Dante's Abyss 2k23: Registrations (IC)

Karl Jak

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Please have read - https://multerra.zulenka.com/index.php?pages/DA23-rules/#Joining (and all the other Rules for that matter) - before posting here

To quote the pertinent pieces of information:

Step 1 – Write a roleplay in which your character heads to a registration booth at a Syntech location on their World. There they will find queues for several identical booths. Once at the front of the line, your character will be asked to provide their name and demonstrate ‘what they bring to the competition’ for the cameras. After this, they will provided with a form and ushered into another line where they’ll wait to enter a teleportation room. They will then be teleported to Dante’s Comet, and they will arrive in the Lobby of the Preshow Complex.

Step 2 – You, the writer, will fill out the pair of required 'forms' on your character and their Bond. This is different than in years passed, so please be aware of the extra layer of 'mechanics' in this summer's event.

Step 3 - PM me all required information from the Join Rules. I'll verify it's all good, and then I'll post it up in the Character forum. If I see any issues (or, more likely, if you try and get an Ability approved that feels to jank to me as the Event Host), I'll let you know as quickly as I can.

All around the Crossroads, tents, stations, and little micro-communities have popped up, fully staffed by individuals who work for an enterprise named 'Syntech' (also appears occasionally as 'Syntech Corp, Syntech Corporation, SynTex, and Syntech Incorporated, Ltd). Many of these stations are also staffed by locals, and for the most part, no one seems to think much different of these places materializing almost overnight. Even in the more violent portions of the Crossroads, those in power have allowed these places to continue to exist, whether out of fear of Syntech or some other reason.

Nevertheless, the people at these stations are constantly busy signing up people to attend the 'Dante's Abyss Convention', a massive 'con' (word used unironically, I swear) located on a meteor/comet that travels through the Crossroads every season. Host to a melting pot of individuals from both the past, present, and tomorrow, the DAC23 (named for the serial code of the preshow facility - '23') has as its centerpiece the iconic event itself, Dante's Abyss XIV, which pits a group of elite warriors in a race against time, the elements, unknown forces, and themselves.

The Syntech people recommend that people who plan to register for the event 'take the necessary precautions' as death is highly probable and Syntech is not liable for any damages incurred by your person, mind, or soul while you are on Syntech properties.

Preshow threads will go live sometime this weekend.

Registration will run until June 15th, 2023. As with every year, if you have some circumstance that means you have to join late, just let me know. Anyone can tell you that I try to be very accommodating, since I know a thing or two about balancing lots of stuff and/or having erratic schedules near the start of summer.
 

Arthur Morgan

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“So. You said you're a member of the, er... Pilots Union, correct?”

The attendant manning the Syntech-branded registration kiosk uttered the words haltingly, a dark pall of immense disbelief coloring his tone. Stifling a discreet sniff of incredulity, the man carefully adjusted the glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose before glancing up from his digital log book.

Yes, she was indeed still there— a young woman in a disheveled military uniform, complete with smoking cigarette dangling from her lip, leaning heavily against his booth. The attendant gave her an affronted glare, disdainfully taking note of her elbows brazenly propped up on the counter.

"Yeah," the woman gruffed, exhaling the words in a puff of acrid smoke. "Totally. I have the uniform and everything, don't I?"

An oddly naughty smirk curved her lips as she turned, revealing the Pilots Union insignia emblazoned on the back of her flight jacket. It was partly shredded, evidently a souvenir from some close call or another, the flame-resistant material hanging like tattered wings across her shoulder blades and blackened by a sticky layer of ash.

Yet, by far the strangest thing about her appearance was that it appeared she was wearing a completely different uniform beneath the jacket! Dressed head to foot in hues of purple, black and gray, only her dusky brown skin and vibrantly-colored hair broke the painful monotony— although the booth attendant supposed he shouldn’t judge, considering his own violently purple uniform… not to mention the booty shorts and cowrie shell necklace.

Hmm-ing softly under his breath, the man eyed his visitor cautiously, his gaze slipping from her torn garments to the glowing screen of his tablet. His brows knitted together as if in deep contemplation, the cogs of his mind working feverishly.

“Riiiight," the man intoned with a sigh of defeat, though he began to peck away at his infernal device. He adjusted the rims of his spectacles once more as he made ready to capture the contestant's information, tapping his stylus against the tablet's hard plastic casing. "And what is your... mecha serial number?”

"4206669," came the immediate reply, not even skipping a beat.

“…”

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, the man turned his gaze heavenward, beseeching. Sadly, however, it seemed no divine intervention was forthcoming... at least not for "Jake," as the attendant's nametag proclaimed his name to be in slightly-smudged Sharpie. Bummer.

The woman spoke up again, her voice pitching louder and growing more melodramatic with every word. Jake didn't know why she did it. It wasn't like there was anyone else around— not here, in this forgotten, decaying neighborhood on the furthest outskirts of Markov, where crumbling buildings and deserted streets bore testament to a bygone era of industrial enlightenment.

"Sorry. It was my— uh —my father’s ID number," the alleged 'pilot' hastily swept a tear from the corner of her eye, flicking it away with the pad of her thumb. “He meant everything to me, you see. Died during the Siege, a terrible and fiery crash... very traumatic for us all. I’m taking up his mantle. You understand."

"Right," Jake nodded his head slowly in a mindless bobble, finally deigning to type the... unique identification number into the registration system. “And how long have you been a pilot, if you don't mind my asking?”

A lofty sigh hissed from between the woman's teeth, tinged with enough barbed pinpricks of impatience to make even a porcupine a touch insecure. "Ever since the Siege, duh. Y'know, after my mother was shot down and killed—"

Lifting a hand to silence her, the attendant glanced up, lips pursed. The faint glow from the tablet perfectly illuminated the skeptical arch of his eyebrows, his forehead creasing in befuddlement. "Hold on. I thought you said that your father died in the Siege."

The young woman coolly regarded him with a slow, cat-like blink.

"Oh, yeah. Well, my mom got slagged, too.” She slanted a strange, slightly manic grin his way, a cloud of nicotine-laced smoke swirling around her head in a gritty parody of a halo. “I’m an orphan!”

“... Okay.” That settled, Jake's attention returned to his tablet, his grip gone white-knuckled around it. Honestly, it was a wonder the protective casing didn't crack. “And you said you had your own mech prepped to bring to the contest?”

“You betcha. Riiiiight over there,” the pilot gestured loosely, waving an irreverent hand towards a large, angular shadow lurking over her shoulder in the near distance.

Jake blinked, gaze darting to track the movement. His beady little eyes squinted behind the thick lenses of his glasses, then widened slightly in surprise.

"Weird," the attendant muttered under his breath. "That definitely wasn't there a moment ago."

That being the jet that had seemingly materialized out of thin air behind the pilot, its body gleaming with a sleek black and purple finish that shone in stark contrast to the yellow-tinted glass of its cockpit. Needless to say, the thing's flashy paintjob stood out remarkably well against the dingy, rubbish-littered street behind it. There was absolutely no way he could've missed it arriving there— right?

There was a tense pause as Jake fully processed the sight before him. Seconds ticked by, stretching out into an eternity of unsettling silence.

"That's... just a plane," Jake uttered at last, genuine confusion writ upon his face.

Wham! The woman sneered, pounding her fist on the booth with an emphatic thump so loud and unexpected that it nearly made Jake topple backwards in alarm.

"That's not just any plane, buddy. It's a jet. Supersonic," the young pilot snapped. She tapped the side of her forehead with her free hand, shooting him a wink. "That means fast."

Jake swallowed, struggling to find enough saliva for the task after being so thoroughly startled. His heart beat wildly inside his chest as he grappled with the sudden tightness in his throat, abruptly unsure of how to proceed. This woman seemed... well, unstable didn't quite do her justice, so just plain nuts would have to do.

Finally gathering enough of his wits, Jake cleared his throat. “Um. My sincerest apologies, ma'am,” he explained, gingerly choosing his words. “But Mr. Jak's competition is strictly for mecha and kaiju only.”

“Yeah, I know. What, d'you think I'm stupid or something?" the pilot replied, rolling her eyes like he was the unreasonable one. "Watch this.

And then, with a deafening sound like shattering glass, the jet exploded outward— breaking apart into many distinct, glinting pieces. Out of its wildly-shifting entrails rose an enormous mechanical figure, standing some thirty feet tall, its massive pair of wings casting long shadows up and down the deserted street. It towered over the pair of humans in its purple-and-black livery, the yellow-tinted cockpit window adorning its chest flashing in the predawn light. What’s more, its arms appeared to be outfitted with gigantic machine guns, and its feet were spiked upwards like high-heeled shoes, only elevating the mech's immense stature.

The giant robot’s optics glowed a menacing red as it glared down at Jake with pure hatred. Or, at least Jake thought the thing's crimson optics were burning with hatred. Honestly, it was kind of difficult to tell.

But that wasn't all that snagged the registration attendant's attention. An unfamiliar insignia was painted on the looming mech's wings in brilliant purple, though it appeared lightly chipped and weathered from age. The emblem's sharp edges almost seemed to glower in their menacing hostility, the triangular eyes and spiked crown only serving to further its regal evilessence.

Brushing aside his bone-shaking terror for the moment, Jake had the wherewithal to squint and point at it. “That’s… not the Pilots Union logo.”

Shoulders tensing, the woman glanced over her shoulder at the mech. Her expression slackened in momentary realization, a flash of panic zapping over her features, before her eyes narrowed to cunning slits.

"Oh, that? That’s just, like my… personal calling card. Yeah," she said, lips quirking in a tense smile. "Like those... skin-things. What’re they called?"

"Er. You mean tattoos?" Jake suggested, bemused.

"YES!" the pilot snapped her fingers with a sharp crack, making the booth attendant jump. She pointed at him, fingers most disconcertingly miming the shape of a gun. "Tattoos. That's right, must've slipped my mind."

“Right..." Jake muttered, curt. Lightly shaking his head, he returned his attention to the screen of his tablet. "And your name, please?”

The young woman grinned, her eyes seeming especially bright despite the yellow-tinted lenses of her sunglasses. “Skylar Watari. But my friends just call me Warp.”

There was a pause as Jake dutifully typed in her name on his tablet, eyes glued to the screen. Then, he frowned, silent bewilderment painted on his face. A beat passed, until finally he sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache.

"I gotta level with you, Miss Watari," Jake began, planting his tablet on the booth face-up, tidily displaying the public record of registered pilots. He fixed her with a stern glare. "I have a... let's call it a hunch, that you aren't being entirely truthful with me. That plane— it obviously doesn't belong to the Pilots Union, and your flight jacket's shredded to bits. Definitely not regulation. And hell, it doesn't even fit you correctly. Now, while operating under a false identity isn't exactly discouraged by Mr. Jak, claiming affiliation with an existent faction and intentionally misrepresenting them is where things get... sticky. And now, I find that your name isn't even on the record!"

Almost as quickly as it had appeared, Skylar's jovial expression evaporated like a puff of smoke, leaving behind a much more menacing countenance. She jabbed a finger at the tablet, furiously shaking her head. "Nah, nah. Check again."

Jake sighed. This could get ugly.

"Now, Miss Watari. I can assure you, I already checked quite thoroughly—"

"Maybe you misheard me, slag-for-brains," growled Skylar, her lips pulled back to expose her teeth: a menacing parody of her earlier cheer. "Check. It. Again."

With quivering hands, Jake examined the record once more.

"O-oh, my mistake," he stammered, chuckling nervously as he stabbed his finger at the tablet. "There you are. Watari! I must've suffered a... fleeting bout of dyslexia, ahaha. Ha. Bless my soul, what an embarrassment!"

Expression smoothing out once more, Skylar sank back on her heels, evidently satisfied. "Fantastic. Now, is that all I gotta do? Am I in?"

"U-um, no, not just yet," Jake began, haltingly, attention torn between the pilot's threatening visage and the screen of his device. Upon spotting the brewing storm clouds in Skylar's expression, however, he hastened to explain himself. "It's just, well, I have to ask a few more questions for the interview! On camera this time."

The woman sighed harshly, arms folding indignantly over her armored chest. "Fine. Get to it, then."

“Right," agreed the attendant, hurriedly readjusting his glasses and, in the process, selecting the tiny 'record' button cleverly hidden inside the frames. Really, these things were turning out to be a lifesaver. "What is your reason for entering Dante's Abyss this year, Miss Watari?”

Seeming to settle down a bit, Skylar nonchalantly cocked her hip against the booth, distractedly twirling a lock of purplish-red hair between her nimble fingers.

“Well, it's like this," she began in a matter-of-fact tone. "I owe this guy named Swindle about... oh, five million shanix. And I've heard that winning this gig can bring in an awful lot of... bread? No, dough. Definitely dough.”

Jake let out a dry laugh, which died soon after it began when Skylar pinned him with an unamused, painfully flat stare. He nervously cleared his throat and straightened up in his seat. "So, ah, what do you... have to offer for this competition?"

"Hmph," huffed Skylar, rolling her shoulders. She flicked her cig to the ground, stamping it out with a crunch of gravel. "If we're really gonna do this..."

Planting her hands on the counter once more, she leaned in close to the camera and, consequently, Jake himself. When she next spoke, it was with a firm, fierce tone of voice that cut across the rawness of the moment like the blade of a dagger.

“Let’s cut the chase, alright?" she growled. "I'm the best flyer this angst-enshrouded speck of nothingness has ever seen. I am sick of hanging around this trashy little Primus-forsaken rustball of a planet, waiting for something, anything worth my time to happen. I'm aching to get out there and kick some serious aft. Just shoot me the proper coordinates, and I can guarantee you'll be in for a show."

All the while, her mech loomed behind her like a giant, red-eyed sentinel, the menacing glare of its optics slicing through the dreary early morning gloom like a pair of blood diamonds. Almost as if it was mirroring her threat.

Jake shuddered.

"Well, that's all sorted then," the attendant muttered to himself, chuckling the chuckle of someone trying to hide their intense nervousness. He hastily flicked the switch on his camera-glasses to its off setting. "But some touch-ups might not hurt..."

The glasses beeped and whirred as they powered off. Jake raised his voice to a slightly higher level of politeness and threw in a few extra friendly customer service smiles for good measure. "Excellent. You're all done here! Just sign this form here, strap yourself into that trusty old teleporter straight through there, and you'll be transported off to the land of fame and fortune! Or, uh, whatever—"

Not even sparing a 'cheerio' in response, Watari breezed past him, hot-footing it to the teleportation room. Seeing as she'd been the first person to arrive at Jake's booth that morning, there fortunately wasn't a queue blocking the way. Not that it would’ve stopped her.

Jake feverishly scurried after the pilot, lagging slightly behind her speedy footsteps. "Ah, we'll be delighted to transport your machine for you—"

Skylar paused just before her feet touched the glittering disc of the teleporter and spun around, shooting him a sidelong glance.

"Don't worry about it," she told him, mouth slanting into a crooked, roguish grin. "I've got it handled."

And in a staticky flash of violently purple-colored light, she vanished.
 

Eszter

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Eszter began her morning like any other, slowly waking up in a small, pitch-black chamber of a cave deep in the Hinterlands. Lazily, she rolled over, wincing a little at her stiff back and groping around for the bundle of sticks she kept in the small cavern. Bare rock did a number on your spine. Her hands gently passed over the few belongings she had managed to rescue from her burning manor, each having apparently inherited her fire-proofing; a magically-charged smartphone which she had miraculously kept alive with her innate power, an old dragon plushie which she meticulously kept in good condition, and a small bag of coins she had saved up over her youth.

Finally, the dragonkin managed to find her twigs and took one in both hands, channeling a tiny bit of fire magic through her left palm to light the makeshift torch. Still groggy, Eszter stuck her hand into the coinpurse and gently plucked a gold piece from within, slowly lowering the coin into her mouth before swallowing it whole. Admittedly, it probably wasn’t a good idea to start eating metal, but her augmented insides managed to digest it so it quickly became a habit of hers. It really made her feel like a dragon.

“Alright…” she sighed, a hissing sound and a wisp of smoke escaping from her lips and nostrils as the gold turned to slag in her stomach, “back to it, then.”

Eszter crouched down, squeezing through the crawl space that separated her ‘room’ from the rest of the cave system. There was enough space that she could get through comfortably without getting her horns caught on a jagged bit of rock, but was still small enough to discourage anything big from trying to get in. After a bit of crawling, the demi-dragon came upon her solution to discouraging anything small from trying to get in: a big boulder over the entrance of the crawl space.

Wedging her fingers in the air hole that she left to ensure she wouldn’t accidentally kill herself with carbon dioxide poisoning, Eszter casually rolled the boulder aside, moving more weight than many men could lift with one hand. To her surprise, however, when she moved the massive rock, a small envelope flopped to the floor, having evidently been jammed where the boulder met the cavern wall. Quirking an eyebrow, she picked up the letter and raised her torch, wondering if someone had somehow dropped it in just the right spot while passing by. One look revealed that, no, it was addressed to her, with a purple wax seal holding it closed.

Hands full, Eszter raised the seal to the point of her horn, using it to tear the letter open before skimming it over.

“Hello!

You don’t know me and I don’t really know you, but I’m a member of Syntech’s R&D team and we could use you in this year’s Dante’s Abyss. You may or may not have heard that this year’s theme is going to be giant robots and monsters, and certain… research that we have been undertaking would fit in perfectly.

However, we need a certain something to bring everything together, and we’ve found that, as the person who had the lion’s share (or should I say dragon’s share?) of Yucatan’s essence, that ‘something’ might just be you. This isn’t something you’re going to want to miss.

(P.S. Don’t tell Karl I sent you this letter, he doesn’t like begging for participants much. Says it’s ‘So Carnivale’.)”

Eszter pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. It was frustratingly vague and uninformative, but she got the gist of it. She had heard of Dante’s Abyss before. She was quite a big fan, honestly. But taking part in the game was a whole different beast to watching it on her phone…

Tossing the letter up in the air, the dragon queen gave a dramatic sigh. Well, if they needed her so badly, who was she to refuse, right? Besides, she supposed it was time that the people met their new queen. With a snap of her fingers, Eszter was consumed in a ball of flame, burning away all of the dirt, sweat, and any other grime that might be clinging to her along with the letter.

She had to look her best for her debut, after all.

~~~~~~~~~

While she wasn’t exactly expecting a red-carpet greeting (though that was the kind she deserved), the reception she found at the nearest DA sign-up booth was… unimpressive, barring the fact that Syntech had apparently set up so many booths that you could even find one in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere.

The booth had been set up out of an old tavern with a drunken man passed out just outside at 10:30 in the morning. The whole place reeked of manure and sweat, with an unholy combination of both caking the ground. Eszter mustered all of the will she could not to screw up her face at the sound of something squelching beneath her boots, reaching the booth attendant with the forced smile of someone who was on the verge of either tears or murder, possibly both.

“Hi,” Eszter sputtered through gritted teeth, clutching at the booth with enough force to subtly deform the wood. “I’m here to sign up to Dante’s Abyss.”

“Of course!” the chipper attendant replied from her chair, squeaky clean in the sterilized Syntech booth. “First of all I’ll just need your name.”

The dragon queen bristled for a moment, outraged that her arrival hadn’t been forwarded to the sign-up staff, but a moment later she visibly deflated. The letter had been very vague and secretive. Really, she should have suspected this, even if they owed her more.

“Eszter,” she finally replied. As she peered over to see the attendant filling out her form, the demi-dragon watched the spelling of her name like a hawk, abruptly clearing her throat when she was a ‘t’ where the ‘z’ should be. “Ahem, E-S-Z-T-E-R.”

“Oh, my bad,” the attendant said cheerily, utterly unphased by the correction as she erased offending t and started again. Eszter couldn’t help but wonder what the woman was taking to enjoy her job so much. Whatever it was, she wanted some right about now. “Ok! Now, come on through and tell everyone what brings you to the Abyss!”

The dragon queen opened her mouth to reply, telling the woman that she had been invited here on mysterious circumstances, but paused before it could leave her lips. She probably shouldn’t say that, right? If she was keeping a secret, it was probably best not to tell literally everyone. Her mind then began to race, what did people usually sign up to Dante’s Abyss for?

“I uh… I like killing people.” Eszter spluttered. Before the sentence had even fully left her mouth, she could hardly believe what she was saying. That was really bad, right? It was so fucked up, who would say some thing like-

“Oh perfect, we get that a lot.” the attendant nodded, happily humming to herself as she scribbled something down. Oh. Apparently it wasn’t bad. The reality of what she was signing up for was finally dawning on the dragonkin as the booth attendant finished her paperwork and turned back to her client. “Now, what do you bring to the competition?”

“What do I bring?” Eszter scoffed, raising her hand to flick her hair back, calling on her many-times rehearsed speech that she had long intended to give to her new subjects. “Please, what don’t I bring? Elegance, violence, beauty, terror… I am the reincarnation of Yucatan, the falling star which brings fire and death. It is time for my enemies to look upon their queen with awe and despair.”

“Hmm… ok,” the attendant shrugged, scribbling down a few more lines. Without even looking up, she gestured over to the teleporter with her free hand. “You can go through now.”

That… was not the response she was expecting. Muttering under her breath about lack of taste, Eszter stomped through towards the teleportation pad, making sure to track as much mud into the booth as possible before teleporting.

She much preferred grand acts of violence, but petty revenge was nice too.
 

Don Isaac

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The press of bodies surrounded The Don on all sides. Grubby peasants ambled along, their gazes bound to the earth as they navigated the hazards of their daily existence, only a few odd slashes of brightly dyed silk marking the merchant class that gazed ahead, predatory gazes affixed on their destination.

Isaac looked to the sky. Cirrocumlus clouds shrouded the great blue, cast from horizon to horizon like a fisherman's net trying to catch the sun. His fingers twitched in their gauntlets at his side, longing to wrap around a joystick once more. This was the second-longest time in his life he'd been kept grounded- only surpassed by the time he spent in his crib as a babe.

A lesser man would be driven to despair, surely. But Don Isaac was no lesser man. He was a Baron of Holy Santagria, a Son of the Atom, a-

"Step right up!" Came the call of a carnival barker from a brightly coloured purple tent, golden comets cascading along swatches of cloth. "Dante's Comet graces our skies once more! Step right up- witness feats of daring-do! Be the audience to acts of incredible violence! Heroism! Villainy! All in the palm of your hand!" Racks of crystal balls and plastic-wreathed slabs - fell magicks that no faithful man would welcome in his household - were arrayed in racks, a young woman happily taking money in exchange for sorcerous front-row seats.

The don turned his nose up, preparing to stride past this farce and leave the bloodthirsty rabble to whatever passed for entertainment in this benighted place. To think, that gladiatorial combat was considered the peak pastime for these people. He was truly lost in a savage land.

---​

Jarek let his voice ring throughout the square, silently counting the commissions he earned on every Scrying Orb and Smart Tablet that left his stall, each one bound via arcane workings, or worse, legalese, to his employer's grand performance. He was easily meeting his quota- well, one of them at least. The local adventurer's guild had been clearing the rats from some tavern when he paid them a visit, and Karl Jak was always hungry for more fresh meat to feed into the grinder. He took a breath, chest swelling as he prepared to belt out another proclamation.

"Be you rider, be you pilot, come and tes-"

His vision was suddenly occupied by a tall man clad in a battered suit of red plates riveted over worn leather, a pointed steel helmet staring down at him from a set of pale glass lenses. "Piloting?" The man asked, fixing Jarek with his full attention, the intensity of that masked gaze causing the salesman to wither and recoil.

The armoured man took a step forward to fill that void. "You said piloting?" He asked again, a hungry tone within that voice, a yearning need that sung through the air like a tune plucked from the split strings of a broken violin.

It sounded like money to Jarek's ears. He gave a smile and a nod, stepping back and gesturing to the shadows of the tent. "Of course, Sir," he said, noting the tick upwards in the man's chin as he drank in the title. "Just step right in, and we'll have you in the pilot's seat in no time," he purred, the man barely remembering to nod as he rushed inwards.

---​

Isaac's foot tapped a constant rhythm against the stones beneath his feet, watching a young man with an improbable hairstyle slip through the doorway before him. A queue. He was still adjusting to their existence, in this land- but that annoyance aside, his heart hammered within his breast. He licked his dry lips beneath his helmet, trying to calm his nerves. He hadn't felt like this since his first day in court, damn it all. At any moment, he could be called through those doors, asked to audition like a young squire being given the controls of a helo-

The door slid open on greased hinges, the colourful, sparkling stickers threatening to peel off. There was no sign of the boy beyond, simply an empty circle ringed by floodlights and uranium-green sheets hung from steel frames. Perhaps he passed beyond- or there was some comical trapdoor device to dispense of those who failed to impress. Whatever the result the past contestant earned, Isaac had started moving the second the door had- he was a Baron of Santagria, and all doubt had been removed from his ancestors through generations of warfare. Those who flinched had a tendency to catch a lance through the eye.

He strode within, shoulders squared and chin held high. He could barely glimpse vague silhouettes behind shining lights- at least one of them looked decidedly inhuman, tendrils waving over a bulbous mass. "Name?" Came a bored voice, heavy with the burden of dozens of hopefuls being dashed upon their rocky demeanour.

Pablo had always served as his herald- but he had been waiting for someone to ask that question again since the first drunkard demanded to know just 'who the hell he thought he was'. He stepped forwards, practically shouting as he unhelmed himself, ebon locks falling against the nape of his neck as he called his response.

"Don Isaac De Metralla, Baron of Holy Santagria, Warden of the Vitreous Vastness, Dragon-slayer, Wolfsbane, Node-Breaker, Beard-clipper-"

He had dozens of titles, all earned, and he was more than happy to list them off until another shadowy figure raised a hand to stall his pronouncements. "Quite," blurbled a wet slurp of a voice. "And your talents?"

His sabre slipped free from its scabbard with scarcely a whisper, its slender blade skimming through the air as he turned- a pair of rapid slices, an eviscerating swirl that had once laid low a Wolf-man berserker, upstroke-downstroke-bisect. He had been taught the blade before he held a pen, and as he turned his attention back to the judges, the rents in the material hung open, proclaiming his name once more- IſAC.

His heirloom slid back into his scabbard. "I have flown Aerocraft before I have walked- I am peerless in pistol and blade, and unmatched in the skies," he said, thumping his plate armour and cursing its dishabille. "I am a Lord of The Holy Atom, and I am damn well tired of having to act like something less," he sniffed.

That prompted a murmur among his judges, shadowy figures consulting each other in an indistinct huddle. Had he gone too far, and offended their groundling sensibilities? If so- would he never know the sky again? No! If so, so be it! He was damn well tired of having to corral drunkards and louts for the privilege of three-and-a-half walls and a roof over his head, and he was certainly sick of pretending otherwise!

"Mist- sorry, Don Metralla?"

Isaac's back stiffened, nodding at the gaggle of judges. His mouth was dry, bile was rising in his throat-

"Please proceed through the door on your right. Fill out the form, and then- welcome to Dante's Abyss, Don."

His shoulders nearly sagged in relief. Nearly. Giving a stiff nod, Isaac turned on his heel and pushed through the door, stepping into a lantern-lit hallway of hanging cloth curtains, a white plastic folding table incongruous among the more rustic environs. "Right- Pablo, sign-" a quick glance to his side proved the continuing absence of his Manservant. With a sigh, Isaac suffered the indignity of picking up a pen with his own fingers and starting to suffer through the paperwork, marking his name down with a flourish. He could barely make the rest of the form legible, racing through its multitude of checkboxes with barely a care. The contestant acknowledges the high risk of death during the course of the- Death! Pah! He spat at the thought of the warning. He was Santagrian- death was his constant companion. The sloppily-scrawled form slipped through a slot set into an archway of chrome as a yawning purple void opened up within.

He didn't hesitate for a moment as he stepped within.

Get ready, World. Here comes Don Iſaac De Metralla.
 
Last edited:

John Connor

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2023. Erde Nova

I left General Connor’s office and slung my pack over my shoulder with my Tech-com uniform on. The General trusted me and somehow, I didn’t really get to ask him the full mission myself as I stared up at the “Bobminator”. He was a living, breathing, terminator of all beings. Could he trust his general’s words about how the T-800 had truly changed?

The soldiers noticed me and frowned “Hey, Sgt. I heard the Boss wants you to join DA this year?”

I stopped and looked back “Were you guys listening into a private conver-?”

The soldiers quickly saluted, a bit scared, and scurried off to the television set.

I gritted my teeth and took a heavy sigh, I knew John would get plenty of attention and praise toward his base, but sending me? I’m not sure about this.
But I couldn’t let John down on this. I was his father and I never told him and he’d never know now.

But Marcus and every other soldier on the base was so tightlipped that even the General never knew I was his father for the longest time. Marcus had been talking about Blair being here before him and her tenures in the Pilot’s Union and her fight against the Unmaking for the longest time.
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3:00 PM///15:00 Hours
-------------------------------------------


I sat outside the base and sighed for a while until Marcus came up. I was shocked by him at first but after he showed me how to handle a gun for the first time, I felt at least better. I had to ask what was going on, it was bothering me. “Marcus, did “Hickbilly”( Blair) ever show anyone how to use a mech?”

Marcus and me talked for a while. We talked about Blair’s on and off experiences with her plane, but she eventually used a mech. I looked over at the cyborg and bit my tongue “So you at least know what the General’s getting me into then, huh, Marcus?”

Marcus, wearing his signature leather jacket nodded “I heard DA is kaiju or mech only this year, but try to contact us if you get the chance, Sgt.” “We’ll be watching and hopefully cheering you on. No pressure but General Connor and others will be watching you on local television.”
----------------------------------------
6:00 PM/18:00 Hours:
---------------------
My journey along with the Bobinators own journey seemed relatively uneventful until we ran upon a line full of people waiting to sign up for this year’s Dante’s Comet.

I was in my normal Tech-Com outfit, maybe I should sign up as my fake name to be safe.

The man called up the next person in line which was me. “Next!”

“Alright, who we got this year?” The man in the pretentious suit and weirdly colored tie blinked and tapped his fingers waiting for me to say something.

My voice was raspy, serious and quiet all at the same time. The impatient man looked up “Oh? A solider? Interesting. You remind me of a certain someone from last year.”

I raised my eyebrows in confusion “I don’t know who you are talking about.”

The man frowned as he looked up, looking at him “You fly a mech?”

The Bobinator bent down behind me as I couldn’t help but give a fake grin “This is my mech, Bob.”

The man waved me off and said “Alright. Sign here and here, you know what can happen here and accept all the responsibilities and legal jargon? You have what you need right?”

The Bobinator just gave a thumbs up and said “No problem.”

Who knew this would be the case, just a Tech-Com solider and the very thing that would have killed him in the past is now good and promised to kill the Unmaking instead.

“So Mr. Baum/Reese, What can you do in the competition that will make it interesting. I thought for a second and nodded “I’m the father of the famed John Baum. Yeah!” Damn that was too close.

The man waved me through with my supplies and the Bobinator passed through with him on the teleport pad. The machine waiting in the background.
 

Shallan Davar

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“Do you know something, Pattern?” Shallan mused with the weary idleness of the truly lost. She could have thought this complaint to the spren, but in these endless tunnels the sound of her own voice was a welcome break to the silences.

Mmm? Ah, I see. This question is a lie, you know its answer already! Pattern responded through their mental link. He sounded pleased with himself for understanding her statement.

“A turn of phrase, yes…” She sighed, “You make it quite hard to be belligerent sometimes, do you know that?”

Apologies? What was your question about Shallan?

“It’s just as well, Pattern. I’m far too tired and hungry for it to have been anything clever.”

It was only after getting lost in its tunnels that one truly appreciated the utter truth of Inverxe’s epitaph “the hollow moon”. The tunnels crossed and recrossed themselves again and again, weaving throughout the whole of the moon’s interior. She was running off of pure stormlight at this point. What few provisions she had brought had run out at least a week or two ago. She would steal some sustenance from the blizzards that buffeted the surface, any time her twisting trail got close enough that she could see the sky. More than once she had considered just trying to climb out, but the surface would likely be just as devoid of life, without shelter from the icy winds. At this point she really had no hope but to stumble upon something friendly on the nightmare moon.

Which was why she now stood stock still in the mouth of her current tunnel, staring in disbelief at the little stall in the chamber up ahead.

Pattern. Am I hallucinating?

Mmm...
Pattern buzzed, It has been reported that your kind becomes increasingly abstract and irrational when you go too long without destroying.

Eating.
Shallan corrected.

Yes, that. I do not know what you are currently seeing. If you are referring only to the peculiarly located structure up ahead, then no, you are not hallucinating.

Shallan weighed her options in the shadows of the tunnel. There were very few legitimate reasons for someone to set up a shop in the middle of these tunnels. Logically speaking it was far more likely to be a trap. But then again she wasn’t likely to get many other chances back to civilization.
Perhaps unsurprisingly for the environ, the stall was overseen by a large, masked beetle-like creature. It was humming a cheerful tune to itself as it chiseled away at a half-formed crystal carving, though Shallan was having trouble making out what it was designing. Reluctantly, Shallan sidled up to the front of the stall, noting the purple “SynTex” logo that had been painted onto the being’s chest. It was so focused on its work that Shallan had stepped right up to the counter without being noticed. She hesitated there. It was a horrible thing to do, interrupting an artist when they were engrossed in a piece. In the end the urgencies of her ordeal proved stronger than her grip on politeness, and she cleared her throat.

“Ohohohoho-hello!” The beetle-thing tittered, sweeping away from its work and pulling up a large mechanical device full of keys, “And let me be the first to congratulate you on your courage in choosing to apply for this year’s Dante’s Abyss!”

The beetle clapped two pairs of clawed limbs eagerly before gesturing to itself, “My name is Corenelius, and I will be your interviewer for this process.”

Shallan frowned, memories of a rain swept town and a harrowing escape playing in her mind. Of course this bug was a recruiter for one of those events. Far be it from her to find someone who was actually genuinely trying to help other people down here.

“I’m really just looking for the way out.” She smiled politely, “Directions would be enough.”

“I would love to, but I’m afraid I don’t know the route to any of the current mining operations. You’re closer to Locust territory at the moment.”

“You don’t know?” Shallan asked incredulously, “I suppose you ventured out here by picking tunnels at random then?”

“Nope! Teleporter.” Cornelius answered matter-of-factly, gesturing a claw towards a raised platform to one side of the stall, “SynTex set it up a few years back. From what I’ve head the trek down here was far from safe for the initial expedition crew. But now we can reach the market relatively safely, despite its seclusion!”

It is like the Oathgates, Shallan! Pattern buzzed excitedly.

“Wonderful! Can I just use that to leave then?”

“It’s for contestants only, I’m afraid. Company policy.” Cornelius replied with a casual air of finality. One that was starting to get on her nerves.

“Can’t have people just using SynTex for casual transportation. You understand, I’m sure.”

Shallan stared the clerk down for a bit, but she really didn’t have the usual leverage of a lighteyes here in the crossroads. Not to mention that she’d have been mildly surprised if a bug-being cared to begin with. The Parshendi sure hadn’t.

“I see. What about if I were signing up?”

“Oh that changes the whole of our conversation!” Cornelius trilled eagerly, beginning to press the keys on the device with a rapid clacking.

“And I can use the teleporter now?”

“First we need to do some preliminary screening. Stand over here, would you?”

Too tired to keep arguing, Shallan stepped in front of the light-emitting machine Cornelius gestured to. The machine began to sweep lines of bright colors across her, almost immediately it was beeping in a way that she was certain wasn’t a good sign. Cornelius paused typing, though its insectoid nature didn’t led itself well to expression, Shallan was still able to detect the sudden nervousness that had just appeared in the chamber at the machine's reaction.

“Hold out your arm.” The beetle said, reaching for another device under its stall.

Before she could come up with all the ways this could go very badly, Shallan held out her freehand. She recoiled with a yelp as Cornelius jabbed some kind of needle-tipped machine into it briefly. The device clicked and warbled for a few moments. Secure perched on the back shoulder of Shallan's coat, Pattern hummed along with it contently. Cornelius looked at the device, then back to Shallan.

“Not unmade, but you’ve been exposed to quite a bit of it lately, I believe?”

Pattern buzzed with concern.

Probably just a coincidence that it’s called that name, Pattern. She thought reassuringly, We’re not even connected to Roshar anymore, I don't think.

All the more reason to be concerned that one of his names is appearing here.
the Cryptic hummed in response.

“If that’s the name of the unnatural presence down here that’s causing all the plants to grow, then yes.” Shallan nodded tiredly.

“Alright… The boss will want you to be sanitized before you’re allowed into the station proper. Can’t be too safe. The last thing we want is for some of the unmade to get onto the comet. How about moon madness?”

Shallan stared at the SynTex interviewer.

“Are you asking me to declare myself sane or not? Particularly as a condition to judge whether I can register for a contest dependent on the gruesome deaths of the majority of its entrants?”

Cornelius paused, one of its antennae twitching as it considered this.

“It’s… Well, Inverse has been known to have a pronounced effect on people who stay here too long unprepared… Do you feel lost and hopeless? Or perhaps furious?”

“Cornelius, my good, er… insect.” Shallan adopted an acrid politeness, leaning in close and lowering her voice even though they were the only two beings around. “I am lost, and my fury seems to be rising by the minute. Why don’t we skip over these frankly leading questions so that I can be away from these tunnels before any moon madness I might have gets decisively worse?”

Cornelius clacked its mandibles together, before nodding.

“Yes, yes, of course. Well, actually, first I need to create a quick biopic for you. How did you end up down here amidst monsters and demons? A normal traveler would quickly find-”

“Then I’m one of the monsters.” Shallan cut in. This was an angle she could work with. Yes, Cornelius was probably suspicious because he wasn't expecting any normal person would be down in these tunnels. She'd be better off pretending to be something that one expected to find.

“Yes, you see. This is merely a form that I hold for the contest ahead. I am… ancient and formless as all… the tunnels of Inverexe's broken core.”

“Oh indeed!” Cornelius either believed her fully or was willing to play along. “Now that is exciting! What is your name? Or perhaps a title?”

“Shallan of house Davar. Though actually... Hmm, given the situation… Unmade Maiden has a nice ring to it.” Shallan grinned. If she was going to impersonate an eldritch divine being, her name should have the symmetry to match. Pattern buzzed, clearly pleased.

“Excellent!” Cornelius nodded, still clacking away at the device with the keys, “The last big question, What is it you bring to the competition?”

It would need to be something that fits the character, Shallan thought. The Unmade Maiden was a native being from Inverexe’s horrid depths, right?

“Oh you want a show, do you?” Shallan breathed in with a malicious grin, exhaling stormlight into an expanding cloud of glowing haze. She spread her illusion over the surfaces of the rock around them, covering the cavern with a hologram-like illusion of the same stone. She raised her free hand, staring directly at the device that Cornelius was holding. With a sneer, she arched her fingers and twisted the hand, causing the illusion of the chamber to warp and distort around the two of them. Seemingly solid rock stretched and melted behind her, forming into a chorus of ghastly faces for a brief moment before snapping back into solid stone.

“How’s that?” She grinned.

“That will do just fine, miss!” Cornelius nodded, “Let me get the teleporter set right up, and we’ll get you cleaned up and ready for the event!”
 

King Ghidorah

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Chaos Agent Rory, Death Game veteran and penguin entrepreneur, had last been seen ramping off the side of the City of Hope astride a converted snow-mobile with an anti-gravity harness bolted to the chassis and an entire shipping-crate’s worth of King-Shark branded personal flotation devices duct-taped to the hull, with officers of the peace, debt-collectors, and at least two super-heroes in equally hot pursuit.

Following his stint in the Death Game, the flightless waterfowl had managed to leverage his newfound notoriety into some venture-capital, and using the dubiously-acquired rights to King Shark’s likeness had quickly set about building a media juggernaut.

Lunchboxes. Bedsheets. Pajamas. An animated series bearing little-to-no resemblance to anything that had ever happened anywhere – the Opaleon public couldn’t get enough, and the perfidious penguin’s business empire had grown at breakneck speed.

Then the musical stage-show flopped, and the bottom dropped out of the entire King Shark market. Not Rory’s fault, of course: The director was a hack, no matter what anybody else said. Sure, the guy had name-recognition, but where was the heart? That was the problem, absolutely, not anything that Rory had done.

Nothing but good business on his end, mang.

Ask anyone.

Still, it had killed the King Shark cultural phenomenon stone-dead in the water, and when the creditors came calling the penguin had been left holding the bag for a three-picture movie deal that was now never going to happen and six warehouses full of King Shark merchandise that nobody wanted to buy.

There may have also been some graft. Kind of a lot of graft, actually, but when you had that much money what else were you supposed to do with it? Not bribe the zoning commission? How the hell else were you supposed to open a fast-casual shark-themed family dining extravaganza in the middle of a historic cultural district!

In any case, the snowmobile had sunk into the sea after a couple of hours, King Shark floaties notwithstanding, and ever since then he’d had to swim for it. It was less of a problem for Rory than it would have been for anyone who wasn’t optimized by evolution for that exact purpose, but even so, when he finally came upon a barge the sense of relief was overwhelming.

As he flopped, dripping, onto the tarmac of a platform anchored in the middle of Opealon’s endless ocean, Rory reflected on all of this, on the vast and frequently chaotic arc of his life – and reached the same conclusion he always did at times like this.

“Fuck, mang. Those d00ds just don’t know a good thing when they see it. If they’d just been a little more patient I’d’ve made us all stupid-rich! Now I gotta start over!”

The penguin rolled over, and pushed his webbed feet as far forward as possible, arching his back and pushing off the deck with his flippers. His stout little body didn’t require much encouragement to right itself, and his low center-of-gravity did the rest. He shook himself, sloughing seawater and ruffling his plumage as he took in his surroundings.

The barge was mostly empty. There were a couple of small boats moored to one side. There was a series of wooden booths, manned by bored-looking malcontents in Syntech company livery, beneath a banner reading ‘Dante’s Abyss XIV: Kaiju Daikessen - Registration‘. Behind this arrangement, there was a sturdy metal hut, painted deep purple.

A few pirates stood in line, a healthy mix of the eye-patch and peg-leg set and the speed-boat-and-rocket-launcher brigade, all looking marginally less threatening than the staff. An octopus was stuck to the front of one of the booths, which may or may not have been trying to register.

Rory hesitated – but only very briefly.

Yes, his last go-around at televised blood-sport had a been a heart-wrenching experience for which he would never forgive the Man in Red, a tragedy which had cost him the best friend he had ever had. This, however, was not the Death Game. This was Dante’s Abyss – the big time, prime time, Real People Show-business. It was an opportunity to get back on his feet, to become not just a known quantity but a household name, and it was here right when he needed it.

The tarmac was uncomfortably hot under his webbed feet and everything smelled like salt, warm asphalt and corndogs – which was weird because there were no concessions around that Rory could see. Nonetheless the mendacious bird stood in line, his many legal and financial troubles all forgotten for the moment, banished by the glare of impending celebrity.

The thought that he wouldn’t make the cut never even crossed his mind.

When his turn came, he hopped up, snagging the edge of the booth with his flippers, and pulled himself up onto the counter-top.

The Syntech rep, a man who was sunburned, scarred, and clearly uncomfortable with how well his company-issue clothing fit him, took a moment to comport himself. It was a natural reaction. There was, after all, a penguin in his personal space.

“ ‘sup d00d, ” said Rory.

“Uhhhh…right. Name?”

The penguin preened, poking at something in the pit of one flipper with his black-and-orange bill.

“Rory. No last name – last names are for suckers, mang.”

“Well…uh… okay. This is different,” growled the booth-jockey. “Besides being a talking bird wearing a purse as a belt, which is weird enough that I kind of want to see where this goes, what do you have to offer the Abyss?”

The man began to poke at a datapad. Overhead, the sky grew overcast, the sun moving behind a cloud.

“That depends, d00d. What’re we doin’?”

“Exactly what the sign says. Giant robots and giant monsters.”

There was a moment of silence. Rory leaned in closer, his beady little eyes blinking rapidly.

“I don’t pilot robots, d00d. Not anymore – it’s a whole thing I got involving my dark, tragic, and deeply marketable recent-past. I could totes do a monster thing, though! Probably. If you guys have like, eldritch incantations and stuff. My three-hundred-times-great grandparents used to hang-around one of those mind-bending cosmic archaeology digs that explorer-d00ds are always getting eaten in. My bloodline is super-cursed, mang!”

By way of demonstration, a single rubbery black tentacle emerged from somewhere on Rory’s back and waved at the booth-attendant. The DA-hopefuls in line behind the bird visibly recoiled.

“Doesn’t really interfere much with the day-to-day though. It’s why I can grab stuff even though I don’t technically got thumbs,” said Rory, settling back on his haunches and scratching the bottom of his chin with one of his feet.

“And… that’s why you can speak?” asked the Syntech rep, his eyes locked on the gently swaying tentacle.

“What? Naw mang. That’s a whole other thing. Related, but… naw.”

The attendant finally managed to tear his eyes away from Rory long enough to look something up on his data-pad.

“…okay. Yeah. We can do something with that, definitely. Anything else you’d like to mention, for posterity?”

Rory stood up straight, sparing a glance behind him for the people in line. Many of them looked confused.

“Well, I’m a business-d00d of some renown, and I’m here to make fat stacks, get famous, and do some violence. Like, all of the violence. Oh, and I was in Death Game, so I have like, junior-league experience. I got blown up by a guy with an absolutely bangin’ vest and really terrible hair. I heard he got killed by a porn star, but I wasn’t there for that. ”

The attendant wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that – but this was definitely the weirdest entry he’d come across so far, and the boss liked weird, so he just gestured at the purple-painted shelter and said, “…Welcome to Dante’s Abyss. Teleporter’s that way. ”

The tentacle retracted with a wet snap, vanishing into the fine blue-grey plumage on Rory's back without a trace. The bird hopped down off the booth’s service-counter, and waddled rapidly across the tarmac, towards his destiny.

“Thank’s d00d! I'd leave a tip, but I'm completely broke!”
 

King Shark

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He strode up non-assumingly, one foot in front of the other, tousled brown hair pulling with the wind, crinked and tall; his vest was at best vintage and at worst loud and obnoxious with a smudged brown to its undertone and crimson flowers climbing up its molehair exterior, and what it covered screamed louder. A button-up of bright sky blue pock-marked with white check marks, and below that a bulky leather belt topping green corduroy. The outfit begged the eye, but his stride only worked to push the eye away.

Jaunty, leggy, and strident, it was the kind of gait that asked the question ‘what do you think of me now?’ and answered it just as quickly.

Tyler C. Racker blew into the booths as cool as a cucumber, daddio, lifted on plats and sliding into home. He pushed through the door, entered the lit sign-up chamber, and flashed a grin. Weathered face, hangdog mouth, and brown eyes behind half-moon sunnies, he double finger gunned at the sign-up gents.

“Junior mint?”

Fished around in his vest pocket, found what he was looking for, then presented.

The two men before him seated on their inflatable couch fished for words, found none, then stood. The second of them, a portly bald man with a comb-over and an obvious discount rack suit, shot a hand Racker’s way. Racker took a launching step back, regarded the hand, then spit in his own and presented it.

“...put ‘er there, buddy.”

The portly bald man regarded the hand suspiciously.

“I don’t know about that. Let’s just, uh…let’s move past it. Some folks don’t even wash their hands when they leave the bathroom, you know?”

Racker plugged a cigar into his mouth, lit it, inhaled deeply, coughed, pulled it out, then grimaced and laughed.

“Oh, yeah. You can’t trust the nutso junkies out there. Better to stay close with us human folks, eh?”

Racker’s guts made an audible ‘urp’ sound and he jolted.

“Oh, shoot. Feel that rumbling in the poop chute. The chassis is full, you know what I mean? Pretty soon I’m going to have to blow it out, clear the pipes, get the oil flowing, if you know what I mean.”

He pulled on his cigar, and it smoked right out of his ears. Tyler pushed his wiry hair back, inhaled again, and more smoke billowed out of his undercarriage.

“So whaddya say, Jack? Are we in business?”

“...in business with what?”

“You know, the groove. The rhythm. The bark, bark, the groooowl. You know what I’m talking about.”

Portly-bald stared, raised an eyebrow, then pulled out a notepad.

“You’re trying to get into the contest? You’re not just a vagrant trying to use the bathroom?”

Tyler hooted, slapped his knee with a jaunty gyration, and then stood at attention. He held his cigar at arm’s length, forgetting it was there, then looked bald-port dead in the eye.

“Oh, yeah. I’m both, buddy. Any port in a storm, right? You’re my runway, and I’m an F-15. Let’s dock.”

The bald port stepped back and took a sharp intake of air.

“We are not...NOT docking. I’m not even circum…”

He trailed off as his taller companion, a skinny dark haired gentleman coughed.

B-P whispered something in the other man’s ear that sounded oddly like ‘I think I felt it move’, then scribbled some words hastily on his paper.

“Can you just…move to the teleporter?” Bald and Portly asked quickly, looking flushed. “My mother’s in the hospital, and I need to…”

“Oh, yeah,” Racker stated, slipping the cigar into the interviewer’s hand. “And don’t worry, you’ll be seeing this face-”

He tapped his cratered cheek, then winked.

“-all over town pretty soon.”

He stepped onto the port pad, vanished with a hiss, and left only two men in an interview chamber in his wake.

“...his buttocks were exquisite,” stated the tall man with dark hair.

“...I felt it move,” whispered the small portly man.
 

Christopher Chaos

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“That can’t be your name. Like… your actual name is Freeze?”

Victor bristled. “F-R-I-E-S. Pronounced freeze.”

“That’s not Freeze, my dude,” the Syntech attendant scoffed, scribbling something down on his clipboard. “That’s fries. Like French fries.”

The attendant’s impertinence grated him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up inside his cryo-helmet, sensed his fingers itching to yank the ice gun out of its holster and sentence this insolent peon to a… chilling fate. His hand twitched, begging for vengeance, but he held himself steady, crinkling his nose and letting the impudence slide off his back.

He sucked in a deep breath. “What else do you need from me?”

“Well,” the attendant sighed, plopping in the rolling chair behind his booth and doing a frivolous little spin, “we need to know a little more about you, Iceman. What’s your deal? What are you bringing to ye olde competish?”

Victor blinked.

It was the previous night. He’d completed the job given to him efficiently and succinctly, and now all he had to do was deliver the package to the buyer. Some unfortunate goons had met their end at the barrel of his freeze gun, but they were no matter — their lives were a drop in the bucket next to the good this payday would do. With this money, he’d be one step closer to getting the resources he needed. He’d be one step closer to saving her.

He rode in the back of a hover car to the rendezvous point, his thoughts consumed with her, as they usually were. He clicked a button on his gauntlet and a small screen flipped out, immediately broadcasting a grainy visual of her cryo tank. He felt the fluttering in his chest begin to fade as he watched her float there, alive but not alive. She was waiting for him. Waiting for him to find a cure.

I will save you, Nora, he promised himself again, as he did every night. No matter what it takes.

“Purpose,” he said simply to the attendant.

The twi’lek boy scrunched his face, his pink head-tails twitching a bit. His expression betrayed his lack of faith. Victor found that lack of faith quite… well, at best, foolish, and at worst, disturbing.

“Care to elaborate?” the boy asked.

Victor chuckled ever so slightly — one single little scoff and a smirk. “I imagine you see all sorts in this business,” he said, relaxing his stance a bit. “Most, I’d guess, seek you out for something meaningless. Glory. Fame. Bloodlust. I’m bringing something more tangible to this game.”

He stepped forward, placing both hands on the table and leaning closer to the boy’s face. “Purpose,” he repeated, with a wicked grin.

The boy’s head cocked to one side. “I think you need to look up the definition of the word tangible, my dude,” he scowled, “but alright, cool. No pun intended.”

He scribbled more things for a few seconds and Victor waited for what felt like an entire ice age. After a moment, the boy leaned back in his chair, looking up at the would-be contestant. “You’re sure you don’t have anything more actually tangible to contribute, Mr. Freeze?”

Once again, the hairs on the back of Victor’s neck stood up. The mocking tone.

But he blinked again, and was back in the throes of the previous night. He could feel the hot air from the garage’s ventilation beating down on him. His cryo suit protected him as well as it could from the dangers of the outside, but he could still feel when things started to get too hot. Could still feel the air that would’ve made him sweat and melt and die beating against his armor. As he stepped into the hovercarport, the degree to which the temperature rose felt so dramatic that he almost thought it was intentional.

The garage was mostly barren, save for a few more stylish looking muscle hovercars in garish colors. Victor found himself consistently appalled at the materialisticness of the Hub’s denizens. Even as the space station fell apart around them and descended steadily into lawlessness, these people could still only think of the things they could own, the possessions they could lord over the lower folk.

He strode slowly toward one, a lime-green hovercar with no roof. No protection from the elements, designed specifically so the vehicle’s owner could display themselves to pedestrians and other drivers on the road. A piece designed not even, necessarily, for mobility, but strictly to be gaudy and disgusting.

“Like what you see?” a deep voice called from the opposite end of the garage. Fries turned, seeing the silhouette of a large, broad-shouldered bald man leaning in the doorway. He wore a tight-fitting white t-shirt, ratty jeans, and a small, silver cross on a sparkling chain.

A common criminal.

“Your collection is,” Victor started, pausing to think up the least offensive adjective he could muster, “numerous.”

“Yeah, well,” the large man grinned, stepping out of the shadows, “gotta have something for every situation. Did you get the package?”

Victor pressed another button on his gauntlet, the jump drive he’d been tasked to procure popping out of a small compartment near the top. He removed it, and held it up for the buyer to see. The man squinted a bit to catch a glimpse, then extended a hand; Victor tossed it across the room.

The man swiped it out of midair, lifting it up to the light. “Yeah… this is what I’m talking about,” he smirked. “You’ve done us a great service, Vic.”

“Doctor Fries,” Victor corrected him.

The man chuckled, and nodded. “Sure, Doc. Thanks for your help.” Then, unceremoniously — and without a word about compensation — the hovercar collector turned to leave.

“Wait,” Victor boomed. “My payment.”

There was another chuckle, and then the man turned back to face Victor.

“Doc,” he started, tapping the jump drive against the palm of his hand. “You’ve done us a solid, and we’re grateful. But you’re not…”

The collector paused, stepping back into the shadows as several goons stepped out from behind different walls or stood up from where they’d been crouched behind vehicles. Victor became aware of them suddenly, his hand flying to the handle of his freeze gun.

The man shrugged. “You’re not family.”

Victor’s hand closed around the weapon.

“Last night,” he muttered to the Syntech attendant who stared up at him with lazy eyes. “I iced at least six strong, able-bodied criminals, much younger than me and with much more natural physical prowess. By the time I’d frozen the rest of them solid, the last begged me for a quick death. I froze his head and then crushed it beneath my boot.”

The twi’lek stopped scribbling. He slowly placed the clipboard down on the table, his eye falling to the freeze gun at Victor’s hip.

“You’ll need to surrender your weapon in the lobby,” the boy nodded, pursing his lips. “But… yeah, you can go in.”

Victor smiled. “Cool. Pun intended.”
 

Lilith

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Serrated teeth grinded together within Lilith's clenched jaw, an annoyed groan jamming the pair of gleaming white saw blades.

“Ugh, is that all anyone cares about?”

The woman forcefully thumbed across her phone screen, scrolling through the flood of infuriating inquiries inundating her inbox.

‘u gonna join da?’
‘OMG Dante's Abyss is starting! Hurry up and enter!’
‘PLS BE IN DEE AYY LILIT I NEED TO SEE MORE PLS CRUSH THEM WITH UR BIGGG MUSCELS PLSSSSS’
‘you were so fucking hot last da. i cant wait to watch you kill again. you signed up already right?’
‘Dear former Dante's Abyss contestant,
We here at Syntech would like to invite you to DAC23, the latest and greatest iteration of our yearly competition! We want to show you all the exciting additions to our event, such as …’

“Feh,” Lilith huffed in exasperation. Everyone just couldn't get enough of her, naturally. Her first foray into the grandiose game was purely for its novelty, and while a certain secretive girl had shown her a good time, she lacked motivation for returning to the staged slaughter. It baffled her that anyone could be so invested when there weren't any real stakes. The trite outcomes were obvious. “And they have the- the audacity to berate me with their whims. Begging and pleading and demanding my participation? What do those dumbasses think I am, some kinda cheap, desperate D-list celebrity getting on her knees to appease the fans?!”

To relegate her to such a tier was an affront of the highest caliber. Reading the insipid prattle only stoked her fury, and yet she couldn't pry herself away, continually feeding the aggravating cycle.

‘are you that goth chick from death game? you were awesome! you should do dantes abyss and fuck some more people up!'

Where's the recognition for her villainous behavior outside the petty manufactured drama? Her vexation reaching its zenith, she took her rage out on the nearest thing, clutching her phone in the absence of a skull, mangling its frame into hundreds of glassy shreds before hurling the remains to the ground.

Krinklink

The conjured device faded after Lilith's spontaneous retribution. Given her destructive tendencies, she'd have a mountain of discarded replacements, but luckily it wasn't physically bound.

Where was she going, exactly? A minute ago she was wandering the endless halls of the Dreadnought, and then… What's the reason she left the control room anyways? The simple answer that refused to form racked her brain. All sense of logic escaped her, enmeshed in the liminal seam between psychosis and lucid dreaming.

Rust scraped against Lilith's soles as she traipsed through the corridor, decay and dilapidation creeping in from every metallic crevice, the remarkable sort only achieved from centuries of neglect. Delving deeper into the distorted facsimile of the spaceship, she immersed herself in all its superficial similarities. The faint, droning hum of the Afloraltite engine resonated within her cranium. The geometry constantly deviated just outside her vision, the abstract nature of this dimension erasing the distinction between wall, floor, and ceiling, though the real version was already convoluted in its own right. Maurits Cornelis Escher would surely find such an environment evocative of his work - insightful man, that one.

All things considered, Lilith vibed with this place's ambiance, it really catered to her aesthetic. How tragic that she couldn't enjoy it with Ridley, separated by a whole plane of existence. The dragon must be wondering where she dematerialized off to—

My phone! She could simply call Ridley and tell him everything's fine! Or maybe a text would be better? Hmm… A picture perhaps? Her eyes flickered between the three options, finger jittering indecisively over the contact labeled ‘MASTER’ (with several emojis for good measure). This one choice could irreversibly alter the course of their relationship.

Before Lilith can reassure her scaly lover of her whereabouts, she felt her thighs bump into a rectangular cloth-bound obstruction, nearly breaking the flimsy thing in half as she knocked it over. Several spires of neatly stacked papers were decimated in the upheaval, the memory of their uniformity reduced to smithereens, whirling and sprinkling down like ashes from an industrial disaster. The attendant behind the capsized table, a rabbit-like humanoid with gray fur, helplessly flailed and crashed on top of the disarrayed documents, both in shambles. “J-just a moment!” the bunnyman spluttered, scrambling for the forms in a futile attempt to quell the chaos, “I'll be right with you, miss—” He froze like a deer in headlights upon looking up at the pale, freakishly tall, and nude woman towering over him, his only line of defense a plastic slab draped in purple.

“Eep!” squealed the Syntech employee after gathering what little courage he could, guarding his innocent eyes behind his clipboard. Cautiously, the shivering rabbit peeked over the makeshift shield, limiting his view to above the giantess's bare shoulders. “Apologies, miss. You're here to sign up for Dante's Abyss?”

“Don't know why I'm here, to be honest…” Lilith trailed off, gaze sliding down to the bunnyman's lower half.

“Huh…?” The attendant glanced where the woman's attention drifted towards, and as the realization jolted through him, he sprang up to his feet and hastily shoved the clipboard in front of his waist, stammering to contrive some kind of explanation for his missing uniform. His furred body didn't make the situation any less shameful.

“What? It's just a dream.” Lilith didn't have an excuse, being the exhibitionist that she was. She regularly strutted around with her skin on display, uninhibited by any absurd notions of ‘decency’ or ‘civility’. “Didn't I see you outside the bar?”

“Er- yes- well- Better to set up in two places to double efficiency!” The Syntech employee's name tag would read 'Oliver' were he not buck naked. It was standard practice to reserve part of your consciousness for registering inhabitants from the Medium. Nothing suspicious about that, right? “The higher ups tasked me with finding a suitable candidate to handl- I mean pilot!- a… powerful specimen they prepared for the competition.” Oliver gulped audibly, hoping the malicious woman wouldn't find any contradictions in his story. “Rid—”

Lilith's hand twitched.

“Lord Ridley!” Oliver's spine stiffened, distressed laughter caught in his throat. “His talented crew would definitely have someone qualified,” he feigned his best impression at a genuine compliment.

Lilith casually crossed her arms, looking off to the side at a mundane heap of disjointed ship plating. “That's nice, I've been super busy lately, now's not really a good time…” Her voice lingered, slowly and deliberately turning the other way.

“Wait, p-please!” Desperation tinged the bunnyman's wavering whine.

Got ya. Lilith snapped forward, flashing her fangs and leering into the employee's panicked pupils. “C'mon, make it worth my while," she rasped.

Oliver shrank back. His cover was blown, figuratively and literally. This was beyond unprofessional, disregarding his state of undress. But damn it, he was not going to be responsible for something as bad, if not worse than the Symbiote Incident. Arbiters have mercy on Kenny- or whatever their name is. The bunnyman inhaled deeply. “Okay so there's this horrifying creature that broke into our reality, goes out of control on the Unmade city, nobody can contain it, and I couldn't find a single other person willing to—”

“Hold up.” Lilith raised a hand. “How horrifying?”

The question expunged Oliver's capacity for coherent speech. He blinked, mouth agape like the wind was smacked out of him, having no otherworldly idea how to respond.

Lilith squinted at the bunnyman as though she could wring the enticing info out with her glare, subtly leaning in and skeptically rubbing her chin. Then, without the slightest indication, she lunged and swung her arm in a low arc.

Whoosh!

“H-hey!” clamored Oliver, bereft of his clipboard. He quickly collected several registration forms littering the floor to reclaim his insubstantial dignity.

The ghastly purloiner ogled her plunder like the pages of a lewd magazine - Syntech branded, of course. Her lips curled in disappointment, however. Anything censored for being too ‘graphic’ totally killed her mood. “It's so small…”

“What?” Oliver whimpered.

“The description, everything's blacked out.” Lilith tsked, shaking her head disapprovingly.

“Ah, that's above my clearance level, you know how it is.” Oliver would nervously scratch his neck, but he didn't want to chance exposing himself. More than he already had, anyways. Was all of this a punishable offense? Can Karl observe him here? Probably. Definitely.

Awkward silence permeated the atmosphere. Eventually, Lilith spoke up. “Aaaalright, I'll give it a shot. Only so I can smash some monsters!” she emphasized. Can't have people thinking she's joining just for the sake of it. “C'mon, hop on it.”

“S-sorry?”

“I said hop to it.” Lilith pointed an accusatory finger.

“I'm pretty sure—” Oliver instantly reconsidered under the fiendish woman's scrutinizing stare. “Yes ma'am, right away!”

The sign up process was a formality, as Lilith had been through this whole routine before. Nonetheless, she breezed past the dozen or so sheets requiring her signature, absently speculating what Mr. Jak was doing with all her data. Designing weirdly violent adult toys, she guessed. “This mystery creature better give me a proper ravaging. Where's the tele—”

As if a switch was flicked, her surroundings suddenly transformed to the Preshow lobby. Conveniently, she wore a marginally less revealing outfit. Stupid anti-nudity policy. Socializing didn't seem very appealing, so she opted to collapse on the nearest couch and ruminate.
 

Gizmo Gear

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As Gizmo and Gadget entered the registration office Gizmo was looking at this place in awe but Gadget was skeptical about the whole thing. Shaking and jittering as he began rubbing his wrist and looking around nervously. Gadget grabs Gizmo on his shoulder.

"Gizmo I don't think this is a good idea," Gadget said.

"It's not a good idea it's a cool/awesome idea. We get to fight giant monsters with giant robots. This has been my life's dream," Gizmo said.

"Yeah, but if our robot dies we die too and how are we supposed to put our faith in a robot we don't know?" Gadget asked.

"Oh, this robot we are picking to bond with someone you and I are both familiar with. Our old giant buddy from Tundhara." Gizmo said.

Back in Gizmo and Gadget's dimension before they came here. Tundhara is a half desert and half tundra planet in their solar system close to their homeworld Gaiterra. In the desert half they stumbled upon a giant offline robot buried in the sand known as the Clockwork Collosus. The Clockwork Colossus was once the guardian of a nearby village but after defending it from a large meteor it got buried in the sand and thought irreparable. That is until Gizmo and Gadget went inside the machine and fixed it themselves. And with the help of the Colossus broke a dam that was blocking the water to the oasis village.

"He is powerful but he was also kind of slow though. Are you sure he can handle facing a giant monster?' Gadget asked.

"He tanked a large meteor I am sure he'll be fine. And with our help and a few upgrades he should be a bit faster than normal to be able to take on whatever we have to face," Gizmo said.

They then go to the registration up front. The slimy slug like eldery female receptionist eyed them looking down upon them as she lowered her glasses.

"You two really sure you're up for this?" she asked.

"As sure as this is my life's dream," Gizmo said.

"Unfortunately I can't leave him alone for a second and I don't want to be alone without him so I am stuck with him," Gadget said.

The lady sighed and gave Gizmo and Gadget their registration forms. Which included waivers saying they are not responsible for whatever happens to them. Gadget didn't like that cause that's not always a good sign. Gizmo of course signed without properly reading what he is signing. And even signed for Gadget which also shook his brother.

"Alright just stay right there perfectly still and you'll be sent to the waiting area," the receptionist said.

"So are we supposed to wait for someone to come get u-" But before Gadget could finish his sentence a trap door opened underneath them as they went down a slide. The slug lady gave a hearty yet obnoxious chuckle.

"That never gets old," she said proud of herself.
 

Ridley

The Reigning Wyrm
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Bertha’s placement at a syntech registration booth aboard the dreadnough was not well-liked by most pirates - save a few drunk and desperate ones - but the old woman was nothing if not dedicated to her job, so even aboard the dreadnought, she continued to play her familiar old soaps on her old-fashioned radio, set up her tent on the cargo bay of the dreadnought’s deck, and mostly ignore anything not related to her job. Including her newest reporter attache, Jenny.

All of which left Jenny absolutely bored out of her mind. The supposed dream assignment had came crashing down on the reality of Ridley’s ship. As a child, she had dreamed of cool adventures, Fantastic creatures, and - well, sexy women, all of which she figured the dreadnought would have in spades - the last part was supposed to be a freakin’ guarantee with Lilith around! And yet, here she was, waiting around with the big giantess nowhere in sight, amidst a bunch of smelly, yet relatively ordinary pirates with a few bug people and the constant smell of booze invading her nostrils. Booze which, may she add, she was not allowed to partake in.

She went to pull out a smoke, ready for this day to be another absolute bust, and with a jerk of surprise, saw a flash of a purple spade and dove for the ground.

“Gak!”

“Name.” Bertha’s bored drawl echoed through the bay, like she didn’t just have a giant tyrannosaurid dinosaur drop right in front of her! How the hell does a space dragon move silently!

She pushed herself back up to position to see the potential contestant properly - the one she least wanted to see! She would take Flak or Lilith in a heart-beat but… Ridley wasn’t supposed to want to enter these after 21, right?!

Yet, there he was, writing his name on the paper, using his tail with a pretty much impossible precision and just expecting them to accept that as a regular thing that happens with regular people.

And, of course, looking at her with utter disdain.

Jenny gave an unladylike grunt, pushing herself back up to her feet as quickly as she could with a short skirt and high heels. She was a syntech reporter! she could definitely do better than this, for crying out loud!

“Your bond is-”

“Phantoon. I know.” Ridley snapped, as Bertha gave a slow blink, before continuing to talk, in a voice that evoked in Jenny an image of sandpaper and Werther’s originals.

“-your bond is Phantoon. He is an extradimensional-”

I worked with it for ten years!” the dragon snapped at the older woman, cutting her off, as his tail was pulled back.

Uh-oh. Jenny wasn’t sure if she was about to see a fellow employee be skewered, and for a second there, she was sure this was Bertha’s day to clock out permanently. Eventually, however, the tail relaxed, in the midst of Bertha’s unchanging expression.

“Well, you don’t have to be so harsh about it smarty-pants.” Bertha replied with all the mocking energy of a substitute teacher addressing a schoolchild she’d just given detention.

She wished Bertha’d be just as terrified of the frustrated snart as she was, if only so she wouldn’t feel both afraid and alone in terms of sane individuals here.

But… Right! Her job!

“E-excuse me. Lord Ridley! Could you state your name for the…”

Jenny trailed off as she realized her stupidity. Ridley’s face came uncomfortably close, his eyes both mocking and predatory as he came uncomfortably close to the mic she pulled out, drool falling from his maw.

“I am Lord Ridley, yes.” the dragon responded. “Continue your questions.”

“What do you, err, bring to the competition, this year?”

“Unparalleled military strategy. Power uncontested. Resolve stronger than any other fool in this contest.” Ridley replied with a draconian smile.

“W-well, when you say unparalleled…” Jenny started to reply, remembering she’d actually set up questions for this eventuality. Cutting ones. Ones that might increase her stock by boldness alone…

However, pressuring a dragon was much more terrifying up close than imagined in a bar. He probably wouldn’t eat her, she was certain, but probably wasn’t very reassuring this near his teeth.

“Weren’t you outmaneuvered by Roy Mustang and… Gilgamesh’s forces, in the conquest of ‘21? I mean, the unmade carnival was cornered and dealt with between the helldivers? Surely that was a convincing defeat?” she asked, hoping the nervous energy simply came off as… inquisitive. Canny. Maybe even playing dumb and sassy. Hopefully.

Ridley’s response was merely a large, toothy smile. “The unmade Carnival was outmaneuvered.” The Space Dragon responded, and his tone was sweet and buttery and absolutely sickening. “I accomplished all of my goals, save one. And her death was merely forestalled.”

“I-is that so? Well…” Jenny stuttered. Why, oh why, couldn’t this have been the Lilith interview? Getting her to talk was pretty easy. This one talked too, but it was… awkward, and his breath was very hot.

“Anything else?”

“A-any friends? Enemies? Things you’d like to say to the viewers?”

Ridley seemed to stop, looking thoughtful and… utterly creepy, as his thin neck swiveled, and he turned his head 90 degrees above the reporter.

Then, a brilliant grin flashed across the Dragon’s face.

“Rejoice, for the god of Death is here, and he has come for Darkseid’s head!”

Then, with a fit of hideous laughter, the old wyrm stepped onto the teleporter pad, en route to the comet.
 

Nico Cinder

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The Syntech employee managing this particular desk in this particular corner of Markov did a double take. They knew this face well. Apparently every station in Cevanti had a picture of this face with listed instructions.

"Mr. Cinder?"
"Yeah, I guess that's me." Fuck, it was him, wasn't it?
"Here, give me that," The techie said, almost snatching the tablet out of his hand and disappeared underneath the table. There was some beeping, and a pretty chunky clunk. A safe maybe? Mounted underneath the kiosk? Moments later, a nearly identical tablet was placed in Nico's hands. "Mr. Jak requested that we give you this one specifically if you showed up this year. And you don't have to err... display your talents. We know what you're here for. "

Nico, mere seconds away from hitting "accept" on the bond finalization screen, scratched his head, because now he had to start from scratch again. This time, though, there was an extra slider in frame selection, at the very bottom.

SAM
OFF<---------->ON


The rockstar tilted his head. Noooo. Surely not?
 

Amalia Eckern

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"So, you don't seem like the fighting type," The interviewer said, his voiced filled with very faux, but convincing enthusiasm, "What do you bring to the competition?"

Amalia fidgeted with her nails and in the process agitated a very pissed-off hangnail. She swore under her breath as a trickle of blood ran underneath her nail. She hadn't expected there to be so many cameras. To be honest she wasn't quite sure what she had expected, but it certainly hadn't involved so many damn cameras. She glanced at her distorted reflection in the camera lens nearest too her. Arbiters help her, just how many people were on the other side of that lens?

The interviewere cleared his throat, "Miss Eckern?"

"Oh! Uhm... Sorry," She nearly choked on her own spit, "I'm... I'm really just trying to find my parents... sorry, I don't really know what I would bring."

"Tell them you bathe in the bloody entrails of your vanquished foes!" The voice literally seemed to come from within her own head. It was feminine yes, but it was far from her own voice. No, this voice was world-worn and harsh like barnacles scraping against the hull of a ship.

"Bloody entrails you say?" The interviewer had perked up at this sudden intrusion.

"Erin, not now, please," Amalia whispered into her own hair.

Erin, however, did as she pleased and she pleased to make herself known. The dog-sized raven materialized from Amalia's hair, seemingly to come into existence between the jet-black strands. It hopped onto the ground, curiously inspecting the cameras and their operators with yellowed blood-shot eyes. Erin spoke again, this time her voice coming from her own body, "Yes, you heard correctly, the bloody entrails of her enemies ripped from their softened and pudgy bellies. Amalia, tell them of your conquests."

"Yes, your conquests, Miss Eckern," The interviewer leaned in, his enthusiasm less faux and no less convincing, "Do tell our wonderful viewers all about your conquests!"

"Oh, well, uhm..." She glanced towards Erin, "Right, my conquests... well... I helped with the evacuation of Nausicaa. Well, I fought off a few parademons... Oh! I was in the Death Games, survived a monster house and uhm... well, that didn't end well. But, I did die! That was kind of lame, but they've got some pretty rad sights to see in the underworld, oh and!"

She reached into her jean pocket and produced a card made of gold, stamped with the letters V.I.P. on it. It stank slightly of sulfur and was warm to the touch.

"They gave me a V.I.P. card before I left," She concluded. And, as the last word left her mouth she realized just how excited she had gotten and then she remembered the cameras and the people watching her and she damn near fainted then and there. But, her explanation, and Erin's appearance, must have been enough because the next thing she knew she was admitted entrance into the festivities.
 
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