What happens when a tired, middle aged Chaos God decides he doesn't want to do his job anymore? He lets someone else do it for him.
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[This is a lore-based story/au loosely inspired by both Golden Apple and the OG Dave and Bambi mod, made and writte...
(Author's note: Hello again! As of this chapter, we now have a friend helping us with writing and illustrations; @/MaxDim0 !)
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"30 FOR TEAM MULDOON!" One group of workers shouted from the left side of the secondary control room. Another one in the front held a small stack of cash up in the air.
"70 FOR TEAM GRANT!!!" Yet another group shouted right up in front as more and more smaller groups and individual workers cluttered over each other. The control room was nothing but a loud, screaming mess of people betting on Sweeper groups to go to a specific abandoned town in the Statner region, a highly contaminated Calamity zone with old towns being left to rot or close to being ghost towns. Facilities of these workers were spread out through the region. It was the equivalent to Area 51 in Nevada, desert land and all (To some of you Normal readers). It was not the safest place to be in, and every single government worker of Calamity control knew that — which is why most of their down time was spent making the best out of dire situations. Even if it meant betting on the unluckiest group of people to go to one of the more dangerous towns near the Oscodemo facility.
One of the employees up in the front quickly wrote on a whiteboard with a Dry erase marker, noting down each bet set by the groups. They looked towards the crowd with giant eyeballs inside their glassy head, an invisible smile on their face.
"WE GOT 70 FOR GRANT, 30 FOR MULDOON- WHERE'S OUR LOVE FOR TEAM HAMMOND???" He shouted whilst aggressively waving his multiple spider-like limbs. "AMACABANO MEANS NO ONE GETS IN AND NO ONE GETS OUT! WHICH POOR BASTARDS ARE GONNA GET SENT TO THAT WASTE OF PUTTY?!"
A group held up a whole stack of cash in their hands, one of them proudly announcing, "Hammond. For 300! "
All the workers cheered louder in response.
"NAHH!" A voice from the aforementioned Hammond Team shouted in discontent. The workers in the room had no actual say over which Sweeper team went where — they were at the mercy of their higher-ups who decided their potential fates. Every facility and ghost town in the region had its own Pandora's box of entities....and some places had higher mortality rates than others.
"Hey, ya never know. Any one of us is at risk of going on the chopping block!" One worker spoke up to the leader of the team, who was in a jumpsuit ready to go to the armory at any minute.
"Bet all ya want, but at least WE'RE Keeping the region safe while you lazy deadbeats are only making yourselves food for a possible breach!" The leader barked back. The Hammond Team complained even louder at this. Everyone in the room eventually quieted down until utter silence enveloped them, including the worker up in front taking the bets. For a few seconds, one could've heard a pin drop.
"SAYS THE GUY WHO'S ABOUT TO GET HIS GUTS SPILLED BY SOME BLACK SLUDGE!" Someone shouted. The silence was shattered as the whole room REELED with laughter. The leader of the team perked up and yelled, "WHO THE HELL SAID THAT?!"
