! Sucks to be you," he smirked.

"You fail to appreciate the dire nature of this situation," Shub-Niggurath said grimly in warning.

Without any oversight or anyone to put him in his place, she revealed, Nyarlathotep was free to do whatever he wanted, free to walk among the various species in the universe, humans included.

Contrary to a lot of the Outer Gods, who, in their aspect and behavior, were so utterly alien that they transcended morality, Nyarlathotep was the most human in his behavior. This, however, did not mean that he was either the most moral or empathetic, nor did it mean that he was a particularly kind deity. In fact, the reverse was true - he was by far the most cruel and evil within the pantheon. Contrary to a lot of the Outer Gods and Old Ones, who looked upon humanity with a cold indifference, Nyarlathotep took pleasure from their suffering, in driving them all to insanity.

One of his many escapades, the Outer God revealed, involved the creation of the Strogg, a warring, technologically-driven race that would attack civilizations and converted whatever species they came across into their own circle, thereby replenishing their number with ruthless abandon. Because of this race, many of the Outer Gods' followers on other worlds have ended up dwindling, and if left unattended, it would only be a matter of time before their number disappeared altogether. With no followers to summon them and to do their bidding, the Old Ones and the Outer Gods would be unable to return and reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

"Is that right? I almost want to shake this guy's hand," the Ranger nodded. "Uhh, he does have a hand, right?"

"He can assume a thousand shapes."

"Oh. So, uh...what does this have to do with me?"

The Outer being gestured to its strange body.

"My form as it is cannot exist in your world for very long," she explained. "Those loyal to me are able to summon me into their world through a blood offering, in the deepest parts of the woodlands during the darkest hour of the moon, but it is only a temporary measure. Another alternative means, however, involves the creation of a host body. That which bears my genetic signature would be able to hold my consciousness and allow me to escape from this place."

"And how is this host body selected? How is this even created?" The Ranger asked, curious and uncertain as to where this was going.

"A participant is selected to be the bearer of this vessel."

Through trial and error, along with her being summoned, she revealed, the Outer God would impregnate willing participants. While a few pregnancies resulted in deformity or proved unfit for her purposes, the other pregnancies, however, ended up being more successful. Once the child had grown of age, he or she would be tested in their abilities. If successful, the child would then make a blood offering and enact the unification ritual.

"Well, that's all well good and all," the Ranger shrugged nonchalantly, "but, uh, I still don't see what this has to do with me."

The creature turned her...its attention directly over to him, her eyes locked on his features. He felt himself shift in discomfort under its intense and alien gaze, its filmy milk-white eyes unblinking.

"Long ago," she began, "a woman came to one of my summoning rituals, desperate to seek an audience with me. Being unable to find a mate of her own, and being in a time when your species' technologies were not as developed, she came to me with a desire for one, simple thing - a child of her own. The woman was far too shy and respectable to engage in sexual activities, and was far too afraid of being labeled as a whore by the townsfolk in her world. Even worse, doctors had declared her as being infertile due to her being unable to ovulate, meaning that whatever hopes she had of ever having a family of her own would remain unfulfilled."

The Ranger was still as he listened, his stomach twisting as he tasted something like vomit at the back of his throat. He smelled shit.

"The woman enacted a blood ritual, sacrificing a rabbit in offering to me. In return, I granted her request."

She wouldn't. There was no way in hell his Mom would ever-

The Ranger bared his teeth, his jaw tightening angrily as he clenched the handle of his axe.

Pure, unadulterated rage and hatred bubbled volcanically within him, his veins and face burning so hot that he could practically feel himself shaking as networks and wires of restraint and self-control worked overtime, trying to dam up the explosive, unchecked fury that he felt like unleashing.

"No..." Was all he could say in denial, his mind a bubbling cauldron fighting for control. "No. What you say is bullshit! You hear me? Bull. Shit! You are nothing to me, you hear me?! You are a liar! A goddamned liar!"

"Your reaction is understandable," Shub-Niggurath nodded, "but I'm afraid that it is true, my child. Your birth has been part of a grand design that I and others have enacted since time immemorial. Thanks to you and the blood offering you have made, the unification ritual can now commence."

"I have made no such offerings!" The Ranger snarled, his fine nets of control slipping away little by little, his hand clenching so hard on the handle of his axe that his hand was starting to hurt. "Not to you! Not ever!"

He shouted the last part, his words echoing and ringing in refusal.

"But you have," the creature said in an unnervingly calm and matter-of-fact manner. "By slaughtering thousands of my children, by spilling the blood of your brothers and sisters, you have fed the four runes, thereby activating the Dire Orb. Thanks to you, my son, I will now be able to leave this place at long last. Once freed, I will have my revenge against Nyarlathotep and his transgressions against us."

As its declaration echoed across the chamber, the Dire Orb started to shimmer and pulsate.

Letting out an animalistic and enraged roar of fury, the Ranger charged forward and leapt into the air with his axe raised high over his head, his mind a violent maelstrom of unquenched savagery and ferocity in need of blood, the last restraints of control gone along with his own sanity.

As the blade of his axe connected with the tentacled body of Shub-Niggurath, he watched as everything disappeared in a blinding white light.

Opening his eyes, the Ranger let out a groan as he picked himself up from off the floor.

"W-Wha? Where am I?" He said to himself. He found himself alone in a subterranean chamber on a small island surrounded by lava.

"What-What happened? How did I get here?"

Looking around, he knitted his brows together as he tried to recall the events leading up to here, but found himself drawing a blank. Picking up his axe, he studied his bloodied weapon carefully, causing his eyes to widen in remembrance.

Of course! There had been a battle. Quake had sent everything but the kitchen sink at him, trying to stop him, but through sheer guts and determination, the lone Marine was able to emerge victorious. Once he had made certain to properly time the positioning of the Dire Orb as it disappeared into the creature's body, he took the nearest teleporter and fragged the bitch from the inside once and for all. The only thing left of her, if anything, was the Dire Orb as it glowed.

Picking up the strange artifact, he stuffed it into his backpack, then stood tall.

For the first time in what felt like ages, the Ranger gave a lopsided smile in satisfaction, letting out a deep, tired laugh.

The mission was finished. He had proven that his skill and cunning was greater than all of the combined powers of Quake itself.

He was the master now.

Letting out a tired yawn, the Ranger gave one last sweep of his surroundings to make sure that he was truly alone.

Once he was satisfied that he was the only thing alive in the chamber, he looked back to the opening and leapt across the lava, landing on the ground with a solid thud before regaining his balance.

He couldn't wait to get home and see his wife and kids again. Once he was back home, he was going to enjoy a nice, warm shower, a nice cold beer and a warm bed.

Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!

Stopping in his tracks, he looked around at the cavern, his features scrunched up.

Did he hear something?

He listened carefully, straining his ears for the slightest noise.

The only thing he heard was the bubbling of lava.

Exhaling, the Ranger looked back ahead and adjusted the straps of his backpack on his shoulders. Adjusting his grip on the axe, he proceeded forward, embarking on his long trek home.

Author's Notes: Annnnd done! So, I've been wanting to do a "Quake" story for a very long time now. I am a HUGE fan of the "Quake" series, "Quake 1" especially because of its distinctively raw, gothic, kind of Lovecraftian aesthetic and story, along with the terrific soundtracks by Trent Reznor and Aubrey Hodges. It's a shame there hasn't been any official sequel for 1, just because it has such a unique setting and creatures. Interestingly, even though "Quake 1" was the first fully 3D FPS game (EDIT: Correction, one of the first - as noted by lyuboiv, "Quake" had been preceded by "Descent". Thank you for pointing that out!), it was probably the first real Lovecraftian-based shooter. Playing "Quake" on the N64, I never felt as if I was playing a regular shooter like "Doom" or "Wolfenstein", even though the game is very much a spiritual successor to the former. It felt like a truly visceral horror experience, and a lot of the time I didn't run and gun like in those aforementioned games, I had to be more careful in managing my resources against the various enemies. The creatures themselves were scary - I never felt frightened while playing "Doom" or "Wolfenstein", but the creatures like the Scrag and Shamblers in "Quake" freaked me out when I was playing. I suppose to a tiny extent it is survival horror, and I highly recommend playing the game yourselves if you haven't tried it.

I actually wrote a full-length multi-chapter novel based off of "Quake 1" years ago, back in 2005, complete with some concept art that I made, but because the file for it ended up being lost, I felt discouraged. I was a bit reluctant to do a rewrite, but, eventually I just decided to bite the bullet and write this up as a long short story, although it's nowhere near as long nor as in-depth as the original novel. There are similar plot threads, but this is a bit more condensed in comparison. I still have the concept art with me, though, so, at least it wasn't a total loss.

The idea for the story kind of came from the ending, where you get a small text telling you that the lone slipgate Marine was the master now, and I couldn't help ponder about that. Unlike the demons in "Doom", Lovecraft's creations are terrifying and far more insidious - these are not beings you can just throw a punch or nuke at. A lot of the time in Lovecraft's stories, the people that usually come into contact with these beings tend to either go insane, get killed, commit suicide or, in the case of "Shadow Over Innsmouth", lose their humanity, so it kind of stood to reason that a similar fate would befall anyone including the Quake Marine, that the reason why he had survived for so long was due to his potentially being connected, perhaps even without his knowing, to Shub-Niggurath herself. The Quake Champions comic also seems to imply that she may still be alive and that she's using Ranger as a vessel, so it just seemed like an idea worth revisiting.

I hope you all enjoyed this. Take care, and stay safe and healthy, everyone. :)